F
or the rest of his life Deck would wonder how he had ended up in his car with just the former First Lady by his side.
For some reason as he left the White House driveway he headed north.
Had she suggested it? Or had he taken that route because it seemed the best way to avoid photographers?
For the first few minutes they drove in silence. He expected that her Secret Service men would catch up with them at any moment. When a few minutes and several miles had swirled by without their appearance, he consoled himself that they had been taken by surprise as much as he had.
How had he been dragged off on this wild-goose chase?
Twice he asked her if they were going in the right direction.
All she did was nod. It was a while after they left the capital when he realized that they were not meeting up with the others. But she was so quiet, he felt he had no option but to continue.
Maybe she had just seen him as a way of escape, he thought. Maybe the day had just driven her over the edge.
She had been right about one thing, the streets and the roads
were empty. Just as they had sat in front of their television sets last November 22 so the nation had collectively returned there just twelve months later.
He asked if she wanted more heat. He was worried about the cold. She hadn’t left his side in the White House so she was wearing no coat over the little black suit.
She only smiled in response.
He moved to switch on the radio but she put her hand out to stop him.
“No noise, please, not after that,” she said.
He was right, the quick escape, the silent treatment now. Today had spooked her.
He would have to choose his words with care.
He had no idea where they were going.
This, being alone with Jackie, was just what he wanted to avoid.
Like most people Deck didn’t know what to do with death. Both his parents had died when he was too young to learn. Like most people he was uncomfortable, didn’t know what to say, how to act, what to do.
After Dallas he had written, of course, not only to Jackie but to Rose and Joe and Bobby and Ethel too.
He had known them all for so long. It felt as if a member of his family had passed away, except that he wasn’t, strictly speaking, related. Sadly for him, when they were mourning he rarely got the call; in this the Kennedys were self-sufficient. There were just so many of them, who needed more? So the Bobby lunches and dinners were a godsend.
At first he felt that he was only grudgingly welcomed, because he didn’t rant and moan enough about the new president. Deck was aware of this but he just couldn’t bring himself to dance to another brother’s tune. It was only when he proved to be the most accurate of storytellers, the one who remembered all the little details, that he truly gained acceptance. He could always be counted on to describe exactly what had happened on this or that occasion. Suddenly Bobby
understood what his use to Jack, other than being an adaptable good-time guy, had really been.
Deck would throw his mind back to fish out another story about Jack. Then he would prepare and hone it to perfection for the next day.
Many of the narratives were from the navy or college days. He was delighted when he realized that many of these uproarious adventures were new to them all.
One-upmanship, which was after all the essential Deck, got him through.
It was over at Bobby’s house that he had encountered Jackie and the children.
She had been friendly but cool, leaving the lunch table to walk around the icy garden with the little boy.
His opinion as she watched him entertain the group with a story about Jack’s courtship of her was that she was hostile. Even though she knew the outcome of the tale he was telling, and that both she and Jack came out well in it, he was sure that she hated his knowing the truth about her marriage.
An incredible image had been spun out of beautiful photographs, making the whole world think that the bullets in Texas had ended a passionate love affair.
Even if, right around this table, there were others who knew it wasn’t so, none of them had known it as well as Deck. The myth of Camelot, the fairy-tale love of this couple, was being earnestly peddled.
He owned too many secrets.
Since then he had sent a Christmas gift to his goddaughter, but like all well-brought-up girls of seven it was Caroline who sent the thank-you note. Except for sending a good-luck card to Jackie when she moved to New York, he had had no communication with her for months.
Quietly Jackie interrupted his thoughts.
“Deck, I know that you loved Jack.”
After the long silence in the car he was relieved that her breathy voice had total control.
“And I know that he was very different…very, very different from most other men.” She noticed Deck wince.
“He was, I realized more and more as our lives went on together, very special. And only someone as exceptional as yourself would have given up so much of your valuable time to him.
“You could have been doing so many more lucrative things but you generously gave up your time to help Jack. We all recognize that. I was just talking about it to
belle-mère.
” (Jackie had adopted the French name for her mother-in-law. It satisfied Rose and, as importantly, Janet.)
Deck was devoted to Rose even though his pal had always said what a cold mother she had been to him. Filled with momentary happiness and lulled by Jackie’s tone, he was shocked by what she said next.
“Deck, I don’t know if you ever knew, but I knew about Jack and Marilyn.”
Deck looked straight ahead, concentrating on the road, as if they would crash if he flicked an eyeball in her direction. “Yes, Deck, it’s true,” she lied again. “I know I used to get upset when Jack would wander off with some girl…”
Her voice suddenly lost its balance and went down an octave.
“I was so young, so childlike, so immature…but as time went on, I understood.” She was giving him no chance to interrupt.
“Jack’s life, the pressure, the illnesses—”
“When did this happen?” he blurted out.
“Let’s just say that over time I realized that these women, they were not a threat to me, that they couldn’t endanger what we had together.”
“But you made such a fuss,” said Deck almost to himself, trying desperately to remember what the big fusses were all about.
“Well, I couldn’t just ignore it,” she snapped.
If he was to believe her, to trust her enough to tell her the truth, she knew she must keep hold of her legendary calmness.
She tried to take the drama out of the situation.
“But that was at the beginning. Jack and I had long ago reconciled to living in a more…adult, European way.”
She turned to face Deck, a tall man even behind a steering wheel.
“Didn’t he ever tell you?”
Deck so wanted to believe her. He cast his mind back. He remembered nothing of the sort.
Impatiently her voice cut into his memories.
“Dear Deck, think about it, how else could I have coped?”
He slowed the car down. His mind was not on the road. He was recalling the giggles of two sensational debutantes who tittered nervously when he and Jack led them into the immense quiet of Joe and Rose’s empty Hyannisport house. The Kennedy parents were conveniently in Europe and he and the senator had been out looking for trouble. They had locked themselves in so that no one would be able to disturb them. He could still hear the retreating footsteps of a servant, or perhaps it had been Jackie herself, after trying and failing to open the front door.
He heard Jack on the ship-to-shore telephone lying to her about the work he was doing as they lay on teak sun loungers between two brand-new blondes just off Cap d’Antibes on the French Riviera.
He speeded up again, keen to change gears and have a second or two to think.
Perhaps this was right. He knew that from the very beginning of their marriage Jack had played around.
On reflection, he supposed that no woman could have dealt with Jack’s constant flirtations without having a deep sense of insecurity unless there had been some sort of agreement. Hell, just watching the man chatting to his neighbor at dinner you could see that he was sex on legs.
But if so, why did Jack worry so much about getting caught? Deck wondered. He recalled times when it seemed that half the White House needed to be drafted into the deception.
As if she read his mind, she posed the same question out loud and, just as fast, answered it.
“Why did Jack worry about my finding out? That was just part of the game.”
And if so, why did he not tell his old pal Deck? God, the lies he had told Jackie over the years.
Jackie continued. “He was embarrassed. When I found out that he had been fooling around while we were in the White House he promised me that from then on he would change his ways, especially when I told him how impossible it would be for me if anything ever got out.”
Deck could hear the implied threat in those few words.
“When you think of what Jack wanted to achieve…if it was there he just couldn’t say no.”
Deck knew then that she was lying. Anyone with just a passing knowledge of Jack’s life would have known that none of it happened by accident. It was always he who made the moves. Whether it was politics or passion, everything that happened came down to his energy. A great deal of forethought on his part ensured that he had a constant replenishment of sexual partners.
“Honestly, Deck, this is not just some idle chitchat. It’s important, really important for Jack’s sake, for his memory. We have to get this right.”
Whoah! What was with the “we”? What did she mean? Here he was thinking that she was taking an uncomfortable stroll down memory lane, which was bad enough. What was with this switch to the present?
He turned and looked at her and made as if he were going to speak when she continued earnestly.
“Deck, we have known each other for years. Please, will you be honest with me now?”
Deck licked his lips. They were very dry. He had to be very, very careful now. What did she know? Where should he start?
“Look, Jackie, what’s the point of raising all this now?”
There seemed nothing and no one in the world except them and the car. She remained silent.
“Well.” He cleared his throat and paused. “My throat’s on fire. There are some cough drops in the glove box.”
While she hunted for them she said, “So strange to be back. Then next week there’s the big fund-raising concert again.”
So that was it.
“This isn’t about that picture of Marilyn with Jack?” he asked her like a stern headmaster.
He could see that she was waiting, imploring him with those eyes.
He could picture it clearly, Marilyn’s upturned face mirroring Jack’s smile.
Swiftly his imagination flicked up the other pictures of Marilyn in his mind, Marilyn in the Los Angeles hotel.
Marilyn with her eyes shut in plea sure or her tongue playing between her lips, her engorged nipples, her body arching back.
Suddenly it seemed like those two sexually provocative photographs were glowing, dancing in the headlights before them.
His reverie was smashed by the pain, as sharp as broken glass, in her voice.
“No, Deck, it’s because she killed herself today!”
Before he had a chance to recover she continued. “Lyndon told me at the White House a few minutes before the reception started. The police are convinced it’s suicide, they found pills, barbiturates I think he said, by the body. Her maid found her at home. Sometime to night the news will get out.”
Deck was stunned.
“My God” was all he could say. He had always liked Marilyn, who was brighter than most actresses. He recalled that despite his frequent visits to Los Angeles he hadn’t seen her since the assassination.
“There’s a letter. Lyndon says he’s going to see what he can do to stop it getting out.”
Suddenly she sounded tired, the fight and the feistiness draining away.
She knew that she had shocked him. That he had had no idea.
So what else was he hiding from her?
For a moment or two he said nothing. Only the slow, mellifluous engine was audible.
He sighed.
He so wanted to comfort her. What was best to say?
“You know it meant nothing to him.” Jesus, he thought, dead for a year and I’m still lying for him.
The widow put up her hand as if to say, No more lies please.
“That sounded like such a lie, I agree.”
He said nothing more for a few minutes. He felt like a cornered rat.
“I guess that whenever he went to Los Angeles—and remember, he was always asking you to come—she would make herself available. She was always there, on her own. She even took over several suites, under assumed names, of course, at the hotels we stayed in, so she would be sure to be on the same floor as us.
“One time she did so and we came back overnight. He wanted to get back to D.C…. Heavens, she swore at him.
“She was the sexiest Hollywood star of her generation. Like any man would be, he was flattered. It was like a fantasy.”
Deck’s rueful smile told her everything. Her husband and the star had shared a romance that had lasted as long as his presidency. Surely Marilyn would not have killed herself today without leaving incriminating evidence.
“So, it
was
Jack in those photographs in the hotel,” she muttered quietly.
“Probably, I guess so…Okay, so yes, but don’t think that it was anything but sex. He was with us most of the time and we were all working in the suite as usual, writing speeches, meeting the local party bigwigs, same as always.”
“And,” she said, very quietly.
“From time to time he would just vanish.”
Suddenly he was brought back to reality.
“He loved you, you know that. You and the children were all that he—”
“Don’t Deck. Just don’t,” she interrupted.
“Shouldn’t we go back?” He glanced at her. “Everyone will be looking for you. Your mother, the Secret Service.” Deck noticed a nervous whine in his voice.