Jackie and Maria

by Gill Paul

  “I am not saying it is impossible,” the doctor told her. “I often find my patients get pregnant the moment they stop trying.”

  Maria clung to his words. Pray God that would be the case with her. She hadn’t been trying when she got pregnant with Omero—but she was four years older now and knew that would count against her.

  Ari came back to sit on the bed and took both her hands between his, kissing the palm of one, then the other. “Would you like to adopt a child? We can do that if it would make you happy.”

  Maria shook her head. She was touched that he would offer, but the whole point was to see their genes passed on. Besides, an adopted child would be a second-class citizen compared to Ari’s children with Tina; he would never feel the same emotional attachment and she might end up raising it on her own. “Thank you, but no,” she said, squeezing his fingers.

  He leaned in to kiss her properly, pushing her back on the pillow, pinning her wrists above her head, letting his kisses stray down to her breasts. She succumbed to his touch, let him slide the nightgown over her head and start making love to her. They knew many little ways to please each other now. For her, the sex was sublime, but she sometimes worried that her body held no surprises for him and he might lose interest.

  At least there was no sign of it yet. They made love for many hours that day, opening a bottle of Dom Pérignon and licking it off each other’s skin, ringing for Bruna to bring food when they got hungry.

  “I won’t be able to sit down for a week,” Maria told him, giggling.

  “That’s as it should be,” he replied, smacking her hard on the backside.

  After eating, they lay with their faces close together, and she smoothed his eyebrows with her finger, her brain fuzzy with lust. She loved this man with all the passion in her soul. Perhaps she loved him too much. He was the center of her universe, her overriding preoccupation, the one person who could make her happy—or miserable. Somehow she needed to feel more secure in the relationship, so she would not give up on getting him to the altar, but she vowed not to turn into a nag. Little by little, she would work on him until she got her way.

  “WHERE SHALL WE go for dinner this evening?” she asked, after a long scented bath in which she soaked her bruised flesh.

  “Maxim’s?”

  “How about Café de la Paix?” he called through the bathroom door.

  “I thought you were a creature of habit!” She laughed. “Wherever we go, it has to be your usual restaurant: Maxim’s in Paris, the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo, the Negresco in Nice.”

  He popped his head around the door. “That’s true, but tonight I am glad there is peace between us, so Café de la Paix seems a good omen.”

  “I’m all for good omens,” she replied, flicking him with bathwater.

  She dressed in a chic black evening gown, very low cut and fitted to emphasize her curves, and accessorized it with the new ruby-and-diamond earrings. The effect was stunning. He had a gift for choosing jewelry.

  Before they left for the restaurant, she had a quiet word with Bruna. “Could you call Maggie van Zuylen? Ask her to tell her photographer friend that I will be dining with Ari at Café de la Paix.”

  Bruna nodded. “Of course, madame.” She never asked questions.

  As they dined on seafood under the café’s grand gilt ceilings, Maria noticed that the photographer had arrived. Laughing, she leaned across the table to feed Ari an oyster, tilting the shell so that it slid down his throat. He leaned his head back, eyes closed, surrendering to the sensation.

  Maria held the pose for a few seconds to give the man time to get the shot. Let Princess Lee see that in her newspaper tomorrow morning. Let her understand that although she might have been able to seduce Ari once, or even twice, this was a war she was never going to win.

  Chapter 40

  Washington, D.C.

  November 1963

  Jackie had not been home long when she realized how much Jack had been coping with in her absence: growing tension in Vietnam under the much-hated anti-Communist leader Ngo Dinh Diem; seemingly impassable opposition to the civil rights legislation that was so close to his heart; the Soviets crowing about putting the first woman in space and claiming to be a more egalitarian society than America. On top of that, Jack had faced fierce popular criticism for letting her vacation with Onassis. She should never have put him in that position.

  She felt guilty as she fingered the parting gift Aristotle had given her—an extravagant art deco diamond-and-ruby necklace that must have cost a king’s ransom. Lee was furious, because he gave her only three little diamond bracelets: “The sort of thing Caroline might wear,” she scoffed. Secretly Jackie hoped it signaled a cooling of her sister’s relationship with Onassis. That was an additional problem Jack could do without.

  “So, is she Onassis’s lover?” he had asked on the evening of her return. “Did you find out?”

  “I think there may have been a tryst.” Jackie watched him but there was no reaction to her deliberate choice of the word. “But it appears to be over now, as far as I can make out. At least I hope it is.”

  “I hope so too.” He shook his head. “Lee’s charming but she can be a liability.”

  “She’s back in London now, out of harm’s way.”

  Jack was peering at a schedule his secretary had given him. “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to come on that trip to Texas from November twenty-first to twenty-third? It’s just pressing the flesh, a few lunches, nothing taxing. I need to smooth things out between a congressman and the governor, who’ve gotten themselves in a spat.”

  Jackie sighed. She hated that kind of thing, and she knew there was a lot of opposition to the Democrats in Texas so they would be in for a rough ride. But if Jack thought she could be of use . . . well, maybe this was the time for her to show up and do her bit.

  “You don’t have to. I could go without you,” he said as she hesitated.

  “No, of course I’ll come,” she said. “I owe you.”

  JACKIE ASKED HER staff to check the weather forecast for Texas and they said it would be cool, so she packed accordingly—but they stepped off the plane in Houston into an inferno. It felt as if it was at least eighty degrees, and the humidity was dreadful. Jackie was perspiring before they reached the limo and cursing that she had brought entirely the wrong wardrobe for their three-day trip.

  That evening she delivered a speech in Spanish at a meeting with the Hispanic community, and it was a pressure she could have done without. She hadn’t used her Spanish for years and was sure her accent was rusty. But, to her relief, it seemed she had done a good job.

  Jack was delighted with her effort and paid tribute to her at the dinner afterward: “Wasn’t Jackie sensational?” he asked anyone who would listen. “Did you see her ovation?” She liked making him proud. It gave her a warm glow.

  Fortunately it was the only time on the trip that she had to speak in public; her main role was trying to charm the warring parties behind the scenes. Everyone knew she wasn’t one to discuss the nuances of politics, so they found different topics of conversation when she was around and steered clear of controversy.

  Back at their hotel that evening, Jack was preoccupied. “We’re off to nut country tomorrow,” he said, referring to Dallas, where the opposition to his presidency was particularly heated. “I’ve got some early meetings but I’ll catch up with you for the breakfast event at nine-fifteen. Then we’ll hop on the plane to Dallas.”

  Jackie laid out her clothes for the morning: a pink suit, navy blouse, and pink pillbox hat. Two more nights away from home, then she could get back to her children and sleep in her own bed.

  AIR FORCE ONE landed at Dallas Love Field just after 11:30. Jack was heading off to give a speech at the Trade Mart, while Jackie was going to a luncheon with the local political wives. Jack had instructed her to “charm their socks off,” and the phrase rang in her head. She suspected these would be ultraglamorous society ladies who hadn’t worn so
cks since the passing of girlhood.

  “How do you like campaigning, Mrs. Kennedy?” a reporter called as they got off the plane, and she gave her stock answer: “It’s wonderful!” The lie came naturally now.

  She was handed a bunch of red roses, curiously lacking in scent, and they got into a waiting Lincoln. She and Jack sat in the backseat behind Governor Connally and his wife, Nellie, who were in the seats behind the driver. All around them were cars and motorbikes with Secret Service men in black, murmuring into walkie-talkies. Their motorcade was to drive slowly through the streets from Love Field to the Trade Mart. It would take about forty-five minutes, giving Dallas citizens plenty of time to see their president and First Lady up close.

  “Zoo time,” she whispered to Jack as they set off, and he grinned.

  “Smile and wave, kid. Give them their ten cents’ worth.”

  She turned to wave at the crowds on the left side of the limo. “Mr. President! Mrs. Kennedy!” they were shouting, frantically trying to catch her attention for a split second. Some were holding hand-lettered placards, but although the car was crawling along, it was hard to read them. There were groups of high-school kids, who must have been allowed a morning off, and lots of women—many more women than men.

  Whenever they reached a section of the route without any crowds, the car sped up and she donned her sunglasses to shield her eyes from the diamond-sharp November sun.

  “Take off the glasses,” Jack said to her as they rounded a corner, and she slipped them back onto her lap before repinning the smile on her face and turning to wave at the crowd to her left.

  “We’re almost through,” Nellie Connally called over her shoulder. “It’s just beyond that.” She pointed to an underpass up ahead.

  Suddenly there was a noise like a car backfiring, and Jackie turned to see Jack clutching his head with a quizzical expression.

  “What is it?” she started to ask.

  Their car slowed down, and at the same moment there was a deafening explosion and part of Jack’s head blew off. She saw it fly in an arc through the air and land on the back of the car; flesh colored, with a piece of white bone inside.

  Jackie opened her mouth to scream but no sound came. A steel band tightened around her chest and panic took over, making her mind go blank. Seconds later, someone was pushing her into her seat. How had she gotten out of it? The Lincoln was speeding up, and the acceleration jolted her backward. Jack toppled sideways onto her and she cradled his head in her lap. His dear head.

  “I love you,” she whispered in his ear, bending over so that her lips were close. There was a slight wheezing sound, and his chest moved. He was breathing, she was sure of it. Hope stirred for a second, then she looked at the awful wound. Brains glistened through a mess of bloody hair. He couldn’t possibly survive.

  “I love you, darling.” Could he hear? She stroked the undamaged part of his head, running her fingers through his hair the way he liked, her white gloves scarlet with his blood. There was a rhythmic thumping, like a drum, and she wondered where it was coming from, then realized it was her heartbeat.

  The world went into shadow as they entered the underpass. She was distantly aware of moans coming from the front seat but all her attention was on Jack. “I’m here, bunny,” she whispered. “I love you so much. Hang on.”

  When they emerged from the tunnel, the heat of the sun struck her like an assault. There was a metal taste in her mouth and the salty smell of blood in her nostrils. “Jack, please don’t go,” she whispered. “Please stay.” Her whole body was shaking, the blood pulsing, white noise in her head. Why was it taking so long? Where was the damn hospital? They were driving fast but time was standing still.

  And then they pulled up outside some glass doors and she saw white-coated medics rushing toward them with a gurney. Someone opened the door on her side and took her arm to pull her from the car but she wouldn’t let go of Jack’s head. What if more of his brains fell out through that gaping hole? She clung to him, not letting go.

  Someone leaned in from the other side, eased her arm away, and wrapped a jacket around the wound.

  “We need to take him inside,” a man’s voice said, and she nodded. Of course they did.

  Jack was lifted onto the gurney and she gripped the edge, running to keep up as they pushed him down a corridor. She had to let go when they reached some swinging doors and a nurse took her arm, forcing her to halt.

  “Sit here, please, Mrs. Kennedy. Let the doctors do their work.”

  She sat on a hard chair, feeling cool firmness beneath her legs. People were talking to her but a strange thing had happened that meant she couldn’t hear them. Odd words filtered through. “Operate.” “Speed.” “The issue.” None of them made sense.

  Why was she there? Why wasn’t she with Jack? None of these people loved him. He needed her more than he had ever needed her. She must be by his side when he died.

  Suddenly she made a decision, stood up, and pushed through the swinging doors. No one stopped her this time. Inside she saw Jack lying on a narrow bed, wearing only blue boxer shorts. Tan lines from the summer marked his legs and arms. There was bandaging around his head and his eyes were closed.

  The doctors turned but didn’t stop her from approaching. Jack didn’t look himself anymore. She had often watched his face in sleep, when the frown lines softened and his jaw relaxed, but this was different. His features were tightening as death took hold.

  She bent and kissed him on the lips, and he didn’t kiss back.

  “A priest is coming, Mrs. Kennedy,” someone said, but she knew it was too late. Jack had gone. She wasn’t sure of the exact moment when his spirit had risen out of his body, but she knew he wasn’t there now.

  She slipped off her wedding ring and pushed it onto his little finger. Was there still a realm in which he could sense her presence? Was his spirit in the room, watching them?

  The priest arrived, very somber, and made the sign of the cross over Jack, anointing him with holy oil and murmuring about forgiveness of sins and eternal blessing. There should have been some comfort in the words. Wasn’t that the point of religion? But there was none.

  “Bring him back!” she wanted to scream. Jesus had raised Lazarus. Why couldn’t one of the learned men in this room perform a miracle?

  Instead they formally pronounced him dead, citing the time of death as 1:00 P.M. exactly.

  There was a lump in her throat, as if a rock were lodged there, but she didn’t cry. She felt frozen, trapped in the horror of the moment.

  She took Jack’s hand, lacing her fingers through his. It was the saddest thing in the world to hold the hand of the person you loved and not feel any response at all, not even the tiniest flicker of a muscle.

  There was only one person she wanted to tell about this, and he had gone forever. She was alone.

  Act III

  Chapter 41

  Paris

  November 22, 1963

  Maria was dining with Maggie van Zuylen and two other friends at Le Train Bleu, a smart restaurant above the Gare de Lyon, when the maître d’ made an announcement.

  “Mesdames et messieurs,” he called out. “Terrible news from America. President Kennedy has been shot dead.”

  The murmur of chatter stopped, and forks clattered onto plates as a shockwave traveled around the restaurant. For a few seconds there was silence. Maria looked at her companions, suddenly petrified.

  “Can it be true?” Maggie asked. “I don’t believe it.”

  “He had a lot of enemies,” a man at the next table said, leaning over. “It could have been the Russians.”

  “Or the Mafia,” someone else suggested.

  “No, the Mafia would hit Bobby Kennedy if they were going for anyone. He’s the one who’s been locking them up.”

  “What about the Ku Klux Klan? Could it be them?”

  “You met him, didn’t you?” Maggie asked Maria, and all heads in the vicinity turned toward her.

  “I did
. He was charming. I can’t take it in.” She shivered as if someone had walked over her grave, and she wrapped her arms around her shoulders. Suddenly she felt an urgent need to get back to her apartment. She wanted to be safely within her own four walls and she wanted to talk to Ari. “I’m going home.” She scraped her chair back and stood.

  “You’ve hardly touched your meal,” Maggie protested. “Let’s finish, then we can leave together. It might not even be true. You know how false rumors spread.”

  “I want to go home and check if it’s on the television news,” Maria said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll hail a taxi.”

  She picked up her purse and raced for the door. Several other customers had also decided to leave and there was a line at the cloakroom, but as soon as she exited the doorman found her a cab. She felt panicky as the city lights flashed past. It took her right back to the campaign of intimidation against her at La Scala. When you were in the public eye, you were always vulnerable. It just took one crazy person with a gun, and your life could be over.

  She dashed into the apartment, and before taking off her shoes or coat, she dialed the number of the hotel in Hamburg where Ari was staying while he supervised work on a new oil tanker.

  “I’m afraid his line is engaged,” the receptionist said. “Do you want to hold?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She sat down at the telephone table, phone in hand. Bruna came into the hall.

  “Did Ari ring when I was out?” Maria asked, covering the mouthpiece with her hand.

  “No, madame, not since you spoke to him earlier. Can I get you anything?”

  “A brandy,” she said. “Please.”

  She sat waiting, listening to the clicks and a hint of indistinct voices speaking German at a telephone exchange hundreds of miles away.