Page 37 of Jackie

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We’re invited to a dinner dance at the Shoreham Hotel. “Where we had our first real date,” I say, putting on my earrings. Jack sits on the edge of the bed, trying to pull on his sock.

“Damn it. Will my back ever work?”

“We can cancel.”

“No.”

But he winces reaching for his dinner jacket.

That night, he sits next to Priscilla Johnson. She used to work in his office.

“I never thought I’d get married,” I hear him say, “but I was thirty-six and, in politics, if you aren’t married by then, people start to think you’re queer.”

How dare he? Priscilla glances at me. I just smile at her as if, of course, this is the kind of thing my husband would say and I am just fine with it. I turn to the man on my right. I don’t look at Jack for the rest of dinner.

Later, we dance, my hand on Jack’s shoulder, his hand on my waist. We are like armatures in a figure-drawing class, our little wooden selves with wire joints.

The song ends. “Let’s go home soon,” I say.

“I’m going to get a drink. You want something?”

“No.”

Half an hour later, he’s still at the bar, talking to a tall blonde in a silver dress. She starts toward the exit, a glance at him over her shoulder. He puts down his drink and follows her.

I look away. I don’t want to see him walk out that door. No one seems to notice. Then they do. A current passing through the room. Priscilla Johnson, who sat with Jack at dinner, steps toward me, dark hair, pretty face, a compassion in her eyes I just want to pinch out. I pick up my clutch and leave. Everyone saw it happen. Everyone saw everything.

After four in the morning, he comes home; I’m awake in bed. He lies down, a column of space between us. Within minutes, he’s begun to snore. The emptiness of the room and the dark, moonlight throwing its tricks and promises across that new rug on the floor. I hate that rug now.

I let an hour pass. At dawn, I drive to Merrywood. I tack up the horse. We start at a trot, then a canter. I ride harder, faster. I want to feel the ground shudder through my body; I want that sense of the speed and the rage and the grief—not just for what I don’t have in this new life but for what I gave up.

I ride and the sun climbs into the sky, the world a rush of dizzying passionless green.

When I get home, he’s at his desk, working. He looks up, concerned.

“Where were you?” he says.

“You can’t think they don’t notice, Jack.”

“What?”

“Last night. You and Silver Dress,” I say, a crushing pressure in my chest. “You can’t think I don’t care, and you can’t think people will respect a senator who disrespects his wife.”

We barely speak for the next few weeks beyond the courtesies of two people who happen to share the same house. I leave his breakfast on the table. I stop calling to ask if he’ll be home for dinner or if his plans have changed. At first it seems to surprise him. But then he adjusts, like he thinks this must be what I want. Maybe he prefers it this way. No extra emotion to manage. He’s in his space. I’m in mine. We are two icebergs adrift, floating on, until one evening in June. I’ve just finished packing for a week with my mother in Newport. I walk into his study. He’s by his desk, bent over, his face a mix of fury and pain and despair. So odd, that look. It takes me a moment to realize he’s crying. He can’t bend down to pick up a jar of paper clips spilled on the floor.

…

“The fifth vertebra is entirely collapsed. Surgery—a lumbosacral fusion—will be the best option.”

“Will it work?” Jack says.

“There are risks. Because of the Addison’s.”

“But there’s a chance?”

The doctor nods. “Yes.” He pauses, then, “Without it, you may lose your ability to walk.”

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