The Summer I Met Jack

by Michelle Gable

  “Let it be known.” Alicia stomped her foot. “That by the thirty-first of December, in the year of our Lord nineteen fifty-one, I will be an entirely new person.”

  “Entirely new?” he scoffed. “As in one hundred percent?”

  “Maybe not one hundred percent. There are a few good things in my life.” She winked. “But, George Neill, wait until December. We’ll still be friends, but I’ll be so transformed you’ll have to ask my name.”

  ’51 HOLDS GREATEST THREAT TO FREE WORLD, KENNEDY SAYS

  The Boston Daily Globe, February 5, 1951

  BOSTON

  The night was cold; the wind whipped and coiled. All around cars honked. People rushed past, often knocking Alicia in their haste. The women rarely stopped. If they did, it was a second’s hesitation before tromping onward, as though she’d never been there at all. But the men always paused to take a gander, or offer up a smile.

  Alicia shifted between her feet to dance the shivers away. Not even Mrs. Neill’s mink coat kept her wholly warm.

  “Oh, just the one bit of fancy I’ve bought in my lifetime,” she’d said, when offering it to Alicia.

  How she loved that woman, and the ways she surprised.

  Thanks to Mrs. Neill, she’d felt quite glamorous stationed beside the Boston Garden, decked out in the coat as well as a tidy black pillbox with rhinestones caught in mesh. But every minute was an hour in the sharp wind, and Alicia suspected that she now looked red-faced, chapped, and maybe a tad cheap.

  She didn’t confirm the time, but Jack was an hour late, at least. He couldn’t have forgotten the ball, she didn’t think. He’d sent a car to Hyannis to pick her up. They planned to stay the night in Boston, but Alicia hadn’t contemplated how she might get home, especially if Jack didn’t show. The car that delivered her was long gone.

  Two men walked past. One told the other to “check out that stacked cookie,” then wondered how much her fee was. Alicia turned toward the station. Hopefully there was one more train that night.

  “Hey!” called a voice. “Where do ya think you’re going?”

  Alicia exhaled. Jack. Right on time.

  “Oh, Jack,” she said with a sigh. “I thought you’d decided not to come.”

  She moved to face him, irritated that his chronic lack of punctuality resulted in her being mistaken for a whore. But one glimpse of Jack, and he hooked right into Alicia’s heart. That shrub of hair, his broad and brilliant grin, and the tuxedo and his unfastened jacket, the pair of which did nothing to hide his gauntness, or the pair of crutches he leaned on.

  “Crutches? Again? Jack, what is happening to you?”

  Alicia rushed forward, and went to touch his cheek. Jack shirked, the slightest bit.

  “Damn, Alicia, your hands are fuckin’ cold,” he said, throwing on a tight smile. “Despite the gloves.”

  “Fuckin’ cold,” she mimicked. “That’s some way to speak to a lady.”

  She’d forgotten Jack’s salty mouth, the way he dropped curse words in polite company the same as in company that was rough. People never seemed to take offense, though, probably because it was so easy to get caught up in his flashing intellect, the rat-a-tat of his voice, that unnerving charisma gleaming like gold.

  “It’s especially uncouth,” Alicia said, “when the lady’s hands are cold thanks to your tardiness.”

  “Aw, kid, I’m sorry. My clock’s all screwed up and a meeting went late. I should’ve had Helen call, to let you know I was delayed.”

  “Helen?” Alicia squinted. “Who’s Helen?”

  “My new secretary? In the Boston office?” He shook his head. “Sorry ’bout that. I hate thinking of you out here, all alone in the cold.”

  “That’s okay,” Alicia said, through her teeth, thinking a call from Helen wouldn’t have helped, seeing as how she left the Cape so many hours ago.

  “Before tonight’s over, you’ll forget that you’ve ever been cold in your life.”

  “You’re lucky I’ve missed you so much,” Alicia said, her breath making puffs of smoke in the air. “But, darling, I have to say, you’re terribly thin.”

  “What? Me?” He made a face. “It’s the coat. It has what ya call a ‘slimming effect.’”

  “I see it in your cheekbones, in your eyes.”

  “Traveling’s a bitch,” he said. “The food, the strange hotels, the constant to-and-fro. Haven’t been able to eat much since I got back. And, well, you see the crutches here.”

  He splayed one out, lifting his coat like the world’s most endearing (and modest) flasher.

  “I’ll be better in a few days.” He nodded toward the doors. “Shall we?”

  Alicia followed Jack, which took some concentration thanks to his crutches and lurching gait. She didn’t want to overrun him; Alicia knew he’d want to lead the way.

  “Kid, you look terrific,” Jack said when they reached the coat check.

  Alicia waited for him to comment on the mink as he slid it from her shoulders. But Jack said nothing and passed it to the coat-check girl, along with his crutches.

  “What a dress,” he said.

  Jack whistled and Alicia spun around twice. This was the reaction she imagined when she draped the frock across the counter and asked the saleswoman to ring her up.

  “It’s a velvet and satin sheath,” she told him, and fanned out the shimmery, paper-weight skirt, “with overlay. Fresh off the presses. Or whatever term is used for the latest style. Your mother would know.”

  “That’s some ingenuity right there.” Jack grinned. “You can show off your legs, yet still be able to claim you’re in a floor-length gown.”

  “Isn’t America great?” Alicia fingered her necklace. “Do you like the ice?”

  “Sure do. Looks fab.”

  Alicia smiled. Truth was, the necklace didn’t really go with the halter neck, but she wore it because it was from Jack and therefore the best accessory of all, aside from Jack himself, banged up and hobbled as he was.

  They walked inside and Alicia skimmed the program, to see what the night was all about. She’d never been to an event so grand.

  72nd Annual Concert and Ball of the Fire and Protective Departments

  Thanks to Jack’s problem keeping time, they’d missed the concert and floor show. Soon, the medals of valor would be awarded. Jack was to present the Patrick J. Kennedy Medal of Honor, named after his grandfather, a former Boston fire commissioner. It was the first of what was to be an annual prize.

  “I presume you’re out for dancing,” Alicia said, reviewing the list.

  Fox-trot, fox-trot, fox-trot, waltz, fox-trot, fox-trot, fox-trot, waltz, fox-trot, waltz, fox-trot, fox-trot, fox-trot, waltz, fox-trot, fox-trot.

  “Which is good since the only dance I’m skilled at it is the polka,” she joked.

  “Yep, yep,” Jack said, surveying the room, a wrinkle between his brows. “Only the fox-trot and waltz here.”

  Within minutes, men began to approach, in pairs and in packs, to shake hands with the congressman and thank him for presenting the award. Jack returned their greetings hardily and with no shortage of back wallops, the very emblem of vim and vigor. Only Alicia could see the whisper of a grimace, the subtle gnashing of his teeth. Only Alicia (and the coat-check girl) knew about the crutches squirreled away.

  Alicia met the mayor, the fire commissioner, and the department chief, and fifty more people after that. She met the intended recipient of the Kennedy Medal—a Negro, to her surprise. Every man in the joint wanted to shake hands with Jack, and more than a few women to boot.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Jack said. “Here comes that fella again. The one with the red nose? I wish I could remember his name.”

  “Randy,” Alicia said.

  Jack tilted his head in her direction.

  “His name is Randy,” she repeated, and smoothed her skirt. “Met your grandfather a few times. Retired from Rescue Company Number Four. Grumbled about how he surely would’ve received the Kennedy Medal had it be
en available at the time.”

  “Well, look at you,” he said. “More than a pretty face. But we knew that.”

  Jack threw on a grin.

  “Randy!” he said, voice booming. “We were just talking about you, ya old bastard. My lady friend was mighty impressed with your Fourth Company exploits.”

  Jack winked over the man’s head, which was not difficult, as he was very short.

  “She’s a charmer,” Randy said. “You should probably lock this one down before you seek a higher office. We all know where this is going.”

  Jack grabbed the man’s hand again. He patted his back, and gave a little push, to move him on.

  “Fuck,” Jack said with a moan.

  He slumped against the wall. He was in pain, but Alicia knew better than to point it out. Instead she inched closer toward him, so that he’d not seem so far away.

  “I wish you weren’t the belle of the ball,” Alicia said. “I’m anxious to hear about your trip. What you saw in Europe. How things are shaping up over there.”

  “Aw, well, you can catch it on the television tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, me and the rest of the country,” Alicia said, and rolled her eyes. “But I’d like to hear it from you.”

  Jack stared up into the rafters for a minute or two.

  “They’re certainly ill-equipped, militarily,” he said. “Across the board. England, France, Italy … they’re all under-armed.”

  “Is that unexpected, really?” Alicia asked. “They’ve just come out of a war. It’s been six years, but really that’s not so long.”

  “That’s true,” Jack said with a nod. “There’s a certain war weariness and the thought of re-arming is not appealing to most. The problem is that Europe is weak, but they can’t see it. The leaders seem borderline delusional, which is a problem as the Russian threat is real. Honestly, the only countries that impressed me whatsoever were Spain and Yugoslavia.”

  Alicia smirked. Jack called himself a Democrat but picked two countries with dictators as ideals.

  “What about West Germany?” Alicia asked, a knot in her throat. “What’s the sentiment there?”

  “It’s a precarious position. They’re poised to be the most powerful country in Europe, but they’ve hit a roadblock. They need to join the Atlantic Pact, but are rightly worried this means automatic war with the Reds. Meanwhile, I don’t know why we’re still party to it. Europe is useless, if you ask me.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “What about holding their ground?” Alicia said. “Why can’t the Germans just stay the course?”

  “You need weapons even for that.”

  “What was it like in West Germany?” she asked. “How did the people seem?”

  “Like Germans, I guess.”

  Jack put more of his spine to the wall, and grimaced once again.

  “Did they seem happy?” Alicia asked. “Well-fed? Are groceries in ample supply?”

  “Why are you so concerned with the Germans?”

  Jack opened his eyes.

  “I’m not concerned with the Germans.…” she said.

  “Jesus, look at that motherfuckah over there,” Jack said. “He’s smashed.…”

  Alicia turned, then stopped as she sensed something—or someone—drift into her periphery. Her heart gave a hop.

  “Mr. Kennedy!” Alicia chirped. “Mrs. Kennedy!”

  Jack pushed himself from the wall. The red, white, and blue bunting clung to his pants for several seconds before detaching.

  “Great to see ya, Pops,” he said, pumping his father’s hand.

  Jack hugged his father, then bent toward his mother for a perfunctory kiss, his lips scarcely making contact at all.

  “Dad, Mother, this is Alicia Darr.”

  “Yes, we’ve met,” Alicia said quickly.

  She regarded Mister, and then the missus.

  “Nice to see you again.”

  “Why Jaaack,” Mrs. Kennedy said, the hairs on Alicia’s arms standing up with one strike of that creaky voice. “I hadn’t known you were bringing a date.”

  “Didn’t really think it needed an announcement. Next time, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Jack tossed a glance over his shoulder, and it was then that Alicia realized the Kennedys had formed a circle and she stood firmly on the outside.

  “Your girl looks lovely,” Mrs. Kennedy said.

  “Yes, yes, quite ravishing,” Mr. Kennedy agreed. “She’s the Austrian painter, correct?”

  Alicia could not decide if she was part of the conversation, or blatantly eavesdropping. She inched up, to give herself a better shot at figuring it out.

  “That’s right. Damn it!” Jack looked toward Alicia. “Who’s this guy marching over right now? Didn’t he say something about a divorce?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “That’s Norman Woods, with Ladder Company Twelve. His wife has ‘Reno-vated’ and he’s confounded, feeling as though he’s ‘permanently in smoke.’ His words.”

  “Damn, Alicia,” Jack said, shaking his head. “I’d have screwed this all up if not for you.”

  “Hello, Mr. Woods,” Alicia said, stepping around Jack, at once emboldened. “I was thinking, Jack here doesn’t like to waltz, so if you have room on your dance card, save one for me?”

  “I’d love that,” Mr. Woods replied. “It’d be an honor to dance with the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  Alicia skipped to Jack’s side, praying that her childhood ballroom-dancing lessons were still stamped in her memories somewhere. When she arced backward to smile at Jack, Alicia caught the sharp eye of the Ambassador instead. She shifted her gaze away.

  “Mr. Burke!” she called out to a passing man, because, why not, she was on a roll. “Congratulations on the Walter Scott Medal. Very impressive!”

  The man showed a flare of surprise.

  “Why, thank you,” he said. “I’m mighty flattered that such a lovely girl would care about a boring fireman’s award.”

  “Rescuing a child from a burning building is not boring, and a hero is never dull.”

  “Quite right, Alicia,” Jack said. “Helluva job, pal.”

  He rapped the man on his back, which sent him into a fit of coughs.

  The rest of the evening continued like this. Parades of people tried to get a piece of Jack, and Alicia helped where she could. Jack was grateful, and Alicia’s dance card filled in a blink.

  “That girl sure knows how to work a room,” she overheard Mr. Kennedy say.

  Whether this was a compliment didn’t matter, because Alicia felt like an asset to Jack.

  After the ball, they stayed at the Hotel Manger, which was connected to the Garden. A good thing, too, as by the end of the night, Jack staggered more than he stepped. Once in the suite, they made love, and Jack dropped into a fast, hard sleep. Alicia was miles from tired, and so she shimmied back into her panties and curled up on a chair beside the window.

  Alicia watched as Boston thrummed. She was all of a sudden overcome by the power and brightness of the city, and the country beyond. For the first time since she’d landed on these gilded shores, Alicia realized that as much as she loved America, there was a chance it might actually love her back.

  JUNE 2016

  ROME

  He’s bored, but in a postal facility that’s the state of things. Plus, he’s on a cold streak, not having found anything in weeks.

  But one fine afternoon, a letter drops into his hands. It’s from America, and there’s no better kind. The envelope is white, with a lawyer’s return, but the address is written in a mom-like hand.

  Miss Serena Palmisano

  The man thinks, Ahò! Che culo! What luck. A wife has borrowed her husband’s stationery to send their daughter (or granddaughter?) a letter, including, no doubt, some cash to get by. Maybe this Serena is studying abroad. For the summer. Longer. He’s worked it all out in his head.

  He rips open the first envelope to find a second one—grimy, sullied by all ma
nner of stamps. Dai. Perhaps there’s no check for vacationing children after all.

  Nevertheless, he tears open the second envelope, and his eyes go wide. There’s no money but instead a reference to an inheritance, a “considerable estate.” They might send a check, eventually. It’s unlikely, but a man can dream and in fact that’s the only way to get through a job like this.

  He studies the addressee: Serena Palmisano. She lives on Margutta, which means she must be well-off. The man pulls out his phone and searches her name. He finds her Instagram account, and she is strabella. Super hot, as they might say in the States.

  The man pockets the envelope, without bothering to look around. If anyone notices, they’ll just assume he found something good. And, heck, maybe he has. It’s not free cash, but a pretty girl can make a man almost as rich. He decides he’ll fight the Italian postal industry’s long tradition of poor service and deliver the letter himself.

  Candidacies we expect … Congressman John F. Kennedy for Governor or Senator.

  Politics and Politicians, March 18, 1951

  HYANNIS PORT

  Alicia almost couldn’t trust her sight when she woke up late in the morning and found Jack asleep, laid out like a piece of lumber on his bed.

  Nine o’clock might as well have been the afternoon. For a second: a shiver of panic. Alicia glanced toward him and saw his lashes flutter against the light of the morning sun. He opened his eyes.

  “Hello there, handsome,” Alicia said, pulling the blanket taut against her chest as she rotated onto her side.

  A blond lock fell across her face. She blinked, lashes tangling with the strands of hair.

  “Morning already?” Jack said with a grunt, and moved to meet her. “Good grief. How are you even prettier in the morning, without a stitch of makeup on?”

  “I’ve always heard that Jack Kennedy can charm a girl in his sleep,” Alicia said. “And now I know it’s true.”

  Jack chuckled, mouth closed, then shut his eyes. Alicia sat still for a minute, listening to the birds twitter outside. Spring was almost here.

  “Come join me,” Jack said, patting the spot beside him.

  “Are you sure?”