by Gill Paul
Their eyes followed him, and Jackie felt a glimmer of hope. Teddy fell to his knees at the foot of the bed and started to pray under his breath.
A team of doctors arrived shortly afterward and asked that everyone leave the room while they did some tests. The family was shown to a private waiting area, where each member sat alone, space between them. No one spoke. A nurse wheeled in a cart with coffee and sandwiches, but it was vodka that Jackie craved and she knew she couldn’t get it there, in a hospital. She badly wanted to smoke but Ethel would go crazy, and if she slipped outside, she would be engulfed by the press.
Hours passed, or so it felt. Stas came back. It grew dark outside. Jackie felt as if she were in a trance. The door opened and they all looked up, desperate for news, but it was a press spokesman wanting to know what he should say in his next bulletin. Journalists were hungry for information.
And then a doctor came, and Jackie could tell by the way he addressed them that he was in charge.
“We’ve tried everything but I’m afraid we can find no sign of brain activity,” he said. “The damage caused by the bullet that entered his skull was catastrophic. I’m very sorry, but I suggest you say your goodbyes and, when you are ready, we advise withdrawing life support.”
That meant they were going to switch him off. What a bizarre way for a life to end, like turning off a television set so the picture shrank into a little gray dot, then went blank.
“Where is the priest?” Ethel cried. “He must have the last rites.”
“The priest is here. Whenever you are ready.”
They rose and hurried to Bobby’s room. Nothing had changed. The ventilator hissed, the screens blinked, and he lay pale and unresponsive. There, but not there.
As the last rites were administered, it was exactly like Jack’s extreme unction in Dallas. The room was the same: clinical and metallic, with glaring overhead lights and a chemical smell. Jackie wanted to scream at the top of her voice, to smash windows, to punch walls. How could this be happening again? Why?
Stas gripped her arm as if he sensed her derailment. Ethel was sobbing quietly, and Teddy looked as if the spine had been ripped out of him so he could barely stand upright.
One by one, they leaned close to Bobby’s face and whispered their goodbyes, kissing his forehead, his cheek, any bit of skin not covered by medical paraphernalia. When it was Jackie’s turn, she whispered, “Thank you for everything. I love you so much. Please give my love to Jack.”
Stepping away from the bed was almost too much. Her legs would have given way if Stas hadn’t propped her up.
“Are you ready, or do you need more time?” the doctor asked.
Suddenly Jackie couldn’t bear to be in that room a minute longer. “We’re ready,” she said. No one disagreed. There was a consent form to sign and she did it, her signature little more than a scrawl.
One by one the machines were switched off, the lights on monitors disappearing. When the ventilator tube was removed, Bobby’s body gave a shudder. The doctor had said he might keep breathing for up to an hour but it was much less than that, not long at all. The doctor held a finger to his throat to feel the last flutter of exhalation before uttering the words to pronounce him dead. It was 1:44 A.M.
Jackie tore away from Stas’s grip and rushed from the room. She ran down a corridor past the nurses’ station and sank onto a plastic chair, where she bent double, her face in her arms.
What could she do? They were killing Kennedys, picking them off one by one. She was a Kennedy; her children were Kennedys. She would never be safe in America. At any time, some random stranger might pull a gun.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Kennedy,” a young woman’s voice said.
She looked up. A nurse was holding out a telegram.
“This arrived for you.”
She took it and tore it open. “I’m on my way,” it said. It was signed “Telis.”
Chapter 56
New York City
June 6, 1968
Maria was taking her late-morning bath when the phone rang. She stretched to grab it, dripping water on the carpet.
“Bobby Kennedy’s dead,” Maggie van Zuylen said straightaway. “They just announced it on the radio.”
“Oh, my God!” Maria was horrified. “But the news last night said he was conscious after the shooting. I thought he was going to make it.”
“It seems not. Where’s Ari? Does he know?”
“As far as I’m aware he’s on the Christina, halfway across the Atlantic.” A weight descended on her. Ari was bound to go to the States for the funeral. He wouldn’t miss another chance to hobnob with the Kennedy clan.
She was dying to see him, and particularly keen to leave Paris and fly to Skorpios. Student riots had flared up across the city: roads were blocked, university buildings were occupied, and it seemed everyone was on strike, making demands that were muddled and unrealistic. She didn’t dare leave the apartment for fear of being caught up in a protest.
A terrible thought struck her. What if Ari didn’t get back in time to visit Omero’s grave with her on the twenty-sixth? It would have been their son’s eighth birthday. She had a picture of him in her mind’s eye: dark haired and strong boned, with his father’s golden eyes. Would he have had Ari’s flair with numbers or her talent for music? Surely his father would come back by the twenty-sixth; he knew how much their annual pilgrimage meant to her.
After climbing out of the bath, she tipped a couple of pills the doctor had prescribed into the palm of her hand and swallowed them with a swig of water. Valium: the new anti-anxiety medicine everyone was talking about. She hoped it would start working soon, because everything seemed to be piling on top of her lately.
ARI PHONED LATER that day. As she had guessed, he was flying straight to New York to support Mrs. Kennedy. Maria tried to still the nerves in her voice as she asked when he would be back.
“I’ll meet you in Milan on the twenty-sixth,” he promised. “I couldn’t miss that.”
It was less than three weeks, she told herself. She could hold on. But the days dragged. Few friends were in Paris, and those who were did not want to travel across the city. Although the riots had slowly petered out, some student buildings were still occupied, and the anarchist graffiti scrawled everywhere made her shudder: IL EST INTERDIT D’INTERDIRE—“It is forbidden to forbid.” So naive! How could one live in a lawless society?
Ari called most days, but the times of his calls varied. She had expected him to stay at the suite he kept at the Pierre Hotel, but if she called, more often than not the receptionist said he wasn’t there. One weekend she didn’t manage to speak to him at all, and that left her in a panic.
“I was invited to Rose and Joe Kennedy’s place at Hyannis Port,” he told her when she finally caught up with him. “It’s a funny old house—not at all grand—with flaking paintwork, a battered weatherboard exterior, and scruffy basketwork furniture on the porch. Joe Kennedy can’t speak since his stroke, but Rose is a formidable woman.”
“Why were you invited there?” she asked, her guts in knots.
“As a friend of the family,” he replied airily, then added, “I’m going to Rhode Island to meet Jacqueline’s mother and stepfather tomorrow. Somehow I think their property will be rather better maintained.”
“What’s behind all this meeting-the-family business?” she asked. “Why do they want to meet you?”
“It’s normal to meet your friends’ families. We’re all concerned about Jacqueline and we’re pulling together to help her.”
Maria accepted that with a sniff. “How is Mrs. Kennedy?”
“In a dreadful state, frankly. She is terrified that she or her children will be targeted next. I think she’s still in shock. She and Bobby were very close.”
Maria felt no sympathy. She’d made it plain to Mrs. Kennedy that Ari was her partner, yet she was dragging him around, introducing him to her relatives, and monopolizing his time. Either she was rude and self-centered, or she
was trying to steal him and using the death of her brother-in-law as a pretext. She was a predatory bitch, just like Lee. It must run in the family.
When Ari called to say that he wouldn’t be back by the twenty-sixth after all, Maria fell silent. She felt chilled. Numb.
“I’ll only be a few days late,” he promised. “On the first of July, we can meet in Milan and then fly to Greece. Omero will forgive me this once—and I hope his mother will as well.”
“Don’t count on it,” she said. “You’re pushing me too far, Ari.”
For once she didn’t tell him she loved him before hanging up. He said it, and she simply replied, “Goodbye, Ari.”
THERE WERE NO further postponements and Ari arrived in Milan as promised, clutching a glossy black sable coat.
“This is for you,” he said, holding it up so she could see the style.
Instinctively she reached out to touch the fur. It was silkier, plusher, than any coat she had ever owned, and cut to the fashionable midcalf length.
“Have you been outside recently?” she asked. “We’re in the midst of a heat wave.”
His eyes met hers, and she was surprised to see uncertainty. He knew she was upset with him and wasn’t sure what reception to expect.
Maria was still hurt and angry, but she was so happy to see him that she stifled her feelings. She didn’t want to sulk or argue; she wanted him in her arms.
“Put it down,” she said, “and come here.”
Once she could smell the familiar Ari scent and feel the heat of his body, her anxiety melted at the edges. They kissed, then she pulled back.
“I’m still cross with you, by the way,” she said. Forgiveness would take longer.
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
She didn’t ask what he was sorry for. Some things were better left unsaid.
AFTER THEIR TRIP to Omero’s grave, they flew straight to Skorpios. The pink-walled, marble-floored main villa was set on a hillside surrounded by trees, and its lush, shady garden caught refreshing sea breezes. They swam in the mornings, then snoozed after lunch, shutters drawn, while outside the vicious sun scorched the land. Every evening they dined on the terrace, accompanied by the chirping melody of cicadas and the rhythmic shushing of waves, then sat up late, drinking and talking, while the dark shadows of bats flitted past, silhouetted against the moon.
It was a few days before Maria felt brave enough to ask the questions that had been haunting her for the past weeks. “Tell me about you and Mrs. Kennedy. I need to know the truth: are you sleeping with her?”
“No, I’m not,” he said, and from his tone she believed him.
“But you would like to?”
He hesitated. “Perhaps. But I hope you know that you are the only woman I love.”
“Are you not in love with her too? A little bit?”
He shook his head. “Jackie doesn’t let anyone get to know her. Always there is a barrier. Sure, she tells me some things. I know that Bobby was like a brother to her after Jack died. I know she still has nightmares about what happened in Dallas, and she hates the media attention she attracts because of it. I know she is terrified when members of the public approach her in the street . . . but I don’t feel as if I know who she truly is. She’s a mystery, perhaps even to herself.”
Maria nodded, trying to understand. “And you want to solve the mystery?”
“I want to help. You should see her: she’s like a bird with a broken wing. If it wasn’t for her children, I’m not sure she would carry on.”
“Do you mean she would commit suicide?” Maria was surprised. She had imagined her tougher than that. Suicide was for self-centered people, like her mother, or mentally frail ones like Marilyn Monroe.
“Perhaps.” He refilled their glasses from the brandy bottle on the floor by his feet.
“It must be flattering that she has chosen you to be the one to fix her. Is that why she took you to meet her family?” Her tone was sharp.
He pulled his chair closer so he could kiss her bare shoulder. “I understand how hurt you feel that I am spending time with another woman, but you need to have more faith in us. You and I understand each other so well. I hope you know that no matter what happens, I will always come back to you.”
She was silent, drinking in the implications. So he did want to have an affair with Jackie. It was as if he were asking for her blessing.
She spoke with all the dignity she could muster. “Please don’t humiliate me, Ari. I deserve better.”
“I won’t,” he said. “Of course you do.”
Chapter 57
Skorpios, Greece
July 1968
The month of July was glorious. Maria and Ari went sea fishing together and he taught her how to cast a rod. She couldn’t bring herself to kill the fish she reeled in on deck, so Ari had to do it for her with a swift blow to the head. She started a collection of the most beautiful seashells that washed up on the shores of the island, arranging them in a stone fireplace inside the villa. They snorkeled together and sailed and ate and drank and made love all over the island, cushioned by cypress needles or the soft, golden sand he had imported.
And then one evening toward the end of July, as they sat on the terrace, Ari said, “I have something to tell you that you are not going to like.”
Instantly she stiffened, feeling a chill on her arms.
“Mrs. Kennedy is coming here for a couple of weeks in August and I need you to go back to Paris.”
Maria hurled the glass she was holding to the ground, where it shattered into thousands of pin-sharp splinters.
“Absolutely not! I am not leaving and you can’t make me.”
He had clearly expected a battle and had a stack of arguments prepared. “Mrs. Kennedy needs peace. She is very unstable right now and particularly nervous about meeting you since your phone call to her. Besides, it’s not for long.”
“No one goes to Paris in August, Ari. That’s absurd. I will stay and I will be charm personified with Mrs. Kennedy. I can help you to look after her.” Her cheeks blazed with fury. She would not stand for this. She couldn’t. Otherwise, where would it lead?
“Maria, this is not up for discussion. She is coming here and I want you to give us time alone.” He stood and paced to the end of the terrace, then turned to face her. “I’m not asking, I’m telling you.”
She rose to her feet, fists clenched. “You told me Skorpios is my home too. But how can it be my home when you can dismiss me with a click of your fingers? Will you throw me out of Avenue Georges Mandel, like a tenant who is behind on the rent?”
“Of course not.” He folded his arms and leaned back against a wall, as if bracing himself to ward off an attack. “The Paris flat is yours.”
“But not Skorpios. I am just a guest here. I wish you had made that clear before I helped you to plan the building work. How odd I got the wrong impression.” Her voice was thick with sarcasm.
“I’m not asking the impossible,” he said. “I want to spend a couple of weeks with Mrs. Kennedy, without interruptions.”
“Just the two of you?”
“No, Teddy Kennedy will be here. Her children are coming . . .”
“Won’t that get in the way of you fucking her?” Maria never swore, and the word sounded shocking coming from her lips.
“This is not about me fucking her.”
“Of course it is. You want the world to know you have seduced John F. Kennedy’s widow. You think it will help you conquer the American market. You don’t care that it is humiliating and excruciating for me, the woman who has stood by you for almost nine years. You turned up late for our son’s birthday this year and now you are planning to play host to Mrs. Kennedy’s children. Do you realize her son, John, is the same age Omero would have been? It doesn’t even occur to you how much that tortures me.” She took a step toward him, ignoring the splinters of glass that jabbed her bare feet. “If you truly loved me, you wouldn’t do this. That’s what it boils down to.”
Maria considered this. Was she unreasonable? She shook herself. Her brain was foggy from the wine and brandy they’d consumed. What would Maggie advise if she were here? Or Mary Carter?
But it was her decision now, and she sensed danger in his obsession with the Kennedy woman. She could smell it a mile off. She had to take a stand or this would keep happening, time and again.
“It is not unreasonable for me to want to meet your friends and to entertain them by your side. You’re treating me like dirt and I won’t have it. I will stay here to meet your guests from America and that’s final . . .” She paused, considering the dangerous words that were on the tip of her tongue, rolling them around awhile before she said them: “Otherwise our relationship is over. Be very sure you know what you are doing because if you let me go now, you will never see me again. Not ever.”
It was the only card she had left, the finale. She held her breath. Ari turned his back on her and was silent for a few minutes. She took a step toward him, heart thumping, then thought better of it.
When he turned around, his jaw was set with determination, his expression ice-cold. “I will not give in to blackmail, Maria. You know that.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a hand to silence her.
“I’m going to bed. I’ll send the housekeeper out with a first-aid kit to bandage your feet.” He pointed. “You’re bleeding.”
He disappeared inside. Maria wanted to run after him, but her wounds were oozing all over the tiles, leaving carmine smears. Besides, she knew she had to stick to her guns. Let him think about it overnight. Maybe he would be more reasonable when he awoke in the morning. Maybe by then she would have thought of some other way to persuade him.
SHE ROSE LATE and found Ari in his study. He looked haggard, unshaven, and didn’t smile when she came in.
