Just Jackie by Edward Klein (trending books to read TXT) 📕

“It is not that simple,” Papadimitriou told him. “As you know, there is no such thing as a consensual divorce in Greece. You have to prove the fault of the other party. You have to show the judge that the relationship is irreparably broken. But you’re asking me to draw up divorce papers while you’re praising your wife. That’s unheard of. No court will consider starting divorce proceedings under those conditions. You need to give me some complaints about Jackie.”

“I can’t do that,” Onassis said. “That’s totally out of the question.”

“Then there’s no point in my drawing up divorce papers,” Papadimitriou said.

“Just do what I tell you,” Onassis said, his voice betraying mounting exasperation.

He got up from his chair and went to the door. Then he turned back to Papadimitriou, and said calmly:

“Remember, Stelio. Don’t put in anything bad about Jackie.”

PLAYING FAIR

Jackie was on her widow’s walk on Skorpios, putting the finishing touches to yet another watercolor of the Ionian islands. As Oliver Smith had once said, there was a certain primitive charm to her style of painting. Her green islands zigzagged to the horizon, diminishing in size as they neared the point where the water met the sky. Yet she could not seem to get the farthest island right. The perspective of Ithaca still eluded her.

As she put away her paints and brushes, she became aware of the flutter of Ari’s approaching helicopter. She was not looking forward to seeing her husband. Ever since their vacation in Acapulco several months before, Ari had become impossible to deal with.

It was as if he was a different man. He had once possessed almost superhuman stamina. He could negotiate for days without end, and make love two and three times a night. But in Acapulco, he had run out of steam. During the day, it was hard for him to keep up with Jackie, who was more than twenty years his junior. And at night, when she put on his favorite Halston gown and joined him in bed, he had trouble performing the sex act even once.

Jackie’s vitality became an affront to him, and nothing she did or said pleased him. When she suggested that they look for a house to buy in Acapulco—an idea they had discussed many times before—he flew into an uncontrollable rage. His screaming went on for two or three days, and it continued on the flight back to America. He sat by himself in a corner of his Lear jet, took out his will, and signed and dated it. When he arrived in New York, he gave it to his American money manager Creon Broun for safekeeping.

Back in Greece, his health continued to deteriorate, and Jackie persuaded him to return to America and enter the New York Hospital for tests and observation. There, doctors informed him that he suffered from myasthenia gravis, an autoimmune disease in which the body turns against itself. The progressive and sometimes fatal neuromuscular disorder induced fatigue, depression, and loss of muscle tone, especially in the muscles that controlled the eyelids.

The doctors prescribed massive doses of cortisone, the same medicine that John Kennedy had used to control his secret illness, Addison’s disease. There were dangers associated with the administration of cortisone. Doctors were unable to fine-tune the level of laboratory-produced cortisone in a patient’s bloodstream, and excess cortisone led to Cushing’s syndrome. Ari suffered from its symptoms: a full red face, headaches, back pain, and a feeling of vulnerability.

His face and body became bloated from the cortisone, but the myasthenia gravis progressed at an alarming rate. He could not hold his eyelids open. They had to be fastened to his forehead with transparent tape so that he could see. Before, he had been merely ugly; now he looked grotesque.

He was dying, and he knew it. He felt like the biblical Job, and he wondered why God had sent him so many afflictions in the final years of his life. He looked around for a scapegoat and found one in Jackie. He quarreled with her about her spending, her clothes, even the way she raised her children (he did not like their sloppy blue jeans). He grew more superstitious than before, and was certain that Jackie possessed supernatural powers and was responsible for the loss of his son. He called her “the witch.”

Appalling stories of Ari’s abuse began making the rounds.

“Onassis treated her so badly,” said Jackie’s friend, the photographer Peter Beard, who spent long stretches of time with Caroline and John on Skorpios. “I can’t tell you how many meals I sat through on Skorpios when Onassis would scream at her, and she would just continue eating. She took a lot of shit from him. He used to make insulting comparisons between Jackie and Callas. Jackie was just interested in superficial gossip. Callas was a real artist.”

Jackie sought advice from Ari’s sister Artemis, who, having suffered the loss of her only child years before, looked upon Jackie as a surrogate daughter.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Artemis said. “Despite my strenuous objections, Aristo has asked his lawyer to draw up divorce papers.”

The helicopter settled on the landing pad on top of Skorpios, and Ari stepped off, followed by a surprise guest: Stelio Papadimitriou.

Jackie had always gotten along with Ari’s attorney, and they greeted each other warmly. Then the three of them climbed into Jackie’s open jeep, and Ari drove them down the steep side of the island. On the way down, Ari pointed out the work that Jackie had completed on the Pink House. He seemed proud of her accomplishment. Papadimitriou took this as a good sign; perhaps Onassis was coming to his senses. The attorney complimented Jackie on the way she and Niki Goulandris had transformed the island into a glorious arboretum of indigenous plants, shrubs, and trees.

“It was pleasant chitchat,” Papadimitriou recalled, “but from the moment Jackie saw me get off the helicopter, I’m