When I land at Boston’s Logan Airport, I have only a few minutes to collect my bag and race to catch the shuttle bus to Cape Air’s small terminal for the flight to Martha’s Vineyard. The Cape Air plane is disconcertingly puny, what my father would have called a puddle-jumper. There are seats for ten passengers, five on each side of the aisle, plus a jump seat for the crew. The flight attendant places us according to weight to balance the plane; this is done discreetly as not to offend, but the end result is obvious. I’m seated across the aisle from a woman who indubitably comes from money, and I wonder if she knows Jackie, if they are neighbors on the island or on the board together of some local environmental organization to save the eroding dunes. We smile politely and say hello, but she doesn’t ask my business, which disappoints me because I’m dying to volunteer the information: I’m going to visit my editor.
Three weeks ago, Jackie sent the latest draft of my manuscript via courier marked with her edits. As mild and polite as she can be in person, taking careful consideration of my feelings as both an artist and someone younger and less experienced in the publishing world, she was just the opposite on paper. Paragraphs, sometimes pages, were crossed right out with margin notes that screamed CUT! VERGING ON MELODRAMA! TRITE! And then other parts were circled; UNDERWRITTEN! SHALLOW! GIVE THE READER MORE! My heart sank as I flipped through the pages; I had thought the latest draft addressed many of her original concerns from our earlier talks, but there were still a number of sticking points—particularly with the ending. I gave myself a week to calm down. When I reached her via phone to discuss her notes, she informed me she was working from her home on Martha’s Vineyard and invited me up to work through them.
So here I am, onboard what’s basically an enclosed hang glider, waiting for runway clearance to take flight.
The midsummer morning is warm; the sun beats off the tarmac and through the plane windows, heating the entire cabin. It feels like we are ants under a child’s magnifying glass—at any moment we might burst into flames (this is not an image you want while sitting in a fuselage). I roll up the sleeves of my linen shirt as the two outboard propellers start to spin. I look back to see if there’s an indication we might receive drink service, but signs do not point to yes. We pick up speed down the runway and take off over Boston Harbor before banking to head south toward Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket. This is the smallest plane I’ve ever been on, and I’m amazed at how you feel every rippling current, how your stomach rises and falls with each dip and change in air pressure. I have a magazine in my messenger bag, but I don’t have any interest in even pretending to read it—the view out my window of the Massachusetts coastline is far more interesting. The ocean is an emerald green, in contrast with the sparkling aqua-blue swimming pools that dot the shore—they seem almost Caribbean by comparison. I’m finally offered a small bottle of water, which I take but don’t drink; there’s no bathroom on board and my bladder is already full.
My mother and I have spoken only once since I told her about Jackie. I called her when I cut myself shaving and the bleeding wouldn’t stop. I felt lightheaded (more from queasiness than blood loss), and without really thinking I picked up the phone; that’s how ingrained it is to always want your mother.
“I’m bleeding,” I said when she answered.
“From what?” My mother’s trademark detachment rang through.
“The ear. Not the ear. Just under the ear. The part where the earlobe connects to the jaw. I don’t know what that’s called.”
“Domino, down.” My mother’s dog yipped and then stopped, probably silenced with a treat. “I meant, what did you do.”
“Oh. I cut myself shaving.”
I could tell from her silence she wondered what it was I thought she could do from two hundred miles away.
“Anyways. I thought you could keep me company while I bleed out.”
My mother groaned. “I have a hair appointment at eleven.”
And that was the end of our conversation. No mention of the book. No questions about my life or any of the wondrous things happening. Nothing about Jackie. No real concern about my medical emergency, although my mother knew me well enough to know there was no serious call for alarm. (A therapist friend called these “bids,” my calling home with extravagant takes to get a reaction. But my mother had my number; she was maddeningly patient, never raising her paddle, passing my lot on to other, more excitable auction-goers.) This is where we are, this stalemate our new home.
I would have loved to share this trip with my mother. She would have hated this flight and in fact may have refused to board it, offended by having her weight silently gauged. But she would have loved to spy on Martha’s Vineyard, to see firsthand the places and names that she’s read about in following the Kennedys over the years: Nantucket, Hyannis Port—even Chappaquiddick. Several months with no communication is not that unusual in our relationship. It’s not the norm, but it’s not unheard of. We’ve done this before. Still, there’s a weighty sadness to our current silence; this is not merely a period of us being too busy or too lazy to speak. I have defied her expressed wishes—what else is there, really, to say? Calling to announce I had been invited to Jackie’s beach house to work on the book would only rub it in.
The airport on Martha’s Vineyard is centered on the island, in a clearing of some forested acres, and our landing is surprisingly smooth. There’s a single, quaint-looking tower, and the airport building itself has a cottagey feel. When we deplane onto the tarmac, I’m immediately overcome with the smell and grit of salty air. I have the address for Jackie’s place near Gay Head, but since I feel wholly incapable of saying Gay Head without snickering, I tell the taxi driver I hire to take State Road to Moshup Trail (the specific directions she had given me).
I’m nervous, my heart rate increasing in synch with the cab’s meter. With these latest edits I can feel my esteem with Jackie slipping; if I don’t play this hand correctly, I could have created this mess with my mother for nothing. I instruct the driver to drop me at the top of the driveway, as I don’t want to intrude on the family’s privacy by having him drive past the gate and up to the main house. Once again, it’s impossible to know the protocol. I pay him the fare with a generous tip (on the off chance he knows who lives here) before retrieving my suitcase and walking down the quiet road, double-checking the address I have folded in my pocket. The drive is lined with trees and the air is filled with a symphony of chirping insects that sounds like both a concerto and a warning. There’s a turnoff on the right side of the road, but I continue straight, even though I’m not sure that’s correct. I’m sweating, from the July heat or from nerves or from both, and I fish for a Kleenex in my other pocket to wipe my forehead. After a quarter-mile or so I round a bend and come to a clearing and I can see what looks to be a main and guesthouse. There’s a large pond behind both, and I think maybe the ocean beyond that—it’s hard to tell from my vantage point in the driveway, everything feels so vast.
I spot a sturdy woman with graying hair and she calls out to me as she shakes a scatter rug in the driveway. “Hello?”
“Hi there. I’m James. I’m wondering if I’m in the right place.” I look around like I might recognize something, although what I’m not sure. I’m certain there’s no mailbox that says KENNEDY.
“You’re looking for . . .”
“Jackie,” I reply without thinking.
“You’re looking for Mrs. Onassis,” the woman says pointedly, studying me with some degree of skepticism.
“Yes.” I cringe. I’m barely down the driveway and I’ve already offended. “Mrs. Onassis.”
The woman hesitates, as if deciding whether I should be sent packing. She gives the rug another shake and I step back to avoid a small cloud of debris. “You’re the writer?” She waves me in closer.
“That’s right.” I used to say it apologetically before this all began, like I was admitting something embarrassing or bad. It’s a real gift Jackie—Mrs. Onassis—has given to me, to be able to say that I’m a writer with pride, the stress of the current edits notwithstanding.
“She said I should be expecting you.”
“And here I am.” It’s meant to sound charming, but out loud it sounds condescending. Quickly I add, “Stunning. Martha’s Vineyard. Very scenic.”
It’s clear from her expression she doesn’t know what to make of me. “How was your flight?”
“Short.” I smile expectantly, looking back and forth between the houses, trying to get the lay of the land. “Is Mrs. Onassis around?”
“She’s resting. I’m to set you up in the guesthouse and she will see you for dinner.” She reaches for my bag, but I pick it up before she’s able to and attempt a friendly smile. We amble together over to the smaller house as a gentle breeze picks up. “I’m Joan,” she finally offers.
“James Smale. It’s very nice to meet you. You work for Mrs. Onassis?”
“Seven years now.”
“This is our first book together,” I volunteer, hoping it will inspire some pity. By the way Joan grunts her response, I can tell she thinks that much is obvious. We reach the guesthouse, which, while smaller than the main house, is still considerably sized. “This is all for me?”
“It is. Although you probably won’t need the run of it. There’s a bedroom set up for you on the second floor.”
“Is this where . . .” I stop myself, knowing my question is inappropriate.
“Is this where . . . ?” Joan asks.
I blush, unable to think of a good lie. “Is this where John Junior stays?” I look bashfully at Joan, who says “Mmm” in response, as if that’s all that needs to be said on that topic.
“Well, thank you. I certainly don’t need all this space, and I promise not to make a mess of it.”
“There’s a pitcher of iced tea in the fridge. Brewed it this morning. Mrs. Onassis will see you for dinner in the main house at six.”
“Thank you, Joan.” I hope it’s at least okay that she and I be on a first-name basis.
Joan opens the door for me and I step inside. She hesitates before closing the door. “A piece of advice?”
I nod. I need all the advice I can get.
“You’re in someone’s home. Remember that. She invited you, but that doesn’t mean you should suddenly be overly familiar. She’s very private. Be respectful.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She’s trusting you with an invitation.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I repeat, showcasing my ability to be respectful. Joan is a bit of a killjoy.
She looks at me again to see if her advice is sticking. When she decides that it takes, she turns and repeats, “Dinner’s at six. Don’t be late.” I’m about to say that I wouldn’t dare when the screen door slams behind me and I jump. I get the sense she did that on purpose.
The house is decorated simply but impeccably. I set my bag down on the floor to stroll freely throughout. There’s a deliberate beachlike, Ralph Lauren feel to it all, despite the European accents that are scattered throughout. Beside a comfortable and welcoming worn-in living room sofa is a rustic French country accent chair next to a Danish mid-century side table. The art is nautically themed, with masculine, stormy hues, seascapes with skies the color of gunmetal. In the kitchen, a collage of family photos hangs near a Shaker dining table and chairs. Somehow it all ties together: American with European, museum-quality art with family photographs, turn-of-the-century artifacts with mid-century furnishings. It’s effortless in the way only someone with great style and taste could curate. Upstairs there’s only one bedroom with the door open, obviously meant for me. I set my bag in there and plop down on the bed.
I immediately want to call Daniel. Sleeping in JFK Jr.’s quarters is, for red-blooded homosexuals, at least, far more exciting than a night in the Lincoln Bedroom. More than that. It’s an outright fantasy. But it’s not clear he would answer the phone. We had a small argument before I left, Daniel and I, and I’m not really sure what sparked it. He seemed annoyed about the trip; at first I thought he was hoping to be invited, but he finally revealed that he was concerned about what it would do to my mother.
“You should call her,” he said.
“I did,” I replied, tugging at my ear where the cut used to be.
“And she’s okay with you going?”
I didn’t understand why I needed her permission, so I lied and said, “She’s fine.”
He didn’t really believe me, but the whole thing was over before it began. Still, I don’t like it when we lock horns. The list of people who are currently on speaking terms with me, it seems, is shrinking rapidly, and Joan seems unlikely to be added as a confidant.
I look at the white ceiling (which I’m sure isn’t white, but rather some color with a name like Edwardian Linen or Lustre), imagining others who have stayed here before me: celebrities, politicians, writers, bon vivants. It’s impossible to nap, so after an hour or so of trying I return to the kitchen for some iced tea. I pour myself a glass from the pitcher and decide to stroll down to the waterfront. I step outside into the gauzy afternoon light, and a little breeze tousles my hair. The screen door again slams behind me.
There’s a path along the pond, which, if I remember correctly from Jackie’s invitation, has an Indian name like Squibnocket; I follow that path around the pond’s western end until I reach the ocean, stopping only once to skip a few stones across the rippling water. I reach the dunes and remove my boat shoes and roll up my pant legs. I carry the shoes with me like I would at the Jersey shore, even though it’s probably safe to leave them in the sand. I look up and down the coastline and there are only a few other people in sight, and none within shouting distance. A man waves and I wave politely back as a few sandpipers run feebly between us toward the outgoing tide.
It’s so beautiful, unencumbering—I’m tempted to strip off all my clothes and run naked into the water. A baptism of sorts into a new life, with all the cares of my previous existence washed away in the salty waters of the Atlantic. Just me, naked and pure.
But of course I don’t.
Instead I look out across the ocean, toward the United Kingdom, toward Ireland, from whence the ancestors of our two families came. One family who was the very image of the American Dream, whose children rose to the highest ranks of power before that dream morphed slowly into a nightmare. The other who never dared to dream big enough, too bogged down by the rules to ever truly get ahead, a family that produced timid offspring who lived through their own quiet ordeals. I wonder how far the horizon is, how far I can really see. Although, if maps are to be trusted, I’m not looking at Ireland at all, but rather at Portugal, or maybe France.
I scrunch my bare toes in the warm grains of sand. It feels like I’m standing in the sands of an egg timer, the firm beach slowly falling into another chamber beneath me. I feel a sudden urgency with time, about not having enough of it to make things right with the book, with Jackie, with my mother. But the beach is a seductive mistress, so I pivot east, hoping to make it as far as the cliffs at Gay Head before I have to turn back for dinner.