5432852385743

I thought he was joking about that, but wasn’t entirely sure. I picked up the phone. “I don’t know
who this is, but I’m pretty tired right now, so—”
The breathy voice on the other end said she wouldn’t keep me long. To Hosty I mouthed Jackie
Kennedy. He nodded and poured a little more of my champagne. I turned away, as if by presenting
Hosty with my back I could keep him from overhearing the conversation.
“Mrs. Kennedy, you really didn’t have to call,” I said, “but I’m honored to hear from you, just the
same.”
“I wanted to thank you for what you did,” she said. “I know that my husband has already thanked
you on our behalf, but . . . Mr. Amberson . . .” The first lady began to cry. “I wanted to thank you on
behalf of our children, who were able to say goodnight to their mother and dad on the phone tonight.”
Carolyn and John-John. They’d never crossed my mind until that moment.
“Mrs. Kennedy, you’re more than welcome.”
“I understand the young woman who died was to become your wife.”
“That’s right.”
“You must be heartbroken. Please accept my condolences—they aren’t enough, I know that, but
they are all I have to offer.”
“Thank you.”
“If I could change it . . . if in any way I could turn back the clock . . .”
No, I thought. That’s my job, Miz Jackie.
“I understand. Thank you.”
We talked a little longer. This call was much more difficult than the one with Kennedy at the
police station. Partly because that one had felt like a dream and this one didn’t, but mostly I think it
was the residual fear I heard in Jacqueline Kennedy’s voice. She truly seemed to understand what a
narrow escape they’d had. I’d gotten no sense of that from the man himself. He seemed to believe he
was providentially lucky, blessed, maybe even immortal. Toward the end of the conversation I
remember asking her to make sure her husband quit riding in open cars for the duration of his
presidency.
She said I could count on that, then thanked me one more time. I told her she was welcome one
more time, then hung up the phone. When I turned around, I saw I had the room to myself. At some
point while I’d been talking to Jacqueline Kennedy, Hosty had left. All that remained of him were
two butts in the ashtray, a half-finished glass of champagne, and another scribbled note, lying beside
the yellow legal pad with my to-whom-it-may-concern letter on it.
Get rid of the bug before you go into the bus station, it read. And below that: Good luck, Amberson. Very
sorry for your loss. H.
Maybe he was, but sorry is cheap, isn’t it? Sorry is so cheap.
11
I put on my kitchen potboy disguise and rode down to B-1 in an elevator that smelled like chicken
soup, barbecue sauce, and Jack Daniel’s. When the doors opened, I walked briskly through the steamy,
fragrant kitchen. I don’t think anyone so much as looked at me.
I came out in an alley where a couple of winos were picking through a trash bin. They didn’t look
at me, either, although they glanced up when sheet lightning momentarily brightened the sky. A
nondescript Ford sedan was idling at the mouth of the alley. I got into the backseat and off we went.
The man behind the wheel said only one thing before pulling up to the Greyhound station: “Looks
like rain.”