Later that night, Peter and Whitney made love, the reward for his attempt to please her. In minutes, he was asleep.
Gazing at his untroubled face, Whitney reflected on the Viking qualities of men attested to by suitemates: they could eat, drink, make love, and then fall into the deepest of sleeps in whatever bed was available—often followed by shuddering snores that disturbed their woman’s slumber but not their own. Among Peter’s virtues was that he seldom snored. But Whitney could not sleep here; sometime before dawn, she must steal back to the main house, observing the unspoken etiquette through which her parents pretended not to know she was having sex. As she lay besides Peter, fearing to close her eyes, she wondered if Robert Kennedy had won in California.
At length she got up and dressed, bending to kiss Peter as she left. Outside, the night was cool, the moon an oval in a sky alight with stars. Crossing the dewy grass, she saw headlights entering their driveway.
Suddenly, they dimmed, the car stopping some distance from the house. Clarice would not do this, Whitney thought. Apprehensive, she crept closer, pausing in the shadow of an oak tree.
A soft moan came from the darkness. Skin tingling, Whitney let her eyes adjust to moonlight. The vehicle was a pickup truck, and then Whitney perceived a woman with long hair bending over the hood. The dark outline of a man stood behind her, motionless but for the thrust of his hips.
“Fuck me,” the woman said in a slurry voice. “Harder.”
Shaken, Whitney could not look away. What unsettled her most was the resignation in the woman’s primal urgings.
In the moonlight, the woman rested her face against the hood, silent as the man took her from behind. All at once, Whitney regained the power of movement. Backing away until she felt safe to turn, she scurried toward the house.
She paused at the drive, treading gingerly across the gravel before reaching the rear porch. Slipping through the screen door, she fell into a lounge chair, taking a deep swallow of cool night air. As a child, she had settled into this chair after dinner, nestled against her father as they talked or listened to the crickets chirring. Now she lay there, absorbing a fresh image she wished she could erase.
The crunch of gravel forced her to sit up. The sound became the unsteady gait of someone approaching the house. As the screen door opened, Whitney reached for the lamp on the table beside her, flicking on the switch.
Hands grasping the door frame, Janine stared at her with the dull surprise. Then she expelled a breath, body sagging. “It’s only you.”
Whitney felt her heart race. “Are you all right?”
Janine stood taller. “I’m fine,” she said, each syllable enunciated to emulate sobriety. “Clarice and I over-celebrated, that’s all.”
Whitney stood. “Why don’t I make you coffee, Janine? Maybe we could sit up for awhile.”
To Whitney’s surprise, Janine reached out to give her an awkward hug. “I’m happy for you,” she said tiredly. “I always knew you’d be okay.”
Returning her sister’s embrace, Whitney smelled the liquor on her breath. Janine felt brittle in her arms. Abruptly, she pulled away, rushing inside the house. Whitney heard her taking the stairs with an unsteady tread, like a child learning to walk.
Burdened by unsought knowledge, Whitney sat down again, struggling to understand this fleeting moment of sweetness and all that she had seen before. In her disorientation, she reprised the familiar—the dinner, her father’s toast, her interlude with Peter—touchstones of her evening before stepping through the looking glass. At last she remembered California and Robert Kennedy.
Walking to the library, she switched on the television, hoping to banish an unwelcome sense of responsibility for her sister.
The TV crackled on, its black-and-white image casting a glow in the darkened room. Kennedy stood at a podium, looking exhausted yet smiling at the cheers that must mean victory. In his soft Boston-Irish cadence, he said, “I think we can end the divisions within the United States . . .”
He looked so young, so passionate yet vulnerable, that only a country that still believed in its own possibilities would dare choose him. It was what she had felt at dinner, but could not quite articulate. And then the speech was over, and Bobby waved to the crowd, almost shyly, and was gone.
Motionless, Whitney half-listened to the commentary that followed. Kennedy had won in California and South Dakota, eclipsing Eugene McCarthy as the primary challenger to Johnson’s vice president, Hubert Humphrey, who still supported the Vietnam War. Buoyed by hope, Whitney decided to check on her sister, the least she could do.
Removing her shoes, she climbed the stairs, tiptoeing past her parents’ bedroom before she cracked open Janine’s door. He sister’s bed was empty. A shaft of light from the bathroom caused Whitney to peer inside.
Naked, Janine knelt over the toilet, vomiting into the bowl.
To Whitney’s startled eyes, she looked much thinner than she remembered. She knelt, resting a hand on Janine’s frail shoulder as she fought off the smell of nausea and sex. With a final retching shudder, Janine sagged, hair touching the rim of the bowl. She stared at her own spewings, unable to look at Whitney.
“It’s okay,” Whitney said softly.
Janine shook her head. “You can’t tell them,” she said in a dispirited whisper. “I drank too much, that’s all.”
That’s not all, Whitney wanted to say. But pleading in her sister’s eyes forced her to murmur, “I promise.”
Mute, Janine tried to stand. Pulling her upright, Whitney walked her to the bed, arms around her sister’s waist. “I’m okay now,” Janine said wanly. “I just need to sleep.”
She climbed in bed, pulling a sheet up to her chin. For a time, Whitney sat beside her as Janine stared at the ceiling. With a squeeze of her sister’s hand, Whitney said, “Sleep well.”
Returning to the bathroom, she flushed the toilet, using tissue paper to dab away the last traces of her sister’s sickness. Then she walked softly through the bedroom, pausing to look back at Janine. Her sister lay in the same position, still staring into nothingness. Soundlessly, Whitney closed the door, heading downstairs to retrieve her shoes.
A sound came from the library. She had left on the television, Whitney realized. Entering the room, she heard a newsman’s urgent cadence.
Senator Kennedy has been shot . . .
Involuntarily, Whitney cried out.
The first report is that the wound to his head may be serious . . .
Whitney stared at the screen, caught between disbelief and the sense that this felt terribly real, a tragedy materializing from deep within her subconscious. In reflexive memory, the announcement of President Kennedy’s death issued from a loudspeaker at Rosemary Hall, opening a fault line between the future and a more innocent past. Her parents had never liked John Kennedy. But he was the president as Whitney ripened from adolescence toward young adulthood; unlike the ancient Eisenhower, he was a vital and articulate man, evoking the promise she hoped someday to find in herself. Then he was dead. Now Bobby might die, as King had.
No, she told herself.
She could not be alone. Briefly, she thought of Peter, then went to find the man who had always given her comfort.
Charles slept beside her mother. With gentle urgency, Whitney touched his shoulder. He shuddered, then stirred awake, his disorientation becoming puzzlement and then alarm. “What it is, Whitney?”
“They’ve shot Bobby Kennedy.”
Her father blinked, then realized why she had come. “I’ll sit up with you,” he said.
Beside him, Whitney’s mother stirred. Filled with dread, Whitney went back downstairs, sitting on the couch so that Charles could sit with her. The babel of voices felt like an assault.
Charles appeared in a robe, his hair matted, his face puffy with sleep. Quiet, he sat beside her, arm around her shoulder.
Senator Kennedy has been rushed to the hospital . . .
Sudden tears ran down Whitney’s face. “This is what I feared,” her father said in a somber voice. “The Kennedys unleash the furies.”
No, Whitney wanted to say. In her unreason, she knew that that believing Bobby Kennedy stirred dark and unknown forces was tantamount to wishing for his death. But she could not give voice to the fever in her brain, not to the man who had come to console her.
His face unspeakably sad, Bobby’s press secretary appeared to announce that Robert Kennedy was in surgery. Beside her, Charles sagged heavily into the couch. “He can’t survive this, Whitney. At least not as he was.”
Still he stayed with her. Only when first light grazed the window did he say gently, “There’s nothing we can do, sweetheart. You should get some rest.”
“I can’t.”
Charles stood, kissing her forehead. Still gazing at the screen, she heard his footsteps on the stairs.
Alone, Whitney kept a vigil for Robert Kennedy.