by Gill Paul
“Is this all there is?” she asked.
“This is what you normally eat,” Battista replied, eyes cold with anger. He turned to Ari. “Maria has to watch her weight. When I met her she was huge, like a First World War blimp. I’m sure you don’t want her slipping back to her old habits.”
“Stop it!” Maria snapped. “You are the only person in this room who is overweight.”
Ari patted her hand. “The fish is fine. I don’t like a heavy meal in the evening.”
Battista asked Maria whether she intended to fulfill her singing commitments for the remainder of the year: she had concerts booked in Bilbao, London, Berlin, then Kansas City and Dallas.
“Of course,” she said. “You know I don’t cancel concerts except on medical advice.”
“But you haven’t been practicing.”
She felt a twinge of panic as she replied, “Leave the singing to me.” She knew she had to get back to intensive practice; the Bilbao concert was less than two weeks away and she’d been neglecting her work. That she might not be ready nagged at her, adding to her underlying anxiety.
After dinner they moved to the living room. She found a bottle of brandy and poured each of them a glass, then sat beside Ari on the couch. It was time for business.
Battista preempted her. “I will never give you a divorce,” he said. “Never.”
She was aghast. “But why not? Ours is a marriage in name only. We haven’t been husband and wife for many years.”
“In the eyes of the Church we have. And here, in Italy, divorce is not legal.” He crossed his arms. He had thought about it, and this was the position he had decided to take.
“Maria could divorce you in America,” Ari countered. “She has American citizenship. There are states where consent is not needed if you have been separated long enough.”
“But we would still be married as far as the Church is concerned,” Battista countered. “I know you understand how much religion matters to Maria. That’s why you organized your stunt with the Patriarch performing his mock blessing. It was all to lure her into bed.”
“Battista!” Maria rebuked. “If you are implying the head of the Greek Church is corruptible, you’re being ridiculous.”
“Everyone has their price,” Battista said, glaring at Ari.
“Okay, so how much do you want for a divorce?” Ari asked. “Name your price.”
His words were slightly slurred, and Maria realized he was drunk. Two bottles of wine had been consumed at dinner, and she had barely touched a glass.
Battista crowed. “Is that the only language you speak? Money? For me, our marriage is about loving and cherishing each other, and for you, it’s dollars and cents. Your true colors are emerging.”
Ari crashed his glass down on a side table. “I am not the one who lives off a woman. You’re a kept man. Don’t you dare tell me it’s not about money for you. Go on, what would it take to give her a divorce? Ten million? Twenty?”
“You are not a man who understands love, are you?” Battista asked quietly.
Ari leapt to his feet and hurled the contents of his brandy glass. It dripped into Battista’s eyes and plastered his thinning hair to his scalp, revealing a shiny spot on his pate.
“Stop!” Maria shrieked, jumping up to grab Ari’s wrist. “I will not tolerate this.”
Ari yanked his hand from her grip and raised his fists like a bare-knuckle fighter. “Let’s sort this out like men,” he taunted.
“Sit down!” Maria ordered, yanking his arm so fiercely that he had to obey. She desperately wanted this divorce, but she had lived with Battista for many years. He had helped her and guided her career. He didn’t deserve to be treated this way, even if he was being a fool.
Ari perched on the edge of his seat, fists still clenched, a wary eye on his opponent.
Battista’s shirtfront was stained amber from the brandy and his eyes were reddened. He took out a handkerchief to wipe his face.
Maria stood in the middle of the floor between them.
“Do you really think it’s true that he understands love and I do not?” Battista asked, glancing at Ari. “I suspect you will soon find otherwise. I’m going to bed. I can see no point in continuing this discussion. You both know my position.”
He stood, clutching his handkerchief.
“We need to talk further,” Maria insisted. “Maybe in the morning?”
“I don’t want you staying here with him. Not under my roof. Spare me that, at least.”
He left the room, limping slightly. When had he developed a limp? It wasn’t the time to ask. She turned to face Ari.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I handled that badly. It’s only because I love you so much.”
She sat beside him and kissed him hard on the mouth. “What shall we do now?” she whispered.
“He’s not going to budge. Let’s go back to Milan and hire you the best lawyer in town.”
Maria looked around. She would miss this house, but Battista needed somewhere to live, so it would be best if he kept it. Perhaps she would never return here again.
She went out into the hall and explained to Bruna what was happening. “Please pack all my clothes and jewelry,” she said. “Be as quiet as you can, so as not to disturb Battista. I hope you will come to Milan with me.”
“Of course,” Bruna agreed. She had been Maria’s maid for three years and was good at her job, and loyal too.
While she packed, Maria tiptoed around the house, taking a few knickknacks that she was particularly fond of, and a portrait of her painted by an artist friend. She didn’t go near the master bedroom, where the light was off; anything in there would have to be left behind.
It was two in the morning when they got into the car, Bruna in front, their luggage piled into the trunk. Ari soon fell asleep as the chauffeur sped through the night, but Maria stayed awake, her thoughts racing, panic in her throat. Dark trees were silhouetted against a starless sky, and the windshield wipers screeched against the glass, with not quite enough rain for them to glide easily. Where did they go from here? What on earth would happen now?
TWO MORNINGS LATER, the entire front page of the newspaper was taken up by a story about her “adulterio”—such an ugly word—illustrated with photographs of her trying to hide from photographers, taken some months previously. Maria realized straightaway that it was Battista’s revenge. Any sympathy she’d had for him left her in that moment.
“I am devastated,” he had told journalists. “I had no idea what was going on behind my back. They have betrayed me.”
Maria also knew it would play badly in Catholic Italy. Thank goodness she was no longer singing at La Scala, where the entire audience would have booed her off the stage.
Ari scanned the words, frowning in concentration.
“Battista knows this is the worst thing he could do to me,” Maria said, “and yet he chose to do it. He is dead to me. That’s it. Finito.”
“It was already finito, was it not? After our conversation in Sirmione, there could be no going back. But now I must fly to the Christina and see how my wife has taken the news.”
“Perhaps she won’t have seen the newspapers,” Maria suggested, worried for him, and pricked with guilt about the woman who had been such a generous hostess during the cruise.
“Oh, she will have seen,” he said, weariness in his tone. “She will definitely have seen. You understand, it is one thing to be unfaithful; it’s another to be indiscreet about it.”
He got on the telephone, arranging a flight to Athens on one of his own planes, and organizing a connecting seaplane to take him to the Christina.
“I’ll call when I can,” he said, kissing her goodbye. “Never forget that I love you.”
Maria was beside herself with anxiety once he left. She hoped Tina would be pleased that she could at last have the divorce she had asked for three years ago—but what if she wasn’t? Ari adored his children and wouldn’t want them to be hurt, which made everything so much more comp
licated. She sat in the kitchen and poured out the whole story to Bruna. Who else could she tell?
Bruna listened calmly, nodding, asking few questions. “If it’s true love, it will work out,” she said. “What’s for you won’t go by you, my old grandmama used to say.”
Maria hugged her. “I hope your old grandmama was right.”
It was after eleven that evening when Ari called. Maria grabbed the phone after one ring, gripping the receiver so hard that her nails dug into her palms.
“Tina’s gone,” Ari said. “She had left before I got here, and she’s taken my children. There’s no note. I don’t even know where they are. They flew to Athens on the helicopter, then disappeared.” He sounded distraught.
“She’ll be in touch soon,” Maria soothed. She felt desperately sorry for him. It was hateful that other people had to be hurt in order for them to be together, but this difficult time would pass. She was one step closer to achieving her heart’s desire.
“When can you come?” he pleaded. “I can’t bear to be alone.”
“Tomorrow morning,” she said. “I’ll fly to you first thing.”
When she got off the phone, she sat for a long time with her face in her hands, thinking about it all and trying to stop herself from trembling.
Chapter 20
West Virginia
Spring 1960
Jackie had never been inside a supermarket in her entire life. There had always been staff to do her grocery shopping, so there had never been a need. Did that make her out of touch? Perhaps, but now she hoped it wouldn’t show. She stood for a few moments gazing at the squat brick building with a plate-glass front and FOOD FAIR above it in huge red letters.
“Let’s go in,” said Randy, one of the younger members of Jack’s campaign team. He had been placed in charge of her visit and had arranged for a handful of local journalists to show up.
Inside, harsh lights shone on the aisles of products, and tinny country music played over loudspeakers. Bobby had advised Jack against campaigning in West Virginia, which was 95 percent Protestant and highly unlikely to elect a Catholic, but he insisted. So there she was, being introduced to a store manager with clammy hands, whose name she instantly forgot.
“Wander around and introduce yourself to shoppers,” Randy suggested. “Pick up a couple of items for your family. Put ’em in a cart. I’ll be right here if you need me.”
As soon as she set foot in the first aisle, Jackie realized she was overdressed. The women shopping there wore shapeless and faded garments. Long, straggly hair was the norm, and no one wore makeup. Their children had scuffed knees, runny noses, and clothes of the wrong sizes, probably hand-me-downs from siblings.
She hurried back to give her suit jacket to Randy and unfastened her pearls, shoving them in her handbag, so she was just wearing a gray wool pencil skirt and pale pink sweater. She still stood out, but that was the best she could do.
She picked up a carton of Florida orange juice from a refrigerated shelf, then spoke to a woman standing by the milk.
“Excuse me, I’m the wife of Jack Kennedy, who is standing as Democratic candidate for the presidency. I wondered if you would consider voting for him?” She smiled.
The woman regarded her without expression. “What good would that do? They’re all the same. Prices go up, wages go down. Things only get worse.”
“I’m sorry to hear that’s your experience. What’s your husband’s line of work?” Jackie bit her lip, only noticing after she spoke that the woman wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, despite the two scrawny kids clinging to her coat hem.
The expression turned to suspicion. “What’s it to you?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. Perhaps I can ask what work there is for men around here?”
“Coal. You’re either a miner or you work at one of the hospitals where they treat them who’s been breathing in coal dust all their lives.” The woman had a husky voice and deep lines etched in her face, although the children were only toddlers so she couldn’t have been more than about thirty.
“You said that wages go down. Why is that?”
“Depends on the shifts, what seam they’re working. It’s not steady work. We need the overtime to get by.”
The children had been watching with wide eyes, but they were bored now. One shoved the other hard against the metal shelving, and it began to wail. Was it a boy or a girl? Jackie wasn’t sure.
“My husband is concerned about getting a decent standard of living for all those who do an honest day’s work,” Jackie said, aware of how pompous she sounded. “It’s families like yours he wants to help.”
“Are you sure it’s not rich folk, like his daddy?” the woman asked, reaching down to pick up the wailing child and swinging it across her hip.
Jack had been dogged by the notion that he was simply a puppet of Joe Kennedy, who was subsidizing his presidential run. “Jack is his own man,” Jackie assured her, “and I guarantee he is a good one.”
“Them folks’re all the same, you ask me,” the woman said, turning her back and walking down the aisle. “Enjoy your orange juice,” she called over her shoulder, emphasizing the words with sarcasm as if it were some impossible luxury. Perhaps for them it was.
Jackie put the carton back on the shelf, feeling guilty for being so out of touch. She never gave a second thought to the cost of the food served at her table and ordered freely in restaurants, but these people had to budget for every item in their shopping carts.
She wandered down the cereal aisle, trying to make eye contact with shoppers. One woman had six children clustered around her, ranging from a baby in a buggy up to the biggest, who didn’t look a day over five.
“My, you have a lot of mouths to feed,” Jackie remarked. “How are you finding food prices right now?”
“A million dollars would help,” the woman snapped. “Got any spare cash?” She answered her own question—“Nope, didn’t think so”—before moving on.
A few conversations were more productive: Jackie heard about a local glassworks that was laying off dozens of men and promised to ask Jack to look into it; she was shocked to hear about the very limited health insurance the mine owners offered their workers’ families; and a few said they would vote for Jack because it was high time the younger generation had its say.
Jackie felt like a fraud. She had never been shy or tongue-tied but she was struggling to make conversation with these people, whose lives were so radically different from hers. There were loads of questions on the tip of her tongue. “Why have so many children if you can’t afford to feed them?” “Couldn’t you get a job to help the family budget?” “Why not move to another town where there’s more work?” But the choices they made were none of her business.
Could Jack help any of them? She wasn’t sure, but when she looked at the meager contents of their shopping carts she wished she could do something to relieve their poverty. These weren’t even the worst off; she knew there were many who couldn’t afford to shop in stores and lived off what they could grow or scavenge. Jack genuinely cared about people like this. That’s why he would be a great president.
She was relieved when Randy called her to the checkout so that the local press could take photographs. She helped one young mother load groceries into a brown paper bag while the cameras flashed. She might have won over a couple of voters but knew the next day’s story would comment on her “floor-mop hairstyle” and her “fancy clothes” rather than her social conscience—they always did.
As they drove out of town, she asked Randy to look into the glassworks closure and the mine workers’ health-insurance policies to see if there was anything that could be done for them. He scribbled in a notebook. He was only twenty-nine but so ambitious he bristled with it, like iron filings under a magnet. Jack was his god. He would have kissed his shoes if asked; would probably kiss hers too if she promised to put in a good word.
She spotted a gas station up ahead and asked, “Could you get me s
ome cigarettes, please? L&Ms Class A.”
Randy leapt out of the car, and when he came back with the pack, he took her lighter and sparked a flame as she inhaled. She had been smoking since she was fifteen years old because it helped keep her weight down, but she was careful never to be seen in public with a cigarette. Her mother had drummed into her that it wasn’t ladylike.
The driver left her at Merrywood, her stepfather’s Virginia estate, which overlooked the Potomac River. The mansion was situated on sprawling grounds with tennis courts and a swimming pool, but it was the stables Jackie was headed for. She called for a groom to saddle Danseur, her favorite mare, changed into her riding clothes, and within ten minutes of arrival was heading off into the woods.
As they cantered along the paths she knew so well, she felt the tension of the day dissolve. Danseur was a chestnut beauty who loved this countryside, especially the long grassy fields where they could gallop at full stretch. The light was fading to apricot on the horizon, and Jackie could sense frost crystals forming, but her cheeks glowed with the exercise. Here was the place where she was most fully herself.
She breathed deeply and noticed her breasts felt tender under her tightly buttoned riding jacket. That had been the first sign of her three previous pregnancies; that, and missed periods, and she was a couple of weeks late. If she was pregnant, it had been a long time coming. All winter she’d ensured that they made love on the fertile days of the month, but with no luck. Now it seemed there might be a chance, but she mustn’t get her hopes up. It was early days; too early for a test.
She wasn’t seeing Jack till the weekend and tried to remember where they were meeting: somewhere like Milwaukee. If they had private time alone she would tell him her suspicions, but for now she hugged the precious secret to herself.
“Please let me be pregnant,” she breathed into the bone-chilling wind. “Please let it be a boy.”
Chapter 21
Dallas, Texas
November 1959
Maria flew to Dallas for her concerts, and straight off the plane she took a taxi to Mary Carter’s house to meet her baby daughter, Samantha. She’d brought a gift of a floaty lace Dior party frock with matching bootees, and Mary was tickled: “She’ll look fancier than her mom.”
