Jackie and Maria Read online

  Maria was surprised to hear her father was in Athens. Did that mean his marriage was finally over, or was it a temporary break? Eleven years had gone by since she’d last seen Evangelia, years in which the bitter Time magazine article had appeared and her mother’s book about her had been published. The thought of a reunion filled her with dread. “Is she going to pull through?” she asked.

  “She’s responding to treatment,” the doctor said, “but she is very weak. She left a note addressed to you. I don’t know if you would like me to forward it?”

  Maria shuddered. “Do you have it there? What does it say?”

  Almost immediately she regretted asking as the doctor opened the note and read: “I am sure you will shed no tears for the woman who gave you life and sacrificed her own so that you might one day be famous . . .” It went on in the same vein and finished by saying that she would only forgive Maria if she came to see her “dying mother.”

  “Can I tell her you will visit?” the doctor asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.” She thought she had grown used to the ways her mother tried to manipulate her emotions, making her feel guilty for being “the bad daughter,” but the letter still stung.

  “Do you have a message for her?” he persisted.

  “No. No message.”

  “I have to ask . . . I’m afraid there’s the small matter of her medical bills. She told us you would pay them.”

  Maria sighed out loud. “That figures. Send them addressed to me at the Pierre Hotel.” She hung up and called Ari.

  “Don’t visit,” he advised. “Remember how much her book upset you. Remember this is the woman who forced you to date German soldiers in wartime.”

  An image came into Maria’s mind of the cold expression on Evangelia’s face when she thought her daughter had been raped and all she cared about was the money.

  “But she’s on her own and it sounds as though she is going senile.” The old emotions bubbled to the surface: the little girl who was desperate for her mother’s love but could never win it; the feeling that she was unlovable.

  “What would it achieve?” Ari persisted. “If you visit, she will be back in your life and she will have more ammunition to sell stories to the press, calling you a whore and whatever else.”

  Maria pursed her lips. “But I know the way her mind works. If I don’t visit, she’ll tell journalists I wouldn’t even come to her bedside when she was dying. She’s already told the hospital to send me her medical bills.”

  “We can counter that if we get in first. Your manager can release a statement saying that despite your mother’s vile treatment of you, and the awful book she wrote, you telephoned as soon as you heard of her suicide attempt and have agreed to cover her medical bills. It will make a positive story for a change. Remind me: Which hospital is it?”

  Maria told him. He was right: she wouldn’t visit, because she couldn’t let Evangelia back into her life. She was capable of doing too much harm.

  ON MAY 19, the performers gathered backstage, sequins sparkling and sticky clouds of hairspray wafting from every dressing room. Maria nodded in greeting to the familiar faces from stage and screen but did not stop to chat, because she didn’t want to tire her voice. She went through her normal warm-up routines, although the two arias she was singing were undemanding compared to a full operatic production.

  When her cue came, she walked onstage, right foot first. As she waited for the orchestra to play the jaunty opening bars of “Habanera,” she smiled mischievously at the audience, inhabiting the role of Carmen, the fiery gypsy who broke men’s hearts. Her voice was strong and dark as she launched into the opening bars: “Love is a rebellious bird that nobody can tame . . .”

  The applause after her second number was uproarious, although she did not for one moment suppose this crowd was opera lovers. President Kennedy was sitting in the first row, just beyond the orchestra, but she was disappointed not to spot Mrs. Kennedy by his side. She was curious about the chic First Lady.

  As she walked back to her dressing room, she bumped into the unforgettable vision of Marilyn Monroe, with her iconic bleached hair, wearing a gown so revealing that Maria couldn’t think where to look. It was made of flesh-colored fabric studded with rhinestones and was completely molded to her curvaceous figure, making it clear she was not wearing a scrap of underwear.

  Without introducing herself, Marilyn put a hand on Maria’s arm, saying, “I wish I could sing like you. I’m on later and I’m terribly nervous.” She was blinking rapidly, her lips quivering and her pupils huge.

  “No one expects you to be note-perfect. I’m sure you’ll bring your many other talents to the performance.” Maria smiled, so it didn’t sound like a criticism.

  “Is there nothing you can suggest? I have to do a great job.”

  She looked so scared that Maria decided to demonstrate an exercise to calm her nerves. “Blow out the air to empty your lungs completely,” she instructed, and did it herself. “Can you feel the diaphragm muscle engage?” She placed her hand on top of her own diaphragm.

  Marilyn tried, pouting her lips and blowing hard.

  “Now breathe in fully,” Maria said. “Try to sing from there and not from your throat. You’ll find you have more breath.”

  Marilyn stood, practicing intently, in and out. She smelled as if she hadn’t bathed that day. It wasn’t an unpleasant odor, but it was intimate, somehow conveying more than Maria wanted to know.

  She excused herself to return to her dressing room and freshen up, but she couldn’t resist hovering in the wings when Marilyn was due to take the stage for the finale. She looked terrified in the moments before she stepped out, then in a split second her posture straightened, her expression changed, and she became the star everyone knew. Maria recognized the transformation: she did the same herself, going from simple Maria to La Callas.

  She watched as Marilyn sang “Happy Birthday”—whispering entirely from her throat, barely singing at all. The suggestive hip movements, the heavy breathing, and the pouting lips were excruciating. Maria glanced around at the other performers who were watching from the wings: many were openmouthed.

  “How was I?” Marilyn whispered as she tottered off the stage, smelling more strongly than before.

  “Extraordinary,” Maria told her. “The audience loved you.”

  “Do you think the president liked it?” she asked, lip quivering, and Maria assured her that he must have.

  At the after-show party, President Kennedy came to thank Maria in person.

  “I was awestruck by your performance, Mrs. Callos,” he said, mispronouncing her surname. “My wife is a big fan and plays your recordings at home, so I knew your voice, but I’m delighted to finally hear you in person.”

  “Is your wife here tonight?” Maria asked, glancing over his shoulder. Perhaps she had been sitting elsewhere in the auditorium.

  “No, she had a prior commitment. Something to do with horses, I believe. I often think she prefers horses to human beings. But she will be very jealous when she hears that I have met you. It’s a great honor that you flew all the way from Europe.”

  “My goodness, the honor is all mine,” she replied. “I hope you’ve had a wonderful birthday.” She noticed a smear of beige makeup on his shirt collar and wondered how it got there.

  “How could I do otherwise with so many beautiful women singing for me?” He grinned, his impossibly white teeth gleaming as he gestured around the room. “Look at this crowd: I’m completely starstruck. It’s so much fun being president. I love that I can pick up the phone and call anyone in the world and they take my calls.”

  “I rather imagine everyone here is starstruck on meeting you,” she replied.

  “You’re very kind. I hope we can tempt you to come to one of our state dinners in the White House? My wife loves to bring together the leading lights of the arts.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” she said, meaning it.

  “I’ll
pass that on. It might win me a marital merit badge.”

  “Are you in need of one?” Maria teased.

  “Always. You women are terribly difficult to please.”

  He didn’t linger for long, because there were many other guests to talk to, but Maria had already decided she liked him. He was warm and personable.

  As he moved on, she glanced across the room and saw that Marilyn’s puppy eyes never once left the president. It looked as if she had an overwhelming crush. Maria wondered if they had met before, or if Marilyn was simply overcome with awe.

  When she got back to the hotel, she called Ari, even though it was the middle of the night in Europe. He’d made her promise she would.

  “You were right about Kennedy being charismatic,” she said. “I think Miss Monroe has fallen under his spell. She only had eyes for him.”

  “Yes, she’s sleeping with him,” Ari said matter-of-factly. “Bobby too. They pass her between them.”

  “What? Surely not!” Maria was astounded. “What makes you say that?”

  “My publicist knows everything that happens in Hollywood, and he reports back to me. Information is useful, especially when it concerns the president of a country that impounded my ships.”

  “I hope you’re not going to use the information. Poor Marilyn is the victim in all of this.” She remembered reading in the papers that Marilyn was single again after her unlikely marriage to playwright Arthur Miller had broken down.

  “It’s an insurance policy,” he said. “That’s all. Was Mrs. Kennedy there?”

  “No, I hear she had a prior commitment with some horses.”

  Ari laughed: “Yeah, I bet she did!”

  After they hung up, Maria couldn’t sleep, going over the events of the evening in her head and worrying about poor, vulnerable, childlike Marilyn Monroe. She felt protective toward her.

  Chapter 30

  Virginia

  May 19, 1962

  Jackie sat down to watch Jack’s birthday gala on television. She was spending the weekend at Glen Ora, an estate they rented in Virginia, where she’d been attending the Loudoun County Horse Show. She’d decided to go there in protest after she heard Marilyn Monroe was included in the lineup. It was idiotic of Jack to invite a woman whose name was synonymous with sex. What’s more, Jackie had heard that Marilyn was obsessed with her husband; Arthur Miller had told her as much when he’d dined at the White House ten days earlier. She was determined not to be photographed alongside, or even in the same room as, that woman.

  As she watched the show’s finale, with Marilyn breathing the words “Happy birthday, Mr. President” and writhing as though making love to him, Jackie felt acid flood her throat. Did Jack think the public was stupid? How could he allow such disrespect toward her? Fierce rage took hold. She wanted to slap him, scream at him, tear his hair. She clenched her fists hard.

  Was he sleeping with Marilyn? On the evidence, it looked likely. And if he wasn’t before, she was sure he would after watching that performance. He never could resist flattery from a pretty girl. But Marilyn was exactly the type who would run to the press with her story when he cooled things off. Had Jack considered that?

  Every time Jackie reckoned she could deal with his infidelities, another one came along that was worse than the last. She, Caroline, and John Junior were due to drive back to Washington the following day, but she decided they would stay in Virginia for another few days, and she’d not be available to take Jack’s calls either. It was perfect weather for riding. She would remain there until she had calmed down enough to speak civilly to him, without unleashing her rage. That way, they could maintain the façade on which their marriage depended.

  LESS THAN A month later, Jackie answered the telephone in the Residence one afternoon to hear the operator announce, “Mrs. Kennedy, I have Marilyn Monroe on the phone for you.”

  It caught Jackie unawares, although part of her wasn’t surprised. “Put the call through to my bedroom,” she instructed.

  She fetched her cigarettes, then sat in an armchair and picked up the receiver.

  “This is Mrs. Kennedy speaking,” she said.

  “Is it really you?” The breathy voice was unmistakable. “I wasn’t sure if you would talk to me.” She was slurring the words, as if she were drunk or doped up.

  “How can I help you, Miss Monroe?” Jackie asked, then lit an L&M and inhaled, feeling concerned. By all accounts, the actress was volatile and unpredictable. Was she going to confess to an affair with Jack? If so, how should she respond?

  “I just . . . I wanted to ask what it’s like living in the White House. Is it very beautiful?”

  Jackie blew out smoke. “The original building is lovely but it has been much added to over the years, with some extensions more elegant than others. But I can’t imagine you called me to discuss architecture.”

  “No, you’re right . . . I wanted to ask . . . is it nice being the president’s wife?”

  Jackie squinted against the smoke. Where was this conversation going? “Your freedom is limited when you are in the public eye—but I imagine you know all about that.”

  “You’re so glamorous!” Marilyn exclaimed. “I loved it on your trip to France when Jack said, ‘I am the man who accompanied Jacqueline Kennedy to Paris.’ Wasn’t that gallant?”

  Jackie remembered it well. He had used it to begin his speech at the Palais de Chaillot and had been rewarded with universal laughter. “It was humorous,” she replied. “A joke.”

  “Was it?” Marilyn sounded crestfallen. Her mood switched from moment to moment, making it impossible for Jackie to judge the purpose of the call. And then it came. “Do you think you will ever divorce him?” Marilyn asked, plaintive now. “He must be a terrible husband.”

  Jackie gave a short laugh. “Why? Would you like to take my place?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line, then a hiccup.

  “You’d be welcome to all the problems that come with being First Lady,” Jackie continued. “But the public would be very disappointed if you retired from movies.”

  There was a rustling sound, as if Marilyn was moving some papers and muttering to herself. Jackie made out the words “should never have called,” and suddenly the line went dead. Marilyn had hung up.

  Jackie was alarmed. Marilyn was either a drunk or she was unhinged. Deep in thought, she ground out her cigarette. She had to tell someone about this call, but if she confronted Jack she would be forced to look into his eyes while he lied to the back teeth about their relationship. Instead she walked down to Bobby’s office in the West Wing and tapped on the door.

  He looked up from some paperwork and gave her a bright smile. “Come in. Sit down. Distract me! This is a day of abject tedium.”

  “I won’t stop,” Jackie said, “but I thought you should know that I just took a call from Marilyn Monroe. She wanted to ask if I was considering divorcing Jack. She’s a liability, Bobby. I don’t know what he was thinking of, having her perform at that gala.”

  Bobby’s face was inscrutable. “I’m sorry she bothered you. I’ll ask the operators not to put through her calls.”

  “It’s not that I’m worried about. I can deal with her. But what if she starts talking to the press?” She considered sitting down but decided against it. Better to keep it brief. “Have you met her? What’s your opinion?”

  There was a flicker of a twitch of Bobby’s upper lip, and Jackie knew not just that he had met her, but that he was already doing his best to protect Jack, because protection was sorely needed. “I’ll deal with it,” he said.

  “Thank you. I’ll leave you to your tedium.” She turned and swept back toward the Residence, arms swinging and lips pursed. She never swore out loud, but some choice curse words took shape in her head as she contemplated the effect that Jack’s “trysts” with Miss Monroe could have on his legacy—and, by extension, hers.

  JACKIE AND THE children were in New York on August 5, getting ready to fly to Italy for a vac
ation with Lee, Stas, and their two children, Anthony and baby Tina. Immediately after breakfast, Bobby rang to tell her that Marilyn Monroe had been found dead at her Brentwood home.

  “It’s a probable suicide,” he said. “There were empty pill bottles strewn around. You may be asked to comment, so have something ready.”

  Jackie was shaken but, after a moment’s reflection, not surprised. “That poor woman! She was clearly fragile. Why did no one help her?”

  “She had a therapist,” Bobby said. “It seems there was a history of overdoses.”

  “If that’s the case, ‘people’ should have been more careful around her,” Jackie remarked, her voice steely.

  As she read the press coverage the next morning, she felt irritated with the so-called friends who were rushing to sell their stories, grabbing a quick buck before Marilyn was even buried, but most of all she felt angry with Jack. He had given a vulnerable young woman hope, and that was unforgivable. She was glad to be absent from the White House so she did not have to discuss it with him face-to-face.

  When a journalist spotted her at the airport and asked what she thought about Marilyn’s death, she replied, “I’m sure her name will live on.”

  Lee was curious, asking outright, “Do you think Jack ever slept with Marilyn? I wondered, after that outrageous birthday gala performance.”

  “Of course he didn’t!” Jackie snapped, closing the subject with her icy tone. Lee was the last person she would discuss it with. But there was no doubt in her mind that he had.

  Their marriage went in cycles, she mused. It seemed she was either furiously angry and barely speaking to him, or she was madly in love with him, with no calm, in-between times. It was exhausting. She was sure he didn’t experience the roller coaster of emotions that she did; he got on with the daily life of being a president, oblivious to her moods.

  Their vacation villa in Ravello was beautiful. Every morning she climbed down a steep cliff path to swim off the rocks in the clear, azure water. In the afternoons she read one of the tottering pile of books she’d brought with her and played with the children in their villa’s pool; then they dined out in local trattorias in the evenings. One afternoon they were invited onto Fiat car manufacturer Gianni Agnelli’s yacht, and she glanced at the photographers snapping them as they boarded, worrying about how it would play in the American press. Then she shrugged: her children had a right to a vacation, no matter who their daddy was. She had a right.