by Kerri Maher
“Seriously?” said Kell to his sister.
“Seriously,” she said. “How about a canoe? We can take the children and a picnic.”
Everyone else—Peggy, Lizanne, and their mother—declined their invitation to join them, and so it was just Grace, little Caroline and Albie, and Kell and his toddlers, John and Susan. Kell’s wife, Mary, had a headache and seemed relieved to have some time to herself.
In the boat, Kell insisted on manning the oar single-handedly, and explained to the children the difference between them and the oars in scull and crew boats. He also explained what a crew boat was and all the positions a man could have on a crew team. Albie wanted to be the coxswain and immediately began barking orders in his high-pitched toddler voice: “Faster! Faster! Sit up straight! Eat your vegetables!” Grace and Kell exchanged highly amused glances and tried not to laugh.
As the canoe stopped wobbling and began nosing its way purposefully down the river, Grace rested her elbows on her knees and closed her eyes. She tried to take it all in—the breeze on her face that ruffled her hair; the murky scent of water and the wet earth beneath, teeming with fragrant, swampy life; the sound of the wooden oars breaking the surface of the water, then pushing it—rrrrruuuush!—with a ring against the metal sides of the boat. Though she knew she was not the one with the burning shoulders and arms, she began to understand the allure, the way in which she was simultaneously on her own and also part of the river, something larger and more powerful than herself. For a moment, she even forgot that the security men she was required to travel with were in a canoe just yards away.
When they got home and Kell devoured the cold chicken sandwiches he’d eschewed on their picnic, saying he didn’t want to give himself a cramp as he paddled them back, he asked her what she thought about their ride. “It was marvelous,” she said with a grateful smile. “Thank you for doing all the hard work.”
“My pleasure,” he said. Then, after washing down a mouthful of sandwich with some Coke, he asked, “Why today?”
Grace looked upstairs. “I thought maybe it would help.”
He nodded. “Did it?”
“A bit,” she said.
But there was so much more a trip down the Schuylkill could never wash away.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” ventured Kell, and Grace could hear the apprehension in his voice, “why didn’t Rainier come? I thought he and Dad always got along.”
“They did,” she sighed. “They do. But . . .” She had made so many excuses. Her whole life. It was probably her most useful and finely tuned skill, a cousin to the silence she’d perfected first. “But he had some meetings he had to attend. France, you know. The big bully next door.” But Rainier hadn’t even offered to come. “He’s too young to go like this,” he’d said huskily to Grace when she told him that she needed to make a final visit to see her father. She got the eerie sense he was talking less about Jack Kelly than his own father, Pierre, whom he’d loved more than all his other difficult family members—certainly more than his mother, who took no interest in him, or his sister, who’d tried more than once to overthrow him.
“Of course,” Kell said, nodding. “I just wanted to make sure, you know, everything is okay. We all like Rainier.”
Grace remembered Don’s long-ago complaint that Kell had crank-called him, even threatened to beat him up if he didn’t leave Grace alone. And now here was her brother checking to make sure she and Rainier were on solid ground.
If only they were.
In these first four years of their marriage, it had become clear to Grace that she was fatally flawed. That had to be the reason why her father constantly compared her to Peggy, and now her husband thought she was in dire need of instruction. It wasn’t just the French lessons—which were coming along nicely, thanks to her mimic’s ear, which her teachers at the Academy had always described as pitch-perfect, thank you very much—or even the tutorials with Father Tucker, in which they discussed the who’s who of European royalty and politics so that Grace would know exactly who everyone was, where they hailed from, and what dramas their families had been party to, going back several generations. Yes, those she could see the necessity of.
But the tirades about using the wrong kinds of flowers or moving the furniture in their receiving room to better accommodate the number of guests? “You should know better, Grace,” he always seemed to be saying. Or the constant questions about tasks she’d already completed, as if she knew nothing at all about etiquette: “Have you written the thank-you notes yet? I wouldn’t want Ari or the Windsors wondering why we haven’t thanked them yet”; or “Have you begun planning the Christmas festival yet? Best not to let anything linger too long.”
And lately he’d started in on her appearance. “Have you thought about growing your hair? Short hair seems a bit dated these days, don’t you think?” Or “Let’s skip dessert this week, shall we?” a few weeks after she’d given birth to Albie and felt her whole body sloshy and hot and humming with a need for the only pleasure she could think to give it: chocolate cake.
There was something so familiar about his criticisms, they were almost comforting, as if they confirmed what she’d always known about herself: that she had so much to learn, always. Familiar, too, was the raw chafe these lessons produced, the way they rubbed against the sense that she knew more than she was given credit for, that she could be trusted to get things right. Rainier’s complaints confirmed her sense that nothing she could ever do would be enough.
Maybe this was the reason she’d never been a Broadway star: she hadn’t tried hard enough. She’d allowed herself to be distracted by Hollywood, by the easy glory of stardom.
But, oh, how wonderful and freeing that distraction sounded now. We all have our limitations, Clark Gable had said to her nearly a decade ago. And someday you’ll realize that what you’ve got isn’t worth trading.
I think I’m starting to see your point, she thought. I just hope it’s not too late.
But it was like that whole part of her life had been erased when Rainier had outlawed all her movies in Monaco. Banned them from being shown in any theater.
“Why?” she’d asked nearly four years ago, bewildered and swollen with Caroline growing in her belly.
“I thought you understood about sacrifice. And wiping our slates clean,” he’d replied.
What have you given up? What sins did you expunge?
“And look what you’ve gained,” he said gently, laying a hand on her taught, round stomach. As if on cue, the little one inside kicked. “See?” he’d said with a warm, fatherly smile. “This is our new beginning.”
What could she possibly say to that? It was true. In a way. Wasn’t it?
* * *
The children went back to Monaco with their nanny after a few days with their American family, and Grace stayed in East Falls with her dying father. Hugging little Caroline and Albie goodbye had been wrenching. She succeeded in not crying as they ran together down the gangway with their nanny, but as soon as they were gone, she had to bite down hard on her fist to keep herself from breaking down in the airport. Those children, she thought. She loved them so much, she felt naked with them, constantly caught off her guard. Sometimes, like on the canoe, it was joyful in the purest way, and she could enjoy the giddiness they inspired in her. Other times, like now, she felt like she’d fallen off a cliff and her hot, clenched heart had risen into her throat.
She’d been glad it was Fordie’s day off and it was an anonymous taxi driver who’d had to listen to her choke on her sobs all the way back to Henry Avenue from the airport.
At least they were happy to be on their way home to see their father. Rainier was so sweet with them—verging on too sweet, Grace sometimes thought. He bought them anything they wanted, was always ready with his tickle-monster routine and a piggyback ride, even if Grace was trying to get them ready for bed and didn’t want them woun
d up again. One ride around the nursery on his back as he whinnied like a horse would set bedtime back half an hour or more, and since their toddlers had never been able to sleep in, the next day they would be cranky and only Grace would have to cope. She’d once asked him to shift his silly play with them to mornings, and he’d just said, “Oh, lighten up, Grace. We’re just having fun.” But at least he was a demonstratively loving father. Unlike her own.
“Isn’t it just like Daddy,” said Peggy drunkenly one night, “to die in a way that makes all of us bite our fingernails while we wait? Just like he lived.” It was so uncharacteristic of her older sister to be negative about their father, who’d lavished so much love and praise on his dear Ba over the years, that Grace wondered what other resentments simmered under the surface. But she didn’t think she could cope with the answers, so she didn’t ask.
On the plane ride to Philadelphia from France, Grace had been full of fantasies about sitting at her father’s bedside, sponging his face and reading him the paper while he submitted to her care and finally, just once, said, “Thank you, Grace. I want you to know I’m proud of you. I know you’ve tried hard all these years.” Like Lear, who finally recognized Cordelia’s loyalty and even mistook her for an angel in his fever.
But he didn’t ask for anyone, and the nurse wouldn’t let anyone else sponge his face. One night she went for a walk in McMichael Park across the street from their house, and sat on one of the swings she’d enjoyed as a girl. Higher and higher she’d pump with her long, skinny legs, very nearly flying off each time she reached the top front of her upside-down arc; every time, her rear end caught a bit of air, separating at least an inch from the seat. If she hadn’t been holding the chains so tight, she might have really hurt herself, but she’d learned well the art of swinging just high enough.
That night she twisted the chains of the swing and let them unwind a few times, which made her feel a little queasy. She was about to get up when Fordie of all people sat in the swing next to hers.
“Your entourage is wondering where you are,” he said. It wasn’t a reprimand; he sounded more amused than anything about the security men hanging around her childhood home.
“Oh, them,” she said. “I sometimes pretend to forget they’re there and that my life is still my own.”
“Your life’s always been your own, Gracie. You’ve proved that again and again.”
“Have I?” she laughed. “Because it doesn’t feel that way to me.”
Fordie was quiet for a minute.
Then she realized something and said, “I’m sorry, Fordie. That must sound horribly spoiled. How is your daughter?”
Fordie smiled wide, and Grace saw a lightning bug buzz bright green behind him. Then another, and another. “She’s doing great,” he replied. “Teaching, marching. She’s met a young man, and he’s real nice. Her mother and I like him a lot.”
Grace smiled. “I’m glad,” she said. “If you like him, he must be a good man.”
Did you like Rainier when you met him?
“He is a good man,” agreed Fordie. “’Course, he’s no prince,” he laughed.
She laughed, too, but without any real humor.
“I’m sorry you’re unhappy, Gracie. And I’m sorry your daddy’s on his way out. Nothing I can say to make that right for you.”
Grace tried to blink back the tears that had immediately flooded her eyes at Fordie’s words, the gentleness of his voice, but instead water leaked out and rolled down her cheeks. She sniffled and patted at her jeans pockets, but she didn’t have any tissues.
Fordie handed her an immaculate, crisply folded hankie.
“Thank you,” she said hoarsely, taking it and wiping her nose.
“For what it’s worth, Gracie, I don’t think you sound spoiled at all. You sound like a girl who loves her father and doesn’t know how to make heads or tails out of what his loss will mean.” He paused, and Grace sobbed silently, making a wet, wrinkled wreck of his hankie, which smelled so comfortingly of their car and the mint gum he always chewed.
“A lot goes unsaid in a life,” he went on, “and sometimes what is said isn’t the best. The only thing we can do is learn from the mistakes of the people we love, and do better. You’re doing great, Gracie. I saw you with your boy and girl. They love you, and you treat them like the prince and princess they are. Keep that up. That’s what’ll heal the hurt you’re feeling inside you now.”
“You think?” she hiccoughed.
“I know,” he said, and he sounded so sure, her belief in his words calmed her nerves. She stopped crying long enough to take a deep breath. And then a yawn rose up in her so strong, it lengthened her spine and pushed her arms in the air in a languorous stretch.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Anytime,” he said, and together they walked back to the dignified brick house Jack Kelly had built with his own hands three decades ago, in a classic Federal style, bigger than any of the other more Tudor-style stone homes in the neighborhood, to prove to anyone who drove down the main road that “Just because I’m Catholic, and from Irish stock, doesn’t mean I don’t know what it means to be American.”
Oh, Daddy. You never did stop, did you? Even now you’re trying to prove your mettle.
* * *
The closest Grace came to her hoped-for moment with her father was the day before he died, and it was actually with her mother. The two of them were in the kitchen making sandwiches and iced tea, and Margaret had set down her knife on the cutting board and rushed over to her daughter, given her a tight hug, and cried, “I’m going to miss him so much. And you, too, Grace. Please stay.”
This outburst of emotion was so unlike her mother, Grace saw right away what death had the power to bring out in a person. The two of them stood in the kitchen a long time while Grace and her mother clung tightly to each other as Margaret Majer Kelly cried, and Grace was glad she’d fallen apart with Fordie earlier so that she could be strong for her mother now. Margaret cried so much that afternoon that when the day of the funeral arrived, she smiled wryly at Grace and said, “I don’t have any tears left. Those sandwiches tasted so salty.”
She didn’t ask her daughter again to stay in Pennsylvania, but when Grace’s suitcase was packed and it was time for Fordie to drive her to the airport, Margaret sat down on Grace’s squishy bed with the faded pink matelassé coverlet, and patted the space next to her. Grace sat and felt her heart speed up as she tried to fill her lungs with air.
“Thank you for coming. And for staying,” her mother said. “It’s been . . . Having you here has made it easier to—” And here her voice cracked, and Grace could see her mother’s eyes get watery.
Taking her mother’s hands in hers, Grace squeezed and said, “It’s all right. I understand. It’s why I can’t wait to get home to Caroline and Albie.” She’d spoken to them on the phone that morning, and her heart had cracked open with love and grief.
Her mother squeezed Grace’s hand in reply, and her grip felt strong. She felt connected to her mother, with more than just their hands, and hoped this could be the start of something new and enduring between them.
Margaret looked around Grace’s room and cleared her throat.
“What next?” she wondered aloud.
“Plan a visit to Monaco,” suggested Grace.
Her mother sighed, and Grace could hear the East Falls society lady coming back to herself. “Eventually,” she said with resignation. “I wish I had the luxury of running away from my real life, but there are things I must attend to.”
Ignoring the ignorant dig on her own life—she’d never “run away” from a damn thing in her entire life—Grace kissed her mother on the cheek. She couldn’t expect everything to change in a moment, could she? But she left feeling hopeful, and that was enough.
Chapter 32
1962
Grace selected the blu
e gown for the party at the Onassis villa. Rainier used to like seeing her in blue, and he’d been so testy recently, she didn’t think she could take it if he criticized her dress on top of everything else.
Stop speaking English to the children. You need to practice your French as much as they do.
That perfume is cloying. Please shower it off.
Albie has better things to do than take music lessons in town. Leave it to me to schedule his afternoons.
Why don’t you smile more, Grace? I only want you to be happy.
Rainier was under considerable strain, Grace reminded herself. De Gaulle had threatened to cut off all electricity to Monaco if Rainier didn’t impose certain taxes on businesses in the principality, and Aristotle Onassis, whose two cents often put Rainier in a foul humor, was constantly calling and offering unsolicited advice. She squelched the voice inside her that said, He wasn’t being very nice before the crisis, either.
Still, ruling a principality that was so stuck in its ways was a challenge, and Rainier was passionate about modernizing the country. Grace felt it was her duty to cut him every break possible, to make her own needs invisible to him, and to try to help him in any way she could. The problem was, every time she made a decision without consulting him, he found fault with it.
We might live in a palace, Grace, but this is far too much to spend on flowers for an event at a hospital.
In these moments, she felt replies rise like viper attacks to her tongue, but she swallowed them back. She certainly wasn’t about to tell him that she thought some of the decisions he was making, especially to allow so much construction in their little principality, were unwise and shortsighted. In her view, what made Monaco so alluring to the wealthy people who’d long visited and poured money into its economy was its natural beauty and relative seclusion. She felt he should capitalize more on Monaco’s coastal glamour and offer tourists more cultural opportunities, instead of allowing every free space to be cemented over with ever more hotels, apartments, and banks.
