Edge of Eternity (17 page)

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 good night.

He did not. She got into the elevator.

“Good night, Maria,” he said.

“Good night,” she said, and the doors closed.

•   •   •

It took a while for George 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 only for a few 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 canceling 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. “Good-bye.”

There was only one thing to say. “Good-bye, 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 advisers, 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 hair band. 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 hometown, 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.”

“Tell him about my grandpa.”

“Maybe I will.” The time George spent with Maria always seemed too short. “I'm sorry to hurry away, but do you want to meet up after work?” he said. “We could have drinks, maybe go for dinner somewhere?”

She smiled. “Thank you, George, but I have a date tonight.”

“Oh.” George was taken aback. Somehow it had not occurred to him that she might already be dating. “Uh, I have to go to Atlanta tomorrow, but I'll be back in two or three days. Maybe over the weekend?”

“No, thanks.” She hesitated, then explained: “I'm kind of going steady.”

George was devastated—which was stupid: why would a girl as attractive as Maria
not
have a steady date? He had been a fool. He felt disoriented, as if he had lost his footing. He managed to say: “Lucky guy.”

She smiled. “It's nice of you to say so.”

George wanted to know about the competition. “Who is he?”

“You don't know him.”

No, but I will as soon as I can learn his name. “Try me.”

She shook her head. “I prefer not to say.”

George was frustrated beyond measure. He had a rival and did not even know the man's name. He wanted to press her, but he was wary of acting like a bully: girls hated that. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. With massive insincerity he added: “Have a great evening.”

“I sure will.”

They separated, Maria heading for the press office and George toward the vice president's rooms.

George was heartsick. He liked Maria more than any girl he had ever met, and he had lost her to someone else.

He thought: I wonder who he is?

•   •   •

Maria took off her clothes and got into the bath with President Kennedy.

Jack Kennedy took pills all day but nothing relieved his back pain like being in water. He even shaved in the tub in the mornings. He would have slept in a pool if he could.

This was his bathtub, in his bathroom, with his turquoise-and-gold bottle of 4711 cologne on the shelf over the washbasin. Since the first
time, Maria had never been back inside Jackie's quarters. The president had a separate bedroom and bathroom, connected to Jackie's suite by a short corridor where—for some reason—the record player was housed.

Jackie was out of town, again. Maria had learned not to torture herself with thoughts of her lover's wife. Maria knew she was cruelly betraying a decent woman, and it grieved her, so she did not think about it.

Maria loved the bathroom, which was luxurious beyond dreams, with soft towels and white bathrobes and expensive soap—and a family of yellow rubber ducks.

They had slipped into a routine. Whenever Dave Powers invited her, which was about once a week, she would take the elevator up to the residence after work. There was always a pitcher of daiquiris and a tray of snacks waiting in the West Sitting Hall. Sometimes Dave was there, sometimes Jenny and Jerry, sometimes no one. Maria would pour a drink and wait, eager but patient, until the president arrived.

Soon afterward they would move to the bedroom. It was Maria's favorite place in the world. It had a four-poster bed with a blue canopy, two chairs in front of a real fire, and piles of books, magazines, and newspapers everywhere. She felt she could cheerfully live in this room for the rest of her life.

He had gently taught her to give oral sex. She had been an eager pupil. That was usually what he wanted when he arrived. He was often in a hurry for it, almost desperate; and there was something arousing about his urgency. But she liked him best afterward, when he would relax and become warmer, more affectionate.

Sometimes he put a record on. He liked Sinatra and Tony Bennett and Percy Marquand. He had never heard of the Miracles or the Shirelles.

There was always a cold supper in the kitchen: chicken, shrimp, sandwiches, salad. After they ate they would undress and get into the bath.

She sat at the opposite end of the tub. He put two ducks in the water and said: “Bet you a quarter my duck can go faster than yours.” In his Boston accent he said
quarter
like an Englishman, not pronouncing the letter
r.

She picked up a duck. She loved him most when he was like this:
playful, silly, childish. “Okay, Mr. President,” she said. “But make it a dollar, if you got the moxie.”

She still called him Mr. President most of the time. His wife called him Jack; his brothers sometimes called him Johnny. Maria called him Johnny only at moments of great passion.

“I can't afford to lose a dollar,” he said, laughing. But he was sensitive, and he could tell she was not in the right mood. “What's the matter?”

“I don't know.” She shrugged. “I don't usually talk to you about politics.”

“Why not? Politics is my life, and yours, too.”

“You get pestered all day. Our time together is about relaxing and having fun.”

“Make an exception.” He picked up her foot, lying alongside his thigh in the water, and stroked her toes. She had beautiful feet, she knew; and she always put varnish on her toenails. “Something has upset you,” he said quietly. “Tell me what it is.”

When he looked at her so intensely, with his hazel eyes and his wry smile, she was helpless. She said: “The day before yesterday, my grandfather was jailed for trying to register to vote.”

“Jailed? They can't do that. What was the charge?”

“Loitering.”

“Oh. This happened somewhere in the South.”

“Golgotha, Alabama; his hometown.” She hesitated, but decided to tell him the whole truth, although he would not like it. “Do you want to know what he said when he came out of jail?”

“What?”

“He said: ‘With President Kennedy in the White House, I thought I could vote, but I guess I was wrong.' That's what Grandma told me.”

“Hell,” said the president. “He believed in me, and I failed him.”

“That's what he thinks, I guess.”

“What do you think, Maria?” He was still stroking her toes.

She hesitated again, looking at her dark foot in his white hands. She feared that this discussion could become acrimonious. He was touchy about the least suggestion that he was insincere or untrustworthy, or that he failed to keep his promises as a politician. If she pushed him too hard, he might end their relationship. And then she would die.

But she had to be honest. She took a deep breath and tried to remain
calm. “Far as I can see, the issue is not complicated,” she began. “Southerners do this because they can. The law, as it stands, lets them get away with it, despite the Constitution.”

“Not entirely,” he interrupted. “My brother Bob has stepped up the number of lawsuits brought by the Justice Department for voting rights violations. He has a bright young Negro lawyer working with him.”

She nodded. “George Jakes. I know him. But what they're doing isn't enough.”

He shrugged. “I can't deny that.”

She pressed on. “Everyone agrees that we have to change the law by bringing in a new civil rights act. A lot of people thought you promised that in your election campaign. And . . . nobody understands why you haven't done it yet.” She bit her lip, then risked the ultimate. “Including me.”