“Dahr-ling. My father was wrong. It’s not working. We’re getting divorced.”
Alicia laughed, she actually laughed. It did not feel good at all.
“We’re separated.”
“A good Catholic wouldn’t divorce in a million years,” Alicia said.
“I’m far from a good Catholic, you know that.”
“Forget the pope, then, and let’s talk about the pop. Your father would disown you before he’d let you divorce.”
“He doesn’t have a say. Not if I want it, not if she does too.”
“Don’t lie, Jack,” Alicia said, voice trembling. “Please. Don’t lie.”
“I’m telling the hand-to-Bible truth,” he insisted. “She has exactly no interest in me, or in our marriage. She’s in Europe right now, for god’s sake, and she’s agreed to a meeting with Mac.”
Mac was Jay McInerney, former attorney turned official payoff flunky. Over the years, he’d set up many financial arrangements for the Kennedys. He was probably the guy who paid Don Class.
“A settlement will be reached,” Jack said. “And it’s best for everyone. Her mother’s on marriage number two, and has done quite well. Plus, she hates politics. She’d rather stay inside and read a book.”
“I can’t fathom anyone wanting to divorce you, I honestly can’t.”
“Aw, shucks, kid.”
“I say that with great regret.”
“Make no mistake, we both understood that this was an arranged marriage. Now we’re miserable as hell.”
Dizzy, Alicia steadied herself on a stucco wall. Surely this exceptionally bright and handsome couple would survive more than one measly year, especially when supported by all that Kennedy grit.
“I’m going into the hospital,” Jack said. “For major surgery, on my spine. They’re finally gonna fix this broken back.”
“I’m glad you’re getting help…”
“Yeah, we’ll see. Who knows, I could end up dead.”
“Jack.” Alicia rolled her eyes. “Fatalistic as ever. I’m sure you’ll have the best surgeons money can buy.”
“That’s no guarantee. I don’t know, because of this upcoming appointment, I’ve had an overwhelming urge to set things straight. With her, with you. Life is too short to live without passion. But no one understands that better than you and me. You’re the one person who gets it. You’re the only other person in this whole damned world.”
Jack crutched past her and then whirled around. He extended a hand, best he could.
“Come with me,” he said.
“Where?” she asked.
“Everywhere. But for now, upstairs.”
“I’m not going upstairs with you.”
Alicia crossed her arms.
“Sweetheart, I’m in agony. I’ve got to get off these feet. Feldman’s an old friend and has a terrific tub upstairs. It’s heaven for my back, and big enough for two.”
“Jack…” Alicia said with a wilting sigh.
“I miss us. Don’t you? Let’s be together again, starting right now. Just us, Alicia and Jack.”
Again, he extended a hand. His nails were in dire need of a trim.
“I can’t hold your hand while you’re on crutches,” she said, still glaring.
But, she followed him inside.
“Can you make it up?” she asked, once they reached the bottom of the stairs.
“I can make it up all right,” he said with a snigger. “Four, five times at least.”
Alicia shook her head and laughed.
“What am I getting myself into?” she said. “Again?”
Then something darted in her periphery, a snag in the corner of her eye. Alicia looked over to see a dark and handsome face scowling through a sliding glass door. Shit, she thought, Edmund. This wasn’t the impression Alicia hoped to make, but when it came to Jack … well, when it came to Jack there was simply nothing and no one else in the world.
Kennedy is also rich which sometimes is an advantage.
These Days, by George E. Sokolsky, November 26, 1955
NEW YORK
Alicia had been in New York eighteen months.
The days were getting shorter. The seasons turned with greater speed. In a few weeks, it’d be 1956—ten years since she reunited with her mother at the camp.
Alicia had a twenty-fifth-birthday party earlier that year, despite swearing she’d never celebrate a birthday again. The event might’ve made Alicia weepy, if it hadn’t made her feel so very middle-aged. By twenty-five, her mother was married, with a toddler underfoot.
“Be glad you’re not me,” Marilyn Monroe said at Alicia’s birthday soiree. “I’m going to be thirty soon.”
Sixty people came to El Morocco to celebrate. They dined and danced and went through eighty bottles of Sortilège, the tab picked up by Alicia’s friend Aly Khan. She might’ve felt guilty about the price tag, but Alicia knew the renowned playboy threw it mostly so that he might seem like the sort of person who did such things.
The party was months ago, but twenty-five was something Alicia thought about every day. It was a milepost, a turning point, though toward what she didn’t know. Now it was December again, time to meet a whole new year.
Alicia rolled over in bed and checked the clock. Quarter past eight. She slid from the sheets, and ran a hand through the hair of the man beside her.
As horns blared and trucks revved outside, Alicia tiptoed across the room to fetch a discarded silk robe. She exited the bedroom. The door clicked and she plodded out into the living room of their penthouse suite.
Alicia picked up the phone.
“Yes, I’ll hold,” she said, winding the cord around her finger as she peered out the window toward the glittering Christmas decorations on the streets below. “Yes, thank you. Coffee service for one, please. And tea for another.”
She hung up and glanced toward the door, under which someone had slipped a white envelope. Alicia rolled her eyes, but let out a small smile, for she knew its sender. Jack Kennedy usually went about things in this manner. The minute she took to ignoring him, he swept back in.
Alicia unfolded the note.
Miss you violently, it read. I need to see you, or I could die. Again.
The joke was getting tired, and Alicia still didn’t know how much was truth. She’d last seen him in California, in Feldman’s bathtub. Then she left for New York, and Jack went dark like he had so many times before. There’d been no divorce, and Alicia spent weeks kicking herself for being such a fool. Fred was wrong. She didn’t “play dumb,” she was dumb in fact.
And then, last December, almost one year ago, a letter arrived for her at Katharine’s place. It was from Torb Macdonald.
You must come to Palm Beach. Call Powers—he’s set up a hotel room in your name. I’ll explain everything when you arrive. Literally a matter of life and death.
Alicia didn’t go to Palm Beach, but she spoke to Dave Powers, who said that Jack was gravely ill following his October surgery. On death’s door, he declared, when Alicia seemed unmoved. She didn’t believe him. It all sounded very ordinary in the press.
SENATOR’S CONDITION GOOD was the first report.
CONDITION IS EXCELLENT, they swore.
But, as the weeks passed, the descriptions began to temper.
KENNEDY OKAY AFTER OPERATION.
KENNEDY CALLED FAIR.
KENNEDY STILL BEDRIDDEN.
KENNEDY GETS WIRE FROM POPE.
Then Alicia saw the picture of Jack being wheeled into his parents’ Floridian compound. He looked more corpse than live man, and Mrs. Kennedy stood beside his stretcher, flinty and tired.
Alicia called Dave Powers a second time.
“What you said was true?” she’d asked. “He’s really dying?”
“Jesus, Alicia, have you ever known me to lie?”
“Yes. Often.”
“Oh, don’t worry, it’s nothing major. He was merely in a coma. They administered last rites. Twice.”
�
�Twice?” Alicia wheezed.
“Can’t you come?” he pleaded. “He’s desperate to see you. You’d lift his spirits.”
“Isn’t his wife better suited for that?”
“While I avoid agreeing with Lem Billings as a rule, on the venerable Mrs. Kennedy, we’re of the same mind. She’s never here. Ever. She put up a poster of Marilyn Monroe over Jack’s bed, to stand in her stead.”
“Marilyn?” Alicia said, gagging the slightest bit.
“I’ll tell ya what,” Dave said. “Jackie Kennedy looks great in the papers, but she’s a terrible wife.”
“Then why are they still married? Jack told me they’re getting divorced. Yet, so far, nothing.”
“A LITTLE HARD TO GET DIVORCED WHILE IN A COMA, DON’T YOU THINK?” Dave shouted into the phone, so loud that Alicia had to hold the receiver from her ear.
But what could Alicia do? Jackie was his wife and hurrying to Jack’s bedside benefited no one. He needed rest, not the mayhem her presence would bring.
“I’m sorry, Dave, I can’t do it,” Alicia said. “It’d upset too many, and I don’t want to subject Jack to that.”
In February, Jack’s condition worsened and he went in for another surgery, and several more to follow. He didn’t return to the Senate until May. May! Seven months after he’d gone in the first time. The newspapers published photos of his triumphant arrival, Jacqueline by his side, her head bowed, face hollowed out beneath the eyes.
Finally, Alicia relented and called Jack in his Washington office. She had to know how he was really doing, without the Dave Powers take.
“So, you don’t want me dead,” Jack said when his secretary Evelyn put her straight through. “By the way, it wasn’t my spine. They were actually repairing my broken heart.”
All that summer, Jack wrote, he called, he promised his separation was pending, any day. Plans were delayed as Jack fought for his life. This sounded well and good, plausible even, but it also had a ring of familiarity. She’d been watching a similar scene firsthand.
Kate Hepburn had a lot of opinions, rendered on a great many people and things, but as for Spencer Tracy she had only excuses. Kate didn’t want to get married, but that didn’t explain why her boyfriend still was.
“He can’t leave his child,” Kate explained, referring to Spencer’s son, who was born deaf. “Spence loves John, and he’s riddled with good ol’ Catholic guilt. I can’t very well demand he step away from that.”
This boy John was now in his thirties, and married.
And while convalescence explained Jack’s delayed divorce, soon he had Spence’s excuse, too. He called Alicia before the news hit the papers, but etiquette was no salve for the crushing pain.
“She’s pregnant?” Alicia said, agog. “How is that possible? Haven’t you been hospitalized for the better part of a year?”
Then again, Jack never let infirmity get in the way of a good screw.
Jack promised that the divorce was still on, but a baby meant revisions to the original terms. She’d be asking for a lot more now. She, being Jacqueline, not the baby, though Jack rarely said his wife’s name.
But then Mrs. Kennedy lost the baby, and surely Jack couldn’t leave her after that. If rumors were true, he was also gunning for the vice presidency, which was more reason to keep the debutante. She’d probably be pregnant again soon, Alicia reasoned. Mrs. Kennedy didn’t seem like the type to give up.
As Alicia folded Jack’s latest note, the suite’s buzzer rang. She placed the letter in a drawer and showed the waiter inside. After he prepared the coffee and tea service and bid farewell, Alicia took out her stationery and sat down to write.
Dear Kate, she began.
The shower came on, and within seconds Alicia heard the pipes groan with water. She imagined Edmund’s strong, chiseled body stepping inside. He really was the finest example of a male specimen. Alicia was glad she’d convinced him to come to New York.
The city misses the Great Kate, she wrote, but I’m sure you and Spence are living it up.
They hadn’t seen each other in six months, Alicia realized with a frown. Kate spent the summer touring Australia with the Old Vic, while Spencer remained Stateside, making headlines of his own. There’d been too much screwing (Grace Kelly) and too much screwballing (in the form of booze), and Spencer had unraveled the goodwill he’d built these last few years.
METRO WORRIED OVER TRACY’S RECOVERY.
SPENCER TRACY FORCED TO QUIT MOVIE.
SPENCER TRACY’S MEDICS HAVE BEEN BEGGING HIM TO JOIN AA.
Spencer blamed his behavior on altitude, which didn’t jibe with his upcoming plans to film in the French Alps. Naturally, Kate slingshotted to his side.
“I know that Spence has to help himself,” she said. “But I also know that I can help him too, now that I’ve been fortified by the stage.”
The couple was in London, preparing for a big New Year’s party at the Berkeley Hotel.
I wish I could join you, Alicia continued. I can’t for the party, but maybe soon! Have you heard from Novella? She tells me she’s switched to fluorescent paints so her work will glow in the dark. She’s also dating a Ringling Brother although, frankly, when I saw that picture of Rock Hudson carrying her across St. Mark’s Square in the rain, I thought she should focus on him instead.
Of course, anyone with an ear to Hollywood understood that Novella was not the sort to excite Rock.
Life with Edmund remains fun. He’s still not over The Egyptian and The Prodigal bombing so spectacularly, but there’ll be a new turkey soon, and everyone will forget about his.
Alicia went on to describe the city’s Christmas landscape, and asked when Kate planned to return to the States. As for Alicia’s mother, she was recently transferred to the Catholic House for the Aged in Munich. Her mind continued to disintegrate while her body soldiered on.
When she finished the letter, Alicia signed and then sealed it, her thoughts still on the note from Jack. It was somehow poetic that Alicia’s last hurrah in Hollywood was likewise her last hurrah with him. Then again, Alicia wasn’t one to revisit something, once she was well and truly done.
“When are you going to come meet my son?” George Neill asked, for now he and Doris had chosen to breed.
Alicia promised “soon,” even as she understood that she’d never see Hyannis Port again, just as she’d never see Oklahoma, or Germany, or Radom. Once she left Łódź, Alicia was never going back to any place. There was no use in revisiting Hyannis Port and there was no point in returning to Jack.
Hollywood’s Edmund Purdom, a study in melancholy.
On Broadway, by Walter Winchell, May 1, 1956
NEW YORK
He begged her to meet him, Friday for lunch.
This was a first. Jack was coming to her, at a specified time, instead of materializing in the shrubbery, or in someone’s else drive.
“You can’t ignore me forever,” he said.
Yes, I can, Alicia thought, before realizing that he was right.
It was possible he’d heard about Edmund. Sweet, sexy Edmund Purdom, a man with countless attributes, not the least of which was his ability to follow through on a divorce.
When it came time to leave, Kate was on the phone, badgering some producer with her Spencer Tracy demands. As her rapid-fire voice echoed through the stairwell, Alicia put on a pair of iridescent crystal earrings and a light-colored silk dress. Fashion editors were saying, “Blondes are back,” so she grabbed a blond Balenciaga coat and crept downstairs, shoes in hand, and quietly asked Charles for a lift.
He dropped her at the Plaza’s Fifth Avenue entrance. In the opulent lobby, Alicia paused to catch her breath. She watched as the bejeweled maidens, highly coiffed dowagers, and spoiled poodles paraded past. Standing under the hotel’s grand chandelier, Alicia got a little hot.
“Why are you here?” she asked herself. “What good could possibly come?”
She glanced at the clock. Twenty after, and she was therefore later
than a missed taxi or an ill-timed light. Alicia shuffled toward the Oak Room, a dark-wooded, iron-wrought monstrosity built to resemble a British men’s club. Why hadn’t she requested the less oppressive Palm Court?
She spotted Jack instantly, and her heart sighed. How she missed the bastard, through it all. But Alicia did not go to him right away and instead watched as he read the newspaper, feeding that delicious brain. He appeared much healthier than he had at their prior meeting, in Chuck Feldman’s tub.
Alicia examined him for a few more minutes, as he turned from one page to the next, brows furrowed over his reading glasses. Nostalgia washed over her to imagine Jack in this very position, in Hyannis Port, five years before.
He had aged in the last two years, and probably so had she. But Jack still carried the hint of a rascal, the scamp that’d weaken her defenses with a smirk or a pinch. Every once in a while, he’d look up from his paper, a shot of insecurity passing across his face when he noticed the time.
Alicia wiped her eyes as a waiter approached. Jack motioned, indicating he would continue to wait. That’s when she saw his wedding ring, shiny even in that dim and smoky light. Nothing had changed, really. And with Jack, nothing ever would. Alicia inhaled, pivoted, and walked out of the room.
As much as she wanted to talk to him, to touch him, to hear that voice, she could not keep this date. Unlike Kate, she was not strong (or rich) enough to keep circling, to run the same track time and again. For once and for all, she had to leave Jack behind, to the life he’d picked, no matter how much he blamed it on his dad.
* * *
Alicia rapped on the door. She waited, listening for any sound.
“Edmund!” she called, pounding harder. “It’s Alicia! Open up!”
Generally, Alicia avoided scenes in hotel hallways, as she was not keen on visits from the vice squad. But, in this case, dramatics were in order and Ed would appreciate it fully.
“Eddie!” she hollered again. “Edmund Purdom!”
Finally, the door swung open. Eddie stood before her in his skivvies, his face creased from the sheets and his hair a mess of thick black waves. Damn, the man was gorgeous. Jack Kennedy was not the sole game in town.
The Summer I Met Jack Page 34