“She was never short of lovers,” Serena answers. “I know that.”
“We’ve spent hours combing through old newspapers,” the boy pipes in. “From the scrapbook, and things we’ve found online.”
“How far have you gotten?” Leonard asks. “All the way up to her death?”
“No, not that far,” the boy says. “There are thousands of articles mentioning her name, or names. Barbara. Alicia. Alic-ja with a j. Alice. And her last names: Kopczynska and Darr and Purdom and Clark and Corning Clark and Gay. Twenty-four different combinations we’ve found, so far.”
“The early 1960s or so,” Serena says, answering the question her boyfriend cannot. “That’s where we are.”
“So, you did not see the news from 1977?”
Serena makes a face.
“What happened in 1977?”
“Have you ever heard of the Freedom of Information Act?”
She shakes her head.
“It allows government documents to be declassified,” Lee says before Leonard has the chance. “After enough time has passed, certain information is made public.”
“That’s the gist,” Leonard says.
He swivels toward the walnut credenza behind him and lifts a piece of paper from its gleaming, polished top.
“In 1977, J. Edgar Hoover’s files were declassified,” he says. “The man had a thing for JFK.”
A hard-on for the guy is what Leonard is thinking, but will not say in this company.
“Hoover had been in charge of the FBI for thirty years by the time JFK took office,” Leonard continues. “He started a file on John Kennedy in 1941, and on Joe Kennedy much earlier. This is an article that discusses the more titillating aspects of his files.”
Leonard slides the paper toward Serena. It’s an article from The New York Times.
“Kennedy’s file was thick,” Leonard says. “Most of the documents were threats made against the president, or letters from outraged citizens accusing him of treason, or being a pawn of the pope. The files also discuss his link to mob boss Sam Giancana, as well as the mob doll Judith Campbell Exner. You probably know this. Kennedy’s dalliance with her has been highly documented.”
“It has?” Serena says.
“Yes, but there are other revelations,” Leonard says. “Please, why don’t you take a minute.”
Serena regards the article, from late 1977.
F.B.I. FILES DISCLOSE LETTER ON KENNEDY
WASHINGTON, Dec.14—J. Edgar Hoover told Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy in 1963 that the Federal Bureau of Investigation had information that Mr. Kennedy had paid a $500,000 settlement and had had court records sealed in a lawsuit brought by a woman who said she had been engaged to marry his brother, John F. Kennedy, in 1951.
“Why am I looking at this?” Serena asks.
“Keep reading,” Leonard says.
Her eyes move down the page. In 1963, Hoover wrote to Bobby Kennedy, informing him that he was aware of the payoff, and that it’d been settled “out of court for $500,000,” just prior to the president assuming office. The journalist notes that the letter could be taken as friendly, loyal, ingratiating, or as “veiled blackmail.”
“I still don’t see…” Serena starts, and then a name leaps out.
Alicia Purdom, the wife of actor Edmund Purdom …
Serena glances up.
“Alicia blackmailed the president of the United States?” she says.
“According to Hoover, she did,” Leonard answers.
Lee pulls the paper from Serena’s hands.
“This gets better and better,” he mutters, scanning the article. “I don’t understand. The supposed five hundred thousand was paid in 1961, but the affair was ten years earlier, before JFK was president, or even married?”
“This talks about an interview she did with an Italian magazine,” Serena says. “Perhaps they were angry about that?”
“They were,” Leonard says. “But the article was written after Jack’s inauguration, and therefore after the alleged blackmail. I have another document that might provide some answers.”
He rolls back in his chair and pulls a light blue envelope from a drawer. The letter is addressed in elegant handwriting, written out to a person called Andrew Quigley. There is no postmark.
“This letter was found in Alicia’s bedroom, after she died,” Leonard says. “She never sent it.”
“It’d been sitting there, unmailed, for nearly forty years?” Lee asks.
“It appears that way.”
Leonard gives the letter to Serena. Her hands are trembling.
“Andrew Quigley was a friend of Alicia’s,” Leonard says, “and also of JFK’s. In the letter, Alicia is trying to explain herself, and refute the information from the Hoover files. She admits that she met with Bobby, but insists she did not take a bribe.” He nods toward the envelope. “It’s all right there.”
Serena’s mouth is suddenly tacky. According to this document, Alicia Corning Clark had a baby in 1960—John F. Kennedy’s baby. But more alarming than the speculated paternity of the child is the baby’s name, and her date of birth, which both belong to Serena’s mom.
“You might be JFK’s granddaughter?” Lee shouts in disbelief.
His voice echoes off the walls and Spanish tile floors. Leonard sighs. Finally, these two are getting it.
“But the article says nothing about a baby,” Serena sputters.
It’s not possible. She cannot be an orphan and also related to one of the most famous families in the known world. How can a person be Italian yet so utterly American at the same time?
“You’re correct about the article,” Leonard says. “But she is quite unwavering in her letter.”
“Maybe she’s making it up? I know she relished the spotlight.”
“She did like fame.” Leonard ruminates on this. “But I always got the sense it was a yearning for something else. She seemed happiest at her estate in the Bahamas, where she was alone, unbothered, not chasing one thing, or running from another.”
“Plus, the article says,” Lee butts in, “that ‘Mrs. Alicia Corning Clark of Manhattan could not be reached for comment today.’ If she was trying to get attention, I’m sure she would’ve taken an interview.”
“Yes,” Serena says, dazed, “I thought she was always able to be reached for comment.”
“Serena?” Lee says, puppy eyes wide. “Do you know what this could mean?”
“No, no, no.” Serena flaps her hands around. “This is Alicia craziness. We can’t be so quick to take her word.”
“Perhaps,” Leonard concedes. “But any devil’s advocate should also ask if it might be true. Last night, I found an interview with Edmund Purdom, conducted shortly before his death. He said that Alicia had been pregnant with JFK’s child, and that he used this information against her in their divorce.”
“I got the impression that Edmund Purdom was vindictive,” Serena says.
“Alicia certainly thought so. However, he gave this interview in 2009. It’s hard to imagine he’d still be angry half a century after their divorce. Mrs. Corning Clark told others this same story, over the years. She told the various employees of her building, like the doorman, bellman, and lift operator. She even told me.”
“She told you?”Lee balks. “And you haven’t mentioned this?”
“It was when she was very ill,” Leonard says, blushing in spite of himself. “I thought she was delirious.”
They are all quiet for two, three minutes.
“We did see that article.” The boy nudges Serena. “Where she mentions your mom?”
She nods and reads the rest of the letter, tears welling. Leonard squirms with discomfort. Serena’s eyes are almost completely clouded over by the time she reaches the last line:
And that is what happened to my baby girl.
Serena sets the paper on her lap, tears dripping down her cheeks and onto her chin. Lee gently rubs her back. This is heartbreaking, if what Alicia wrote is
true, Serena thinks.
“Where is this Andrew Quigley now?” Lee asks. “Can we talk to him?”
“He’s been dead twenty-six years,” Leonard says.
“Damn.” Lee shakes his head. “That would’ve been useful.”
“I can see if the building employees are willing to speak?”
“No,” Serena says, her gaze like glass. “We don’t need the bellman, or the lift operator, or Andrew Quigley’s ghost. We don’t need any of these people.” She looks up. “There’s one way to know for sure, and we can do it on our own.”
IL PRIMO AMORE DI ALICIA PURDOM
Alicia Purdom avrebbe dovuto sposare John Kennedy, il nuovo presidente degli Stati Uniti.
Le Ore, February 1961
ROME
One more night in New York was all it took.
Taps on the door. Scratching on the windows. Floorboards creaking all night long. Around midnight, room service delivered an elaborate feast that Alicia never ordered.
“Are you certain, madame? It’s been prepared especially for you.”
She booked the next flight out of town.
“They’ll never let you back in the country now!” Kate cried.
This was probably true, but Alicia preferred to live in Italy than to die on American soil.
“Smart,” Fred said, “very smart. Not that they can’t follow you to Rome—more dead cats and whatnot—but in New York, you’re a sitting duck. Damn, Alicia, you really should’ve taken the money.”
“My pride is bigger than my fear, it seems,” she’d replied.
Bigger than her financial anguish, too.
Alicia spent the flight to Europe anxious, just south of sick. Although excitement to see Benny could account for this in part, the feeling had an edge to it, the gnawing sense of regret. Had she accepted the bribe, it would’ve solved so much. Now she returned to Rome, still poor, still in danger, and feeling worse about Jack.
“Il giornale?” another passenger offered, when they were somewhere over Greenland.
The woman had finished an issue of Le Ore and detected that the saucer-eyed girl beside her was desperate for distraction. Alicia smiled, grateful for the gift, and the chance to catch up on Italy’s latest political and cultural debacles. As she turned the pages and beheld the faces of the risen, fallen, and aggrieved, Alicia heard Kate’s voice.
You have something worth more than cash … you have a fabulous story.
Maybe she could have both. An interview would offer her the two things she needed most: money and protection. The Kennedys were worried about Alicia going public, but she could do it kindly, giving Jack nothing but praise. They’d have to leave her alone after that. Their names would be permanently linked.
At the Rome airport, Alicia found a pay phone and rang Le Ore. They were game for the story, and everything fell into place. Alicia cashed her check and paid her bills. She stayed up all night before the issue’s release.
When she heard the slap of the magazine on the studio’s front steps, Alicia raced outside. Robe on and hair tousled, she plopped down in the courtyard to read. They’d given her a multipage spread.
Alicia Purdom ha svelata di essere stata il primo amore di John Kennedy.
Alicia Purdom has revealed that she was the first love of John Kennedy.
Alicia smiled through the first few lines, and the details about how they met. The writer exaggerated at times, asserting that she might’ve been “la prima signora d’America” if not for her Polish-Jewish roots, but Alicia didn’t mind.
Then, she flipped the page, and was struck with horror upon seeing Edmund’s name. They’d interviewed him, too.
To his credit, the writer called Edmund “an unbelievable actor who assumed incorrect attitudes in public” and also revealed that he was disrespectful, penniless, and a notorious lover of females young and old. Yet, these things didn’t read like an indictment of Edmund, but instead of his nagging wife. Plus, she was herself “non esente da peccatucci d’infedelta,” not without her infidelity peccadilloes.
A sentire lei, Alicia, merita la palma del martirio coniugale e l’Oscar della sopportazione.
We hear you, Alicia, you deserve the prize for marriage martyrdom and the Oscar for endurance.
With a sour lump in her throat, Alicia turned another page, to the pictures of her reading Jack’s Pulitzer Prize–winning book, Profiles in Courage. At the time, Alicia fancied that she came across as sensuous and smart, but in print she was cheesecake all the way.
Reading in the bathtub.
Lying on the bed with her cleavage exposed.
In a girdle, powdering her nose.
Crouched on her knees, in a satin nightie, rear aimed at the camera.
Hot with shame, Alicia slapped the magazine shut, and rushed inside to find Nova. She’d sue the magazine, first thing.
“Novella!” she yelled, barreling through the door. “Wait until you see what they wrote about me!”
Alicia stopped next to Benny, who was on the floor, midcrawl. The girl’s face was frozen, aside from a quiver in her bottom lip and her glistening green-gray eyes.
“Is everything all right?” Novella called from the kitchen.
Alicia shook her head, then ran to the bathroom and locked herself in for a good sob. Nova knocked several times, and then went away.
“Oh, is not so bad,” she would later claim. “You very sexy. And no one cares of zee silly Italian magazine.”
It was a fair point. She’d never known anyone in America to read Le Ore, and so Alicia grasped this straw and distracted herself by playing with Benny and counting bank notes. Alas, both women underestimated the international interest in Jack and the intensity of “Jackie Fever.” To most, Alicia’s story seemed like an unwarranted attack on them both.
“Alicia Purdom Says She Was JFK’s Fiancée” was the heading of Walter Winchell’s column.
He wrote, “Europe is buzzing and so am I over the interview in a Milan magazine quoting Edmund Purdom’s estranged wife, Alicia, as stating she could have been America’s First Lady. She was quoted as saying she was engaged to JFK before he married Jacqueline. She blames Joe Kennedy for the break-up.…”
“MEMO TO EDMUND PURDOM’S ESTRANGED WIFE: Stop Those Fairy Tales About Your ‘Romance’ With JFK!” ordered Confidential magazine, a publication that’d bought hundreds of stories from Alicia over the years.
Edmund Purdom’s wife. They hadn’t even used her first name.
Other magazines ran similar “memos,” sometimes accompanied by pictures of Alicia looking bedeviled or deranged. One rag called her oversexed and off-colored. Another said she made “Picasso look like a piker in the art of purposeful distortion.”
“Her poor painting is rivaled only by her poor taste.”
“Stay away from this country for good!”
Alicia was heartbroken, bruised with each new insult.
“You can’t worry about what people print,” Kate advised. “How many times have they crowned me the ‘Most Uncooperative Actress of the Year’?”
“Much better to be difficult than oversexed and of poor taste,” Alicia replied.
It wasn’t merely her reputation that was decimated, but also her career. Within weeks, columnists and magazines refused to take her leaks. They scarcely deigned to cover her antics at all. If someone did bring her up—Hollywood was slow that week—it was only to diminish her further.
“That uninhibited little blonde.”
“The little Mittel-European blonde.”
Little, blond, barely European. She was left with these scant things.
After the Le Ore firestorm died down, the press would never again connect Alicia with Jack, never again mention him among her illustrious loves. But they always put his name close to hers, as if to tease.
“Such loot at El Morocco: Bobo Rockefeller, Bob Hope, Alicia Purdom, and JFK’s brother Ted Kennedy,” wrote Earl Wilson.
Alicia hadn’t known “Ted” was in the room.
Jack’s sisters were likewise part of the game:
“President Kennedy’s sisters, Eunice Shriver, wife of the Peace Corps director, and Jean Smith, whose husband works in the State Department, will leave Washington Sunday for a European vacation that includes a trip to Poland, Yugoslavia and the Riviera. Alicia Darr filed for divorce in Juarez, Mexico, from British actor Edmund Purdom,” said the Star-Tribune.
Sometimes these mentions and near-connections felt like the only proof that Alicia hadn’t imagined it all, like Cholly and Hedda and Harrison and so many others said.
The Le Ore interview solved a few problems, for a time, but the money didn’t last and neither did it come close to filling that scooped-out part of Alicia’s soul. All that and Benny, her daughter, seemed to share the sentiments of the American press. She screamed whenever Alicia got near.
Stay away from this country for good!
“She is fussy bambina,” Nova insisted. “Very demanding. Cries, cries, cries. It is not you.”
Novella was kind but Alicia saw quite plainly that Benny always cooed in Nova’s arms, suddenly the least demanding creature on earth. She was a different baby than the one Alicia left a month ago and didn’t feel like hers anymore. It was almost as though this tiny, sweet girl was trying to prove the same point as everyone else.
You see? Nothing important happened between you and Jack. It was all in your mind.
BRITISH ACTOR PURDOM TO DIVORCE POLISH WIFE
The Tennessean, July 11, 1961
NEW YORK
In early July, as a blanket of damp heat settled across southern Italy, Alicia was in New York to finalize her divorce and also because things were boiling over in Rome in ways unrelated to temperature.
She’d been arrested twice for passing bad checks and there were rumors of more warrants issued. At least the police—not the Kennedys—were trailing her this time, but this didn’t compel Novella to release Benny into her care.
The Summer I Met Jack Page 42