CHAPTER 21
Once word got out that Kick was in town, the invitations for luncheons and teas and cocktail parties started pouring in. Her life began to feel a little bit like it had in London, full of events and similar sets of people mixing and remixing for common ends. Except that instead of the purpose of it all being society and the traditional pursuit of leisure and charity, the purpose of it all in Washington was politics. Instead of attending a benefit for something cultural like the British Museum or Royal Albert Hall, Kick attended dinners and dances raising money for candidates and their causes, like farmworkers’ rights or the Women’s Army Corps. Even when an event was raising money for the Smithsonian or the National Symphony Orchestra, it was hosted by a senator or congressman and his wife, and there was always a speech before the dessert course.
There was the sense, everywhere, that war was inevitable. That it was only a matter of time before the butter and sugar that Americans still enjoyed in abundance would soon become scarce, and the rationing and state-imposed spending coupons that had become commonplace in England were upon them. Some of the drinking and dancing had an undercurrent of desperation that was markedly different from the defeatism among her friends in 1939. Perhaps it was due to the different national characters of the English and Americans, but while the English had an attitude of pursuing life as usual—parties included—in the face of great adversity, of keeping to traditions because they were a source of strength, Americans were animated more by fear, a profound dread of hardship that made them want to soak up every liquid ounce of pleasure while there was still time.
“Do you get the feeling that people are girding themselves for the worst?” Kick asked Jack one afternoon at the Chevy Chase Club. Two-thirds of the room was drunk already, and the other third was on its way. Inga was fetching their first cocktails, and John was at home and cranky, working on an overdue article. Joe Sr. was also at the club, but he’d shown up with a blond woman not much older than Kick, and she’d known immediately it was not a good time to bring up Rosemary. She hated seeing her father appear places with other women, something he’d begun doing more frequently lately. Kick was perfecting her what woman? expression. More card games.
“Of course they are,” Jack replied, squinting his eyes at the fire. His skin was still brown from the summer, and Kick wondered if he sat out in the daytime sun to make up for the fact that his body refused to put on any weight. She wondered what voluptuous Inga thought of Jack’s protruding ribs. “Roosevelt’s just looking for an excuse to send our men over to help your friends.”
“Why is it always my friends? You made friends in England, too,” Kick pointed out.
“True enough. David and I saw eye to eye, and I can see us staying friends a long time. But no one like Lem or Torby.” LeMoyne Billings and Torbert Macdonald had been friends of Jack’s for as long as Kick could remember; their friendship was a high bar.
Kick rubbed her lips together. “Does Inga make you want to stay here in DC?”
He didn’t answer right away and instead closed his eyes. Then, dreamily, he said, “Yeah, she does.” Kick had never seen him distracted, even a little dopey, over a woman before. She wondered if he’d been like this with Frances Ann Cannon, and if he had been, did that mean Inga would receive his next proposal? Assuming she ever divorced Paul Fejos.
“What about you and John White?” Jack asked, smirking now. “Has he helped you forget the great Billy Hartington?”
“Ha ha,” Kick said.
“Well, for two years, you’ve been moping around criticizing everything because it doesn’t compare to your precious London, and since you met John, you’ve been more your feisty self,” he observed.
“I still don’t feel like myself,” said Kick, wishing Inga would rescue her from this conversation with those drinks.
“Maybe not, but people can change. Maybe you’re growing up, little sister. Figuring out that life isn’t one big party.”
“It’s not?” she asked, gesturing at the crowd around them at that very moment.
“This isn’t a party,” said Jack with a laugh. “It’s a serious meeting of heads of state.”
“Oh, right, of course; how could I miss that?”
“Listen, Kick, all I’m saying is that to me you seem more yourself. You’re going out, talking to people, living in the present. That’s good. Keep it up.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
“For what it’s worth, though? Don’t get too serious about John.”
“You must know that such a warning is likely to drive me straight into his arms,” she said.
“Go ahead and go into his arms, but don’t let him in here,” he warned, tapping his chest with his index finger.
“Why not?” Kick asked.
“Because he’s not just not Catholic, sis; he’s anti-Catholic. He’d give Mom a heart attack. And . . .” His voice trailed off.
“What?”
Reluctantly, Jack added, “I just don’t think he’s good enough for you in the long term. He’s fine for a good time, but he’s no son-in-law for Dad and Mom.”
“Is Inga a better daughter-in-law?”
Jack shrugged noncommittally. “The thought hadn’t even occurred to me,” he said, just as Inga sashayed over in her orange dress and red shoes, with three cold cocktails.
“Sorry for the wait,” she apologized. “I was practically attacked by the director of the National Theater about their next production.”
Jack took his drink in one hand and slid his other down Inga’s curved back. She leaned toward him, and they kissed. It all looked like one fluid, natural movement, the harmony of a couple who knew each other intimately.
Did she even want that with John? Such dazzling moments all seemed to lead to heartache. For Jack and Frances, for her mother, and for her and Billy. What was the point?
On Saturday evening, Kick made herself a fortifying cup of tea and called her mother. “How are things in Bronxville?” she asked, feeling suddenly nostalgic for the comforts of that sprawling home. Her two-room apartment was cramped, even for one person.
Her mother sighed. “I love this house. You and the children grew up here.”
“It will be sad when it’s gone,” agreed Kick. “But we still have Hyannis Port and Palm Beach. I have many fond memories from both those houses.”
“Yes,” her mother said distractedly, and Kick wondered what her mother was actually thinking about. Best to get to the point.
“Mother?”
“Yes?”
How could she say this, exactly? It was such a delicate matter. “Jack was very good with Rosemary the other day, and—”
“Yes, she told me,” Rose interrupted, using that reverent tone she always did when talking about her sons.
“Well, it got me thinking about how Daddy has always been good with Rosemary as well. And Billy . . . I know you don’t like to remember that time, but she responded well to Billy, too.” Kick paused to draw in a breath, and take a sip of her tea, before continuing. “And her recent . . . wanderings . . . all seem to be in quest of . . . male company.”
“Where’s all this going, Kathleen?” her mother asked impatiently.
“I hate to sound too . . . I don’t know . . . medieval . . . but couldn’t we find some nice man who wants a pretty wife who’s good with children, to marry her?”
Rose laughed. It was almost a cackle, but at least it was brief. Then she said, “I’m not laughing at you, Kathleen. It’s an idea I have suggested to your father many times. But he is reluctant. I’m laughing because I’d rather not cry, which I’ve also done, that her sister and mother should know what’s best for her and not her father.”
“What if I also suggest it to Daddy?”
“Be my guest,” said Rose. “But be sure you make it clear it wasn’t an idea of mine that I put into your head.”
“I will,” Kick replied, thinking with confidence of the way her father had treated her opinion back in London. He’d give her ideas some credit now, especially when they pertained to their family, wouldn’t he?
“But, Kathleen,” her mother warned, not even bothering to conceal the bitterness in her voice, “don’t be surprised if he does laugh at you. He’s become very adept at throwing away good advice lately.”
Kick wondered what advice of her mother’s her father had been discarding in his depressed state.
“I’ll let you know what he says,” she told Rose.
The next evening, after the Spaghetti Salon and a movie with John, Kick came home to a fragrant spray of lily and hydrangea blooms waiting for her in the dim hallway beside her apartment.
“Secret admirer?” John asked petulantly. She’d invited him up to her place on a whim, not wanting to be alone.
Kick laughed as she stooped to pick up the arrangement, and said, “Who knows?” Her heart gave a little flutter. Could they be from . . . ? She tried not to smile at the thought, for fear of what John might say.
After a struggle with her purse and keys and the unexpected flowers, Kick stepped into her apartment, which still smelled like the toast she’d made that morning. She went to open all three of the windows before she came back to the flowers sitting on her table to read the card. John stared at them menacingly.
“They won’t bite you,” she said.
To brighten your day, as you did mine. Love, Mother.
Kick’s chest filled with wet emotion at reading the words on the florist’s card. So, not from Billy. Of course not. The memory of his engagement to Sally, which she’d been shoveling out of her mind like dirty wet snow, overcame her, and her knees felt momentarily wobbly.
“From your mother, eh?” John said with relief.
“Are you reading my private note over my shoulder?” she demanded.
“You’re standing right next to me,” he said.
“Don’t read my mail,” she snapped peevishly.
After a bit of banging around in the kitchen, she said with an exasperated sigh, “No vase.”
“I suppose I should find that comforting,” said John.
“Why? Because it means I don’t have scores of admirers sending me expensive flowers?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I’m not the one bringing other women to my sister’s house,” she said.
“I haven’t brought anyone else since I brought you.”
“But you see them on other nights. Don’t deny it.” She knew it was true, since he virtually ignored her three mornings a week at the office.
“Maybe I wouldn’t if you’d let me kiss you. Just on the cheek.”
“Ha,” she said sarcastically.
“Try me.”
“I don’t want to kiss you, John.”
“You just want to argue with me?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“No.”
“Fine,” she said. “Suit yourself.” She folded her arms over her chest and stared at him through narrowed eyes.
She felt unrecognizable to herself: angry, sad, and itching for a fight. All the time, she realized. Talking to John—or rather, quarreling with John—was the only way she’d found to release some of the pressure.
In response to her dare, John put on his hat and left in silence.
As the sun set and her apartment cooled, Kick managed to arrange the many stems of her mother’s flowers in cups and jars, setting them all over her apartment. The only cup she didn’t use was the one for her tea in the morning. When she was finished, her little home looked bright and colorful for the first time. But it was so dense with scent, Kick started to sneeze. And then to cry.
Before bed, she set all the flowers outside her door, and slowly the sneezing and tears subsided. The next morning, she tied the bouquets with string and set them on a few coworkers’ desks.
Inga asked, “What’s the occasion?”
“Oh, nothing,” Kick replied. “My mother sent them to me but they made me sneeze, so I thought I’d give them away.”
Inga smiled and took a drowsy sniff of lily. Then she set her translucent blue irises on Kick. “It’s wonderful to receive flowers from a girlfriend,” she said. “No expectations.”
“I’ll tell Jack not to send you any flowers, then,” Kick joked, but she found herself annoyed at Inga’s comment. When, for that glorious half a moment the day before, she’d thought these flowers might have been from Billy, she knew she could have coped with those expectations. Then again . . . had they been from John . . . well there, Kick could see Inga’s point, and this annoyed her, too.