At five-thirty, Nelly picked up her handbag to leave. ‘You take care of yourself, now,’ she said to Maria.
‘You, too.’
‘No, I mean it,’ said Nelly, and she walked out before Maria could ask what she meant by that.
Dave Powers appeared a minute later. He led her out of doors, along the West Colonnade, past the entrance to the pool, then back inside and up in an elevator.
The doors opened on a grand hallway with two chandeliers. The walls were painted a colour between blue and green that Maria thought might be called
eau de nil
. She hardly had time to take it in. ‘We’re in the West Sitting Hall,’ Dave said, and led her through an open doorway into an informal room with a scatter of comfortable couches and a large arched window facing the sunset.
The same two secretaries were here, Jenny and Jerry, but no one else. Maria sat down, wondering whether others were going to join them. On the coffee table was a tray with cocktail glasses and a jug. ‘Have a daiquiri,’ Dave said, and poured it without waiting for her answer. Maria did not drink alcohol often, but she sipped it and liked it. She took a cheese puff from the tray of snacks. What was this all about?
‘Will the First Lady be joining us?’ she asked. ‘I’m longing to meet her.’
There was a moment of silence, making her feel as if she had said something tactless; then Dave said: ‘Jackie’s gone to Glen Ora.’
Glen Ora was a farm in Middleburg, Virginia, where Jackie Kennedy kept horses and rode with the Orange County Hunt. It was about an hour from Washington.
Jenny said: ‘She’s taken Caroline and John John.’
Caroline Kennedy was four and John John was one.
If I were married to him, Maria thought, I wouldn’t leave him to ride my horse.
Suddenly he walked in, and they all stood up.
He looked tired and strained, but his smile was as warm as ever. He took off his jacket, threw it over the back of a chair, sat on the couch, leaned back, and put his feet on the coffee table.
Maria felt she had been admitted to the most exclusive social group in the world. She was in the President’s home, having drinks and snacks while he put his feet up. Whatever else happened, she would always have the memory of this.
She drained her glass, and Dave topped it up.
Why was she thinking
Whatever else happened
? There was something off here. She was just a researcher, hoping for an early promotion to Assistant Press Officer. The atmosphere was relaxed, but she was not really among friends. None of these people knew anything about her. What was she doing here?
The President stood up and said: ‘Maria, would you like a tour of the residence?’
A tour of the residence? From the President himself? Who would say No?
‘Of course.’ She stood up. The daiquiri went to her head, and for a moment she felt dizzy, but it passed.
The President went through a side door, and she followed.
‘This used to be a guest bedroom, but Mrs Kennedy has converted it into a dining room,’ he said. The room was papered with battle scenes from the American Revolution. The square table in the middle looked too small for the room, Maria thought, and the chandelier too big for the table. But mostly she thought: I’m alone with the President in the White House residence – me! Maria Summers!
He smiled and looked into her eyes. ‘What do you think?’ he said, as if he could not make up his own mind until he had heard her opinion.
‘I love it,’ she said, wishing she could think of a more intelligent compliment.
‘This way.’ He led her back across the West Sitting Hall and through the opposite door. ‘This is Mrs Kennedy’s bedroom,’ he said, and he closed the door behind them.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Maria breathed.
Opposite the door were two long windows with light-blue curtains. To Maria’s left was a fireplace with a couch placed on a rug patterned with the same blue. Over the mantel was a collection of framed drawings that looked tasteful and highbrow, just like Jackie. At the other end, the bed covers and the canopy also matched, as did the cloth that covered the round occasional table in the corner. Maria had never seen a room like it, even in magazines.
But she was thinking: Why did he call it ‘Mrs Kennedy’s bedroom’? Did he not sleep here? The big double bed was made up in two separate halves, and Maria recalled that the President had to have a hard mattress because of his back.
He led her to the window and they looked out. The evening light was soft over the South Lawn and the fountain where the Kennedy children sometimes paddled. ‘So beautiful,’ Maria said.
He put a hand on her shoulder. It was the first time he had touched her, and she trembled a little with the thrill. She smelled his cologne, close enough now to pick up the rosemary and musk under the citrus. He looked at her with the faint smile that was so alluring. ‘This is a very private room,’ he murmured.
She looked into his eyes. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. She felt a deep sense of intimacy with him, as if she had known him all her life, as if she knew beyond doubt that she could trust and love him without limit. She had a momentary guilty thought about George Jakes. But George had not even asked her for a date. She put him out of her mind.
The President put his other hand on the opposite shoulder and gently pushed her back. When her legs touched the bed she sat down.
He pushed her farther back, until she had to lean on her elbows. Still gazing into her eyes, he began to undo her blouse. For a moment she felt ashamed of those cheap gold-coloured buttons, here in this unspeakably elegant room. Then he put his hands on her breasts.
Suddenly she hated the nylon brassiere that came between his skin and hers. Swiftly she undid the rest of the buttons, slipped her blouse off, reached behind her back to undo her bra, and threw that aside too. He gazed adoringly at her breasts, then took them in his soft hands, stroking them gently at first then grasping them firmly.
He reached under her plaid skirt and pulled down her panties. She wished she had remembered to trim her pubic hair, as Jenny and Jerry did.
He was breathing hard, and so was she. He unfastened his suit pants and dropped them, then he lay on top of her.
Was it always this quick? She did not know.
He entered her smoothly. Then, feeling resistance, he stopped. ‘Haven’t you done this before?’ he said with surprise.
‘No.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’ She was more than okay. She was happy, eager, yearning.
He pushed more gently. Something gave way, and she felt a sharp pain. She could not suppress a soft cry.
‘Are you okay?’ he repeated.
‘Yes.’ She did not want him to stop.
He continued with closed eyes. She studied his face, the look of concentration, the smile of pleasure. Then he gave a sigh of satisfaction, and it was over.
He stood upright and pulled up his pants.
Smiling, he said: ‘The bathroom is through there.’ He pointed to a door in the corner, then did up his fly.
Suddenly Maria felt embarrassed, lying on the bed with her nakedness exposed to view. She stood up quickly. She grabbed her blouse and bra, stooped to pick up her panties, and ran into the bathroom.
She looked in the mirror and said: ‘What just happened?’
I lost my virginity, she thought. I had intercourse with a wonderful man. He happens to be the President of the United States. I enjoyed it.
She put her clothes on, then adjusted her make-up. Fortunately, he had not mussed her hair.
This is Jackie’s bathroom, she thought guiltily; and suddenly she wanted to leave.
The bedroom was empty. She went to the door, then turned and looked back at the bed.
She realized he had not once kissed her.
She went into the West Sitting Hall. The President sat there alone, his feet up on the coffee table. Dave and the girls had gone, leaving behind a tray of used glasses and the remains of the snacks. Kennedy seemed relaxed, as if nothing momentous had happened. Was this an everyday occurrence for him?
‘Would you like something to eat?’ he said. ‘The kitchen’s right here.’
‘No, thank you, Mr President.’
She thought: He just fucked me, and I’m still calling him Mr President.
He stood up. ‘There’s a car at the South Portico waiting to take you home,’ he said. He walked her out into the main hall. ‘Are you okay?’ he said for the third time.
‘Yes.’
The elevator came. She wondered if he would kiss her goodnight.
He did not. She got into the elevator.
‘Goodnight, Maria,’ he said.
‘Goodnight,’ she said, and the doors closed.
* * *
It was another week before George got a chance to tell Norine Latimer that their affair was over.
He was dreading it.
He had broken up with girls before, of course. After one or two dates it was easy: you just didn’t call. After a longer relationship, in his experience, the feeling was usually mutual: both of you knew that the thrill had gone. But Norine fell between the two extremes. He had been seeing her for only a couple of months, and they were getting on fine. He had been hoping that they would spend a night together soon. She would not be expecting the brush-off.
He met her for lunch. She asked to be taken to the restaurant in the basement of the White House, known as the mess, but women were not allowed in. George did not want to take her somewhere swanky such as the Jockey Club, for fear she would imagine he was about to propose. In the end they went to Old Ebbitt’s, a traditional politicians’ restaurant that had seen better days.
Norine looked more Arabic than African. She was dramatically handsome, with wavy black hair and olive skin and a curved nose. She wore a fluffy sweater that really did not suit her: George guessed she was trying not to intimidate her boss. Men were uncomfortable with authoritative-looking women in their offices.
‘I’m really sorry about cancelling last night,’ he said when they had ordered. ‘I was summoned to a meeting with the President.’
‘Well, I can’t compete with the President,’ she said.
That struck him as kind of a dumb thing to say. Of course she couldn’t compete with the President; no one could. But he did not want to get into that discussion. He went right to the point. ‘Something’s happened,’ he said. ‘Before I met you, there was another girl.’
‘I know,’ said Norine.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I like you, George,’ Norine said. ‘You’re smart and funny and kind. And you’re handsome, apart from that ear.’
‘But . . .’
‘But I can tell when a man is carrying a torch for someone else.’
‘You can?’
‘I guess it’s Maria,’ said Norine.
George was astonished. ‘How the heck did you know that?’
‘You’ve mentioned the name four or five times. And you’ve never talked about any other girl from your past. So it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she’s still important to you. But she’s in Chicago, so I thought maybe I could win you away from her.’ Norine suddenly looked sad.
George said: ‘She’s come to Washington.’
‘Smart girl.’
‘Not for me. For a job.’
‘Whichever, you’re dumping me for her.’
He could hardly say ‘Yes’ to that. But it was true, so he said nothing.
Their food came, but Norine did not pick up her fork. ‘I wish you well, George,’ she said. ‘Take care of yourself.’
It seemed very sudden. ‘Uh . . . you too.’
She stood up. ‘Goodbye.’
There was only one thing to say. ‘Goodbye, Norine.’
‘You can have my salad,’ she said, and she walked out.
George toyed with his food for a few minutes, feeling bad. Norine had been gracious, in her own way. She had made it easy for him. He hoped she was okay. She did not deserve to be hurt.
He went from the restaurant to the White House. He had to attend the President’s Committee on Equal Employment Opportunity, chaired by Vice-President Lyndon Johnson. George had formed an alliance with one of Johnson’s advisors, Skip Dickerson. But he had half an hour to spare before the meeting started, so he went to the press office in search of Maria.
Today she was wearing a polka-dot dress with a matching hairband. The band was probably holding in place a wig: Maria’s cute bob was definitely not natural.
When she asked him how he was, he did not know how to answer. He felt guilty about Norine; but now he could ask Maria out with a good conscience. ‘Pretty good, on balance,’ he said. ‘You?’
She lowered her voice. ‘Some days I just hate white people.’
‘What brought this on?’
‘You haven’t met my grandfather.’
‘Never met any of your family.’
‘Grandpa still preaches in Chicago now and again, but he spends most of his time in his home town, Golgotha, Alabama. Says he never really got used to the cold wind in the Midwest. But he’s still feisty. He put on his best suit and went down to the Golgotha courthouse to register to vote.’
‘What happened?’
‘They humiliated him.’ She shook her head. ‘You know their tricks. They give people a literacy test: you have to read part of the state constitution aloud, explain it, then write it down. The registrar picks which clause you have to read. He gives whites a simple sentence, like: “No person shall be imprisoned for debt”. But Negroes get a long, complicated paragraph that only a lawyer could understand. Then it’s up to the registrar to say whether you’re literate or not, and, of course, he always decides the whites are literate and the Negroes aren’t.’
‘Sons of bitches.’
‘That’s not all. Negroes who try to register get fired from their jobs, as a punishment, but they couldn’t do that to Grandpa because he’s retired. So, as he was leaving the courthouse, they arrested him for loitering. He spent the night in jail – no picnic when you’re eighty.’ There were tears in her eyes.
The story hardened George’s resolve. What did he have to complain about? So, some of the things he had to do made him want to wash his hands. Working for Bobby was still the most effective thing he could do for people like Grandpa Summers. One day those Southern racists would be smashed.
He looked at his watch. ‘I have a meeting with Lyndon.’