It happens. After four years of marriage, I’m madly in love…just not with my husband. I feel like Diane Lane in Unfaithful, guilt-ridden, and giddy as I face my new reality. I am a terrible wife…but…I was becoming a fantastic girlfriend.
You may deem me a horror, but the truth is never a fairytale. Only weddings are, and mine was no exception. In Camelot fashion, I rode to church in a horse and buggy. I should have known something was wrong when looking out the lace-framed carriage window I thought, “I could escape through the woods in this thing.” To say we have one soul mate, one person we marry until death is to commit to madness. However sour that sounds, I still believe in love. I believe in Rocky and Adrian, couples who meet and mate for life. There are swans out there, and then there’s me.
As my horse clickety clacks through the trail to church, I thought of where we met. My soon-to-be husband and I were waiters for an elite caterer who specialized in spoiling the rich and famous of New York. On any given night, we served an array of society members, rich bitches, charming bastards, and boring bankers. They all had the same nose, the same stifling perfumes, the same board-certified plastic surgeons. There were exceptions, rare guests that made even the most jaded waiters’ hearts skip a beat. There was Princess Dianna, who graced The New York State Theater with a presence that was otherworldly and English garden. Then there was our homegrown prince, John Kennedy Junior. He was intelligent, handsome, rugged — a bona fide American hunk. The only son of the late President John F. Kennedy was often alone, then later in the company of his wife Carolyn. She was stunning and stepped into the Kennedy dynasty as if the glass slippers were hers all along. Whether they were holding hands or mingling separately at a party, they were always in sync. I thought of how secretly jealous I was of them, of their inexplicable beauty, and the life of ease they were born into. I thought of all the splendor we lavished on John and Carolyn, and how ironic and lovely that we were finally having our splash of an event.
My future husband Robert was kind, respectful, and a planner. Everyone loved him and encouraged our flirtations. “Robert is one of the most emotionally mature men I’ve ever met,” said a co-worker. On the surface she was right. He was grounded, and generous – the opposite of the selfish tools I had experienced. But a deeper dive into his psyche revealed a gully of childhood trauma. I came to learn, in graphic detail, how his father had taken his own life when Robert was just a boy. And how his unspeakable death released a brutal barrage of white water on his family – for just as one wave of unrest was cresting, another would hit.
Initially, I found Robert timid, but as our dating progressed, the sheer goodness of his nature won me over. On the morning after our second date, I was treated to a romantic poem left on my voicemail. It was impressive as Robert was a trained actor who sidelined his dream for steady work teaching. Though flattered by his gesture, I was puzzled by his spontaneous outburst. What had I done to deserve this? I perceived that our spark was not the brightest. He didn’t ask me many questions. So…was it my looks? Right face, right time? I didn’t care. He needed a place to put his love, and I needed a safe place to land.
Our relationship progressed as he spoiled me with thoughtful gifts and a steady stream of attention. After three and a half months of dating, I moved into his place. I never thought of marriage as my life goal, I had already turned down proposals from two different men. But I was at that age where dormant domesticity busts through DNA, like weeds in cracked concrete. For there I was, a few months later, saying yes to this man who fell to one knee on a foggy night in July and asked me to marry him.
Four years later, I wasn’t just breaking my vows, I was pulverizing them beyond recognition. Like all first-time offenders, I felt culpable but soon grew accustomed to my crime. My brain became an IV, slowly dripping rationalizations to assuage my conscience, conveniently removing all traces of guilt from my heart. The merit of my sins softened, as I recalled the things my husband and I had and hadn’t done. We HAD sex, TWICE…on our two-week honeymoon in Italy. I never got kissed under that Bridge of Sighs, I got a sweater. It was a really nice sweater. Every time I wore it, I remembered Venice – the churches we lit candles in, the canals we floated over, the arches we never made out under.
I’m not a modern girl. I never had one of those razor-chopped haircuts, I had cookbooks. On any given night you’d find me making dinner for Robert like an old-school Italian wife. Yet here I am, standing barefoot on my lover’s kitchen countertop and I’m not even cooking. I’m five feet off the floor at his insistence; “Take off your shoes and climb up,” he says. “Changes your perspective. Right?” I must have nodded yes, but in my head, I’m thinking, “My husband would never let me do this. He barely lets me in the house after he mops!” I met Jack at a master acting class in Manhattan. The teacher was a famous Beverly Hills guru. He was part Scientologist, part psychic. If you had a chink in your armor, he sniffed it out with vampiric accuracy. Once, when sitting in the hot seat after my scene, he noted the following, “You’re a passionate woman. But you exist in a passionless relationship, yes?” I take a breath before I answer, “Oh my husband’s…very supportive.” I’m barely exhaling as the guru stares through me. He needs no words, for the truth he sought was shifting in my eyes of a thousand lies. I panic, knowing I’m caught. But like a dog suddenly surrendering a steak bone, the guru lets me go and turns his attention back to show biz. He tells me to straighten my curly hair and rise above the middle-class vibe I’m projecting. The guru makes it clear that being middle-class is akin to poison and kills the spirit of an artist like slow-moving arsenic.
About 2 weeks after the start of the first class, I’m slated to work with an actor named Cal. Now Cal was a loose cannon who pulled an actual gun on a woman in rehearsal, but I didn’t care. He was interesting and I was primed for artistic arousal. But word had it that bat shit, crazy Cal booked an acting job and wouldn’t be coming to class anymore. The director of my scene needed someone to take his place and chose Jack as my new partner. I admit, I was disappointed to miss out on loose cannon Cal. I could have used a gun to the head, and the only thing Jack was pulling out of his pocket was wax for his surfboard. No, he wasn’t a surfer, but he looked the part. One day during a lull between scenes, Jack reaches a row behind him, extending his hand to me. In a hushed tone he said, “Hey, it’s you and me.” I was thrown by the warmth of his gesture and the excitement in his voice. His friendly spirit and enthusiasm didn’t match the story that played in my mind. I had seen him outside of class many times pacing downtown Manhattan like a caged cougar in search of his soul.
Jack was cocky, opinionated, an artistic bully at times, a 360 of my pragmatic husband. He confessed crazy things; like how he made 200 grand one year and had nothing to show for it but the pants on his ass. When I asked him where the money went he said calmly, “Jeans?” He was gentle, yet rough. He threw me off balance yet managed to keep me standing…barely. Once, during rehearsal, he got so pushy, that I almost quit. I couldn’t handle being terrible in my scene with this guy. How could I convince the guru I was more than middle class? In our scene, Jack was supposed to kiss me, and when he did it was forced, mechanical, the worst kiss I ever had. I’m supposed to be attracted to this? How could I desire a guy I wasn’t even sure I liked?
One day after rehearsal, I find myself walking with Jack to the subway. I would later discover that his train was nowhere near mine. He had walked me out of his way just for the sake of my company. In Manhattan terms, it was a trek from our director’s Lower East Side apartment to my Brooklyn-bound F train. “F stands for failure,” I say with a laugh. But Jack’s dead serious and starts rapidly firing questions: What was my childhood like? My father? Mother? What were the parts I played, and wanted to play? As I answer his questions, I wonder why this man with a resume that dwarfed mine, was interested in my meaningless credits and boring Jersey life. “Hey, I grew up in New Jersey too, a town away from you, young lady!” he says with a cheeky smile. I’m five years older than him, but I love that he’s made me younger. As we wait for the train, we discover that we even shared the strange dentist at one point. Learning these trivial commonalities should have dimmed his light, but it only sharpened his luster. For me, he became the boy next door – the one I never met and would never be allowed to love.
Jack knew I was married from my first confession in class and told me about the young woman he’d been dating. We both had significant others, and I rationalized that our friendship was safe. Our master class had been extended, so our weekly meetings progressed to impromptu hangouts. After lunch one afternoon, we find ourselves amid a torrential downpour. As we take cover under a storefront awning, I’m grateful he’s inches behind me, unable to see my burning red face. The air is thick with the obvious, our relationship was NOT safe. It’s downright dangerous, and I don’t fucking care. For the rain had passed, and when I turned around, I saw this man, the one I thought I detested – and like lightning strikes a steel rod in “The Omen,” I was smitten.
Trying to describe why I loved him is like making a case for lasagna. It’s just lasagna, and It’s delicious. I’m not a high-risk person. I never wanted to climb K2. I’m the type of person who’d get to base camp and say, “I’m cold. Let’s go!” Even standing on his kitchen countertop was freaking me out. Now I’d been to his apartment before but class was over. I was now coming to his apartment on purpose. Nothing had happened, but we knew we were headed. We went as far as making plans to spend the weekend together. I considered backing out, but when I called him the night before, his enthusiasm for my visit won me over. “Morana…I feel like it’s December 24th.” That’s what he said. I couldn’t back out now. How could I bail on a man who just called me Christmas Eve?
Months before our tryst, I went on an auditioning warpath, rising at ungodly hours to stand in packed performer lines in mid-town Manhattan. After weeks, I finally got cast in a summer stock production of “Bells Are Ringing.” It was a throwback musical conceived for Judy Holliday – a comedic film star of the 40s and 50s. It was her Broadway bust-out vehicle; a story about a quirky woman named Ella who worked at an answering service. Ella gets so involved with her answering service clients that she falls in love with one of them. Now I didn’t get cast as Ella, but as her best friend, Gwen and I’m fine with it. I was quite frankly too fucked up to carry an entire show. So I welcome the second banana distraction, for it took me from Brooklyn to Vermont, away from my husband and my burgeoning affair.
After three weeks of intense rehearsal, “Bells” is up and running. Our cast is wiped out and excited to have off two days in a row. Now I could have stayed in Vermont, gone to a cheddar cheese tasting, a blueberry patch, or just slept. But when two of my male cast mates said they were missing their boyfriends and driving back to the city, I jumped at the chance to ride along. I was missing my boyfriend too. My fellow actors drop me off at 42nd Street. It’s midnight and I quickly put on my Jackie O. sunglasses, because I’m a proper adulterer now. After the slowest cab ride on Earth, I arrive at Jack’s. I’m standing in front of his apartment door poised to enter. I know it’s open because he never locks it. An emotional epidural of jubilation and terror shoots through my spine. I feel my lower half may melt. If my husband in Brooklyn finds out I’m in town, I’m fucked — and not in a good way. How would I justify my sudden arrival in New York? Our marriage had become combative and lackluster. If I got caught, I’d have to kill myself before Robert killed me. Maybe I’d turn around and taxi back to the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. In light of my sins, it seemed fitting to walk into oncoming traffic. I consider it but know it won’t work. The “BQE” as we affectionately call it is so congested that with my luck, I’d never get hit…So I knock.
As he opens the door, I move to embrace him…” Wait! Lemme look at you.” he says. Seconds pass as his eyes travel the length of my body. Then like a kid in a candy store, he says, “Okay!” My overnight bag drops as I plunge my face into his chest, sucking one glorious whiff of the cigarettes and cologne on his freshly laundered shirt. I’m finally home, and this is so fucked up.
I wasn’t the only one taking a risk this weekend, Jack was too. If caught, he’d face the wrath of a freight train, a locomotion of shame he couldn’t handle. His girlfriend was rabidly jealous, suspicious of every stray hair on his bathroom floor that did not match hers. Jack and I had stayed respectful. But on the very last day of class, he kissed me for real backstage, behind a curtain. It was spontaneous and special until he made a huge mistake. He told his girlfriend. She went ballistic, calling him every name in the book, throwing comparisons to her philandering father, and then threatening to tell my husband and destroy my marriage.
I was not ready to be kicked to the curb. If my marriage was going to end, it would end on my watch, not with tantrums from a 20-something. I get it. I’m horrible. She’s the innocent victim, Anne Archer, and I’m bunny-boiling, Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. But I hated her for threatening to invade my life. I had crossed the line, but not with her…Jack did. And by throwing that kiss under the bus, he was running me over too. For what? Relief of his guilty conscience? I was furious, but mostly at myself and my lousy luck. Out of all the men in the universe to have an affair with, I had picked the ONE guy with scruples!
Cussing him out would have been futile. He made a mistake and couldn’t un-ring the bell. The person who should have been an angry, suspicious, freak-out mess – was Robert. Weeks prior, I had my brush with getting caught. Robert was a neat freak. Everything in our apartment had a place. Disarray equaled discontent. He came from spaghetti on the walls abuse, and anything that came into our apartment was put away – immediately. This included my class prop bag. It contained my costume, wax paper from an eaten Italian sandwich, and all objects used in my scene. At the bottom of the bag was also a handwritten note from Jack. We agreed to do this corny exercise where we wrote each other notes in character. It was my idea, and I wrote him a whopper of a love letter. My note to him was an in-your-face, admission of lust. Jack’s note was different. It was simple, and sophisticated and concluded with the poem “What If You Slept” by Samuel Coleridge-Taylor.
I was home no longer than 20 minutes before I realized Robert had unpacked for me. It wasn’t a favor; it was a violation. My prop bag was empty, not even a crumb from my Italian sandwich remained. That’s how thorough he was. I shook my head in disbelief and then remembered the note. It was not in the bag.
“If something’s going on, you need to stop it.” That is what he said. I had fast-tracked it to the kitchen, like a zombie on speed. Now I’m standing here – caught like a kid, my right arm, elbow-deep in the garbage. He spoke low-voiced and parental. I remained silent and took my scolding like a pro as I let Jack’s note fall back in the garbage. We didn’t have sex that night. We never did. I lay there pretending to be asleep, then waited patiently for his first snore. Robert slept like a marine on watch, so I had to creep back into the kitchen without waking him. As I open the cabinet to the garbage can, I find remnants of Robert’s dinner splashed on my love note. I blot it off delicately, careful not to smear his handwriting. I flatten the wrinkled note as best I can. I could hide it, I thought, or ram it down Robert’s throat while he slept.
Something in me turned that night, for what should have scared me straight, sent me crooked. It was not on purpose, or out of revenge. I gathered it was just my nature, bending me back towards the separation I’d always felt as a child. Why was I like this? I thought as I pumped my legs on a swing set. And where would this weirdness, “the left-out-ness” of my personality would take me? I felt akin to my guru, who shared stories of his grunt years as a butcher in the meatpacking district. I felt how he stood there, in a bloody apron and gut-splattered shoes, a reluctant Sweeney Todd, watching beatnik actors and would-be famous directors walk by his meat locker window.
My pedicure was barely dry as I fly out of the Korean nail salon. I was slinking around the Upper East Side like a jewel thief passing time while I waited for Jack’s return. Closing his door with my wet nails, I feel my dream happening now, not in the past of our combined mistakes, or the future of whatever may never be. The brick walls of his apartment are warm like him – framed posters of all the movies he loves surround me. I soak in everything – his candles, his books, his oddness. With his return, we catch up on our uneventful day. And then I feel something bad is about to happen, like that moment before you throw up. He looks at me with the sobering awful truth in his eyes, “Meeting you was the BEST and WORST day of my life. Best because I met you, worst because you’re married.” In less than 24 hours, the laughter, the lovemaking, and the friendship will end. I’m back to the middle class, to second banana status in a dated musical in Burlington, Vermont.
I want to stay in his place forever, but he won’t let me. “It’s not that I love her more, I’ve just been loving her longer.” That’s what he said. He was telling the truth, and I knew it. Now I’m the vampire reading his mind. He loves me. That’s the worst part. She’d just gotten there first. “Congratulations,” I say to myself. “You are the unfortunate recipient of less time in.”
He was moving to California with his girlfriend. I was going back to Robert in Brooklyn, but not just yet. The curtain was closing on our silly little musical. Thank God, because I was starting to hate this show. But I loved my review: “Isabella Morana is the only actor in Bells Are Ringing, that plays an authentic New Yorker.” You see theatrically, I’m authentic, real-life…totally fake! I hadn’t the guts to leave my marriage or the wherewithal to stay and make it work.
My husband visits me in Vermont for the last few performances. We’re staying in one of those generic motels, the kind where even the soap isn’t interesting enough to steal. I’m sitting on a flowery bedspread while my husband putters around our room. We were set on doing some crunchy granola stuff that day. Maybe we’d visit a covered bridge, a maple syrup factory, an open hole in the ground — who cares! I needed our day occupied, away from the awkwardness that had become us.
I turn on the television while my husband changes his clothes. My summer top smells like Jack, but I refuse to change it. I want another whiff of him. I’m an adamant, adulterous, high-rolling bitch now. If Robert smells Merit Lights and men’s cologne on me, I’d blame my cast-mates. Chorus boys are notorious smokers. It was believable. I switched stations to the Mets who were losing, so I’m grateful for the break-in: “We interrupt this program for this special report. John Kennedy Junior’s small plane, The Piper Saratoga, is missing over the coast of the Atlantic. Kennedy was flying with his wife Carolyn and sister-in-law, Lauren Bessette. They left Essex County airport and were scheduled to land in Martha’s Vineyard, before continuing to a wedding in Hyannis Port.”
July 17th, 1999 was not the glamour year Prince sang about. It was hot, weird, and getting weirder. I see too much open water and an empty blue sky on every channel. Helicopters and the Coast Guard are all out and looking for John. “But why are they searching the ocean,” I think. “They should be searching Central Park because that’s where he rollerblades!” Pictures start flashing on CBS: a shirtless Kennedy skating down Columbus Avenue, another shirtless shot – John playing frisbee on the back lawn of The Met Museum. Robert stops what he’s doing to watch with me. I read his thoughts before he speaks. He’s got this habit of regaling stories I already know; how he did private home catering for the Kennedys, how friendly and real they were, and on and on. His comments on the impending tragedy made me want to scream, “I’m the tragedy. I’d rather be him…MISSING…Free from explanations of my whereabouts, but wholly at peace in the knowledge that I…AM…Free.”
Turn off the television. Let’s drive to the county fair. We’ll drown our sorrows in maple syrup. We would, but we’re glued to the set. John, Carolyn, and his sister-in-law Lauren are still missing, and the photos keep coming. Only now it’s the two of them: John and Carolyn leaving their apartment, at their wedding, walking into a gala, out of a gala. I notice how in almost every John is kissing her from behind, and how effortlessly his arm drapes around her shoulders. He was always turning her to the camera as if he were treating the world to the elusive beauty that was his bride. That’s what I’m missing, I think — someone who resembled ease, who wanted ME more than the IDEA of me. With every flashing picture of John, I realize the man I married was the opposite of ease. I chose wrong, and like the current disaster unfolding before me on national television, it was in fact, preventable.
After two days of scouring the Atlantic Ocean, it surfaces…a piece of luggage with Lauren Bessette’s name. Then more pieces, bits of a rubber tire, some carry-ons, and finally the bodies; all three, upside down in the water, still strapped to their seats. The autopsy reveals that John, Carolyn, and Lauren all died on impact, a minor comfort in a sea of sorrow. For years I’ve read accounts of every flight instructor, pilot, and disaster specialist. I became a non-expert, “expert” in all things crash-related. I had to know what happened. If I couldn’t figure out my disaster, I’d solve someone else’s. I’d find that fateful ejection lever that leads to the end. There were many details, and countless contributing factors that led to the crash: the traffic they hit, their late departure, the weather, and the moon. But in the end, it didn’t matter, for this domino effect of unfortunate events kept pointing back to one thing…John. He didn’t have the experience to be flying in that weather, on that low moonlit night. He fell victim to something called spatial disorientation. It happens to pilots who are visually trained, but not instrument-rated. John knew this and planned for a daylight departure, but the traffic Lauren and Carolyn hit in Manhattan would push them into a twilight departure. A flight instructor at the airport who knew John was inexperienced at night, offers to co-pilot. But John refuses saying, “I want to do it on my own.” John would be flying solo in the dark, relying solely on his senses. But instead of landing safely in Hyannis Port on that hazy July night, his senses send him 1000 feet into the Atlantic Ocean. He couldn’t tell Earth from sky and neither could I.
The wedding of Rory Kennedy and Mark Bailey was postponed that day. I can’t imagine how that bride and groom felt when the celebratory atmosphere became funereal. How could they reconcile that the happiest day of their lives would be forever laced with what-ifs?
I pictured the Piper Saratoga going down in that ocean as if it were my life. The pictures of that plane in pieces morphed into memories of my engagement night. I recalled how Robert knelt in the sand, on a small beach in Martha’s Vineyard with a poem, his nerves, and a tiny black box. I recalled the wild waves thudding the sand with the sounds of the upcoming storm. I laughed, remembering how uncharacteristically lit my future husband was — a combination of too many cocktails and proposal butterflies. And how utterly responsible his drunk ass was, as he handed me the keys to our rental car, “You’re driving,” he said. I remembered how blindly I drove into that dense fog, relying on nothing but my impaired vision to guide me. With my high beams on, I still couldn’t see. I was guessing. Instead of my senses guiding me safely down the road to our quaint hotel, they send me the wrong way, down a one-way street…right into the warning lights of a police car. I was caught, but not arrested, for Robert came to my rescue, taking my left hand and proudly displaying my sparkly new ring. “Please, let us go officer. See? We’re engaged.”
July 19th, 1999 – The National Safety Board concluded that there was no instrument or navigational failure on the Piper Saratoga that night. John’s disorientation sent the plane into a spin, a graveyard spiral of epoch proportions, due to the pilot’s error. I had found my lever, in an answer that yielded no relief. The death of my relationship will always be synonymous with July 19th, 1999. You might say I was lucky, to never get caught, to land safely in the comfort of my slickness. I did it. I decimated my wedding vows. I did this to a man who was kind to me. That day, I knew my marriage was over. It took me six more years to leave the party.
Feature Image: Jacqui Kennedy Onassis, 4 November 1968, London. Keystone Press / Alamy Stock Photo.