“Hello there!” Alicia said.
Jacqueline was lovely in person. Hers was not a classic beauty, but something dark and alluring, like she might hail from a small but cultured country you’d never heard of. That said, Alicia found some comfort in her lack of breasts and canoe-sized feet.
“What are you doing out here, all alone?” Mrs. Kennedy asked, in what could only be described as an exaggerated whisper. “Scheming and plotting and trysting?”
“Nope,” Alicia chirped. “I’m not the scheming sort.”
Jacqueline tossed her eyes slightly to the right and lit a cigarette. Alicia noticed that her fingernails were bitten to the quick.
“I’m, er, waiting for the Marilyn excitement to die down,” Alicia said. “The woman sure knows how to steal the show.”
Jackie snorted.
“I, for one, will never understand the fuss,” she said. “Marilyn is pretty but, as they say, ‘There is no there there.’ I can’t imagine conversing with her for longer than ninety seconds.”
She blew a stream of smoke over her shoulder.
“She is a little hard to talk to,” Alicia agreed. “But she is sweet and it can’t be fun to be Marilyn Monroe.”
“Hmmm.” Jacqueline blew another stream of smoke. “It would be quite miserable.”
“I’m Alicia Darr—Purdom as of yesterday—I don’t know if we’ve previously met.”
They hadn’t met, but Alicia was in the tricky position of acknowledging familiarity with the Kennedys, while avoiding the fact of her intimacy with Jack. Mrs. Kennedy did not reply and instead sucked on her cigarette interminably, leaving Alicia to become quite damp beneath the arms.
“Are you having fun tonight?” Alicia asked. “I haven’t been before.”
“Lovely. Yes.” Jacqueline shook her head. “Poor Jack. My husband hates these stuffy functions.”
Her attention floated away, to some distant place.
“I can’t blame him,” she continued. “I know he’d much rather be sailing on the French Riviera with his ridiculous friends and whatever sluts they’ve brought on board. If not the French Riviera, then lying on the beach in Malibu, or hanging out at a Hollywood producer’s house with some starlet or another.”
Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed.
“Even a lunch meeting at the Oak Room would be better than this,” she said.
“I’ve never been to the Oak Room,” Alicia answered, chin lifted.
Jacqueline dropped her cigarette and ground it into the floor.
“Alas,” she said, “life can’t be all sunny days and blondes in bikinis. I always tell Jack, enjoy it while you can. I like to make life as comfortable as possible for him, but he’ll have to grow up someday, although it’s his youthfulness that makes him so damned fun … and it’ll make him a terrific father.”
She touched her belly. Alicia thought she might be sick.
“Jackie!” said a voice, a cloying, nasally voice that could only belong to Bobby Kennedy.
Alicia put a hand to her mouth. Oh, this was about to end quite horrifically.
“Jackie, is this bimbo bothering you?” he said, and buzzed to her side.
Bobby shot daggers at her with his steely blues. Alicia didn’t know whether to be flattered or alarmed that he’d recognized her on sight.
“Leave Mrs. Kennedy alone,” he said. “If you keep being such a pest—”
“A pest?” Alicia scoffed. “I’ve done nothing. Mrs. Kennedy and I ran into each other outside the ladies’ room. I think she is quite capable of handling herself in ordinary conversation, don’t you?”
“I’ll have you deported,” Bobby said.
She blinked, stunned that he’d sink so low, not to mention signal to Mrs. Kennedy that Alicia was not some anonymous “bimbo.”
She hadn’t met Jack in the Oak Room that day, and she’d not seen him since, until tonight. But he’d called, and telegrammed, and again invited her to the French Riviera, doubtless as one of the “sluts” mentioned by his wife.
“I can do it,” Bobby said. “I can have you sent to Germany. Deportation due to moral turpitude. Happens all the time. Look it up.”
Alicia held her expression steady, though her heart beat with force. Jacqueline watched it all with a dead-eyed smirk.
“It was nice speaking with you, Mrs. Kennedy,” Alicia said. “Enjoy the rest of your evening. Please tell Jack that I said hello.”
With that, Alicia walked off, heels clacking on the floor.
She didn’t reenter the ballroom that night. Alicia concocted some excuse; she’d torn her dress, gotten sick in a planter. Eddie would be angry at first, but not for long. You couldn’t hate your wife on the second day of marriage. It wasn’t fair.
The bell rang early the next morning. Startled, Alicia took a minute to orient herself. She was in a room, with her husband, who was himself in a dead sleep. A gift box from the ball sat on the desk.
When the visitor rang a second time, Alicia slipped into her robe and plodded toward the door. This was rather aggressive, for half past ten.
“Whatever is so important that you must ring twice?” Alicia said as she thrust open the door.
“Mrs. Purdom.”
It was the manager.
“This is for you,” he said, holding a tightly wrapped white gift.
At first, Alicia thought it was another souvenir from the ball. Then she noticed the thin, red satin ribbon—a telltale wrap job by Cartier.
Alicia’s hands trembled as she took the gift.
“This was dropped off this morning,” the manager said. “I was told it was urgent.”
“Thank you,” Alicia said, her voice as shaky as her hands.
“Have a nice rest of the day, Mrs. Purdom,” the manager said.
Without good-byes, Alicia whisked off the ribbon and peeled back the thick, white paper to reveal a red Cartier box. Inside the box sat a set of cold meat forks. The same wedding present she’d given Jack.
Congratulations on your marriage, the card read. I would’ve given this to you in person, but you’re always running the other way.
The recently wed Edmund Purdoms (Alicia Darr) have problems already.
Gotham Gossip, by Dorothy Kilgallen, July 26, 1957
NEW YORK
LIST OF PASSENGERS
Name of passenger (Surname first): PURDOM, Barbara K.
Class of Travel: FIRST
Address in the United Kingdom: Stafford Hotel, London
Occupation: Housewife
Country of which a citizen: USA STATELESS
Intended duration of stay in U.K.: Indefinitely
Alicia boarded the ship, heart in throat, head filled with thoughts of what lay ahead, and what remained behind. As with the last time she traveled by ship, Alicia carried but one suitcase. Of course, she’d also shipped two boxes of clothes to London in advance.
Alicia could offer many excuses for spending her honeymoon in New York, by herself, while Eddie was abroad. Paperwork. Finishing her internship at the Museum of Modern Art. The ever-present “problem with immigration authorities,” the problem being that she hadn’t contacted them.
“You don’t have to stay married,” Fred said. “In fact, you shouldn’t. You belong in Hollywood, not playing housewife in London. As soon as this trial is over, I’m flying you home.”
Fred was embroiled in a libel lawsuit, thanks to his association with Confidential and Whisper. He’d let Alicia know not to expect business from either magazine until this mess was fixed.
“I knew you weren’t serious about him” was Kate’s take. “Come stay with us, we’re at John Barrymore’s place in Los Angeles.”
Even George Neill found the decision suspect.
“I thought the one thing you wanted in life was to leave Europe?” he’d said.
Unlike the others, George did not offer that Alicia might stay with him. She didn’t especially want to, but it would’ve been nice to have been asked.
“I could revisit
the Cape,” Alicia said, pressing him on the matter. “Reconnect with that beautiful town and the best time of my life.”
George laughed, quite boisterously given he was such a taciturn man.
“What would you do in Hyannis?” he said between fits. “Sell candy?”
The man had a point and Alicia didn’t really want to go back anyhow. Returning to California wasn’t an option and neither was staying in New York. The grand, expansive United States seemed cramped and inadequate now. Her sole choice was to move forward, to confront the decisions she’d made. Plus, the Warwick had kicked them out, so Alicia needed to go somewhere.
“I’m on my way!” she announced to Ed, who was nothing short of shocked.
He’d been suspicious of her “immigration issues,” but was in no position to comment on slippery dealings, as their eviction was on account of his unpaid bills. Alicia asked Fred to please get rid of what she’d left at her old apartment, so that she could pay Edmund’s debts before she left. Alicia didn’t want to sell the Corvette, but Kate insisted.
“The thing’s in rotten shape,” she said. “Thanks to your poor driving. And you can’t leave New York without squaring up.”
Alicia sold the car. It gave her enough to pay Eddie’s bills, with not a penny left over. Finally, a slate wiped clean.
As the SS United States glided out of the New York harbor, blaring its horns, Alicia stood on the upper deck, heavy with memories of the last time she crossed the Atlantic. Alicia felt every bit the same girl as then, though this ship was fancier with its sleek hull and red, white, and blue smokestacks. Of course, the Sturgis had been designed for utility, not luxury. Back then, Alicia slept in a hammock, in a windowless cabin with five other girls. Now she traveled first class.
Although her hair was blonder now, and her clothes were more fashionable, she toted the same valise, for reasons only nostalgia might explain. But this suitcase was now packed with silks and crepes instead of itchy, rough wool. Wrapped inside a cashmere scarf was a bottle of Chanel No. 5. Wrapped in two scarves was a cigar box filled with letters, photographs, and other reminders of the States. Most of these were memories of Jack.
Maybe London would give Alicia the physical distance she craved. Jack was in newspapers and on magazine covers with a jarring frequency, and simply opening The New York Times was an act of courage these days. Perhaps Jack passed a piece of legislation, or was fighting for a bill. Bobby or Pat had another child. Jacqueline was expecting, due that fall.
Before Alicia set sail, she removed one item from her keepsake box, a photo of Jack she’d snapped on the streets of D.C. years ago. She scribbled in blue ink:
The Next President of the U.S.
And sent it his way. This was her good-bye.
Alicia thought of Jack as she strolled the upper deck, where the mood was joyful and buoyant. Only the truly privileged would be so excited by the prospect of leaving American shores. Of course, most would peg her as a woman of undeniable privilege, someone for whom life was smooth. But where a person might find Alicia Darr in the first-class dining room, on the passenger manifest she was Barbara K. Purdom: housewife, stateless, expected to remain in London indefinitely.
As they passed the Statue of Liberty, Alicia’s stomach flipped. She looked straight into the woman’s steadfast face, tears tumbling down her own cheeks. The city receded, and before Alicia thought to wave farewell, America vanished completely from view.
JUNE 2016
LOS ANGELES
It’s amazing the problems Alicia Corning Clark causes, even in her death, Leonard thinks.
First, the young Italian woman, Serena as she’s called, flew all this way for an inheritance, yet she continues to resist the DNA test. I ask you, is there an easier process through which one might secure a fortune? The answer is no, there is not. Even Alicia’s way of acquiring the money in the first place necessitated some effort, expeditious as it was.
And now, this call from the doorman, one of the people doubtless praying Serena will be ruled out as heir.
“I have to tell you something,” William said when he rang Leonard, the day before.
No good conversation starts with these six words.
“Felix found a letter,” he went on, Felix being the elevator operator of the same building. “He’s been holding on to it but his conscience got the best of him.”
Alicia had written the letter in 1977, William explained. It was addressed to someone named Andrew Quigley, but never mailed. Leonard recognizes the name. Mr. Quigley was a state senator and publishing impresario, one of Alicia’s close friends.
Leonard pours himself two fingers of scotch and totters out onto the patio into the cool, damp California evening. As he watches a seagull peck along the sand, Leonard replays the contents of the letter—now memorized—in his head. Could this be right? Could it actually be correct? William swears it’s Alicia’s handwriting and he has no reason to lie. Rather, he has a reason to lie, but this is not the lie he’d tell.
The thing is, this letter matches what Alicia said one night, late in her illness, when she was prone to telling stories with no beginning or end.
“I had a child once, Leonard, did I ever say?”
Using uniquely coherent speech for that stage in her life, Alicia told him when it happened, and with whom, and why she’d left the child for someone else to raise. Leonard nodded dutifully, though he pegged it as a fairy tale, something conjured from her thinning mind. But she wrote in 1977 the same thing she told him forty years later.
What to do, what to do. Leonard rests against the patio railing. He has to show the girl, doesn’t he? Damn, he wants to seal this can of worms. Why couldn’t Alicia Corning Clark die like a normal person? With a signed and notarized will, like he’d advised?
“Stop writing codicils on napkins and paper scraps,” he’d said. “You’ll save everyone a lot of hassle if you formalize the thing.”
She didn’t listen, of course, because she never did. Maybe it runs in the family. Leonard shakes his head. These women. He is entirely too old for this shit.
PART III
MRS. PURDOM INVOLVED IN ROME BRAWL
Los Angeles Times, September 26, 1959
ROME
Alicia didn’t last six months in London.
Edmund was selfish, a prima donna, his self-worth bound entirely in what others thought of him. He could be insufferable when his career was going well, subhuman when it wasn’t, and “going well” was in Edmund Purdom’s rearview mirror.
Their daily squabbles often escalated to hurricane-grade brawls, during which Edmund would tear apart their flat, then lock himself in the bedroom for days, refusing to eat, refusing to speak.
Alicia said he was a baby. He called her verbally abusive, and a slut.
“You’re fucking that bastard Kennedy,” he sneered.
“How can I be having an affair with Jack, when he’s an ocean away?”
Edmund was in no position to talk affairs, and the press was on to his assignations. He was, they reported, anxious to divorce Alicia and marry Linda Christian. When Alicia’s first thought was that this sounded like a genuinely good idea, she realized their relationship was over. She’d done many things she wasn’t proud of, but the greatest of these was marrying him.
“I’m not angry with Edmund,” she told Harrison Carroll when he called for comment. “But his behavior is impossible. I believe he should go to a psychiatrist.”
She wasn’t angry; Alicia merely wanted to be rid of the man. But this wasn’t basic subtraction, given Edmund’s nature, and Bobby Kennedy’s deportation threats. The grand irony was that Alicia was actually safer before she got married. A person couldn’t be deported without somewhere to go. Now she was married to a resident of the U.K.
“You need to finalize your citizenship,” her lawyer advised, “before you finalize the divorce.”
The documents were mostly in order, but Alicia wasn’t going to stick around dreary London while they finished
the rest, and so she absconded to Rome. That was over a year ago, and nothing much had changed in the meantime.
“Are you going to send me the signed paperwork?” her lawyer wanted to know. “You can’t wait forever.”
“Soon, soon,” she promised, though the United States didn’t seem like such a prize these days.
The minute Alicia laid eyes on Rome, her heart had leapt, skipped several beats. It was everything they said it’d be, this golden city on a hill. The colors, the people, the piazzas lit and humming at night. Rome was ancient, but it seemed alive and new.
Alicia stayed with Novella, in her flat on Via Margutta, a narrow, cobblestoned street lined with buildings the color of a sunrise. The studio sat mere blocks from the Spanish Steps yet felt days from the bustle and crowds.
Each morning, they’d throw open the shutters, set up their easels, and paint in the saffron light as Novella’s herd of twenty or so cats stalked about. Often, they’d entertain a guest or three, as Novella was the so-called most specialized tourist attraction in Rome.
“Name a famous man who has come to Rome,” she said, “and hasn’t looked me up—and down.”
In the afternoons, they prowled Via Veneto, that glorious avenue with its red and blue sun umbrellas and dozens of Jaguars, MGs, and Rolls-Royces lining its manicured curbs.
At any moment, one might stumble upon Ava Gardner, Ernest Hemingway, or Jayne Mansfield. Clark Gable or Sophia Loren, to name two more. But Rome was about more than its stars. Its streets were thick with Hollywood defectors, yes, but the rest of humanity, too. Gigolos and dope fiends, kings and princes, stars rising and stars after the fall.
Café de Paris was Alicia’s favorite spot. After closing time, she and Novella would turn on a transistor radio and dance in the street. Later, they might take target practice on the Tiber before stopping by a masquerade ball, where they’d revel until dawn. This was ordinary life in Rome. They called it la dolce vita, and Fellini was making a film about them all.
It was almost October. The latest crop of comers had vamoosed. Still recovering from a raucous summer—in Rome and on Capri—Alicia and Novella were tucked away in the relatively mellow Bricktop’s, a basement jazz club owned by a husky-voiced, red-headed Negress from Harlem.
The Summer I Met Jack Page 37