But no stranger gives me a glance. I go to the end of the line and my back is hurting, but out here in public, the pain reassures me somehow. A woman up ahead in the line turns her face idly toward me. She has hair the color of the old Red Grange model football we used in Hyannis the same autumn I made love on the overstuffed chair in my Senate office, to a woman who was all bones and freckles and teeth and her thick hair was the same color, a roan color, and she sat on my lap and thrashed her hair around me. She has spent time with me often these past years, in my memory. And this woman in line turns her eyes briefly to me and then her attention passes on. She is perhaps thirty-five. In my memory I am thirty-five, but this woman before me now sees only an old man. But I’m still sitting on that overstuffed chair and the leather squeaks beneath me and I’m sweating and smelling the woman’s hair and I tell her about its color, the color of a Red Grange football, and she laughs. The woman in line laughs now. She is with someone near her, but I don’t look to see who it is. I watch her face dilate sweetly in laughter and if she were standing next to me, I know I would speak to her of this other woman, whose name I can’t remember and whose eyes I can’t remember, though I’ve often tried in these years of exile. I would like to remember her eyes, because remembering these other things as vividly as I do makes me feel as if the memory of her eyes should be there too but it got put aside and then sold off or given away and it was a big mistake. I want it back.
I want my Harvard-crest cufflinks back, too. I’m thinking of them as I finally make it through the front door of Sotheby’s and a young Negro woman in a uniform holds out her hand to help me through the metal detector. I would not call her a Negro to her face — I know the language has changed — but I am still a creature of my time and Martin called himself that. I will always remember where I was on the day Martin was shot. I was in the little stone-walled garden in the cottage in the compound in Virginia. I was about to launch a putt across the fifteen-foot green whose one hole has pulled me to it ten thousand times a year for all these years. I was just aligning the head of my putter — I want my old putter back, too, by the way, though it’s sure to draw a small fortune — I was just squaring up the head of my putter when whatever aide it was assigned to me at that time — I don’t remember him except that he was young — stepped out of the back door and he said “Mr. President” with a rasp in his throat and I knew that it was something terrible. Poor Martin. How nice it would have been if only his editor had been shot away and they thought to bring him to me. We could have told each other so many things we never had sense enough to talk about when we were living our public lives. And Bobby too. We three could live together and I’d talk with Martin and I’d wrestle my little brother to the ground — even with my back — and with his editor shot off Bobby could tell me what he really thinks of me, and that would do him good.
So this young Negro woman reaches out to the old man she sees in front of her, an old man having trouble straightening up, having just gone up some steps with a very bad back, and her hand clutches me beneath my forearm. And though there are two sleeves between me and her flesh, I thrill at her touch. I straighten up, not wanting her to be touching the arm of a stooping old man, and there must be pain but I don’t feel it. She looks me in the eyes, just before I step through, and I think there is some flicker of recognition there.
“Do you know me?” I ask.
“No sir,” she says.
I realize I’m on the verge of telling her about the perfect hit man we’d hired to kill Fidel Castro in 1963. Pedro Antonelli. I don’t know why I think she’d be interested in this. But I know I’m not supposed to say anything. So I step through the arch of the metal detector, and the machine cries out as if it had seen a ghost. The woman who touched my arm is beside me and I’m ready to confess.
But before I can speak, she says, “Do you have anything metal, sir?” and I understand.
I tap the side of my head, on the tight ridge of scar tissue, and I say, “Metal plate. From service for my country.” I think she can hear the ring of it beneath my knuckle.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she says, and I’m hoping she will reach up to touch the place herself. But her hand goes to my arm again and urges me toward a desk. “Thank you,” she says. “Show your registration slip over there.”
I move away from her and there is still a ringing in my head and at the desk they give me my bidding card, and from the push of people behind me I’m going up more steps, made of stone, and my back is hurting again and I’m growing older by the moment, though I can still feel her touch on my arm.
The Director has not been very good in recognizing my desires as a man. I’ve always understood the risks. There weren’t very many women with the highest Agency clearances who were prepared to open themselves to me. One or two over the years. And there was always a drug to slow my tongue, because even the highest clearance is still bound tight by the need-to-know test. I presume the rest of me was slowed as well by the drug, certainly my awareness was, for I remember these women only very faintly. I wish there had been another way, a safer way, a fully conscious way, for me to feel the touch of a woman. But I did not ask what more they could do for me. I only asked what I could do for my country.
The room is very large and I struggle toward the front, but the rows of padded beige chairs are filled more than halfway back already. I look around and I straighten again, this time with clear pain, but a pain put aside. I see Jackie down the row. She has not yet sat down. She has a pillbox hat and that stiff bouffant hairdo. But I remind myself that she couldn’t be that young. And she’s dead. I look again. Her eyes — she is smoothing her hot-pink dress and looking around the room — her eyes are Asian. Her gaze fixes and hardens and I follow it and coming down the aisle is another Jackie, a Caucasian one, dressed in mint blue, unaware still of her rival.
I sit. I am on the aisle and breathing heavily. I suspect there are several of me in the room as well, though I hope not to catch even a brief sight of them. I can’t help but look up, and the second Jackie, with a slightly longer hairdo, twirled up at the bottom, brushes past me. Her face turns and her eyes fall and she looks straight at me. She doesn’t show any sign at all of sensing who I am. As false as she is — her eyes are much too close together and her mouth is too thin — I’m briefly disappointed that she doesn’t recognize me. I look away and I close my eyes. Jackie has been with me, as well, all these years.
When John and Caroline were sleeping in the afternoons, I’d clear half an hour in the affairs of state and tell my staff to leave us alone, and Jackie and I would make love in the room where they all made love, the presidents of the United States. And I’d ask her to talk to me about art while we touched. I wanted her mind in this act, and her voice, breathy as a starlet. I’ve been slandered over and over in the books. Smathers was way out of line telling those things about our Senate bachelor days. I might’ve talked like that about women with him — men have always talked stupidly about women with each other. And it’s true that my mind was often elsewhere when I touched the women who always seemed to be there, open to me. But not because I didn’t value them. Not because they were objects to me, taken up and cast off even more coldly than the objects for sale in this crowded room. There are suddenly too many things in my head at once. This happens sometimes. The voice of a woman now. “New bidder on my right at sixty thousand.” I don’t know what it is that’s for sale but I have only four thousand and I clench inside, a little desperate for a reason I can’t quite identify. Jackie would rise naked above me as I lay delicately still, trying not to let my back distract me. She would rise into a column of sunlight from the window and her skin was dusky and her voice was soft and she would be wearing a single strand of pearls, the only thing left on her body, and she would speak of the geometry of Attic pottery in the tenth century B.C., and the bands of decoration were drawn in black on cream-colored clay and there would be meanders and chevrons and swastikas and then, gradually, as the ninth century B.C. passed and the eighth began, there was an advent of animal forms. She spoke of all these wonderful vessels: the amphora with its two great handles and the krater with its fat belly and wide mouth and the skinny lekythos, for pouring. Jackie would throw her head back and her mind would make my breath catch and now the eighth century B.C. was in full flower with horsemen and chariots and battle scenes crowding these clay pots, and scenes of men and women lamenting the dead, and her eyes would tear up, even as we touched and she fell forward and I put my hands on her back and felt her bones.