Jackie and Me(22)
ducked upstairs and stepped into the shower and, still a
little flushed, reached for the cold-water faucet. Blame the plumbers who, without meaning to, had switched out cold with hot. The jet of scalding water met me like a fist. The next second, I was flat on my back, scrabbling for purchase in the claw-foot tub, listening to what sounded like a fire alarm—which, on closer inspection, proved to be my own voice, scaling higher. It was Mrs. Kennedy herself who came running, ears thrumming to an alien frequency. When she
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whipped the curtain open, I hadn’t even sufficient presence of mind to cover my nakedness, but after she’d turned the faucets off, I was able to thank her.
Here’s the deal. If you sustain second-degree burns in
Hyannisport, you get a private room in Cape Cod Hospital.
Sustain them in the company of Kennedys, you get a running spigot of visitors, from Mr. Kennedy on down. Even
eight-year-old Bobby, writhing with shyness, was heard
to wish me a speedy recovery. I like to think now it was
their kindness that buttressed me through the dressings, the redressings, the skin grafts, the applications of tannic acid.
In my more painful interludes, I imagined myself a war pilot shot down over Bretagne, but if I were to be honest, in the exact moment of scalding, I could only think I was the family’s dinner.
And, if I’m to be honest, meeting them for the first time
was indeed like being dropped into a lobster pot but with
the crucial difference that, after the first shock of immersion, you found the waters merely warm, not hot, and that their secret plan was not to eat you but give you your own
corner of the pot, from which you would never be budged. I
don’t know how much of this last part I was able to convey
because Jackie’s first response was:
“They burned you alive.”
“Well, they didn’t mean to.”
“That’s what Joan of Arc said.”
I smiled, hung my head a little. “I guess what I’m saying
is it’s hard coming into any strange family.”
“What do you do when you’re not being a best friend?”
78
LOUIS BAYARD
“I’m in advertising.”
“One of those big New York firms?”
“Oh, no, no, no. The Emerson Drug Company of
Baltimore.”
“I don’t know them.”
“Yes, you do. Bromo-Seltzer.”
She stared at me. “That’s you?”
“Well, the ads are.”
“But everybody knows Bromo-Seltzer. Why do you need to advertise it?”
“Because there’s also Alka-Seltzer.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’ve always thought they were the same
thing.”
“That’s why I have a job.”
She rested her hand very lightly on my right wrist. “You’re nice. Nicer than them.”
“No, I’m just the friend.”
“That’s a nicer job than family.”
“It’s easier. Why, it’s the easiest thing in the world, really.”
Being Jack’s friend, in particular, I wanted to say. As natural as rolling down a hill.
“You’re much quieter with me,” she said.
“Well, it’s just the two of us and—I can adapt.”
“I like you quiet. But I like you noisy, too.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Would it be terrible,” she asked, “if I told them I had a
headache?”
“I won’t stop you.”
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She gently laced her arm through mine, and together, we
stood and walked toward the house. As we were opening
the kitchen door, I leaned into her and whispered, “Bromo-Seltzer’s great for headaches.”
“Always on the clock,” she whispered back.
TEN
T o be fair, she did have a headache—that’s what tribu—
nals will do—though it had less to do with the hazing than the Congressman’s silence through it all. She knew enough of romance novels to know that, when a heroine is being ill-treated, the hero will fling down his cravat and say,
“I won’t stand for this a second longer.” He might pause on the brink of declaration, but it would only italicize the feelings he was at pains to suppress, and the heroine could turn a braver face to her oppressors.
By contrast, the Congressman sat the whole evening in
the wing chair and said virtually nothing. Perhaps some of
his imperviousness rubbed off on her because, having made
the resolution to leave, she allowed nothing to dissuade her.
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To her surprise, the Congressman rose at once and fetched
her shawl and guided her to the car. It wasn’t until he closed the door after her that she let her face go utterly slack and dropped her head against the headrest. The alcohol rushed through her in a fresh tide, and the air around her seemed
to flicker like hornets. She thought of asking him to put the top up, but the wind distracted from the motion inside. The closer they drew to Merrywood, the more clearly she could see their leave-taking. Vague promises to call again. Work’s awfully busy. Nation’s business. No telling when I’ll get sprung again. She wanted none of it. If there was to be a death, she wished to be interred with no service.