“Great. Perfect.”
Alicia’s body slackened in relief. She closed her eyes.
“Thank you, Fred.”
“I’ll send you the information, free of charge.”
She opened her eyes again. The phone line crackled.
“How are things with his wife?” Alicia asked, barely able to get the words out. “Has their relationship improved, now that they have Caroline?”
“Oh, Alicia,” he said, voice rumbling. “That’s such a loaded question. He loves being a dad, and that’s no photo op. As for the wife, he’s more interested in her now that the rest of the world is, too.”
Alicia nodded, her chest shaky. She refused to let herself cry.
“I really thought he’d leave,” she said, voice quavering. “I thought he was different from other men, above that sort of lie.”
“No man is, Alicia. But, they have come close to divorce more than once. Hell, Jackie was o-u-t out a few years ago, and Joe paid her to stay.”
“To stay?” Alicia straightened. “I thought the settlement was for—”
“One million for each baby she squirts out,” Fred said, “plus a pile for Jackie herself. The arrangement was made before she had Caroline, which caused Ethel to bitch to the high heavens. At that point, she and Bobby had five kids and Ethel hadn’t seen a motherfucking dime.”
“That poor woman should get paid twice the sum, for suffering Bobby’s sexual advances.” Alicia shook her head. “Thank you, Fred. You’ve been helpful. As always.”
“I don’t know why I keep coming to your rescue. I must be a sucker for your particular brand of crazy.”
“Hey!” Alicia sniped. “The only crazy thing I’ve done is marry Edmund.”
“I can think of a few other examples.” Fred snorted. “But, let me ask. Can you afford the ticket to see Jack?”
“I’m fine,” she said, a pat answer, though not necessarily true.
She could pay for the trip, strictly speaking, though it wouldn’t be easy and she’d be left on a very slim ledge. While she could probably weasel some cash from the hard-nosed, salty-but-sweet Fred, she did not want to be indebted to him.
“I’ll figure it out,” she said. “One way or another.”
After they hung up, Alicia rushed to her bureau and slid open the bottom drawer. She sifted through her white silk panties to find a package wrapped in a pair of nylons.
As she unwound the stockings, her stomach rolled. Edmund had the keepsake box but at least she had this, her diamond engagement ring. She’d told Jack it was sold long ago, but Alicia kept it so that she might always have one more option, a final crumb of hope. Once it was gone, the picture of them dancing at the firemen’s ball would be the only thing left of Jack.
PURDOM’S SPOUSE STILL IRRITATED, FILES FOUR SUITS
The Desert Sun, November 27, 1959
NEW YORK
Alicia took a room at the Great Northern Hotel on West Fifty-seventh Street, near Carnegie Hall.
Kate offered her place for Alicia’s “proposed misadventure of folly and doom,” but famed artist and stage director Oliver Messel was staying at the townhome while he prepared for a much-heralded show. There was more than enough room for both of them, but Alicia didn’t wish to suffer the indignity of some artist trotting around, gleaming with success.
Alicia arrived a few days before the party, to meet with her lawyer. She was now suing Edmund for adultery and assault in Naples, and in Rome, as well as for stealing her citizenship papers in New York. She’d already filed for separation in London, bringing the total legal actions to four.
The morning of the ball, Alicia lolled about her hotel room, and caught up on news from the States. Sure enough, Jack was expected to announce his candidacy any day. But almost more famous than Jack was his wife. Alicia found herself oddly drawn to Jackie Kennedy and her wide face, that smug smile, and the headlines she snagged all on her own.
WIFE A VOTE CHARMER.
JACKIE KENNEDY GIVES ADVICE TO OTHER WIVES.
GLAMOUR GIRL AND SPOUSE.
Alas, the stories about Jackie were as unrevealing as they were dull, comprised mostly of “I don’t mind” and “I plan around it” and “whatever Jack wants.” Sometimes, she brought him “a hot meal from home in the baby’s warming plate.” She still painted … “a little.”
“Watercolors because they are less trouble,” she explained.
JACKIE KENNEDY—A GIRL WITH EVERYTHING.
“She is nothing like they portray her in the papers,” Fred assured Alicia. “She’s the cattiest woman I’ve ever met.”
This made her feel better, for a minute or two.
After cramming the newspapers into a lobby trash can, Alicia visited the hotel’s twenty-four-hour beauty salon, where a stylist fashioned her hair into a beehive, and secured it with a jeweled clip. By sundown, Alicia looked perfect and poised, but her insides were racked with nerves, despite three glasses of champagne.
Soon, she was ready to go. Alicia stood before the mirror and pirouetted twice, watching the skirt of her blue-black iridescent dress change color as she moved. She inspected herself from the side. Alicia was thinner than ever, thanks to the lean times in Rome. Thinner than Mrs. Kennedy, who “weighs a slim 125 pounds; is 5'7" tall.”
Alicia took one last swig of champagne and grabbed her mink. She exited the elevator and strode through the salmon-colored marble lobby, swishing past its potted palms.
Though the Waldorf was close, Alicia hailed a taxi, her legs too wobbly to walk. The ride was brief, and she considered asking the man to circle the block, so she could drum up her nerve. But she was too poor to buy this kind of time, and so she stepped out of the cab, smiled, and steeled herself against the emotions percolating inside.
* * *
“Who do you like for president?” a statesman named Max asked as he and Alicia waltzed well into the night.
They’d already exhausted other topics, including travel, the upcoming holidays, and what his fifteen-year-old daughter might like as a gift.
“For president?” Alicia said, scanning the room, wondering when Jack might show.
How quick she’d been to forget that America’s handsomest politician was also its least reliable guest.
“All the candidates haven’t declared,” she added.
“That’s true, but we know who will.”
That’s when she finally spotted him, her candidate, standing by a table near the dance floor. Alicia’s body tensed; a thrill shot up her chest.
“Ow,” Max said.
She’d accidentally squashed his hand.
“Sorry.” She blushed.
Alicia appraised the situation. Around the table were three men, plus Jack, but no Mrs. Kennedy in sight. Perhaps she was upstairs, heating food in the baby warmer, or playing tennis to keep herself trim.
“Personally, I like Kennedy’s chances,” Max said. “He’s a young buck but you can’t beat that boyish charm. Or, the pretty wife.”
“Yes,” Alicia replied, through her teeth.
As the song began to fade, she met eyes with Max.
“Speak of the devil,” she said. “Mr. Kennedy is over there. I’d like to see the president-to-be. Dance me over to him. I know him very well.”
Max led her across the floor, in what seemed like a thousand tiny steps. God, what would Jack think of the Edmund business? What would he think of her?
When they reached the group, handshakes were exchanged. The men pulled back and Alicia stepped out from behind Max. She smiled, unable to speak, because she had too much to say. The moment Jack’s gaze locked on to hers, he grinned big as the room.
“Kid…” he said, one word, and took her in his arms.
Did she say good-bye to Max? Or Jack to his assortment of friends? She would never remember, because at that second, there was Alicia, and there was Jack, and that was all.
“God, I’ve missed you every damned day,” he said, gliding her across the floor.
; Alicia couldn’t hear the music anymore.
“I’ve missed you, too,” she said, biting her lip, turning away.
It’d do no good to flirt with nostalgia, to think about this tanned, handsome man and the intimate ways in which she knew him. Alicia was there to warn him and to finally say good-bye.
“Look at you,” he said. “You’re beautiful. Stunning. I need a damned speechwriter for the things I want to say.”
“A speechwriter, how romantic.”
“You sparkle. Everything from your face, to that dress, to the jewels in your hair.”
She nodded, wondering what he might say if he knew she traded a far more glittering prize to acquire the dress, her fake gems, and a chance to talk to him.
“December ’59,” Jack said, running his hand along her spine. “The end of a decade. Hey. Look at me.”
She lifted her chin.
“That’s better. Kid. Don’t cry.… What’s wrong?” He frowned.
“It’s just—I’m overwhelmed.”
“My sentiments exactly. Jesus.” He shook his head. “Seeing you here, right now, before everything changes … it’s a lot to take in.”
“Before ‘everything changes’?” She lifted a brow. “Are you referring to your candidacy, Mr. President?”
“No comment.”
He grinned, then spun her once beneath his arm.
“The end of a decade always seems so seminal,” he said, pulling her back in. “It’s only another year, but somehow not. We’re defined by these chunks of time. The roaring twenties. The threadbare thirties.”
“What do you know about any threadbare thirties?” she said, then added, “The fighting forties.”
“And now the furious fifties,” he said. “I wonder what the sixties will bring?”
“A dashing new president, I’d guess.”
“Nice try, kid.” He winked. “Right now, it feels like I’m at the end of something, instead of at the beginning.”
“This life,” she said, “is what you wanted. It’s what you’ve been working toward for so many years.”
“That’s true. Tell me, how is Italy? I’m green with envy. I can’t articulate how grueling these past few months have been. Fifty thousand miles and twenty-three states. Rome sounds like a dream.”
Alicia smiled. So, Jack knew where she’d been, which was either a compliment or a sign that her antics were as publicized as Kate claimed.
“Well, Rome is Rome,” she said evenly.
A bit of a nonanswer, but not untrue. Rome was Rome. There was no other word with enough guts.
“Are you painting?” he asked.
“I’ve sold a few pieces. Nothing to earn a living by, but enough to give me hope. I can’t decide if being around Novella Palmisano is inspirational, or a repeated bludgeoning to my pride.”
Laughing, Jack twirled her again, and then a third time. Already Alicia’s nerves had broken up, her worries were released. At that moment, they might’ve been nine years younger and at the firemen’s ball, when it didn’t seem outrageous that she might become his wife.
“And what about your acting?” he asked. “You were on a hot streak in L.A. I can still picture your face on the screen, and see your name in lights.”
Alicia chuckled. This boy with the tallest aspirations still got stars in his eyes about Hollywood.
“I’m doing some film work in Rome,” she said, “but, in Italy, everything is dubbed. Acting is added to the film after it’s made.”
One Italian director told Alicia that she needed but two expressions: horizontal and vertical. Her bedroom eyes, traffic-stopping chassis, and the film editors would take care of the rest.
“At least you get to be in Rome,” Jack said.
“Yes, a small price to pay,” she agreed, then wondered.
They swayed in silence, Alicia puzzling over how long they’d been dancing, and through how many songs. They didn’t have a lot of time left that night, or in general.
“I called you,” Alicia said. “And wrote countless letters. Though if I did count, I’d say two dozen, at least.”
“Letters?” Jack snorted. “Kid, I get seven hundred pieces of mail per day.”
“Okay, but I also sent telegrams. And, like I said, I called.”
“Alicia Dahr-ling, then you were one of eighteen phone lines lighting up the switchboard. My secretaries don’t have time to get to them all. And you know me. I’m rarely in the office. I’m out on the road or running around, trying to get a bill passed.”
Alicia blinked, the explanation so eminently reasonable yet empty at the same time.
“I need to talk to you about something,” she said.
“Okay, lay it on me.”
“Can we go somewhere? It’ll only take a few minutes, but it’s important.”
“Hell, you’re not dying on me, are you, kid?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Phew. Come on.”
He pulled her off the dance floor, and then to a nearby table, where they ducked behind a centerpiece.
“Here,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his tuxedo. “This is the key to my room. I’m in the Presidential Suite—don’t say it!”
Together, they laughed.
“I need to bid farewell to some folks,” he said. “Can I meet you up there in…?” He checked his watch. “About twenty minutes?”
Alicia took the key, which was cool in her nervous little palm. Jack squeezed his hands around hers.
“You okay, kid?” he asked, and leaned closer.
“Yes, I think I’ll be okay.”
* * *
Alicia hadn’t intended to go to bed with Jack, but he walked into the hotel room hot with purpose and resolve. Within twenty seconds, he was tugging the shoulder of her one-shouldered dress.
“The need to speak with you was not code for something else,” Alicia said, making a halfhearted show of wiggling free.
She hadn’t “intended” to have sex with Jack, but she wanted to all the same.
“You can’t literally waltz into my life,” he said, “looking like that, and not understand that I’ll have to take you by the end of the night. I had the worst damned headache when we were dancing. I’m surprised you didn’t notice my boner through my pants.”
“Jesus, Jack,” she said with a forced laugh.
He yanked on her dress and Alicia heard the zipper rip from its seam.
“You’re paying for that,” she said.
“Oh, I’ll pay for it. I’ll pay for it all night long.”
Jack ran his lips down Alicia’s neck, across her chest, and to her belly. He kissed all these places and others, too, but did not kiss her once on the mouth. After mere seconds, he slid inside her and began grinding his hips. She shuddered as if it were her first time. Jack Kennedy was not the best lover she’d had, but he was the one she loved best.
Then, it was over, like the slamming of a door. His lovemaking was brusquer than she recalled.
“The best thirty seconds of my life,” she’d later tell friends.
She’d also forgotten that he never lingered. Jack couldn’t stay in bed for more than (another) thirty seconds, at which point he’d be up on his feet, charging toward the bathroom for a shower or a bath.
“That’s right,” Alicia whispered as she watched Jack’s pale, flat bottom retreat.
The water turned on and Alicia sat in the dark, eyes open and glassy. It was so overwhelming. Jack. The night. The enormous suite she was lying in and the evidence of him all around. Piles of clothes. Discarded shoes. The remnants of newspapers, folded lengthwise. They were in the nicest room of the fanciest hotel in New York, yet Alicia was reminded of Hyannis Port and its shabby furniture, sandy floors, and views of the sea.
Fifteen minutes passed. Alicia threw on a robe and padded toward the bathroom. She cracked open the door to find Jack in the tub, lying so still he might have been dead.
“Jack?” she said.
He startled, causing
a tiny splash. Then his face fell into a soft smile.
“Hiya, kid. Was drifting off there.” He patted the side of the tub. “Here. Have a seat.”
Alicia hiked up the robe and sat on the cool, slick marble. She swung her legs into the water, then scooted behind Jack. He rested against her shins as she massaged his shoulders and neck.
“Ahhhh,” he said. “I could stay here for a year.”
“I hope you’re planning to give yourself a rest,” Alicia said, the muscles in his back spasming against her legs. “Palm Beach for the holidays?”
“Mmmm,” he said.
“Did you know I got married?” Alicia asked. “Two and a half, almost three years ago?”
“I heard something about that,” he said.
“Now I’m trying to get divorced.” She sighed. “I actually … I need to talk to you about that. You see, my husband is a real—”
“Prick?” Jack guessed.
“Yes. On his best day. As I was saying, I have no shortage of charges on which to file this divorce, but because Edmund doesn’t want to pay me a dime, he’s trying to find dirt on me.” Alicia sucked in her breath, trying to rouse enough brass to go on. “For example, he’s threatened to go to the press about my relations with a certain presidential candidate.”
She expected Jack to jump, or groan, or display some alarm. But he carried on as before, floating in the water, in his semilucid state. It was nice to see him like this—relaxed, not drumming his fingers, or tapping his teeth.
“Jack?” Alicia said. “Did you hear me?”
“Relations with a presidential candidate, huh? Are you screwing Nixon, too?”
“Don’t be vile. Anyhow, I’ve filed four lawsuits against Edmund, but he’s threatened to name you in a countersuit. I haven’t told him anything, it’s what he’s … inferred over the years.”
“I don’t give two shits about Edmund Purdom,” he said. “And you shouldn’t either. He’s an ass. Get divorced as quickly as possible and move on.”
“I do have my citizenship to keep in mind…”
“Fuck it,” he said. “Listen, I’ll help you with whatever you need. Like I told you, get rid of the bastard. If Edmund causes any trouble, I’ll have someone take care of it.”
The Summer I Met Jack Page 39