Deb sips from her longneck, and after a moment of contemplation says, “You said a mouthful.” It’s as if she’s remembering a particularly distasteful trip where she had her purse stolen stepping off a bus at Port Authority before being forced to sit through a matinee of Cats and watch the Red Sox lose at Yankee Stadium.
I finish my clams; the last few are room temperature but still tasty on a summer’s night. Deb asks me what I’m doing with my time on the island. I almost say “Working,” but I know that will invite more questions than I want to answer, so instead I say, “Kicking around.”
“You should drive out to Chappy, see the east side of the island.”
“Oh, yeah?” I assume she means Chappaquiddick.
“Yeah. While you’re ovah there you should stop at Mad Martha’s for ice cream. Bring your friends you’re staying with so you can get the Pig’s Delight. It’s twelve scoops and tons a toppin’s.”
I laugh. The image of Jackie, Joan, and myself attacking the Pig’s Delight with three plastic spoons is delightful. “We’ll see. I’m not sure my friends would eat all that.”
“Your call. Fun though. I used to scoop summahs there when I was young.”
It’s only now that I wonder if Deb is maybe hitting on me. If she is, she’s getting the hint that I’m helplessly oblivious.
“You want any more fries?” I offer. “I’m not going to finish them.”
“Nah. Soggy now anyways,” she says. “I’m gonna go put somethin’ on the juke.” She places her hand on mine and leans in for a last word. “Enjoy the island. If you ever feel lost, just take a right.”
Just take a right. It’s so simple it’s almost profound. I settle the check with the bartender and thank Deb for her company.
“Catch you around, tourist.”
I try one last limp fry, then push my plate back so I won’t eat any more. I swivel my barstool to study the tavern’s other diners, or, more aptly, drinkers. It’s an entirely different crowd than the Outermost’s—everyone looks like they’re having genuine fun. Before I decide to leave, I scan the room for Deb and find her in the middle of the dance floor by herself, swaying to the music. I watch her for a minute. She’s clumsy, slightly off the beat, tripping over boots that are perhaps too big for her. No one else is watching.
As I head for the door I make out her distinctive squeal when her song comes on the jukebox, but it’s not until I’m in the parking lot that I recognize it as Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”
JFK
BLOWN AWAY
WHAT ELSE DO I HAVE TO SAY?
◆ FOURTEEN ◆
Joan arrives with breakfast again, this time with an invitation to the main house for dinner, which I eagerly accept.
“How was last night?” she asks.
“Good. Fun. I tried to get into the Outermost Inn.”
Joan scoffs, at me or at the inn, I’m not sure.
“I ended up at the tavern down the road.”
“Did you get the lobster roll?”
“Clams.”
“You should get the lobster roll next time.”
“So I hear.”
I ask how Jackie’s feeling, to make sure that she’s up for seeing me. Joan looks over her shoulder and then leans in, as if trading a state secret.
“She’s fine. They had a tribute last night on the teevee. For Bobby.”
“The Convention.” I groan, having completely forgotten that the Democratic National Convention was unspooling at Madison Square Garden back home. I want to kick myself for being so obtuse.
“I think she wanted to watch it alone.” It means a lot that Joan is starting to trust me. I haven’t really seen her interact with Jackie and I know nothing about her life; is it too much of an assumption to think that Joan gets lonely?
“I’m surprised Mrs. Onassis wasn’t invited.”
She cocks an eye as if I’m the dumbest man on the planet.
“Of course she was invited,” I correct myself.
“Probably why she’s here, so she could say honestly she’d be out of town.” It’s so obvious to me now: She’s a prop they would trot out for the entire party, the entire country, to fawn over.
“Dinner, then,” I say, setting the tray down so I can close the door. “Thank you.”
Over melon and scones, I give thought to my mother as a young woman. Who she was, what she wanted—before she was a parent. The resulting image is both a gorge and a bridge; I feel closer to understanding her heart, while other, tangential mysteries deepen and feel unsolvable. When lost, I hear Deb’s words: Take a right. I’m not sure it helps; there’s something just out of reach.
At eleven-fifteen, I catch a glimpse of Jackie’s yellow bathing cap bobbing across the Squibnocket. In the grass beside the path I can make out her robe and the jar of cream, and I start to get a real sense of ritual. This time I don’t watch for long; it’s her practice, not mine.
I nap in the midafternoon. At five I shower and dress in the other nice outfit I packed and cross the driveway to the main house. The sound of the gravel under my feet sounds much like my father crunching the ice cubes from his empty scotch glass. It’s a rare thought of him, and it catches me off guard.
“James?” I hear Jackie call my name before I’m even on the porch.
“Good evening.”
“You’re right on time,” she says, and waves me in.
I enter the house, gently closing the screen door behind me.
“I was hoping you’d join me in a cocktail.”
“I would never say no to that.” Sitting on a silver tray on the sideboard are two double old-fashioned glasses filled with a light cranberry drink and garnished with lime wheels. It seems she is definitely in the mood for company again. “No daiquiris?”
Jackie hands me a glass. “When in Rome.”
“Cape Cods.”
She raises her drink in my direction. “I hear you’ve been keeping busy.”
“Yes. Writing. Rewriting. I have to thank you for inviting me here. To the island. The change of scenery has given me fresh perspective.”
“This place has always had a similar effect on me.”
“I can see why.” I make an all-encompassing gesture, taking it all in.
“I’ll be excited to see your new draft,” she says.
“I’ll be excited to see it too.” I chuckle. A change in scenery doesn’t guarantee me an ending; I’m waiting on a bit of writerly magic.
“These are the moments, helping writers find their inspiration, that I find so rewarding as an editor.”
“Is that why you got into publishing?”
“One of the reasons.”
“I think a lot of people wonder.”
“Do they?” Jackie seems genuinely surprised.
I follow her to the living room, which has a large picture window that overlooks the pond. The chair where I sit is comfortable and white, as is most of the rest of the seating. The coffee table looks like it’s assembled from the timbers of old ships, perhaps here on the island. The rug is a faded yellow with a simple stripe. The room is unfussy, and yet I’m very aware of not spilling my cranberry drink.
“I suppose people speculate on how it’s fashionable for wealthy women to work, or for working women to be wealthy. I’ve heard it all.”
“What do you say? To the naysayers. If you don’t mind me asking.”
Jackie holds her glass to her lips without taking a sip. “I don’t say anything at all.”
She seems entirely at home. Relaxed. Her hair is pinned on one side, away from her face, as if she were caught halfway through doing it. The light of this magic hour gives her a pinkish, youthful glow.
“I have a question,” she says, changing the topic. “Have you given thought to the book’s cover?”
“I know I
have my ideas, and I’m also curious what your art department will come up with.” I tuck one leg under me, careful not to touch the chair with my shoe.
“I’m very interested in design, as you may have surmised. Especially the design of my books. I can spend hours on the smallest details. The look of a book is very important, I think.” And then sheepishly she adds, “It can drive some of my coworkers mad.”
“I suppose it could.”
“But I’ve found the only way to be happy in life is to love and be good at your work. Don’t you agree?”
I look down at my drink, struggling with what she is saying. If I pull my punches to protect my mother, or go out of my way to avoid telling the story that I want, I’m not being good at my work. If I’m not good at my work, I won’t ever be happy. My eyes sting, from the ocean air or holding back tears I’m not sure. “I just want to write. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.” I pause to chew on my lip. “How did things get this complicated?” A gust of wind rattles the window and I hope that query is lost in the bluster.
“I had a thought last night.”
“Tell me.” I’m desperate still for any more guidance.
“When’s the last time you’ve seen your mother?”
The question catches me off guard. “In person?”
Jackie nods.
“I don’t know. Last fall? It’s been a while.” It’s only when I say it out loud that I realize how awful it sounds. But in refusing to read the book, it feels like she’s the one closing the door on knowing me as I am now. How are we supposed to sit down and share a meal?
“I think you should go home, James.”
“I just . . .” I stop and look out the window. How do I respond without sounding callous? “I don’t know what that would accomplish.”
Jackie sets her drink down on a coaster and turns in my direction. I can feel her eyes on me, waiting for me to look back at her. She doesn’t speak until she knows she has my full attention. “Every mother has a story.”
I feel myself chewing on my thumbnail but make no effort to stop.
“Ask her about hers. You don’t have to use it. Just listen. Let her talk, and listen. I wouldn’t be surprised if the ending you’re looking for is somehow in there.”
I nod and look at my lap. I think I’ve known this all along. The block in my writing is directly related to the block in my relationship with my mother. The characters are stalled, because the two of us are on hold. But a trip home requires real thought. And as grateful as I am for advice, I’m ready to move the topic off me. “I still think you should write. Your story. The things you’ve seen. People would be very interested.”
“Oh, I would never waste time writing such things when there are beaches to be walked.”
“Do you think of your obligation to history?”
I mean it only as a question, but it sits between us as an accusation and the room stands perfectly still. Or maybe my meaning is more pointed; I feel pushed and it’s a clumsy attempt to push back. Either way, I think furiously how to backpedal—whether to outright apologize or try to pass it off as teasing. Just as I’m about to take the question back entirely, she answers. “I believe I’ve filled my obligation to history.”
Dinner is salmon, wild rice, and Brussels sprouts (choux de Bruxelles). Everything is delicious, if portioned a bit small. I already know I’m going to have to forage for a late-night snack.
Our conversation remains thankfully light; we discuss our favorite books. “East of Eden,” I say without hesitation. I explain how it’s a book I relate to endlessly, even if the California dustbowl is a far cry from my own roots in rural New York. I’m fascinated, like Steinbeck, by the subtle differences in meaning words can have, in this case the Hebrew word Timshel, which, while thought to have meant thou shall, when retranslated in Steinbeck’s novel by Chinese scholars comes to mean thou mayest. In that slight difference—destiny vs. free will—exists the fate of all mankind. “What about you?”
“Oh, I have many. Gone with the Wind when I was a girl. Now? It depends on what day you ask. I suppose today, Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea.”
“That was conceived as a sequel, of sorts, to Brontë?”
“A prequel, actually, to Jane Eyre.”
I can recall the basics of the plot, a woman loving a domineering man, but not all of the shading. “I read it in college. I’m trying to remember the particulars.”
Jackie lifts one shoulder and looks just past me, deciding how much to share. It’s obvious to me that this is about as intimate a conversation as one could hope to have with her, and I can almost see Joan warming up on the sidelines, ready to pounce. “It’s about, in part, the unequal power between men and women. Especially in marriage.”
I’m dying to know which of her relationships the book evokes. Since the Sargasso Sea itself takes up a great swath of the North Atlantic, perhaps the novel bridges both marriages, just as the Atlantic connects North America with Europe, the two continents of her unions. I’ll have to look up when the book was published to see if that lends a further clue.
“Do you have a someone?”
I place my fork gently on my plate and pause for a moment in uncertainty. I assume she knows I’m gay; the narrator of my book is not actively heterosexual, and I’m hardly the spitting image of a quarterback. But to say so out loud is like coming out to my mother all over again—I’m the scared teenager sitting on a front porch. Yet I am an adult and there’s no avoiding a direct question, potentially making a fool of a woman who has shown me nothing but grace.
“I’m prying,” she says apologetically.
“No, not at all. I have a Daniel.”
I look for a reaction, but she doesn’t blink. “Is he handsome?”
“He is.”
“Is he kind?”
“He is.”
Jackie twirls her hair with her index finger and swallows the last of her wine. “Well, you know what I always say. Never marry, never mix your money.”
I laugh, and this time, with all apologies to Joan, I just can’t hold it in. “Says the woman who married twice, once to the world’s richest man.” It’s the boldest thing I’ve ever said to her and I hold my breath as Jackie considers this charge.
“The other time to the world’s most powerful. Don’t you forget that.” She rises from her chair, picks up a folded newspaper from the sideboard, and swats me across the back of the head. “Come along, smarty-pants.”
“Should I clear these?” I ask, indicating the dishes.
“Leave them.” She is already gone.
I hear the television, and when I reach the living room Jackie has resumed her seat on the couch. She tucks her legs beside her, propping herself against the right arm of the sofa, sitting not unlike the famous Little Mermaid statue in Copenhagen. It’s the last night of the Democratic Convention and Al Gore is making an impassioned plea to Perot voters to remain involved (and presumably vote for the Democratic ticket), despite their candidate dropping out of the race.
“He looks so young,” Jackie says wistfully.
“Mmm-hmm.” I wonder if she realizes that part of the appeal of youth, of this ticket, is the throwback to her and her husband. Does she look at old photos of herself in the White House and think the same thing? Was she even thirty when she became the First Lady? Was she no longer young when she did? Or was she forever young until a fateful day one November, when a whole country seemed to age overnight.
Al Gore finishes his speech and there is brass music, but where it comes from I don’t know. People clap in unison and wave CLINTON/GORE signs. Tipper appears onstage in a royal blue dress and, while I’m not certain, I think I see Jackie cringe. The Gores kiss and wave and they cut to Hillary Clinton in the crowd, who’s so obviously ready for the warm-up act to step out of the spotlight that she might race backstage to yank them with an old-timey vaudevi
lle hook.
Newscasters speak in voiceover about Gore’s résumé, and their thoughts on the effectiveness of the speech. And then conversation turns to Bill Clinton and soon a biographical video starts to play across the screen.
“Have you met him?” I ask.
“Bill Clinton?”
A photo of Clinton shaking John Kennedy’s hand as part of some boy’s curriculum for future leaders splashes across the screen. It was smart of the campaign to include it. To tie Clinton and JFK together.
“Apparently, I met him in the Rose Garden.”
“Have you met him recently,” I clarify.
“Oh, yes.”
I can picture him now, as someone who idolized her husband, much as my family did, coming to her to seek her blessing, to kiss the ring as if she were an imposing godfather. I’m watching this pageant with someone who still holds incredible sway over Democratic politics, and I imagine it’s for other men, straighter men, like watching the World Series with . . . ? I don’t even know how to finish that comparison. It’s like watching the Academy Awards with Katharine Hepburn. Straight men will just have to extrapolate.
“Do you like him?”
“Do you like him?” Jackie lobs the question right back at me.
“I do,” I admit, hoping against hope this is not a wrong answer.
We watch the video for few minutes more before Jackie says, “I’ve papered his war chest on several occasions.”
I look up at Jackie with a curious expression.
“That’s not a euphemism!” she protests, when she reads my face. Then she laughs. “Well, I guess it is for giving him money. But not for anything else.”
When the video fades, Bill Clinton appears onstage and gets a rock star’s reception.
“He’s a natural,” I say.
“A little too natural.”
I know she’s heard the rumors of infidelity, they addressed them on 60 Minutes. I puzzle over how much of her first husband she sees, why she chose to support him, and how much she sympathizes with Hillary. Whereas she suffered indignities in silence, the Clintons give joint interviews—the job of political good wife now even harder.
The Editor Page 11
