Page 26 of Jackie

“Oh, Mr. Waldrop, didn’t I just go through the work of getting un-engaged?”

John White laughs, but Waldrop studies me. A pen on his desk is out of place by half an inch. I move it back in line.

—

In the car on our way to Eisenhower’s ball, Jack tells me about a quick weekend trip he took to Palm Beach. Then he asks again if I’ll translate a few French books on Southeast Asian politics for his first Senate speech.

“How many is a few?”

“Six or eight.”

“That’s a few more than a few.”

He laughs, and I look out the window of the car, the glow of cold winter air through the glass. I feel him shift closer to me on the seat, his arm around my shoulder. His breath is warm near my cheek. “At least now,” he says quietly, “I know better than to offer a penny for your thoughts.”

—

That winter, when he comes back into town, he calls and asks if I’ll bring him a lunch. On my way into work at the paper, I’ll drop off a brown paper bag at his office—sandwiches, chips with a drink, clam chowder in a thermos. He asks me to go with him to pick out some new suits. He’s awkward at the fittings. He always wants the hems too short, and I tell him so. I say it gently, but it still makes him flush, then he smiles, that careless radiant smile. “You’re good for me,” he says.

But there are still long stretches with no phone call at all.

“He may be dating you,” my mother says, “but you’re not the only one he’s carrying on with.”

—

I sigh, recounting this remark to John White over hamburgers at the Hot Shoppe.

“Go on, John,” I say. “Tell me I’m wasting my time.”

“You’re wasting your time. Does that help?”

“No.”

“What do you like so much about him, Jackie?”

He’s the most interesting man I’ve ever met, I could say. That ferocious mind, the way he’s always asking questions. He’s at once curious and bold and sometimes vulnerable in just that certain way. I don’t say any of this.

“I thought you’d be smarter than to chase a lost cause,” White says.

“That’s an awful thing to say.”

“You told me to talk you out of it. You’re dead set against letting me.” Then he adds, “I should at least tell you, a friend of mine saw him out with Audrey Hepburn in New York last week.”

There is a crack in the Formica of the table, bits of dirt collected inside. I slide my napkin over it. White pushes away what’s left of his hamburger.

“I get it, Jackie,” he says. “I loved Kick, and there were dimensions of her so like Jack. We laughed and argued constantly. Every moment with her was alive. When I heard about the plane crash, my brain couldn’t conceive of a world without her. I was assigned her obituary. I thought I wanted it. But I couldn’t squeeze one decent sentence out. I sat at her old desk, that desk where you sit now, and all I could do was type the word goodbye. Goodbye.”

“I’m sorry, John.”

“You’re set on him, aren’t you?”

“I’m not saying that.”

He leans back in the booth and smiles.

“If this is what you want,” he says, “I’ll give you a hint. When it comes to women, Jack Kennedy likes to be the one to hunt. You know it already. Try that and see where it goes.”

—

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