The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (20 page)

J
ULY 22, 1960

Gosh, I can't believe a week's gone by since I last wrote. My volunteer work has moved uptown to 48th and Park Avenue. It's a building
Kennedy once lived in or owns or something. Some rooms there will serve as the New York Kennedy/Johnson campaign headquarters. It's a farther commute on the bus, but it's exciting to be in Midtown for much of the day. I feel like a glamorous Madison Avenue secretary who works in an important firm! Who cares if I don't get paid? I'm happy to do it. Freddie thinks I'm nuts, but he doesn't mind as long as the gym isn't neglected. Jimmy's been a life saver in that regard.

Mr. Patton told us today that they're forming a “Citizens for Kennedy” group all over the country, and they're looking for volunteers to be “Kennedy Girls.” He looked straight at me when he said it. Kennedy Girls will wear a uniform and appear with the senator when he's in town. Mrs. Kennedy is supposed to be designing the uniform. There will be Kennedy Girls in every major city.

Alice told me I should volunteer. I have to admit the chance of appearing with Kennedy is pretty tempting. I'd get to meet him!

I'm going to give it some serious thought.

J
ULY 28, 1960

Holy cow, almost another week has flown by.

I told Mr. Patton I wanted to be a Kennedy Girl, and he said I'm an “ideal choice.” I was flattered. He said he'd let me know for sure in August once they've talked to all the girls who want to do it. I'm sure they only want young, attractive girls. Chip said they'd turn away all the “fat and ugly ones.” I thought that was a mean thing to say and told him so, especially since he's pretty fat himself! But I guess he's right. It was funny, but
terrible
, when he teased Karen, telling her
she
should volunteer to be a Kennedy Girl. Karen turned red and snapped at him. We were all snickering behind her back, we couldn't help it, but I stuck up for her and said seriously, “I think Karen would make a great Kennedy Girl.”

“
Thank
you, Judy,” she said, and then left the room in a huff.

Alice asked me today if I'd heard from Michael. Until she said
his name I hadn't really thought about him. I told her it was over weeks ago. She said, “Good riddance,” and that I should be glad to be rid of him.

I have to agree.

In other news, Richard Nixon accepted the Republican Party's nomination today. Henry Cabot Lodge is his running mate.

The race is on!

Thanksgiving morning I got a call from the hospital. My mom regained consciousness. I can't describe what a relief it was to hear that. Maggie was glad to hear it, too. We had a quick breakfast and jumped in the car.

Once again I felt embarrassed about my behavior the night before. How many men cry in front of their girlfriends? No matter how often I told myself it wasn't a sign of weakness, I couldn't help but feel humiliated. Maggie was great, though. She didn't mention it. What was palpable were the sparks we'd experienced afterward, when we'd made love. It went unsaid, but I knew she was pleased with how that worked out. It's as if we finally found a rhythm that mutually suited us. Dare I say it? Something magical happened between us.

I asked her why she'd never married. She answered that she'd had someone serious once, back in med school, and that he broke her heart. Since then she dated irregularly and focused entirely on her work.

While driving, I came to the realization that Maggie was very, very good for me. I had to be careful and not blow it, but how could I continue the relationship without her knowing the truth about my mother? Whenever I thought about that obstacle, my chest tightened and my heart pounded. It took a concentrated effort to bring myself down from a full panic attack.
I hated it
that I had that problem. The
medication wasn't working. It hadn't been a month, so it was probably too soon.

When we reached the hospital, the nurse paged the doctor on duty. Dr. Kitanishi wasn't there, of course. After a five minute wait, an Indian man in his forties appeared and introduced himself as Dr. Benji. He told us my mom woke up early, around six, but had not spoken. She was responsive to stimuli and drank water, but if asked a question she would ignore it. They had a catheter in her so they could manage her pee. She's under sedation to keep her from becoming agitated. Dr. Benji said she'll be going through more tests to see what kind of damage, if any, she'd sustained from the stroke. So far, though, she didn't appear to have lost any movement on either side of her body.

“How come she doesn't talk?” I asked.

The doctor held out his hands. “We don't know yet. It could possibly be that she can talk, but she just doesn't have anything to say.”

Maggie and I were allowed to see her for a short visit. When Mom saw me, her eyes brightened a bit.

“Hi, Mom, happy Thanksgiving!” I said with as much cheer as I could muster. “It's turkey day, how about that?”

She smiled. Good.

“See, Judy, Martin, your son, is here,” Maggie said. “And you know me, Dr. McDaniel, remember? How are you feeling, today?”

Mom smiled at her, too. Good.

“Can you say hello, Mom?”

When she didn't make the effort, I took hold of her hand. She squeezed it. Good.

“That's okay, Mom. You talk when you're ready. Maggie and I can only visit for a few minutes right now, but we're coming back this afternoon with some turkey for you.” Dr. Benji had said she probably wouldn't be on solid food for a while, but I figured she wouldn't remember my promise.

Even though it was too early for her, I tried phoning Gina in New York. Again, I got voice mail, but I expected it. I told Mom, “I
just tried to call Gina, but she's still asleep. It's a holiday for her. No school this weekend.”

There was a flash of brightness in Mom's eyes. She knew who I meant, and I took that as a good sign. Gina really was the light of Mom's life.

All I could do was hope and pray my mother would be back at Woodlands soon.

Maggie started talking to her about how everyone misses her there, and I zoned out for a moment. I don't know why I thought of it then and there, but for some reason the conundrum of my mom's finances popped into my head. The mystery of how she supported us when I was growing up rushed back, and I felt a layer of uneasiness spread over my heart. Whenever I was young and asked her if she had a job, Mom replied, “My job is to take care of you.” Once I was an adult, she told me we lived on an inheritance my father left us. At the time, I didn't think it was odd that she wouldn't discuss her money with me. I suppose that's reasonable. Most parents probably don't share financial matters with their children until, well, until they have to. Still, it was strange that I didn't have to do much in the way of paying bills for my mother. Her lawyer—Uncle Thomas— took care of a trust that paid the medical and nursing home costs not covered by Medicare. We never worried about money all that time I was a kid and lived at home. The “inheritance” had paid for our house, my college tuition, and our living expenses since my birth.

How much of a fucking inheritance did my father leave her?
And where
was
it? Did Uncle Thomas know? Why the hell had I never pressed him—
or
my mom, when she was well—about all the Talbot family
puzzles
I stupidly ignored all my life? I've been a total idiot! If I'd taken a slightly more involved role in my mother's day-to-day existence, I might have learned her secret a long time ago.

“Who was my father, Mom?”

My God, I swear I didn't mean to say it aloud, but I did. I heard Maggie gasp beside me. My mom's eyes jerked toward me, this time with a look of pain.

“Martin,” Maggie said softly. “Jesus—”

“I'm sorry,” I said to Maggie but loud enough for my mom to hear. “I don't know why I said that, but it's been on my mind. I'm sorry, Mom.” Suddenly I was choked up, so I left the room before I started crying again. I ran into Dr. Benji, who said our time with the patient was up. “We don't want her to get too excited.”

I'm afraid it was too late for that, doc.

I felt terrible.

Maggie told me Mom handled my out-of-left-field question well enough. The confusion from the disease played a big role in her not responding negatively. It was quite probable she didn't remember who my father was. She wasn't upset after all. The doctor had entered and distracted her as soon as I'd left. Maggie said goodbye and departed as well.

On the way home in the car, Maggie commented, “I can't believe you asked her that.”

“I can't believe it either,” I said. “I swear, Maggie, it just came out. The thought was going through my brain, and I unintentionally vocalized it.”

“I believe you, Martin, I really do.” She laughed a little. “That was quite a faux pas.”

That made me laugh, too. “I feel like one of the Three Stooges.”

“Don't worry about it. She was fine when I left her. That said, I'd like to know who your father was, too. There are a lot of things about you and your mother I'd like to know, Martin. You're not wrong to wonder. I just can't get over the fact that you never did anything about it before she became ill.”

“I know, I know. I'm a moron.”

“Stop, no you're not. But sweetheart—if we're going to take this to the next level, we can't have secrets. Don't you agree?”

I looked at her, keeping one eye on the road. “I'm your sweetheart?”

“I don't cook Thanksgiving dinner for just anyone.”

“Believe me, there's so much about my mother I don't know, and I'd like some answers.” I left it at that, even though I withheld a gigantic, earthshaking secret that would change everything if revealed.

Everything.

While dinner was cooking, I tried calling Gina and got the voice mail again. I thought of phoning Carol and telling her about Mom's progress, but I didn't want to interrupt her Thanksgiving with
Ross
. I wondered if she had heard from Gina.

Savory smells drew me into the kitchen, where Maggie stood preparing a salad. The turkey had been slowly roasting in the oven all day. My stomach growled and I reached for the bottle of wine I had brought. “I'm gonna open this,” I said, and Maggie told me to go ahead.

“Save enough to go with dinner, though.” “Where's the corkscrew?”

She pointed to a drawer near the fridge. I opened it and rummaged around until I found it. That's when I saw the business card stuck on the refrigerator with a magnet. It said, “Bill Ryan, Private Investigator.” Phone number, e-mail address, and snail mail address.

“What's this?” I asked. “Why do you need a private investigator?”

Maggie looked up. “Oh, uh, Bill's a friend of mine. He started a new business and he gave me his card, that's all.”

“But why is it on your fridge? You need his number handy?”

She put down her knife, moved to me, and took the card. She tore it in half and dropped the pieces in the garbage pail. “There,” she said. “All gone.”

“You didn't have to do that.”

“It's all right. I wasn't sure which of your responses was worse— suspicion or jealousy—so I got rid of the whole thing.”

“Maggie, geez.”

She took the corkscrew and opened the wine. “It's all right, Martin. Let's have some wine. It's Thanksgiving.”

As soon as the glasses were poured, my cell phone rang. Carol's ID came up on the screen. “Hi Carol,” I answered. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Martin!” She sounded distressed.

“What?”

“It's Gina!”

My heart stopped for a split second. “What?”

“Oh Lord, she's been
arrested
in New York!”

A
UGUST 12, 1960

Gee, I need to catch you up, dear diary. As always, I haven't been writing as much, even though we haven't been too busy yet at Kennedy/Johnson HQ. But that storm is coming soon. That's what we call it now—HQ.

I was chosen to be a Kennedy Girl. We're waiting on the uniforms to come in, and no one's really sure what we'll be doing yet. I've met two nice girls who were also picked. Betty O'Connor is a pretty brunette who works as a waitress at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. She's often at fancy banquets and has seen numerous celebrities and VIPs in person. Betty's my age and we hit it off from the very beginning. Louise Kelly is a blonde and is in her mid-twenties. All the guys like her because she has a big bust and she's gorgeous. I don't think she's particularly smart, though. The other day we were all talking about Francis Gary Powers, the pilot of the U-2 spy plane that was shot down over Russia in May. Powers is on trial for espionage in Moscow and could be sentenced to prison or even death. Louise thought Powers was a woman because his first name is “Francis.” “They wouldn't execute a
woman
, would they?” she asked. She talks with a thick Brooklyn accent and is always noisily chewing gum. Mrs. Bernstein told her she'll have to spit out the gum when she's working as a Kennedy Girl. Most of the other girls think Louise
is dumb and they roll their eyes when she says things like, “Wait, is the election
this
year?” But I like her. She's sweet and has a good heart. But Betty is becoming more of a close friend. I've been out with Betty at lunchtime, but I can't see myself spending time alone with Louise. She'd drive me crazy. On Wednesday night after a meeting, Betty and I went to see that new movie
Ocean's 11
with Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis Jr. It just opened and there was a line around the block, but we got in. It was a “caper” story with a lot of suspense but it was pretty funny, too. I thoroughly enjoyed it.