“She brags about something one day,” Lee goes on, “then denies it the next. So, who the hell knows about any of it?”
He claps his computer shut.
“I should wait until after you take the test to start spinning my wheels,” he says. “Because if you’re not related, then Alicia Corning Clark is moot.”
“Moot?” Serena gives a startle. “I don’t think my connection to the woman determines whether her life mattered.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Lee thinks about this.
“Then again, if she went from party to party, man to man, what’s the point?”
“For shame, Lee Perenchio!” Serena gives him a swat. “Perhaps she would look at you, young, rich American, taking rich, American job, and say what is the point?”
“Pretty sure rich Americans were in her wheelhouse,” Lee mutters.
Serena laughs. Really, it is more of a guffaw, somewhat horselike. Lee loves every note of it.
“Grazie a dio, is that my problem?” she says. “Have I inherited this abysmal trait? Spoiled Americans? Ahò!”
Lee pinches her mischievously in the side. Serena squirms but he reels her in and pulls her onto his lap.
“I think you should take the test,” he says into her hair. “Find out if it’s true.”
“I don’t know.” Serena sighs. “I don’t want to know.”
“But wouldn’t you always wonder? You can return to Rome, and to your life, but this possibility will go with you. Refusing the information does nothing for your relationship with Novella. It won’t strengthen it. It can’t bring her back. Come on, Serena, aren’t you curious?”
“Yes, I’m curious, but let’s not forget that many cats are killed by such sentiment.”
“I think you should do it,” he says again.
“Maybe, but only because I need the money.”
“Fine.” He exhales, then tosses his head, to remove his still-damp hair from his eyes. “But if you don’t do it for the money, then at least do it for me.”
It is getting so a column with no mention of ex-Ambassador to Britain Joseph Kennedy’s family is rare indeed.
Skylarking, by James Copp, August 7, 1954
HOLLYWOOD
When Alicia returned to Los Angeles, the city seemed small, impossibly claustrophobic. Manhattan had a way of lessening other places, an effect magnified by what she’d learned about Don Class.
“Don’t worry about it,” Kate said, in New York, as Alicia wailed. “The story gives you intrigue. You’re so alluring that a wealthy diplomat paid great sums to have you vanquished.”
“Thirty thousand isn’t ‘great,’ to Joe Kennedy.”
“Doesn’t matter. And you have something worth more than cash. Why, you have a fabulous story,” Kate said, almost giddy. “You could destroy lives.”
“I don’t want to destroy anything. I only ever wanted to be with Jack.”
Now Alicia was on the West Coast, straggling around Los Angeles, sick with the news and flinching with each set of eyes that passed her way. Kate said that “everyone” knew about the arrangement. Did “everyone” mean Lana Turner, and Mel Tormé, and Betty Grable, too? What about Harpo and Chico Marx? Or the maharaja of Baroda?
On the other hand, maybe Alicia flattered herself to think that these people remembered, or cared. It’d been three years since Joe Kennedy’s slithery deal. Thanks to a heavy supply of booze and pills, half the people in that town couldn’t recall last week. With no end to parties and crack-ups and sexual scandals, would anyone bother to think about her twice?
“I can’t believe you never told me,” she said to Fred, despite knowing his very existence in Hollywood was predicated on his ability to keep secrets.
Fred never gave up confidences. Not to a friend, a lover, or a priest. He drank scotch by the gallon, and smoked five packs of cigarettes a day, but you could trust the man to hold your secrets like money in a vault.
“I thought you knew” was Fred’s response. “I thought that’s why you barely tolerated Don and his demands. Plus, there’s your … yanno … thing. How you’re so goddamned smart and sly, but you play dumb as a rock.”
“That’s some compliment, especially in this town.”
“Don’t take offense,” he said, and burped. “Sometimes playing dumb is a smart fuckin’ move. I don’t need to tell you that. You’ve mastered the game.”
Occasionally Alicia did look the other way, pretending not to see something smack in front of her face. But she liked to think the best of people, and sometimes that required a splash of willful ignorance, in order to get by.
Alicia struggled to settle back into Hollywood life. From Ciro’s to the Mocambo to Café Deauville, and every other joint on the Sunset Strip, Alicia brandished her red-lipped smile, flirted gaily, and accepted dinner invitations two, three at a time. Ty Power was the latest to put on the charms, but there was also Edmund Purdom, frequently appearing in his sly, sexy way.
Alicia and Ed hadn’t officially met, but there was something brewing between them, even though, so far, the entirety of their relationship was comprised of roguish grins, sideways glances, and a single toast they’d shared at Romanoff’s the day his wife gave birth. Alicia was almost starting to forget Jack, when a full compendium of Kennedys descended upon Los Angeles to ruin her good time.
Jean started the parade, arriving for what gossips dubbed a “Hollywood frolic.” Teddy then joined, followed by Eunice. Pat showed them around, and soon Alicia couldn’t get through a day without seeing a set of Kennedy teeth or hearing a clacky “Terrific, kid!” flare up somewhere. By the end of the week, Alicia knew every back door in town.
One afternoon, as Alicia wandered the Chateau Marmont grounds after a champagne brunch, Joe Kennedy emerged from one of the bungalows. Alicia stopped dead and watched in horror as he lowered himself into a small, oval pool, his white belly and pink nipples droopy and petered out. The vision so disgusted her that Alicia took a three-day resting cure in Palm Springs.
When she called Harrison Carroll with the latest scoop from the desert—a girl had to make a living—he tipped her off that Jack and Bobby were on their way to California, too. Would Alicia kindly give him any news first, before Hedda, or Cholly, or someone else? And, for the love of God, news more interesting than the state of Joe Kennedy’s tits.
Enough was enough. It was time to call Kate.
“I’m returning to New York!” Alicia sang. “This time, for good! I’m done with L.A.”
Kate applauded the decision but, darling, couldn’t talk right now. Spence had purchased an island off the coast of Italy and she needed to understand what it was all about.
“You can stay at my place,” Kate said. “Though, I wish you’d join us here.”
She and Spence were in Venice, where Kate was shooting The Time of the Cuckoo. They were having a ball, of course, as positively everyone was in Italy these days. Why, they’d had dinner with Novella just last week!
“But I don’t dare ask you to come,” Kate said. “Lest I subject myself to more whining about your immigration status.”
“It’s a real problem, Kate.”
“It does sound like a problem. Imagine if you tried to do something about it.”
On her final night in California, Alicia attended a house party at the home of Charles Feldman, the most renowned agent in the business. He represented John Wayne, Ava Gardner, and Marilyn Monroe, to name a few.
As she parked her Corvette outside Feldman’s European-style villa, Alicia realized how much she’d miss that gleaming hunk of chrome. Forget sassy dresses or her signature red lipstick, this car was a surefire beauty trick, every time. With one roar of the engine, she’d feel instantly glamorous, hangovers and sunburns and nose jobs be damned. Her landlord had graciously offered to watch the vehicle, as long as needed while she was away. He’d ogled that car far more than he’d ever ogled Alicia’s sleek legs or singular carriage.
She rang the bell and
a housekeeper answered. The woman took Alicia’s handbag and gestured outside. Alicia made her way along the sun-filled corridor, as shadows from the eucalyptus trees danced on the walls.
When she stepped outside, Alicia caught sight of Marilyn Monroe, who lived (unhappily, they said) with Joe DiMaggio directly across the road. Feldman got the house for her because he liked to keep a close watch on his volatile, moneymaking star.
“Alicia!” Feldman called when he spotted her across the flagstone.
He whispered something to Marilyn and touched her back firmly, as if pressing her into place. Marilyn beamed into the air.
“Delighted you could come,” Feldman said as he walked over.
The two exchanged kisses and Alicia flashed her best, most-practiced smile. Feldman looked the same as always: big nose, wispy mustache, sweating more than a few drops.
“Can I get you something to sip on?” he asked. “I’m having a Tom Collins.”
“Sure, that sounds neat,” Alicia said without really thinking about it. “Only one, though. I’m not staying long.”
“It breaks my heart that you’re leaving us,” he clucked. “The beautiful Alicia Darr. We’ve scarcely had any time together at all.”
Charles Feldman always seemed pleased to see her, forever friendly, never wolfish or unkind. The most successful agent in Hollywood made Alicia believe she mattered, but he’d never offered to take her on.
“I’ve enjoyed California,” Alicia said, “but it’s time for me to go. This city…”
Her eyes darted toward Marilyn, and then across the pool to Ty Power and Jack Palance.
“It’s become too crowded,” she said.
“You’re just noticing that now?” Feldman chortled. “Even I think that. So, what will you do in New York?”
“Paint a little. Maybe, er, see about journalism.”
There were gossip items to be found in Manhattan, so Alicia didn’t anticipate being short of work. Plus, she had phone numbers for all the car attendants on the Sunset Strip. They were loyal, and with a few calls on any night, Alicia could find out who left in what car.
“No stab at Broadway?” Feldman asked.
Alicia shook her head.
“I don’t think I’m meant to be an actress.”
“Really?” he said, as the pool danced and glittered behind him. “You’re quitting the biz?”
“That seems to be the shape of it. Three years in Hollywood and I’ve come to realize that you have to really want the job to endure the hassle of having it.”
Feldman laughed and took out a handkerchief to dab his hairline.
“Indeed,” he said. “It takes a special sort of soul.”
* * *
Alicia made her last rounds in Hollywood, still hanging on to that first drink. She understood that a second cocktail would lead to a third, and then a fourth, and suddenly it’d be midnight at the Mocambo. Then the night would end, and the week, and the year, and soon she’d find herself buying a burial plot at Forest Lawn.
When she polished off her good-bye drink, Alicia set down her glass, said farewell to Chuck Feldman, and strolled toward the foyer. Two steps from freedom, the front door swooshed open to reveal Edmund Purdom, looking tousled, out-of-breath, and oddly victorious, as if he’d minutes ago won some sort of duel.
“Oh. Hello,” she said.
Alicia tucked a piece of hair behind her right ear and began to perspire. What was it about Edmund that so unnerved her? Nothing had happened between them, but there was a ting, a tension, a knowledge that they’d been thinking of one another, seeking each other out in crowded rooms.
“Alicia Darr,” he said, and wiggled his thick brows. “Leaving already?”
“The party started hours ago.”
“Nothing really begins or ends in Hollywood,” Edmund said in his smoky British accent. “There are no rules. You should stay.”
Alicia gave him, she hoped, a good pout. Edmund was sexy as hell, but she had to move on.
“I can’t stay,” she said. “I’m going to New York.”
“New York?” His eyes darkened. “When? And for how long?”
“I leave Monday,” she said. “And indefinitely is the idea. Perhaps you can visit one day. I’d love to see you the next time you’re in town. You could bring Tita?”
Ed laughed bitterly.
“Tita? My wife won’t be visiting New York, at least not with me. The only place she wants to go is the bank or an estate agent’s. That’s the worst thing about this ‘stardom,’ I should think. It was a thrill to get my possessions out of hock, but hell to find out who’s really on my side. Or, rather, who’s not.”
“Oh, Edmund,” Alicia said. “You’ve taken on so much this year. I’m sure everything will seem clearer, very soon.”
“Here’s hoping.”
Edmund kissed Alicia gently on the head, and a chill shot through her. She was tempted to stay but sometimes it was best to keep a fantasy untouched. Everyone knew Edmund Purdom was temperamental, self-indulgent, and prone to fits.
“Good-bye, Edmund,” Alicia called out. “I can’t wait to see what you do next.”
As she moved through the open doorway, Alicia felt his eyes roam from her neck, to her shoulders, down to her rear. In the distance, a car door slammed. Alicia hurried, to avoid being waylaid by another guest.
Then, she heard a peculiar sound.
Clump. Clump. Clump.
Not footsteps, exactly. Something else.
Clump. Clump. Clump.
Alicia’s stomach clenched as she made out the apparition before her: one man, two crutches, a bushy head of hair.
“Jesus, kid, you’ve been hell to find.”
Jack Kennedy hobbled a few steps closer.
“Absolute hell,” he said.
“Jack,” she gasped, her heart rate doubling. “What are you doing? You look terrible.”
The words slipped out but Jack did look awful, worse than before. In addition to being sweaty and twitchy, he was also minus at least forty pounds. This was not the man she’d seen on the steps of St. Thomas More.
“Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for, kid,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve practically killed myself trying to find you. So, are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Alicia peeked over her shoulder to find Ed standing there still. Surely, he should be on the lanai by now, partway into a Tom Collins.
“Hello, there.” Jack balanced on one crutch, and extended a hand toward Edmund. “The name’s Jack Kennedy.”
“Purdom,” he muttered.
“So, just the one name then?”
Alicia shook her head. Jack was sickly and yellow and had all the pluck of a ninety-year-old hemophiliac, yet he managed to put himself immediately in charge.
“First name’s Edmund.”
“Ah,” Jack said. “The movie star.”
Ed nodded with satisfaction.
“I read about you in the paper.”
“Yes, I’m getting favorable reviews for—”
“Nope,” Jack said. “It was Tijuana. You left a bullfight because it was too grisly? Am I right?”
“The gore and violence was unnecessarily over the top,” Edmund groused.
“Pal, what’d you think was going to happen? Senoritas and margaritas and flowers thrown into the ring? Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like some time alone with my favorite girl.”
Purdom glowered first at Jack, and then at Alicia. She wanted to grab him, but she didn’t have the strength, or the reach.
“Fucking tease,” Ed grumbled, and then pattered into the house.
Alicia swung around to face Jack.
“That was rude,” she said.
“Yeah, what a prick. I can’t believe he called you a tease.”
“You’re the prick.” She looked at him, tears in her eyes, the full weight of everything bearing down on her chest. “Was it really necessary to bring up the bullfighting incident?”
“I thought
so,” he said with a shrug.
“Why are you here, Jack?”
“I came to see you.”
He crutched closer. Alicia put up a hand to push him away.
“Wow, that’s a frosty reception, considering.”
“Considering what?” she said. “That I haven’t seen you in a year? That we were together one minute, and the next you were married to some girl I’d never heard of?”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Same old story,” Alicia said.
“Don’t you see?” he said. “I had to get married, or people would start thinking I was a queer. It’s not what it seems.”
“I know it’s not what it seems,” Alicia scoffed. “And I was right. You’re incapable of being your own person.”
“Listen here, you don’t know the first thing…”
“Spare me.”
Alicia flicked her hand, and started to walk off.
“I thought I could do it,” he called.
Jack tried to give chase, but only made it a meter or two before he tripped and lost a crutch. Alicia rescued it, though she should’ve left the damned thing in the gravel for Jack to figure out for himself.
“I thought I could find someone who’d make us both happy,” he said, hopping back into place. “Dad and me. I knew I’d never be able to say good-bye to you, so I didn’t. Instead I tried to shut out that part of my life and play the good husband. But I haven’t been able to forget you, not for one goddamned second.”
“You left without a word,” Alicia said. “You owed me an explanation. To see it in the papers…”
She struggled to get the words out.
“It was devastating,” Alicia went on. “I would think you’d appreciate that, given your reaction to Gary Cooper. Sometimes I think you’re the world’s biggest hypocrite.”
“Don’t you understand? That was the only way I could leave. And I had to get married. My father, he’s done so much for me, and he’s been right about everything. I was convinced he’d be right about this, too.”
“She seems like a lovely girl,” Alicia said with a huff.
The Summer I Met Jack Page 33