Meanwhile in the World where Kennedy Survived

Meanwhile in the World where Kennedy Survived

  Lacey Ann Carrigan

  Copyright 2014 Lacey Ann Carrigan

  Chapter One

  Manhattan, March, 1962

  Jacy was looking forward to her three days off. Until now, it had been an uneventful Tuesday morning. The sun was shone vibrantly through her skylight, and she bathed scrumptiously in its warmth. Though it had been three years since she’d moved from California, she felt that she could never get used to the cold, gray New York winters. It seemed this one was just about over. To celebrate, she brewed herself a fresh pot of Asian tea, luxuriating in the rich atmosphere launched by the spicy, exotic scent.

  Then the telephone rang. In the quiet of her penthouse high above Regency Street the bell sounded insistent, ominous. She picked up the French porcelain handset and said “Hello?”

  “Are you dressed?” were the anxious words from the other end, spoken quickly by a male caller. At first she couldn’t place the voice.

  Looking down at her silk apricot lounge pajamas with navy blue piping at the collar, sleeves and hem, she felt embarrassed. “I hope I know you,” she said. “Can you please tell me who you are?”

  “Sorry, hon, I’m just really upset.”

  “Sidney?”

  “Yes! Now, are you dressed or not?”

    She looked at the grandfather clock beside the mirror, catching a glimpse of her increasingly incredulous expression and her sleep-tousled shoulder length brunette hair.

  “It’s eight o’clock in the morning and I’m on holiday. What do you think?” She put a hand against her hip and squinted.

  “I think that if you’re not dressed now that you’d better get dressed tout suite!”

  “This tough talk doesn’t suit you at all. Do you mind telling me what this is all about?”

   “Some government type just called a few minutes ago. He wanted to know when your shows were this week and where. He asked me if I could verify your address...”

  “For God’s sake, why?” she interrupted him.

  “He wouldn’t tell me!” he said in his temperamental, stage manager shrill voice. It was the same tone he used when he said “Two minutes! Places! Places!”

  “Well how did he reach you?”

  “How should I know, Miss Stilts? He could have gotten it from Loews himself. I’ll scratch his eyes out the next time I see him. Anyway, this doesn’t sound good. Are you some kind of a spy? This guy, Turnlaker, I think he said his name was, kept asking if you lived alone, did you have an understudy. You know what I’d do if I was you? I’d get myself dressed and get my little patootie out the door.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t as bad as all that,” Jacy said.

  From the other end of the line, there was a hush and a long, exaggerated sigh. If she had been with Sidney, she’d also have seen him running his fingers through his receding, light brown hair. “I don’t know sweetheart,” he replied. “Sue me, but these really don’t seem to be the kind of people who like dealing over the phone.”

  “Well, did you give them my number?” she asked.

  Sidney had always loved to pause for dramatic effect. This time he inhaled loud and long, then let loose with one of his haggish howls of laughter. “We’ve got the entire male population drooling over you, fighting each other to be front and center, just so that they’ll get a ringside seat if the stitches on your tight little costume come undone. And you think that I’m going to give some schmoe who claims to be a government operative your phone number?” He snorted in derision.

  “Okay, okay, I wasn’t thinking.” She glanced over in the direction of her walk-in closet, and chose one of the outfits that required no planning. “You think they know where I live, right?”

  “Yes. I know they know,” he hissed.

  Jacy thought the matter over for a few moments and took a couple of deep breaths. Then she straightened up and shrugged. “You know I think that we’re making a big to-do over nothing. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “You sure? This guy sounded heavy duty. And I don’t think it’s about income taxes, either. The McCarthy hearings are over and done with.”

  Then Jacy remembered that she had been to Cuba in 1958. “Oh God,” she whispered.

  “What, you suddenly remembered you’re a spy?” Sidney chuckled.

  “Almost,” she said. “Look, I’ve got to get off this phone. Sidney, you’ve got to promise me something. This conversation we’re having never happened. And you never got this phone call.”

  “So you’re going to take my advice and get your little patootie out the door?”

  She sighed. “We’re just going to have to take this one thing at a time.”

  “If you don’t call me in two hours, I’m going to report you missing.”

  “Okay, okay.” She hastily hung up the phone and it took her three tries to drop the handle neatly between the two delicate golden forks. From there she scurried about the small but elegant apartment, hastily making the bed, putting away the tea. She drew a bath, turning off the water when it had filled to six inches within the rim of the tub. After dropping bath salts in she gathered up her hair with two plastic combs, shed the silk pajamas and delicately entered the water. While she sponged herself and enjoyed the bath’s freshness she thought about what had happened three years earlier, during her trip to Cuba.

  It had been Norma Jean’s idea. Before then, all Jacy knew about the Caribbean island before then was that it was horrendously hot during the summer months and that lots of jet setters and questionable underworld types liked to use it as a playground during the winter. On a crackly long distance call last January, Norma had invited her to come down. “It’s fabulous,” she gushed. “The weather’s fantastic. Lots of people we know are down here. You need a break, you’ve been doing nothing but working for the past three years.”

  The last part wasn’t quite true, but Jacy decided to take her friend up on the offer anyway. Within two days she boarded a luxurious turbo prop that would carry her 13,000 feet into the air down to Miami. After Miami, a rickety, claustrophobic commercial airliner that brought her to Havana. When she landed she noticed that a limousine had traveled onto the tarmac. From her small airplane window she could see Norma Jean’s blond head in the back seat. Curiously, she could see swarthy skinned men holding musical instruments, all sitting in the front seat of the limo. Somehow they’d squeezed a conga band into the front seat of the long vehicle.

  As Jacy descended the stairs from the airplane, the skycaps brought down her five pieces of luggage. A dignified looking man in a butler’s uniform cordially greeted her. He helped her into the rear seat with Norma and a couple of starlets she didn’t recognize. Norma Jean was holding a champagne flute and the bubbly liquid inside it sloshed around as she laughed. “Ainsley Frye has given us the run of his villa for the whole time we’re here. Boy are we going to have a blast!”

  Jacy had watched Ainsley when she was a kid during Saturday afternoons at the movies. He would swing from chandeliers and fight off droves of sultans in a wide array of swashbucklers. She imagined that he must be getting up there in years and that it might be one reason for his desire to surround himself with youth.

  His exotic Spanish stucco villa was large enough to provide a private room for her, Norma Jean, and each of the other guests. Jacy remembered gold bathroom fixtures, and verdant tropical plants throughout, giving the building a lush, vibrant atmosphere. The black and white marble tile in the foyer and receiving room set off the greenery nicely, each room large enough large enough for an elegant ball.

  The second night she was there the host, who was
still dashing but with hair gone completely gray and using a cane to help himself walk, threw a black-tie formal. Jacy had pinned her hair up and wore a white, spangled strapless gown that had been slit and gathered on one side. It showed off her trim figure to a tee. When the orchestra began a tango, a tall, broad chested Latin man with intense eyes approached her. “Senorita,” he said, “I am Fidel. May I have the honor?” Halfway through their dramatic, sensual dance which included a long, languid dip, the other guests parted for them. All eyes watched intently.

  Fidel had asked her to dance twice more throughout the evening. Each time he proudly, soulfully gazed at her while expertly leading her around the floor. Between tangos or rumbas she noticed that a small cadre of stone-faced gentlemen in military uniforms surrounded him. With the quiet confidence and power he displayed, she knew he was important. Years later, she would see him on television and learn his last name-Castro.

  They’d only danced, she thought. For the life of her, she couldn’t even remember whether they’d had even a brief conversation. Could that be the reason the president was interested in speaking with her?

  There was a knock at her door. She muttered quietly to herself and climbed out of the tub. Pulling the drain, she wrapped herself in a towel. She paused, reflecting on the irony that for fifteen minutes onstage during her current show, her wardrobe was a towel. With a shrug she blotted her legs and feet dry before she ventured onto the lacquered hardwood floor. She gingerly approached the door. Peering through the security peephole, she recognized the familiar bald head and graying hair of Stan, the gruff building superintendent. There were several other men in dark suits flanking him. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “It’s me, Jacy. There’re four gentlemen here asking to see you. They say they’re from the government.”

  “Just give me a moment, please,” she said, trying to hide the escalating, inexplicably rising panic she felt. Jacy’s heart raced in her chest.

  “I’m sorry about all this darling,” Stan said from the other side of the door. “Take your time. We ain’t going nowhere.”

  For a few seconds she pondered what to wear. She settled on a conservative yet glamorous kimono robe that might give her an air of defenselessness and vulnerability. Though she didn’t consciously know why that kind of a stance was important, her instincts told her that it was. After donning the robe, she quickly let her hair down and brushed it out so that it fell against her shoulders with gently sweeping curls. A quick check in the mirror for dark circles or shiny spots revealed that there were none and, after taking a deep breath, she was ready to unlock the door and open it.

  Stan looked slightly sheepish when she saw him at full size, undistorted by a peephole lens. Four unsmiling men in various hues of dark suits accompanied him, all sporting standard issue shaved-sidewall short haircuts.

  The super was the first one to speak. “I’m sorry, Jacy,” he said. “This must be a rude awakening.”

  The tallest of the government men, one with auburn hair, fair skin and a boyish face took one cautious step toward her. Bless him, she thought, he’s trying to be non-threatening. “Miss Jacy Rayner?” he asked.

  “Yes?” she replied, getting worried.

  “Chet O’Halloran with the Secret Service,” said the boyish looking government agent, who couldn’t have been any older than her twenty-eight years. In a swift, snappy motion, he extracted a billfold from his pocket and flipped it open, showing her a badge and a photographic identification card. The three other agents were a short, stocky thick-necked one, a swarthy one with a mustache, and the eldest, who was graying at the temples and had a cleft chin. They all followed suit. She quickly glanced at all the badges and photo identifications. “We’re here at the behest of the President concerning a matter of national security,” Mr. O’Halloran continued.

  The word “behest” seemed at odds with this context, she thought. “Well what do you want from me?” she asked, trying to maintain her calm.

  Chet raised his eyebrows before responding, tilting his head to one side. “Our president has requested an audience with you at the White House. We’ve been assigned to escort you to Washington.”

  Jacy glanced at Stan, who shrugged, looking down at the floor. He had backed away from the four of them.

  “But I’ve got a show on Thursday night,” was all she could think of to say.

  “That has been discussed with the theater manager. All the arrangements have been made to assure that you will return to New York in time for your theater engagement Thursday evening,” the older officer responded to her obvious fear in a fatherly way.

  She looked at the four of them, in disbelief. None of them looked physically threatening, including the swarthy Mediterranean-looking one, who smiled slightly at her out of kind eyes. “Can you do this?” she said, feeling her arms go to her hips. “After all, it’s kidnapping. This isn’t the Middle East, last time I checked.”

  “I understand how you feel,” the Italian agent spoke at that point. “This may seem terribly inconvenient, but it is a matter of national security. Your failure to comply would be...unlawful.”

  “Well god bless America,” she blurted out. “I need to call my agent, my publicity secretary, and my director. Stan, you watch the place while I’m gone.”

  “You bet,” the super whispered as the four men spirited her off.

  After that, the secret service agents waited out in the hall while Jacy dressed in a mauve Chanel suit, applied her makeup and packed lightly for a two-day trip. Jake Whitehead, her agent, was not available but she knew he would be furious when he found out what happened.

  She reached Holly, her effervescent blond publicity secretary, and told her in terse, rapid-fire sentences what was happening. She instructed Holly to keep trying to reach Jake on her behalf.

  Alfred, the director apologized to her when she reached him.

  “I won’t leak out a word about this to anyone,” he said. “And if they can’t quite get you back for Thursday don’t sweat it. We’ve got Pleshette waiting in the wings.”

  Once she was dressed and ready, she closed the door behind her. The fourth agent, who’d stayed silent, took her two suitcases from her and they all headed for the elevator.

  They caused a minor scene in the building lobby when they swiftly crossed the floor on their way to the revolving doors. Harvey, the doorman, hair slicked back as always, and wearing his burgundy and gold uniform, looked stunned.

  When they made it out into the sunny, warm street with noisy traffic streaming by, Jacy cringed. Two long, shiny black Lincoln limousines were parked at the curb, which wasn’t such an unusual a sight on busy Manhattan street, but these vehicles flew American flags on their antennas.

  A small crowd had gathered. Once they had all burst through the revolving door, Agent O’Halloran and his older colleague waved the people away while the Italian and the short, stocky one who’d acted as her bellman helped her into the rear seat. While she stepped into the vehicle, she heard a woman babble “It is Jacy Rayner! Ha! Ha! I told you she lives in this building!”

  “My goodness gracious, couldn’t you gentlemen have been a little more subtle?” Jacy said angrily to the group of men.

  Once she’d been situated in the second of the parked limousines, she looked up at the bank clock on the corner and read “9:55" and “60 degrees.”

  When everyone was settled inside, the vehicles pulled away from the curb and sliced through the late morning traffic in mid-town. Soon they reached the Lincoln Tunnel, what she’d heard was jokingly referred to as “The Gateway to the Western Unite States.”

  As the car plunged into the dimness of the tunnel she calculated that it would probably take at least four hours for them to drive all the way to the White House. After they had passed through Newark and the smelly chemical factories, she realized they may get there quicker. The drivers of the vehicles had probably been given executive orders to “step on it,” she thought as she watched them whiz by all the
slower vehicles and trucks.

  The limousine window glass had been tinted, so she knew that at least her anonymity would be preserved. It was a comforting thought as they passed by families, couples in sedans and farmers in pickup trucks. While she sat there the men in the car spoke amongst themselves about official business and goings-on.

  It seemed to her that they spoke in code possibly so she wouldn’t get wind of any national secrets and blab about them later. Michael, the older, fatherly one, attempted some stilted conversation with her, saying that he was delighted to meet her and wished that it could have been under different circumstances. He told her that he had seen her in the movie “Pretty Maids all in a Row,” and that he had enjoyed her singing and dancing in it.

  Jacy politely thanked him but after that Michael resumed conversing with his cronies.

  While they passed through some of the pleasant rural country of New Jersey, with its red barns and cow pastures, she wondered what her immediate future would hold. She supposed that she would be meeting President Kennedy at some point, but first would probably meet with lesser security officials or cabinet members.

  Only once had she seen the nation’s capital and that had happened not long after she first arrived in New York, while she sought work on Broadway. It had been a weekend road trip that she and three friends had taken using a borrowed big-finned sky blue Cadillac.

  They’d visited all the obvious tourist haunts including the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the Smithsonian Institute, and the Capitol Building. It had been early April, which was cherry blossom time, and she had enjoyed the vibrantly pink and scarlet flowers lending color bursts of warmth to the urban landscape.

  She had met Ike, a Kansas native, who had chosen “Howie in the Hills” as the Broadway play to see when he and his staffers were on holiday in the Big Apple.

  It had been somewhat intimidating when he locked his militarily steely gaze on her, and shook her hand delicately when they were introduced.

  “You cut quite a stunning figure out there on that stage, young lady. You’re going to be a national treasure.” he enthused.

  This trip, it would be different. She was positive there would be no time for leisurely sightseeing.

  A cold chill ran up and down her spine as they neared Philadelphia. While almost a year had passed since she’d spoken with her old friend Norma Jean, she still heard all the rumors about secret visits to the White House. There had been tongues wagging about a relationship she’d supposedly had with both JFK and his younger brother Bobby. If the rumors were true, it might be a good thing because then at least she’d know somebody when she got there. Time would tell.

  The vehicles had bypassed the City of Brotherly Love on access roads, still keeping up their thunderous speed while all the men calmly acted as if it was routine for them to burn up the highways.

  She saw the sign for Wilmington, Delaware and realized that they only had a small sliver of that state to cross through and a few miles through Maryland before they reached the District of Columbia.

  When they did reach the border of Maryland she felt a quivering surge of anxiety in her bones. Not much longer now.

  Once they reached the District of Columbia, she was taken aback by how ordinary everything looked. Brick housing tenements in some areas and a few miles away powerful men called the shots for the mightiest and most influential nation in history. When she had visited the area with her girlfriends they had all been distracted by their non-stop chattering, but on this day all of her senses were heightened.

  She was disappointed the cherry blossoms weren’t in bloom yet, though she could see the tightly wrapped buds on the branches. Their limos passed tourists walking around with cameras around their necks, marines in full dress uniform, men in suits carrying briefcases, women in their best dresses waiting to cross the street, and groups of school children being led by their teacher. The next time she looked up she saw the hulking pillars and dome of the Capitol.

  To Anthony, the Italian agent she said “You gentlemen must’ve broken the speed record for a trip from Manhattan to the White House.”

  Anthony laughed and said “But of course we had your utmost safety and security in mind the entire way.”

  She had little time to prepare or collect her thoughts as they stopped at a check point for the White House, the guard waving them through. Perhaps it was a good thing. She was sure there was no one who could tell her of the proper protocol for a forced trip to see high government officials.

  There was really nothing she could tell them that they didn’t already know. Fidel, the suave Cuban gentleman at Ainsley’s soiree had turned out to be Fidel Castro, leader of a burgeoning Communist nation and a horrific threat to the country. What could she tell Kennedy or his advisors? That he danced an exciting tango?

  As the car rounded a bend behind the most famous address in America, she knew she was getting an insider’s view that 99 per cent of the public would never see.

  It seemed exciting, yet in a foreboding, uncomfortable way. They drove down into an underground parking garage, where the vehicles were parked next to fancy Mercedes and Lincoln convertibles.

  All the way through the city the driver had spoken to someone on a squawking, static-charged radio, giving them updates on their progress. Now, a new group of people waited for them near a glass door that led to the building proper.

  She was heartened to see that a couple of women in nice suits and dress heels had been included with the group; maybe she would be attending a summit meeting instead of an interrogational query session. The stocky secret service agent again bore Jacy's luggage for her. The rest of his colleagues formed a shield around her, whisking her off to the door past the other group gathered there. One of the women saw her and nodded, with what Jacy seemed to detect as the faintest outline of a smirk.

  They entered a hallway with plush royal burgundy carpet and framed oil paintings of past presidents like Teddy Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson.

  Jacy was forced to walk so quickly to keep up with the men that she couldn’t stop and look at any one thing for very long. From the hallway they climbed a long marble staircase with red carpet into what Jacy realized was the main foyer of the White House.

  A uniformed tour guide with a blond ponytail was speaking crisply to a group of tourists who had assembled in front of her. She said “We’re walking, we’re walking” while backing up toward one of the wings.

  In the lobby, the other six men broke away from them, leaving only Michael and Chet to accompany her the rest of the way. Michael turned to her and said “The President is in session right now, but we’re told it should only be a few more minutes.” He motioned for her to come with them down a hallway to another wing and Jacy chillingly realized that she was being led to a small room beside the Oval Office.

  A third man with a flat top military style haircut and the bearing to match, joined them in the room. He lowered down to sit atop a desk while motioning for them to take the remaining chairs in the room. The third man had probably taken off his suit coat and draped it over the chair behind the desk. She read a gold nametag on his shirt pocket: “Callahan.”

  “The President will see you shortly,” Callahan said and then proceeded to rapidly deliver a whole set of statements.

  She could barely understand him because he spoke so quickly but she was aware he was asking for an oath of silence.

  She raised a right hand, wondering if she was being too cheeky and said “I do.”

  Callahan, O’Halloran, and Michael all looked at each other with confused looks on their faces. “You do?” Michael asked her.

  Jacy explained “You’re asking that what the President and I speak about stays within the confines of the walls of that room, and I’m saying I do. I mean, our comments and discussion will stay within the walls of that room.”

  Callahan raised his eyebrows, murmuring “I guess that will be suitable.”

  Just then she saw a group of men and a coupl
e of women stream past them. All three of the men in the room raised up while Jacy stayed seated.

  Callahan said “Boyce, please check with them,” and the fatherly secret service agent named Michael quickly left the room and rounded the corner.

  A few minutes later, Boyce reappeared and said “They’re ready.”

  Jacy walked with them out of the room on weak knees, her pulse pounding. She wondered if such trepidation showed in her face. Callahan and O’Halloran escorted her around the corner to the Oval Office.

  When they all walked through the doorway, Jacy was surprised to discover how bright the room actually was. On black and white television, it had always looked dingy and stuffy. Immediately she saw a couple of staffers help John F. Kennedy across the room toward his desk. Robert Kennedy stood nearby. They introduced Jacy to him first. “Mr. Attorney General, this is Jacy Rayner, star of the stage and screen.” Robert pleasantly smiled for her in a boyish way, offering him her hand. She shook it delicately.

  “Pleased to meet you sir,” she said, cringing inside. Callahan hustled her past him and to the President, who had yet to be seated behind his elegant desk.

  The staffers still flanked Mr. Kennedy, who wore a look of pain on his handsome features and Jacy wondered how he managed to keep his skin tan, noting that in person it seemed more creased with worry than it had on television. And his hair was lighter, reflecting coppery tones from the fluorescent lighting. “Mr. President, I would like to introduce Miss Jacy Rayner. Miss Rayner, please meet our President, Mr. John Fitzgerald Kennedy.”

  “It’s a pleasure, kid,” JFK said, smiling warmly, the pain momentarily evaporating from his expression. Callahan helped Jacy into a chair in front of the desk while the two staffers helped the President lower down, painstakingly little at a time, into his large chair behind the desk. He groaned audibly while he settled into the seat. Jacy noticed a cane standing against the windowsill behind him. Both Callahan and the staffers swiftly and silently exited the room. Robert moved across Jacy to the far side of the desk, leaning against it while he looked down at her.

  They all sat silently for a moment, and Jacy could hear people speaking out in the hall. Then JFK pressed both palms into the arms of his chair and said “Well! Here we are.

  Kid, you’re just as stunningly beautiful in person as I imagined. I saw you in ‘Merlin’s Folly,’” then he turned briefly to Robert and remarked “Hell, I think everybody did!” Robert chuckled along with him.

  “Mr. President, with all due respect, I’ve come a long way, under what I know you’ll agree are scary circumstances. Can I please ask what this is all about?” Jacy asked. “Can I ask what you want from me?”

  He smiled, waving a hand dismissively. “No need to be so formal, kid. I’m Jack.”

  Robert said “And I’m Bobby.”

  “And we can call you Jacy, right?” Jack said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Well then, Jack, why did you bring me here?”

  “We want you to come to the party,” he said. He raised a finger and searched in one of his desk drawers. “I’ve got a telegram here. I think you’ll recognize the person sending it. She might be a friend of yours.” He pulled a folded piece of paper out of the desk drawer and handed it to Jacy.

  It read “Hello Jacy STOP. So Jack rolled out the red carpet for you STOP. Will be coming up on Wednesday with Joe STOP. See you at dinner STOP. It will be so much fun STOP. I can’t wait STOP. Norma Jean STOP”

  So she would be coming to join them tomorrow, along with her former baseball player husband. She finished with the memo and looked up across the desk at Jack. “So, is it true?”

  “Is what true?” the President asked, for a moment appearing like the naive boy he might have once been at a Hyannis port cotillion around the time she was born.

  “Never mind, Mr. President. I mean, Jack.”

  For the small talk that followed for the next hour, not once did the President bring up “Cuber” or any of the other things that would have warranted her kidnapping as a matter of “national security.” As they wound down their conversation, Bobby told her that she would be taken by another car to her hotel for the night and that on Wednesday she was invited for a State dinner, just as Norma Jean’s telegram had alluded.

  After receiving directions on an intercom, Callahan reappeared in the room with them, along with another staffer. Jacy would be whisked away to the hotel. After she stood up, she turned and looked down at the President. “I feel the need to tell you Mr. President, that I thought you brought me here to ask about Cuba.”

  Her comment appeared to catch him off guard, because his eyes widened and for a moment he seemed to be at a loss for words. He said “Cuber? We don’t worry about that anymore. We’ve got that bastard right where we want him.” Moments later Callahan escorted her out of the room and back into the foyer.

  Out there, she encountered his wife, Jacqueline who was wearing an understated plaid dress and pearls. Jacy discovered that in person, the first lady’s eyes were remarkably far apart though she was a striking woman. Her features brightened when she saw her. “Jacy Rayner? The actress? Gosh it’s a pleasure to meet you. You were so lovely in Pretty Maids all in a Row,” and she shook her hand enthusiastically. As she was led away, Jacy thought “that poor woman.”

  After a night of restless sleep at the hotel, Jacy wanted to take a walk since the reflecting pool and the Lincoln Memorial were so close by. She was afraid to, however and stayed inside, watched television and ordered from room service instead. Later in the afternoon, the phone in her room rang. It was Norma Jean. “Oh, it’s going to be so great to see you,” she said in her breathless voice. During their conversation her thoughts seemed to be meandering. Jacy knew of her mother’s mental state and of her friend’s often-delicate psyche.

  She said “Norma Jean, I don’t quite know how to put this, so I’m just going to ask you straight out as a friend. Are you taking pills?”

  A long pause followed. Then, in a more serious tone, Norma Jean said “No. What on earth would give you that idea?”

  “I’m just concerned.”

  Later that evening they reunited at the White House ballroom. Surrounded by dignitaries and their wives, heads of state and chefs at the pinnacle of their profession the much taller Jacy embraced Norma Jean, the much shorter woman more commonly known at Marilyn Monroe. They nearly slid apart from each other since each of them wore slinky satin evening gowns and opera gloves.

  After dinner, when the music played, JFK invited Jacy to waltz with him, along with a few of the other couples. She was pleased to learn that he moved so well and since she was an accomplished dancer, they could converse confidently and keep both step and time. “Jack, I forgive you for what you did,” she said. “But I’m worried about you. You shouldn’t toy with people’s lives.”

  Jack laughed off the comment. “It’s a party, kid. Have some fun. No need to get your panties all in a twist.”

  She suspected that he was fascinated over being able to look eye-to-eye with the woman he was dancing with. And she also noticed that his eyes were glassy. “Just think about it, Jack,” she said. “I mean it.”

  Later that night, he called her at the hotel, to invite her to a more “private” party with a few of his friends and Norma Jean. She politely declined, wondering forever if it had been the right move. Months later, Norma Jean died.

  About half way through 1963, Jack called her at her penthouse apartment. He said “You’re my favorite, kid. Come on down again, this time on your own. We’ll have such a great time.” She always politely declined him, partly because of her work commitments, but mostly because John Fitzgerald Kennedy was a married man. She would always accept his phone calls and liked to give him advice and reactions to what she’d heard about either in the news or behind the news.

  “I don’t trust that Lyndon B. Johnson,” she said at one point, remembering that at the state dinner he had allowed himself to “bump accidentally” into her, making sure
she felt his straining manhood (he had also taken her aside and asked “Are you doing Jack, too?”). “If you listen to him, he’s going to get you into big trouble.”

  “Okay,” he said.