Jackie and Maria Page 14

  Jackie hoped Jack was remembering to eat and to take his medication. She had intended to remind him, but when she spotted him in Bobby’s dining room, surrounded by acolytes, she realized she wouldn’t get close enough for a private word.

  After a while Jackie waddled back to her own house to find that some of the team had commandeered her sitting room and were watching her television and talking on her phone. She would have preferred to have the house to herself, to put her feet up on the sofa and read, but instead she sat in a chair to watch the first exit polls. The CBS computer predicted a Nixon victory, at which there were howls of despair around the room. The baby kicked hard as if in protest.

  He can’t win, Jackie thought. Not now. Jack would be devastated. But then, she supposed Pat Nixon was thinking the exact same thing about her own husband.

  Her housekeeper produced bowls of clam chowder for everyone, served with hunks of home-baked bread. Caroline accepted the presence of strangers at her kitchen table without question. Jackie was glad she wasn’t a shy child. She was calm and settled, despite the febrile atmosphere.

  By mid-evening, the news shows had changed their tunes and were predicting a Kennedy landslide, and when Jack came to the house for a brief moment, Jackie congratulated him.

  “Don’t tempt fate!” he cried, touching the wooden banister.

  The first states to declare were the East Coast ones that were largely Democratic, so Jack was in the lead when Jackie went to bed at eleven P.M., but she knew that the Midwest results would swing things in the other direction. How far? That was the question.

  She woke briefly and glanced at the clock when Jack came to bed. It was four-thirty.

  “What news?” she whispered.

  “Too close to call,” he said, and was asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.

  When a shaft of daylight snuck around the edge of the shutters, she awoke and checked the clock: seven-thirty. Careful not to disturb Jack, she clambered out of bed, keeping her knees together as she pushed up so that her pelvis wouldn’t crunch. She padded to the window, pulling the shutters open just enough to see out.

  There were black, shadowy figures on her lawn, loads of them, and they were carrying oversized guns. Fear gripped her as one looked up at the window and spotted her. Who were they? Was it a kidnap attempt? Then the man raised his hand to his temple in a salute and the truth dawned on her. These were Secret Service men. They were there to protect Jack. It meant her husband was the thirty-fifth president of the United States. She shivered. At forty-three years old, he was the youngest man ever to win the presidency, and the first Catholic. It was history in the making.

  She glanced at Jack, desperate to wake him and share the news. But no; let him sleep. She didn’t know exactly what the day would bring, but there were bound to be nonstop press conferences and meetings. One thing was for sure: their lives would never be the same.

  THE MOOD WAS celebratory all morning. The popular vote had been close, but Jack had a strong lead in the Electoral College and had long since passed the magical 269 votes needed. All the same, Nixon did not concede until that afternoon. Jackie watched Jack taking the phone call, filled with pride. He looked presidential already, standing tall, his voice powerful.

  Right afterward, she tied a headscarf over her hair and slipped out for a walk on the beach. It was a blustery day, but the wind and salt spray helped clear a slight headache that had been nagging at her temples since she awoke. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed some black-clothed Secret Service agents shadowing her, but they stayed well back.

  Is Jack up to the presidency? she wondered. He would soon have his finger on the nuclear button. Would his health suffer with the strain of office? Eisenhower had visibly aged over the past eight years. It would be her job to ensure that Jack got sufficient rest, that he ate healthfully, that he took his daily cortisone to hold the Addison’s at bay, and that he looked after his bad back. He had great mental strength, so she was confident he would manage the psychological pressure, but his body had weaknesses the public did not know about.

  What about her? How would she cope with the pressures of being First Lady? It was too late to worry about that now. She’d simply have to manage, one way or another, because she couldn’t let Jack down.

  In January, they would all move into the White House, and after that there would be Secret Service men present wherever they went. She knew she would find it hard not to be able to slip away to go riding or clothes shopping without them, but on the plus side it was bound to be harder for Jack to have affairs. She had no idea if there had been girls on the campaign trail; if there had, he must have been discreet, because she hadn’t caught as much as a whiff of scandal.

  Lee had managed to get a call through to the house that morning amid the hundreds flooding in. She was still weak after the birth of her second child that summer, a baby girl who remained in intensive care, so she and Stas wouldn’t be able to fly over for the inauguration.

  “I can’t believe we’re missing it!” she wailed. “Could you ask Jack to postpone it for us?”

  Jackie knew she was joking, but something about her sister’s tone grated; it was as if Lee were claiming the victory, although she had contributed precisely nothing to the campaign. Tryst or no tryst, Jack was just her brother-in-law.

  “Jackie!” She heard a voice calling her name and turned to see him running across the grass. He slowed as he got close, hands on hips, catching his breath. “We need you for a photo call.”

  “Come here,” she beckoned. It was the first time she’d had him to herself for days, except when he slept beside her.

  He stepped closer and looped his arms around her. She reached up to hold his face between her hands, then kissed him on the mouth.

  “I’m so proud of you, bunny,” she breathed.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he replied, then kissed her again, cupping one hand under her belly. “You’ve been perfect. The best.”

  They stood in silence for a few moments, faces touching, until they were interrupted by calls from the other side of the grass. She saw figures waving frantically. Time to go. Before they turned back, their eyes caught and Jack made a face.

  “Guess I’d better go and start learning how to be leader of the free world,” he said, with a distant expression.

  Jackie shivered. She felt a frisson of dread, but shook it away and slipped her arm through his for the walk to the house.

  Chapter 26

  Washington, D.C.

  November 25, 1960

  For the next two weeks, Jackie scarcely saw Jack as he flew around the country thanking everyone who had supported his campaign. She was due to give birth by Caesarean section in early December, and most of the time she stayed indoors at their Georgetown home, within reach of the hospital. Jack was midair on a flight to Florida on November 25 when Jackie felt a gush of warm liquid between her legs as she sat in the sitting room with her daughter and Maud Shaw, the nanny.

  “Could you take Caroline upstairs?” she asked, keeping her voice level, nodding at the spreading stain on her skirt.

  Mrs. Shaw understood immediately, and Jackie heard her call for the housekeeper as she led Caroline through the hall. Her chest was tight with fear. It’s too early, she thought. Only thirty-six weeks.

  An ambulance was called and she lay silent, stiff with terror, as they rushed her to the hospital, siren wailing. The memories of the babies she had lost filled her thoughts. She couldn’t lose this one. This was the child of a president.

  Her obstetrician was waiting when they arrived at the hospital, and he held her hand as they wheeled her to a private room.

  “I can’t lose this baby,” she whispered, so that he knew.

  “We’ll do all we can,” he promised. “Just stay calm.”

  She lay back as medical staff buzzed around, peering and poking between her legs, talking in hushed voices. Outside, the sky was already dark. She remembered the comfort of B
obby being there when Arabella had died, but this time Bobby was with Jack and there was no one else she felt like calling.

  “We’re going to operate,” the obstetrician told her. “This baby is ready to be born.”

  “Jack’s on his way,” someone said.

  It wasn’t often that Jackie prayed, but now she whispered, “Pleasegodpleasegod,” like a mantra.

  WHEN SHE AWOKE, the room was dark but a nurse was nearby, her face illuminated in the glow of a monitor.

  “What happened?” Jackie asked quickly.

  “You have a little boy, Mrs. Kennedy,” the woman said in a Scottish burr. “He’s in an incubator but that’s just a precaution. He’s fine. He looks like his daddy.”

  Jackie covered her face with her hands and cried tears of relief. He would be called John, after his daddy. John Junior.

  “Och, dear,” the woman said, passing her a tissue. “Try to rest.”

  Jack came rushing in as dawn was breaking the next day. Her nurse turned on the overhead light, and Jackie noticed tears rolling down his cheeks.

  “I saw him through a glass window. He’s beautiful.” His voice cracked, and for a moment she thought he was going to sob out loud. He pressed his face against hers, then kissed her lips, before whispering, “No one has ever given me a gift as precious as this. I love you, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy.”

  She held his head in her hands, feeling the wetness of his tears on her cheek, his coarse hair between her fingers. This was what she had wanted in her marriage: to feel this loved. At last it felt as if their time had come.

  Chapter 27

  Milan

  November 30, 1960

  A couple of weeks after John F. Kennedy’s election victory, Ari’s oldest friend and business colleague, Costa Gratsos, came for a meeting at Maria’s house in Milan and stayed for lunch. Maria liked him. He wasn’t flashy, but he was clever, and she could tell he cared for Ari like a brother.

  The conversation turned to the new president, and Ari told them he had met him. “He came for cocktails on the Christina with his wife and her sister. He’s very charismatic.”

  “What’s Mrs. Kennedy like?” Maria asked, sipping a glass of wine. She did everything slowly these days, still feeling like an invalid since Omero’s death four and a half months earlier.

  “Poised and aloof,” Ari replied. “She doesn’t give much away. Lee is the prettier of the two, but Jackie is an enigma. She is clearly intelligent but you never know what she’s thinking.”

  “Why did you invite them?” Costa asked, giving him a knowing look.

  Ari chuckled. “I wanted to see if he was as much of a bastard as his brother Bobby.”

  “Why don’t you like Bobby?” Maria interjected, and Costa snorted with laughter.

  “Bobby was on the senate subcommittee that had Ari’s ships impounded in docks across America back in 1953, then got a warrant for his arrest.”

  “I spent time in jail,” Ari continued. “Me! Locked up with a load of Puerto Rican terrorists. I was furious!”

  “What were you charged with?”

  Ari spoke with clear exasperation. “America needed cash after the war and they had lots of surplus oil tankers and ships that had been used for troop transport and so forth, so I offered to buy some. They said no, only American companies could own them . . . so I set up American companies, with American CEOs, and bought the damned ships. Then a few years later they realized how much money I was making and regretted selling them. There was a long investigation into all my business interests and in the end the only thing they could find to charge me with was one tiny misdemeanor.”

  Costa joined in. “Ari played them brilliantly and got off with a small fine. The Americans were the losers because he moved all his shipbuilding back to Europe. But he still holds a grudge.”

  “You can’t hold a grudge against all Americans!” Maria exclaimed. “I’m an American!”

  “My children are American,” Ari replied. “I made sure Tina gave birth in the U.S. No, my grudge is against the senators who treated me like a crooked dago. I still have scores to settle with them.”

  “So it’s about pride,” Maria said.

  Costa laughed. “Everything with Ari is about pride. But America is also the world’s biggest economy so he would like to sneak back into it.”

  Maria turned to him. “You already have more money than you could ever spend. Why this constant quest for more?” Ari hesitated and she answered the question herself. “I think I know. It’s because you have to be best at everything. The champagne you drink must be the most expensive; you only visit the most exclusive restaurants; you must have the most famous guests on Christina. It’s not about money, is it? Sometimes I think you are still trying to prove yourself to your late father.”

  Costa roared with laughter and banged the table. “She’s got you there, Ari!”

  Ari stared at her for a moment. “That’s very perceptive!” He seemed surprised. “As a young man I was desperate to make my father proud, but even when I returned from South America having made a fortune that was greater than his, I got no word of congratulations. That wasn’t his style.”

  “You are a different kind of father,” Maria said. “I love the way you are with Alexander: proud, patient, and loving, all at the same time.” She felt sadness descend, knowing that was how he would have been with Omero.

  “What motivates me now is building my empire and passing it on to Alexander, so that he can bequeath it to his son, and the name Onassis will live through generations.”

  He had a faraway look in his eyes. He had his firstborn son and didn’t need any more children.

  During the summer, Maria had consulted a new fertility doctor, based in Athens, a man with an international reputation. He had persuaded her to wait six months after Omero’s death before trying to get pregnant again; in the meantime she was receiving a course of vitamin injections to build her strength. Next year, he said, if a pregnancy did not occur naturally, they would try some hormone treatments to nudge nature along.

  Ari had agreed to this—he would do anything to make Maria happy, he said—but he wasn’t grieving the loss of their child. She could tell. He slept soundly while she lay awake wondering what kind of boy Omero would have been. Which of them would he have resembled? Would he have been musical? She remembered how he had seemed to listen when she sang.

  She knew she would never have pushed him the way her mother had pushed her as a child. He would have had all the things she never did: time to play with friends, trips to the zoo, family days at the beach, a normal childhood. All the love she had wanted to give him was stored up inside, a huge glowing parcel of it, but now there was no one to lavish it on.

  ONE DAY THAT fall, Maria was passing through the hall in her Milan home as Bruna accepted a pile of mail from their mailman, and she saw an airmail envelope on top.

  “Who’s that from?” she asked, squinting at it.

  “It’s nothing, madame.” Bruna tried to bury it under the pile.

  “Can I see?” Maria held out her hand and was puzzled when Bruna still hesitated.

  “It’s from your mother,” she confessed at last. “Your husband told me to destroy all her letters as soon as they arrived.”

  Maria took the airmail envelope, shuddering as she recognized the handwriting. It had a New York postmark, so that meant her mother was still there. She tore it open and began to read: “You have brought nothing but shame on our family from the day you were born but I never dreamed you would become a whore,” it began.

  For a fleeting moment, Maria felt as if she were once more the unloved child who brought nothing but disappointment. She gulped as she scanned the letter to the end. Evangelia was lambasting her for her extramarital relationship with Ari, which, she said, would see her damned in the eyes of God; yet still she could not resist a plea for money: “You live in sin with the world’s richest man while I live on the breadline,” she ranted. “Think of your immortal soul and send
succor to your flesh and blood in their hour of need.”

  Ari came into the hall and Maria handed him the letter, watching his face darken as he read.

  “Has she written often?” Maria asked Bruna.

  Bruna nodded. “At least once a month. I always destroyed them before you saw them.”

  “I think you should continue doing so,” she said, then glanced at Ari. “The last thing I need is her dripping poison in my ear.”

  There was an expression on his face she had never seen before: naked fury. In that moment, he looked as if he might be capable of anything.

  “Part of me wants to tell her she is a monster,” he said. “But I’m guessing she would only go to the press. It’s best to ignore it.” He looped his arms around Maria and pulled her close. “I’m sorry you have such an appalling mother. It makes it all the more extraordinary that you are so sweet natured.”

  He ripped the letter in two and slipped the pieces into his trouser pocket.

  WHEN ALEXANDER AND Christina arrived for a visit at Ari’s Athens house on Agios Vasilios Day, the first of January, there were towering piles of presents for them to open. Ari had told Maria that his son was crazy about flying so she’d bought him a radio-controlled model aircraft. She could tell when he opened it that he was thrilled. His eyes widened and he began to rip off the packaging.

  “Say ‘thank you’ to Maria,” Ari instructed, and the boy stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t realized it was from her.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, almost inaudibly, then put the plane to one side and picked up another present.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “Perhaps you and your father can try it out later.”