Since Charlie, Billie had struggled with style.
At first she’d howled like a demented thing, even in public places. When the crying became more controlled, she stopped having sex. She felt crazy. One day she put all the photographs of Charlie, all his newborn sleepers, the teething toys and teddies still brand new, away in a box. Then she took them out again, talked about him too much with strangers, upset Elisabeth and Sam with her afternoons on the sofa and a box of Kleenex. She never drank, which was a good thing, but Jack still said she was embarrassing herself. And embarrassing him. So she put Charlie’s things away again, aside from a brown teddy bear and three framed photos, which she did not display in the living room. They were on her bedside table. Charlie at one day old, asleep; she could smell his newborn skin just looking at that picture. Another from the park, when he was just two weeks old, sleeping in that new buggy she’d coveted. And one a week later, just before the terrible night: Charlie naked in the bath. This one was her favourite, because she was in it too. She could see her own arm cradling his back, and her hand scooping water over his belly. She loved the way his skinny legs and arms seemed to keep moving, even in the photograph. She never got tired of looking at the photographs, but she rationed herself. Her guilty treat. She avoided times when Jacko was home – he didn’t like to talk about Charlie any more.
‘It’s not that I don’t miss him,’ he explained to her one evening when he’d been drinking. ‘It’s just that talking about him doesn’t help. If it doesn’t help, what is the point? It’s…it’s uneconomical.’
He was right. It was an inefficient use of time, to talk about Charlie, to think about him, to picture him. And yet. It had been just over two years now. He’d only been a month old when it happened, but the nine months of pregnancy made her feel she’d known him longer than a month. Some days just after she woke, the family felt like a family of five, a completely different shape in her mind than a family of four. Five was asymmetrical but rounder, four was equal but angular and sharp pointed. Then she remembered, and it was like her family reversed, sucked in on itself, and going backwards had never felt right to her. It never felt the same. It turned out that once someone took up space, the space didn’t disappear just because they were gone.
Jackie would understand this. Her son Patrick had died two days after birth, and Arabella had been stillborn. There had been miscarriages too. She probably never bothered her husband with her moods. With her nostalgia, and this awful feeling of…permanent wrongness. No, no. She’d continue getting her hair done, her nails painted, her leg hair removed. She’d be ever-ready in bed, pliable, melting, a proper lover. Billie could remember behaving this way, but she couldn’t summon the actual feeling. Jackie would be hiding all her sorrows, but Billie imagined that somewhere in the White House, perhaps in some small closet or cubby hole, she had built a little shrine to her lost babies. Photographs, unworn baby shoes, a birth certificate. She imagined Jackie slipping away from some state dinner or cocktail party, maybe slipping out of her post-coital bed, to take solace alone with her mementoes. To just sit with them, and somehow inhale proof that once she’d had other children. She adored her Caroline and John-John of course, but when alone she might sometimes whisper the names of the others.
Weird, how occasionally thinking that Charlie was still alive when she first woke, made her so happy she hardly minded the shocking dip straight afterwards. So secretly, sometimes in the afternoon in the empty house, she’d begun pretending that he was just in the other room, having a nap or playing with his Matchbox cars. He’d be just over two now. Maybe he’d be looking at a picture book, pretending to read, trying to copy his siblings. On one level she always understood it was a game, but, oh, the second’s worth of joy it brought her anyway. And to think he began life as an accident! The night Kennedy won, they’d drunk expensive wine, made love, and she’d fallen asleep before douching. How could such random carelessness lead to someone so sweet, so specific – the surprise of Charlie had made him more precious somehow than the two planned children. He so nearly wasn’t. With that amount of luck, it seemed illogical that he didn’t get to have his full life as well.
Some days she got irritated, thinking of the way she’d taken him for granted, almost from his first day. The older children and Jacko had still absorbed her; her own appearance had still absorbed her. For long periods when he napped, she’d focused on other things. That dress she was sewing for Elisabeth. Helping Sam with his arithmetic. She revisited memories, just daily routines like changing Charlie’s diaper, or tilting his head back in her hands to rinse the shampoo out, or putting him in his crib and covering him with that yellow blanket. This time she infused the occasion with the proper enthusiasm. As if appreciation could be effective, retrospectively.
Sunny Suds was steamy and smelled of Tide. The powdery, chemical sensation burned the back of her throat as she loaded up the three machines. Whites, coloureds, delicates. As usual, she briefly remembered days when she did one load of wash a week. Sometimes not even that. Hard to believe that had been her, suiting herself every minute of every day. That lavender silk lingerie she’d been so proud of and hand-washed. The fine lace on the trim of each piece. Nowadays, all her underwear was greyish cotton. But then Jackie probably didn’t place much importance on fancy underwear either. In fact, it seemed vain now. Serviceable good quality underwear, that was classy, wasn’t it? 100% cotton. Breathable. Something a little trashy, a little desperate, a little unwholesome, about sexy lingerie. Anyway, her Jacko certainly didn’t need encouragement. Mores the pity, she often felt.
She sat down to watch the clothes tumble in the machine, wishing she’d brought a magazine. Good Housekeeping was out now, maybe she could pop out and buy a copy. She swung her purse over her arm, and set off to the corner store. Instead found her feet taking her – without so much as a nod to her brain – to Vic’s Ice-Cream Parlour.
Jacko was ninety miles away, in a downtown San Francisco restaurant. He was sitting with two men in white T-shirts and Levis. Their corduroy jackets were slung over the backs of their chairs. They were drinking German beer and making Martin Luther King jokes. I had a wet dream. They knew it was in bad taste; that’s why it was so funny. The beer was stronger than the beer Jacko was used to. He listened to them snorting with laughter at something he didn’t understand, but you wouldn’t guess it to hear him respond with a burst of laughter. Not a fake laugh, either. Jacko was laughing because he was so happy, he might burst into song if he didn’t laugh. Look at him – Jacko MacAlister, the winery worker’s son, the skinny kid who hadn’t kissed a girl till he was sixteen, eating pastrami on rye and drinking fancy beer with two Golden Gate Freight Press editors! And they hadn’t even asked him questions about his employment history, which was a huge relief. He’d sent them a partially fictionalised CV, just on a whim, never expecting to be invited for an interview. Crazy impulse, but here he was. He made a mental note to ask Billie to buy him some good quality white T-shirts. His own button down shirt suddenly felt boring. His shoes seemed too polished, and his hair a smidgen too short. And also, maybe buy a case of this stuff, what was it again? Boy oh boy, it tasted fine! He was living the American Dream now, Goddammit.
The waitress cleared their plates, brought coffees, and they all lit up cigarettes with Jacko’s Zippo. A moment passed, while they inhaled and puffed.
‘So, Jack!’ said one of the men. Jacko considered reminding him again that his name was Jacko, not Jack. Then did not. No one liked to be corrected, right?
‘Jack, I may as well tell you now.’ He looked at his colleague, who smiled his approval. ‘We want you.’
‘Boy oh boy!’ was all Jacko could think to say, but inside he was saying Fuck!! They couldn’t have checked any of his references.
‘You’ll be assistant editor for half a year or so, then maybe commissioning editor. You’re going to fit right in, Jack.’
Both men shook his hand vigorously, and Jacko suddenly saw himself as they must
see him. A reliable, unpretentious Jack. Not the wild card, Jacko. Was the name Jacko a bit silly?
‘Very now place, the city. Your family will love it.’
Jacko/Jack knew exactly how now and how wow the Bay Area was. Back to base camp. San Francisco, the sweetest town in the world.
All the rest of the day, while he sobered up driving home, he kept calling himself Jack. With the new beer, the new job, the prospect of a new house, the new name easily jostled into the big picture. New life, new name. Jack MacAlister, one of the Golden Gate Freight guys. He imagined cocktail parties in apartments with views of Coit Tower, Alcatraz, the bridge.
‘You’re not the Jack MacAlister, are you? Golden Gate Freight’s Jack?’
‘Well, yes, actually,’ he’d reply, acting mildly surprised. They’d smile and mention that they were writers, albeit unpublished. They’d tell him what a genius he was, to have discovered so and so, who was their favourite all-time writer. And could he maybe take a look at their poems one day? Or their novel?
Golden Gate Freight wouldn’t have strict work hours. There’d be long mornings in Café Trieste with his notebook and black coffee, making notes, surrounded by poets, artists, musicians, not to mention all those inhabitants of North Beach that made it North Beach. The strippers, the out-of-work longshoremen, the fat old Italian women in black, sweeping their door steps. In his mind, San Francisco took on the shape of a vaguely familiar once-loved woman he was now determined to get to know again. To woo. No, not just one familiar once-loved woman: a dozen women. San Francisco was a room full of beautiful women, all desperate to seduce him.
By the time he was driving onto Cherry Blossom Way, the name Jacko seemed juvenile, show-offy. Jack was serious. People took a Jack seriously. Jack Kennedy. Jack Kerouac. Jack London. Jack, Jack, Jack. Jack MacAlister, editor at the best publishing house on the west coast. Life could not be better.
So when he told Billie later, over a late dinner of French toast, bacon and maple syrup, he was not prepared for her tears. She wasn’t either. Why was she crying like this? Her tears were hot and fierce.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Jacko?’
‘I was sure I wouldn’t get the job.’
‘Isn’t Golden Gate Freight that same place you applied to before?’
‘Yeah! You remembered. I’ve been applying for jobs there since I left college. Couldn’t believe it when they finally shortlisted me. I had to go, Billie.’
Pause, while she found some tissues. Blew her nose.
‘You could have mentioned you were driving to the city.’
‘I should have. Sorry, sweetie.’
‘I don’t know why you have to be so darn secretive.’
‘I don’t either. But just think – we’re moving to San Francisco!’
She missed this house already. The lemon and orange trees, the squirrels and the attic bedroom with tiny-paned windows and cut-glass doorknobs. The coolness of the living room, with its white walls and curved door arch. And missing 1910 Cherry Blossom Lane was immediately clumped with everything that she had ever missed, starting with that falling-in-love feeling that faded one afternoon in 1955. The view from every kitchen window since they’d married, which amounted to eight kitchen windows. She missed the way she used to fit into her grey honeymoon dress, with the narrow grey belt. And Charlie – there he was, adding his infant poignancy, and the smell of sick in his hair. Darn it! She opened her mouth to speak, but cried louder instead.
‘Aw, what’s the matter, honey?’
She blew her nose again. ‘Sorry. I’m just so tired, Jacko.’
‘I know. This heat. San Francisco will be so much cooler.’
She wasn’t being honest with him, but still – his ignorance of her was infuriating. She glared at him, sitting across from her, and he seemed not just miles away, but an entirely different species. It was not classy, not a Jackie thing to do, but she pushed her plate away, then stood up and scraped her dinner into the garbage.
‘What? For Christ sake, Billie, what the hell?’
At least the children were already in bed.
‘You announce we have to move. Pack everything up again, pull the kids out of school, find a new place to live, new friends, new everything and you wonder why, why, why I am not dancing for joy? Darn it, are you…nuts?’
Billie could not swear out loud. It was like a speech impediment. Her mind was screaming Goddammit you fucking selfish asshole, but out came the ineffective nuts and darn it again.
‘Billie. Honey. You’ve always coped so well before.’
‘No. No! I have never coped well. It’s been hard each time. I love this house! It’s the best house yet!’
‘You never said you minded moving. Am I a mind reader?’
Another nose-blowing pause. He kept his eyes on her. Fork poised above cooling French toast.
‘What’s the date?’
‘It is not my period,’ she lied.
‘It’s the middle of the month.’
‘Stop changing the subject. I hate moving.’
‘You should have said something before.’
‘Well, I’ve been proud of you,’ snuffled Billie. ‘And I just got on with it, put everything in boxes yet again, but it’s so hard. You have no idea.’
Jacko felt her misery drift towards him, like a threatening thundercloud. And he’d been so happy all afternoon, so excited. Damn it, why should she ruin this? She had an instinct for ruining things. He was reminded briefly of something much more unpleasant, disconnected but somehow similar. Billie had said You have no idea in just that same accusatory and triumphant tone repeatedly the year Charlie died. Over and over. Charlie flashed through his thoughts right now, like he sometimes did. Sometimes just the memory of holding him; now and then, his whole face. Just the sight of his still body in the crib, this time. Followed by a second’s memory of Billie’s wild crying jags and his own detachment – well, someone had to stay calm. Elisabeth and Sam had been frightened enough. Billie could be so selfish. A child, really.
‘You. Have. No. Idea,’ she’d said, hatred filling her eyes.
Had she any idea whatsoever what it cost him to stay on top of things then? What did she imagine would happen to the world if every grief stricken person just upped and lay on the sofa for a year? All right for her, she didn’t need to support a family, Goddammit.
She called him The King, deferred to him, then pulled this garbage. Screw her! But he felt his joy leak away anyway, and a huge tiredness descended.
‘Did you hear me? Are you listening to anything I say?’
She heard her own shrillness. Jackie would never behave like this. Smoothing her hair off her forehead, she raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye. She looked around. The table, the curtains, the whole dining room was already changing – she could now imagine looking at a faded photograph of it one day. Oh yeah, she’d think. That room, that house. That time we lived in Sacramento for a year. Suddenly the whole house felt insubstantial. This was just another interlude. Not part of her proper, permanent life. This would all be packed up into yellow Mayfair boxes. She took a big breath. Let it out.
‘I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t get so upset, Jacko.’
‘It’ll be fine. Ernie says they plan on moving to Marin too one day. And we’ll be closer to Louise. You could see her all the time.’
‘Yeah, that would be good. Those poor boys of hers. Maybe they could stay with us sometime.’ Despite herself, she felt better. In fact, she began to feel the tiniest tentacles of excitement. Jackie Kennedy moved often too. Heavens, you had to follow your man.
‘All right, Jacko. I’ll start looking for houses in the Bay Area tomorrow.’
‘That’s my girl.’
He wanted to start eating again, finish his French toast. French toast was no good cold.
They went to bed, kissed good night and hunkered down in their usual positions. Jack on his back at first, then turning on to his right side. Billie on her side, facing hi
m, one arm over his waist. An hour passed, then another. Jack removed her arm, rolled over and faced her. It was light enough from the hall light to see her face. Her mouth was slightly open, a slight frown in that eyebrow. Maybe she was dreaming about packing boxes already.
‘Billie,’ he whispered.
‘Hey, Billie.’
‘Billie, you awake?’
‘Jiminy, Jacko. Can’t you see I’m asleep?’
‘Listen, can you call me Jack now?’
‘I just did.’
‘No, you called me Jacko. I want to be Jack from now on, okay honey?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. What time is it?’
‘About two. Can you please do that? Call me Jack?’
‘Two o’clock in the morning? Why did you wake me up?’
‘I was just thinking. I can’t sleep. I’m excited, I guess. So, do you think you can call me Jack?’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I feel more like a Jack now.’
‘All right. Can I go to sleep now?’
‘Say it.’
Big sigh and moan from Billie. ‘Jack! Jack, Jack, Jack. All right?’
‘Thank you. I love you.’
‘I’m not promising to remember this in the morning.’
‘Okay.’
Ten minutes passed. They’d turned away from each other.
‘Jacko,’ she whispered.
‘Jacko, you awake?
‘I mean, Jack! Jack, all right?’
‘What is it?’
‘I can’t sleep now. You’ve ruined my sleep.’
‘Say I love you, Jack, and I’ll rock you to sleep.’
She giggled. Jackie Kennedy probably had just kind of conversation sometimes with John.
‘I love you very much, Jack MacAlister,’ she fibbed, but the saying of it made it real. And she did.
Three Years Earlier
Billie Obeys the Book
Nov 8th, 1960, Piggleston, Oregon
9:31pm
Wait For Me Jack Page 23