Page 35 of Jackie

On Sundays, there’s a makeshift togetherness. We go to church, walk the beach, and stroll into town. Jack reads The New York Times Book Review and circles titles he wants to read. As we talk about those books, authors, and ideas, I feel him move closer to me. The night before he flies back to Washington, he’ll touch my face, my body in bed. He’ll kiss me. We seem to become more visible to each other when he’s on the verge of leaving.

“I’ll miss you,” I say.

“I’ll be back soon.” That bend in his voice I love.

Monday again. He’s gone.

During the week, after dinner with Rose and Joe, I sit on the porch and smoke, watching the dusk soak into the beautiful lawn rushing down to the beautiful sea. The sky is molten, the dark comes fast. Sitting there, I think of France—Grenoble, Paris, the Seine. The dream of an old life—the thrill of freedom, otherness, a place away. The clock inside chimes ten. I stub my cigarette out and empty the ashtray into the hostas. Rose doesn’t like that I smoke. She says it’s not good for a young woman’s health or the health of a baby.

“There’s no baby yet,” I say.

“But there will be,” Rose says. “You mustn’t worry.”

“I’m not.”

—

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved heroes and a girl who married him and found herself in a too-small box of a housewife life.

—

It will be different. I tell myself this. Soon.

…

In November we move into 3321 Dent Place, the house we’ve rented in Georgetown. In the mornings, I make breakfast and coffee. I trim the edges when I burn the toast. Jack blows through the newspaper, skimming headlines. Then he’s out the door.

I make lists to anchor the day.

- Dry cleaners—drop off Jack’s suits

- Pick up meat from the butcher

- Take a walk

- A longer walk

- Find a new rug

—

On warmer days, I walk into the city. I miss my job. I’ve heard rumors the paper is going to be sold to the Post.

—

“I enrolled in a history class today,” I tell Jack one night at dinner.

He looks up. “Georgetown?”

“The school of foreign service.”

“Why there?”

“The others don’t accept women.”

His brow wrinkles for a moment. “That’s nuts,” he says.

I still haven’t registered to vote. I’d gone to a charity tea that morning for the Senate wives. I could feel those women stare like I was something of a curiosity, with my unruly hair and big hands, the bitten-down nails. When I left the tea, I walked to Georgetown, found the office of the registrar, and said to the woman in a navy suit behind the desk, “I need a place to put my mind, please.” She looked at me, and I explained I was only joking—well, sort of—and did she have a list of classes I could take. A few months ago I might have told Jack the story, and we would have laughed, but the space between us now feels stilted, tentative, like we’re playing at this marriage life but still too new to the script and props that seem to be ours.

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