Dolores Page 3

  good-looking. All the cameramen were following the Ryans ... of course, they had taken pictures of Elwood and she had tried to slouch as she stood beside him . . . why did she have to be three inches taller than Elwood! Well, she'd buy lower heels . .. and she'd maike Elwood get those lifts.

  But the press was all with Dolores and Michael now, and the official White House car was taking them to the White House. She ttimed to Elwood. "How long does she stay?"

  "Honey." El wood's soft voice was gentle. '^Her husband isn't even in the ground yet. Then there's the fimeral . . , and we have to give her time to find a place to live."

  "Well, my children are going to get newspaper space from now on," Lillian said. "I'm sick of reading about Httle Jimmy and Mike and Mary Lou."

  "The children are nice kids," Elwood said. "It's the newspapers that have doted on them . . . calling them pet names. You know the President's wife wants to be called Dolores, not Dolo."

  "/'m the President's wife," she hissed. "Even you . . . you still regard that snooty blonde as the First Lady." Then she forced a smile as a cameraman dropped away from the crowd following Dolores and snapped her.

  Dolores walked with Michael and fought the tmcontrollable urge to sob. The protective arm of Jimmy's brother only made her realize how alone

  she really was. Michael didn't give a damn about her ... he had always thought her a snob . . . but he was acting in the true Ryan fashion. The family stays together. And Michael was sticking to the rules.

  "I've talked to the Cardinal. Well plan the fimeral with him tomorrow," Michael whispered. "You go home and get a good night's sleep. Betsy Minton brought the kids to us. Joyce has them all comfy and playing with our brood. They don't imderstand, any of them, quite what happened. Even our ten-year-old doesn't imderstand death. But she's acting like a little mother already to your kids. Now about the fimeral ... I figured on a private High Mass . . . and private interment. Jimmy served in the Army but I figure we can bypass Arlington and bury him in our family plot in Virginia. It will save you a lot of wear and tear. Bridget will handle things . . ."

  "That's very kind of you," she said softly. "And I admire the way the Ryans all stick together. But Jimmy was my husband."

  "Well, siu-e . . . anything you say."

  "I want to know how President Kennedy was buried!"

  PART

  TWO

  Thirty-six

  Dolores stared at the gray East River. Then she walked from the den into the massive living room. How would she pass another day? It was almost a year since Jimmy had been assassinated. A year, during which Dolores was not supposed to "go out." Oh, an occasional lunch with the "right" person was permissible. It broke in every newspaper and caused talk for days. But right now she was lonely. Damned lonely.

  She had gone to London after the funeral services. They had been impressive and correct. She and Michael had sat up all night and read every press clipping about Jack Kennedy's funeral, about Lincoln's funeral—and they had done it alL

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  Only she hadn't been able to take the twins. She managed to make Mary Lou stand still through it all, but it had been rough. Then she had taken the children and Betsy Minton to London to stay with Nita.

  Nita had been furious that she couldn't give parties for Dolores. "It's ridiculous for you to play the bereaved widow. He cheated on you all the time . . . everyone knows that ... I mean, he wasn't anything like his brother, who is one of the last of the living 'family' men."

  "But Nita . . . toward the end ... I did love Jimmy."

  Nita had stared at her defiantly. "Dolo, you love only one person—yourself. And keep it that way. Here I am, actually carrying a torch for Erick—"

  "Erick?"

  "The Baron."

  Dolores laughed. "You're torching for his money. Not him."

  "I have enough money," Nita said.

  "Then why?" Dolores asked. "He's gross . . . he's ugly."

  "Maybe it's Erick's power that fascinates me. You know there were women who were fascinated with Hitler and Mussolini just because of their power."

  "You make a great case for both yourself and Erick."

  "Well, his power is part of it," Nita said. "But last night, when he dropped by—didn't you feel he had a certain magnetism?"

  "I felt nothing . . . and I'm sure that through some business deal he bought his damned title. Because no real society accepts him."

  "Oh Dolo, the real society is gone. Finished. Except for a few seventy-year-old dowagers. You take a good look at today's society, gay Princes and Lords, rock stars, plus any beast from the States with over ten million! Even movie stars make it! And you, my dear, you're not social anymore, you're a celebrity. You're on all the magazine covers. God, the love story they're playing about you and Jinuny ..."

  "That's why I can't dash off into any social

  life."

  "All right, then take a quiet lover. Only keep it that way. Love with your body . . . not your

  heart."

  "Nita, do you really feel something for the Baron—besides his money and power?"

  Nita turned away. "In the beginning, maybe it was just all the trimmings that attracted me. I mean if he had just walked into a room as Joe Doe I might not even have noticed him. But he has a presence, and I guess I was accustomed to every man gravitating toward me. He didn't. And when he was introduced ... he seemed imimpressed. So it became a challenge—then love. Yes, love! Dolo,

  I swear right now—if he didn't have a dime I would still want to go to bed with him."

  "But he's almost sixty. And you're thirty-five."

  "Yes." Nita smiled. "This is the month that we're both thirty-five. You go thirty-six in three weeks."

  Dolores had smiled. "I remember when I hit thirty . . . how dreadful I felt. How each year became a curse. I was rushing toward forty and there was no way to stop it. Now suddenly it seems ludicrously young. I'm the widow of the ages . . • and I'm only thirty-six."

  Thirty-six I

  TheWUI

  She had celebrated her birthday with the twins and Mary Lou. Betsy Minton had not come to New York with them. She had a boyfriend in Washington and wanted every weekend off to commute. Imagine a dried-out spinster of forty-eight wanting to have an affair every weekend I So she had let Betsy stay in Washington.

  She had bought the ten-room duplex in the River View House sight unseen. Bought it when she was still in London with Nita. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. And it had been a steal. A ten-room duplex, not counting maids' quarters— a divorcing couple had to unload it immediately. It was worth much more.

  She had inherited two TV sets with the apart-

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  ment, some drapes, and a few good pieces of furniture which she had re-covered. The next six months she spent with decorators . . . that had really kept her occupied. She wanted it to be really beautiful. And it was. She turned and stared at the beautifxil living room. It was a real salon. But for what? She still wasn't allowed to entertain. Next week would mark a year . . . and then she was attending a memorial with N4ichael as her escort. That was a big thrill. The rare times she did go out in public, dressed in navy or black, Michael was her escort. And she knew there were rumors that there was more than a brother-in-law/sister-in-law relationship. That was a reed laugh. Michael, who always sat across the room when he came to visit her.

  But where could she go? To lunch with her mother-in-law. Bridget was really cutting loose now. Timothy Ryan was bedridden with arthritis and had round-the-clock nurses. Bridget was healthy and had always loved the theater and concerts and she came to New York every week for two days. So Dolores would dutifully limch with Bridget, go to the theater with her, with the constcmt Secret Service men in attendance. The only thing she enjoyed was the unbelievable publicity these rare outings caused. Jacqueline Onassis was already established "news" like Elizabeth Taylor. Now, she, Dolores Ryan, was the new glamour girl of the world. Fxmny ... in the past.

  when she
was a debutante, there were big movie stars who held the public's fancy—Doris Day, Rita Hayworth, Lana Turner, Marilyn. Today, there were rock groups . . . and Dolores Ryan. She had made ten fan magazines in the course of this month.

  She paced back into the den and stared at the river. And now she had financial problems to top it all. The lawyer had just left. The children's trust fimd was in order, but, according to the will, Jimmy's money was to be added to their trust and she was to receive thirty thousand a year tax-free imtil his million-dollar trust came due. If Jimmy had still been alive, he'd be forty-three. That meant she wouldn't get the million for another seventeen years. But meanwhile how could she live on thirty thousand a year? After the will was read, Bridget insisted on paying for the apartment. "Look, my dear, personally I don't think you were properly cared for in the will. But then Jimmy was so yoimg; and the least I can do is give you and the children a suitable place to live. Washington would hold dreadful memories for you now. I think New York is a wise move. I will also pay the maintenance for the apartment and for the children's schools. The thirty thousand should take care of your own needs very nicely."

  It was a generous gesture, and she was grateful, but did Bridget know she had to pay one hun-

  dred and fifty dollars a week to her soda! secretary, who was still answering condolence letters from all over the world? There was also one hundred and fifty dollars a week for the children's nurse. Eighty-five dollars for a daily cleaning woman, one hundred and fifty dollars for a cook-housekeeper, plus Mr. Evans, who came twice a week for the heavy cleaning. That was an extra forty dollars a week. The food, no matter how she economized, ran over two hundred dollars a week. These expenses alone came to more than forty thousand a year. Christmas to the building employees was another small forttme. The limousines she hired were sixteen dollars an hoiu* . . . the twins were in an expensive nursery school . . . Bridget just didn't realize. She couldn't do "very nicely" on thirty thousand a year.

  And the rare times she went to limch with the one girl she could almost call a friend . . . Janie Jensen . .. who had been Janie Birch at Finch . . . Janie had always been enormously rich but she and Janie had liked one another at school. Money hadn't seemed to matter then. Only now Janie was married to the Swedish Ambassador and Janie was very rich—because Svend Jensen was rich, too—and like the very rich, on the occasions they did have limch, Janie insisted they take turns paying the check. And often she would go with Janie and watch her buy all the new styles and stare like a little girl while Halston or Valentino

  would say, "Oh, Mrs. Ryan, this is so right for you!" She could visualize herself in the creations as she watched the bulging Janie push her way into them, and she would say demurely, "No clothes now . . . Tm still . . ." Then she'd pause and they would nod understandingly.

  Eddie

  Everyone thought she had millions. The whole situation was ludicrous. She couldn't go to some inexpensive boutique for clothes. It would be in the papers immediately. Everyone would accuse her of being chintzy. She still took Mary Lou and the twins to the best children's place on Madison Avenue.

  She attended the ceremonies of the anniversary of her husband's death in Washington. Then she came home . . . and stared at her wardrobe. All those outdated midi dresses. For the past year, she had lived in about six new "mourning outfits." But the closets full of clothes from "before" were out. The midi had been a huge flop! And she had two

  50

  closets full. Even cutting them didn't work. The "look" was wrong.

  She began taking long walks . . . wearing slacks. Photographers snapped her and somehow she came oif looking sleek and dashing. She cycled in the park with Mary Lou after school when the weather permitted. She met Eddie Harris when Mary Lou fell off her bicycle in the park. The Secret Service man rushed to pick her up but Eddie, who was coming the other way, grabbed the child first. Dolores recognized him immediately. He was a brilliant young screenwriter (she often snuck into movies in the afternoon with a bandana and dark glasses).

  He introduced himself. She smiled regally and he asked if he could cycle the rest of the way with them. By the end of the day they were good friends. She felt that he was a homosexual even though he was reputed to have had affairs with many women. She felt asexual toward him but she liked him and respected his talent.

  "Listen," he said eagerly. "How about going to Leonard Bernstein's concert with me next week?"

  "I'm afraid I can't," she said.

  "Why? Afradd to make your first public appearance with a Jew?" He grinned.

  "I never thought of your being anything other than a very talented man. It's just that my mother-in-law is coming in for the week and I'm spending

  some time with her in the coimtry with friends. But the following week, would you come to my apartment for dinner? Just wear what you're wearing now . . . let's say a week from Tuesday."

  He seemed thrilled at the offer and they cycled across town to the River View House.

  'Tenth floor," she said.

  "What apartment?"

  "I have the whole floor," she said. Her innocent little girl expression covered the blatant remark. Then she quickly added, "What is your favorite food? I have a marvelous cook who is growing tired of preparing lamb chops for the children."

  "Spaghetti . . . marinara, minestrone. And a salad."

  'Tine. Eight o'clock. The children will be in bed by then."

  She thought about him for the rest of the day. He had hit home with that remark—"Afraid to make your first public appearance with a Jew?" He was right . . . and he was wrong. The Jewish part had nothing to do with it. If an important Governor or Senator was Jewish, she wouldn't hesitate to go out with him . . . but to go out for the first time with someone in show business . . . No! It wouldn't fit her image.

  She discussed it with Bridget, who nodded solemnly while she ate her lunch. "You were quite

  right. Ill speak to Michael. He'll find you a suitable escort.''

  And she did attend an opening of a museum the following week with a suitable escort. The unmarried Qiief Justice, who was fifty-nine. It was the most boring night of her life and she had spent five htmdred on a Stavropoulos gown . . . wholesale. Her new social secretary, Nancy Kind, had arranged this.

  She went to bed with Eddie Harris the first night he came to her apartment. Possibly because she felt it was clandestine, also she had been positive he was a homosexual and someone she would never see again. She felt relaxed and reached a climax for the first time in her life. When they began she had pretended to feel something, as she had done with Jinuny. (Moan a bit . . . and get the thing over with.) But Eddie had laughed. "You'd never make it in the theater. Now relax and enjoy yourself." Then he continued making love to her imtil she fell back limp and exhausted.

  She began to see him every week . . . then twice a week . . . and then he suddenly stopped calling her. She waited a week and phoned him.

  He was charming and when she asked him to dinner he said, "Sure, but it's my turn."

  "What do you mean?"

  "To take you out to dinner."

  "I... I can't, Eddie."

  "Oh siire! But you can go to '21' with Oiief Justice Blinger and to Elaine's with a poet who is old enough to be your grandfather."

  "Those were two fimctions I was obliged to attend. I was bored sick."

  "What makes you think I'm not bored coming to your apartment, drinking vintage wine from Steuben glasses, eating a gourmet meal, and then servicing you in bed."

  She slammed down the phone.

  The next day he sent flowers and the following day she accepted his phone call. "Listen," he said eagerly, "there's a big party being given by the Mayor for some kind of Betterment of New York jazz. All your kind of right people will be there. Will you go with me?"

  "I received an invitation," she said. "But—"

  "But what? Listen, Dolores, it's either you go to the party with me or I take someone else . . . and we call it quits."

  "
I don't like parties," she said. "I never liked large parties, even at the White House." (Why was she explaining to this man! Because he was her only flesh and blood contact with the outside world.)

  "Well, try this one for size. It's only Grade Mansion . . . but we here in New York call it home."

  "All right, Eddie."

  Barry

  She bought another Stavropoulos govsm for the party. She had the hairdresser come to her house. She wore her one pair of diamond earrings. Jimmy had never been lavish with jeweb^. He claimed it didn't fit their image. He never allowed her to wear fur . . . but the gown came with a coat, and it was early fall. Somehow, she would have to get a sable coat. The mink Bridget had bought her after Jimmy's death was out of style. It amused her how everyone put her on their best-dressed lists.

  The party was in full swing, but when she arrived she felt the immediate hush amd then the sudden murmur that ran through the room. The Mayor greeted her as if she were visiting royalty. He Wcis obviously very friendly with Eddie Harris

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  because he shook his hand vigorously and said, "I give you points for bringing the most beautiful lady in the world to Gracie Mansion."

  For the next half hour it was a maze of introductions. Her back ached as she stood erect and accepted each new face with a firm handshake. And through it all she sensed someone across the room—someone who lounged against the wall lazily and seemed amused at the whole procedure. When everyone had been presented, he ambled over. Her first thought was, "He's incredibly handsome ... is he in pictures . . . where have I seen him before?"