The Second Marriage, page 2
“It was a difficult time,” she told the Onassises. “There was resentment toward this young interloper who didn’t even speak fluent Italian yet had somehow landed the lead. The cast pushed past me backstage without saying buon giorno, and I went home alone most nights.”
She didn’t add that she was a whale of a girl in those days, over two hundred pounds of blotchy, dimpled flesh, with a nose that was too big for her face, and thick, black-rimmed glasses, without which she was near blind. Her appearance made her shy and awkward, another reason it was hard to make friends.
“I had a guardian angel, though.” She turned to Battista with a smile. “I met this man at a dinner party on my first evening in Verona and he took me under his wing. He was an opera aficionado and we bonded over our shared love of music.”
Battista took up the story: “When Maria’s contract at Verona ended, her father wanted her to return to New York and work as a secretary. To me, that would have been a criminal waste of talent. I offered to subsidize her for another six months while I introduced her to the directors I knew and tried to get her career off the ground.”
“What a clever investment!” Aristotle exclaimed. “You gained a beautiful wife and the world gained a magnificent talent.”
Battista grinned. “We had luck on our side. One evening, when we were strolling after dinner, we bumped into my friend Nino Catozzo, the director at La Fenice. A soprano had let him down at the eleventh hour. His production of Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde had been advertised, tickets sold, and suddenly he had no Isolde—so I suggested Maria for the role.”
She interrupted. “You have no idea how terrifying it was. Battista pretended I already knew the part, which is one of the most difficult in opera. I had to audition a week later, sight-reading for Tullio Serafin, the great guru who had conducted me in La Gioconda. Fortunately he thought I was capable of the role and arranged two months of intensive coaching to get me ready.”
She would never forget the blind panic of that time: the technical difficulties of the part of Isolde, the wild, passionate Irish princess; the immense pressure of stepping out onto the glittering stage where Rossini’s and Bellini’s works had premièred; the grandeur of La Fenice, with its rows of golden boxes, the ceiling mural of flying Graces, the ornate putti, the plush red-velvet seats. All of it combined to make her feel unworthy.
On opening night Tullio had given her a gift of a Madonna icon—a pretty one in jewel tones with a gilt frame. She remembered trembling as she prayed to the compassionate face of the Holy Mother that she would not let everyone down.
The prayer must have worked, because the production was an astounding success. She couldn’t see beyond the proscenium arch without her glasses but could hear that many were getting to their feet, cheering and whistling as well as clapping, and she was called back to the stage a dozen times before she could finally retreat to her dressing room. It felt like a dream.
“You should have seen the reviews.” Battista beamed. “I’ve never read anything like it. The critics were unanimous that a new star had appeared in the firmament. After that, every director in Italy wanted to work with her, and Tullio became her cheerleader.”
They had told this story before, and she smiled at him as she delivered the punch line. “Battista waited till the third night after the opening, when he was sure his investment had paid off, before asking me to marry him.”
They all laughed. In fact, Maria had been stunned by his proposal. She had so little confidence in those years that she couldn’t believe anyone would want her for anything other than her voice. How could he think of making love to a woman so large that no chairs were big enough for her? A woman with thighs the circumference of the average woman’s waist? She had been reluctant to remove her tent of a nightgown on their wedding night, but Battista seduced her slowly, awakening sensations she adored. Right from the start, she loved sex, couldn’t get enough of it. She loved him too; he was the first person ever to make her feel cherished.
Waiters interrupted them with plates of pink carpaccio, the house specialty that Aristotle insisted they try. Maria was glad he had ordered for them. She couldn’t have read the menu without her glasses, and she was too vain to wear them in public. The thinly sliced raw beef was succulent, tender, sublime. When that was gone, he ordered prawns, freshly caught in the Lagoon that morning and grilled with garlic butter. All afternoon, they drank frothy Bellinis and nibbled delicacies, while getting acquainted. Maria felt uncharacteristically light-headed, and more relaxed than she had in many a month.
The windows at the far end of the bar were frosted glass, and cozy lamps glowed on the walls, so it was hard to judge the time. She was astonished when she read Aristotle’s watch upside down and saw that it was almost seven. Diners were beginning to arrive for the evening meal, and she spotted their host slipping some folded lire to the maître d’ with a sleight of hand as smooth as any magician’s. She guessed he was bribing him to let them keep their table.
Weariness engulfed her in a sudden wave. “I’m afraid I must go soon,” she said, feeling guilty that she hadn’t sung a note all day. It was important that she practice daily.
“I have a final question for you,” Aristotle said, waving away Battista’s clumsy offer to contribute to the bill. “You are at the very top of the tree. I wonder what ambitions you have for the future. Are there any dreams you have yet to fulfill?”
I want a baby, Maria thought to herself. The desire was overwhelming. But that was too personal to mention in present company.
“My dream was always to become a company member at La Scala. For me, it is the greatest opera house in the world. Now I’m there, I suppose I want to sing with the best musicians and best directors for as long as I possibly can.” She paused. “And then I will retire quietly to a lovely part of the world and be a housewife.” She laughed as if she didn’t quite take her words seriously. In truth, it was hard to picture the future.
“Even your laugh is beautiful,” Aristotle replied, his tone heartfelt. He caught her eye and looked hard, as if trying to peer into her soul.
Chapter 3
Newport, Rhode Island
Summer 1956
Jackie Kennedy rocked on the porch, one hand on her swollen belly, the other clutching a glass of icy lemonade, which dripped condensation onto her cotton frock. A cigarette burned in an ashtray, its smoke spiraling upward, and a book lay open beside it. The heat was flint dry and oppressive, with only the faintest whisper of a breeze, but she preferred to be outside, where the air was marginally fresher.
She thought of Jack on a yacht on the Mediterranean. He would be brown as an urchin, hopping around the deck in his shorts with a beer in hand, or splashing about in the turquoise water. There was a hard knot of anger inside her. How could he fly across an ocean to vacation with friends when she was heavily pregnant—especially when she’d suffered a miscarriage the previous year? She’d been distraught, and it made her anxious about this pregnancy.
The man she had married was selfish. Entitled. But so charming, so exciting, that she could forgive him his worst transgressions: forgetting birthdays and anniversaries, sending her home early from their honeymoon because he had meetings to attend, even the occasional hint of perfume in his hair and lipstick on his collar from the women who were always fawning over him. Even that.
They were both independent souls who had spent a lot of time apart during their three-year marriage. Washington gossips kept predicting imminent divorce, but in many ways their lifestyle suited them. Jackie liked to go riding and fox hunting at her stepfather’s Virginia estate, to fly to London for some shopping with her clothes-mad younger sister, Lee, or to hop on a train to New York for an early lunch with her hard-living daddy, Black Jack Bouvier, before he got too pickled.
Jack Kennedy’s life revolved around politics; it was the oxygen he inhaled, the sustenance he craved. Currently a Democratic senator from Massachusetts, he was one of the party’s most glittering young talents, with a reputation for his strong stance on civil rights, as well as international peacekeeping and halting the Communist threat. Within the Kennedy family, they were talking about a presidential run in 1960—an idea that Jackie privately found far-fetched, but she admired his ambition all the same.
If only she felt as if he needed her more, she would be content. Of course, she knew he admired her intelligence, her style and class, but his life continued much as it had in his bachelor days. As a politician, he had needed a presentable Roman Catholic wife, and it seemed she had ticked the right boxes. Now she hoped to provide another political essential: a couple of healthy kids.
She frowned. When had she last felt the baby move? Perhaps the poor creature was as drained by the heat as she was. She shifted her position on the rocking chair, nudging her belly with the palm of her hand, but there was no movement, not even the flutter of a tiny foot kicking under her skin. Slowly, clutching her lower back with one hand and pressing on the armrest with the other, she eased herself to her feet and waddled around the porch. Nothing. She jumped up and down, then ran her hands over her belly again. Still nothing. Alarm took hold.
“Nelly!” she called. “Can you come out here?”
Nelly, the housekeeper, was a mother three times over and the soul of calm. She felt Jackie’s belly and asked her to jump a few more times.
“Little ’un’s having a good old nap,” she said, her tone even and careful. “But why don’t I call Dr. Brady all the same?”
JACKIE LAY IN a hospital bed, surrounded by doctors and nurses, paralyzed with fear. Her mother, Janet Auchincloss, sat ramrod straight by her bedside as the physician ran a stethoscope over her belly. What was wrong? She couldn’t lose this child; not after eight and a half months. A miscarriage in the first trimester had been tough enough, but the doctors had assured her it wasn’t uncommon. This was different; she already felt she knew this child, after sensing it move and react inside her.
She watched the medical staff’s expressions, the way they glanced at one another, sending signals with their eyes that she wasn’t meant to intercept. Her mother had taught her it was unladylike to show her feelings, but it was hard not to. One nurse took her hand and Jackie gripped hard, grateful for the human contact. Sympathy was not her mother’s forte. Arranging a ball, yes. Managing the staff at her husband’s estates, yes. Sympathy, never.
“Can I call your husband?” someone asked. “He should be here.”
Yes, he should. Jackie narrowed her eyes.
“He’s away on business,” Janet told them. “Whatever it is, you can tell us.”
It was then they confirmed in words what Jackie had already guessed. Her baby was no longer alive. Sometime between her checkup a week ago and this morning, its little heart had stopped beating and no one knew why. Jackie focused on a cheap clock on the opposite wall, watching the second hand tick. It seemed impossibly loud. She began counting the beats, finding it helped her choke back the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her.
“What happens next?” Janet asked in a practical tone. You’d never have guessed her grandchild had just been pronounced dead.
The doctor checked some papers on a clipboard. “Mrs. Kennedy was booked to have a Caesarean, so we’ll bring it forward. We could operate this afternoon.”
Jackie turned her gaze to the window, where blinding sun was glinting through the leaves of a red-oak tree. What would Jack say? He’d flown off on vacation expecting to return in time for the birth of his first child; instead he would return to a funeral. She had let him down. He would be crushed. Kennedys didn’t do failure.
“That sounds like the best plan,” Janet said, without consulting Jackie.
“Can you call Bobby?” she asked, turning to her mother. “He’ll know how to get in touch with Jack.”
There was a radiotelephone on the yacht, but you couldn’t dial direct. The operator had to request a time slot to transmit through the nearest shore station, so it depended on their location. She recited Bobby’s number from memory, and Janet rose to make the call, as if glad to have something to do. She still hadn’t uttered a word of comfort, but Jackie knew her better than to expect it.
WHEN JACKIE CAME to after the operation in late afternoon, Janet was gone and Bobby was by her bedside. Straightaway he took her hand and said, “I’m so sorry. What a sad loss for you, and for the whole family.”
Jackie closed her eyes to stop the tears from leaking out. She didn’t want Bobby to see her cry. He was being kind, but he must think she was a failure. He already had four children, and Ethel was pregnant with their fifth. She seemed to give birth like a vending machine: pop in the sperm, and out popped a fully formed, squalling baby.
“I’ve left a message for Jack asking him to call the nurses’ station when there’s a connection,” he told her. “A nurse will come to fetch me.”
“Thank you,” Jackie whispered. She was glad he was there, taking charge.
Although more reserved than Jack, Bobby had enough of the family charm that people fell over themselves to help him. She knew the nurses would be fluttery and coy around him.
Jackie wondered what Bobby thought of her deep down. He had always been friendly, although Ethel thought her “hoity-toity.” She’d overheard her complaining about the way Jackie set a table, of all things. Seemingly Ethel didn’t think it mattered whether the knife blades were facing inward or outward and scoffed at Jackie for adjusting them. She would crow now: she was the successful wife who could produce heirs by the handful.
Jackie was still woozy from the anesthetic and drifted into a doze, but she awoke when she heard Bobby’s voice in the corridor outside. A nurse was bustling about in the room, checking her temperature, clattering instruments on a metal tray, so she missed some of the conversation, but what she heard was unmistakable.
“Jack, you have to come back … Your wife’s just had surgery. She needs you … Don’t be an idiot … Of course she’s upset, but you know Jackie—she doesn’t show it … It will be in the papers tomorrow for sure. There’s nothing I can do about that … Just think how it will look politically: ‘Wife loses baby while senator suns himself in the Med.’ Is that the headline you want to see? Well, get your ass back here …”
Jackie was stunned. She clutched her throat, finding it hard to breathe. Jack didn’t want to interrupt his vacation. That’s how much he cared about her. She shivered. Everyone had warned her before they got married that he needed his own space, and she had been willing to allow that, but she hadn’t realized till now that his heart was quite so cold.
Chapter 4
Washington, D.C.
August 28, 1956
Five days after their baby died, Jack arrived in D.C. Jackie was recovering at home in Georgetown, where she lay on top of her bed with a fan blowing cool air on her legs. Her sister, Lee, had flown in from London and was bustling around, fetching drinks and tidying the bedside clutter of books and lotions, wearing an immaculate silk polka-dot dress from Jean Patou’s spring/summer collection.
Jackie regarded her critically. It had been kind of her to drop everything and rush over to play nursemaid, but who wore a brand-new designer outfit to look after an invalid, for heaven’s sake? Lee always strove to be the better dressed of the two of them, no matter what the occasion, and her competitiveness could get tedious.
“How are you, kid?” Jack asked, leaning over to kiss her, a concerned expression on his face. “Are you okay? We had a stopover in Paris and I bought you some perfume.” He put a gift-wrapped package in her lap but she didn’t touch it. How could he think of perfume at a time like this? “Hi, Lee,” he continued. “Good of you to help out.”
Lee beamed at him. “Hi, Jack. Great tan!”
“The funeral was last Saturday,” Jackie interrupted, pokerfaced, trying to snap them both into some respect for the solemnity of the occasion. “She was a girl. Your daughter. I called her Arabella.”
Jack nodded, at last serious. “I like the name.”
“Bobby made the arrangements,” she continued, her voice like a knife.
“Good man,” he remarked. “I’ll call and thank him, but first I need a sandwich. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“Let me get your sandwich,” Lee insisted, heading for the door. “Ham and mustard okay?” She was dippy about Jack; nothing was too much trouble for her darling brother-in-law.
Once they were alone, Jackie waited for him to apologize for not returning sooner, to tell her how sad he was about the loss of the baby, to share the grief that was lodged inside her, hard and implacable as a bullet—but instead he began talking about some journalist he’d met on the plane. She watched him, his hair bleached from the sun, his skin as dark as walnuts, and marveled at the electricity he exuded. He had no idea what was going through her mind. None whatsoever. Maybe he never had.
He finished his story before sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling her into his arms. “It’s so sad about Arabella,” he said. “I can’t take it in yet. After all those months of waiting …”
His face pressed against her shoulder and she heard him stifle a sigh—or could it have been a sob? He did seem upset now, but he didn’t feel the loss; not like she did. Her grief was dark and solitary, and it was mixed with bitter anger at him for being overseas when their baby died and then not coming home immediately.
He broke away before long, the moment over, and she watched as his mind flipped to the next matter to be dealt with. “I’m glad Lee is here for you. It was good of her to come.” He glanced at his watch. “Do you mind if I drop by the office this afternoon? Just to pick up messages.”
Jackie was so shocked he could consider it that she was lost for words. She kept her feelings buried, but surely Jack must know how devastated she was, and how much she needed him to comfort her? Down the hall there was a beautifully decorated nursery with no baby to put in it.
