Jackie and Me(86)

“Hell,” I said, “did I even want you to get married in

the first place? No. So, Christ, don’t do anything differently because of me. Or do if you . . .” At last, I raised my palms to the ceiling. “I’m plumb out of advice.”

He stood for a while staring out the Italianate window.

“Lem, all I want is your remains smeared across the

backgammon board. I could use another drink, though,

couldn’t you?”

We did drink, and he did beat me at backgammon—it was

a relief, really—and the terms we parted on were as friendly as ever, but the ghost of the argument followed me back to Baltimore. It was the first time I had ever been accused of having a specialty in our relationship, and I began canvassing our history to see where I had been caught practicing it.

It was then I remembered a Sunday morning back in ’49—

well before Miss Bouvier had entered the scene. Jack and I

had stayed up rather late the night before, and he’d suggested that, instead of rushing to catch the last train to Baltimore, I should just stay over in the guest room. I don’t think I’d slept more than three or four hours before he was shaking me awake again. “Lem,” he said. “A favor is required.”

I sat up in bed, groped for my glasses. Morning had just

shown its face, and in the moiré pattern of light and shadow, the only things I could see as clear as day were the lines around 304





LOUIS BAYARD


Jack’s mouth. He was saying something about a female who’d

come knocking and who’d been told he wasn’t home but who’d

barged in anyway and who was down in the foyer and there

was no budging her and there was no use calling the police . . .

“Wait a minute,” I said, rubbing the feeling into my skin.

“Who is this who?”

“I dunno, some girl who works for Smathers.”

No surprise there: Jack and the gentleman from Florida

hunted in a pack.

“What’s her name?”

“Lem, I don’t know her name. Jesus, can you make her

go away?”

I reached for last night’s shirt and trousers. “I should just say you’re not here?”

“It needs more than that, Lem. You need to disabuse her

of coming again. You need to advise her of the unfortunate

consequences that should ensue were she to come again. Do

you think you can handle all that?”

Now, over the years I’d seen many of Jack’s girls to

the door. Steered them down the steps, hailed them cabs,

wished them bon voyage and bonne chance. It had always

been an amiable ritual. This was the first time one of them had declined to be steered, and as I came down the stairs in my rumpled shirt and trousers and stockinged feet, I found myself stepping with exaggerated care.

She was seated on a velvet love seat, her knees pressed

together, her hands in her lap. A fairer type than Jack usually went for, with a profligate fall of auburn hair and a complexion of lactic purity—the kind of face they used to put on bags

JACKIE & ME

305

of flour or boxes of pancake mix. The only discordant notes came from her eyes, pale green and retracting as I approached.

“Good morning,” I said, pausing to sweep the last tile

of sleep from my brain. “I’m sorry to say Congressman

Kennedy is indisposed right now. Is there something I might help you with?”

The ridges of wariness fell away. She regarded me with a

clean line.

“I don’t think you can.”

“Maybe I can take a message,” I suggested.

“I don’t think so.”

“Let me assure you anything you say would be held in

strictest privacy, Miss . . .”

No name was forthcoming, and indeed, the prospect of giving her name seemed to drive her back into watchful silence.

“I think I might have come down with something,” she

said at last.

Now, as a Wasp, I am fluent in all manner of euphemisms,

but here I was stumped. She could have caught a cold, she

could be carrying triplets or the plague. “Have you seen a

doctor?” I ventured.

“Not yet.”

“Do you need the name of one?”

“No.”

“Is there . . .” I gave a quick scratch to the back of my

head. “Is there something you’d like the Congressman to do?

In particular?”

Again the pale eyes retreated.

“I’m not pregnant,” she said, in an even voice.

306





LOUIS BAYARD


“Well, that’s a relief.”

“What I’ve got, there are drugs now.”

“Of course,” I said, blood massing in my throat.

“I don’t know how I’m going to square it.”

“With whom?”

“God, I guess.”

I should say she was in no way dressed for church. It was

all government-girl navy. She looked as if she were heading straight back to Congressman Smathers’s office to book con-stituent visits and Capitol tours.