Page 45 of Jackie

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An hour ago, he sent the message back: Say there’s no signal, you couldn’t get through.

—

Half an hour before that, he took the call on the radio. His brother’s voice through the static on the line. They spoke long enough for him to know there was no point in rushing home. He said something to that effect. Bobby landed on him like bricks. Jack hung up.

—

He needs time. A few more days before he has to go home and meet that crushing loss he knows is waiting in her face. Time to keep it at bay. The loss, the need, hers, his own. He’ll deal with it. Get through it. Soon.

—

The woman on the deck says his name. She asks him something. He doesn’t answer. His eyes are half-closed. The sun is a tattoo on his lids and burns.

The day after the baby is buried, Jack calls. They just put into port, he says, in Genoa.

“How are you, Jackie?”

It’s hard to believe he’s actually asking that question.

“Jackie? Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m going to be coming home.” He says it like he’s reading from a script, or maybe he thinks I’ll assure him, Oh, please don’t worry, Jack. Please stay and enjoy your time in the sun. I can’t quite imagine what he thinks. The air in the room feels wildly still.

“See you then,” I say.

“All right. Hey, Jackie—”

But I’m already hanging up the phone. The curved shape of the receiver in its cradle. My hand rests there. That smooth, metal-like cool.

—

He gets home. Everything feels horribly stilted, layers of glass between us.

“We’ll try again,” he says.

I don’t answer.

“Jackie?”

“It will have to be a very different kind of again.”

—

On our third anniversary, I’m still confined to bed. I haven’t cried since those days in the hospital with Bobby, but my body is a yawn of dark grief. When Ethel’s fifth child is born, I tell Jack to give the house we bought, Hickory Hill, to Bobby and Ethel. Or sell it. However he wants to handle the transaction, they should have that house, for their lovely uncomplicated marriage, its industry and Catholic sweetness and the babies that keep popping out. They should have the nursery curtains, the mobile, the crib.

He tells me his father has offered to rent something else for us in Georgetown.

“Why?” I say. “You’ll be at work or off campaigning for Stevenson. When they let me out of bed, I’m going to visit Lee.”

“But Lee is in London.”

“Yes.”

—

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