Page 110 of Jackie

The route is lined with people, hands waving, banners, flags.

“Jack, look,” I say, pointing to a massive cardboard sign.

Jackie

Come Water-Ski

in

Texas

Dave Powers glances at me, then at Jack. “They’re here for her,” he says.

—

That night at the Rice Hotel as we’re finishing dinner in our suite, the Johnsons come in. Lady Bird wants to know what she can arrange for our visit to their ranch.

“I’m sure Jackie will want to ride,” she says. “But what about you, Mr. President?”

“I’ll ride with Jackie,” he says, as if riding horses with me is the most natural thing in the world. He asks an aide to have the White House ship his riding pants to the Austin Air Force Base.

“My trousers, Lady Bird, will meet us at your house.”

—

“I like them,” I say as the door closes behind the Johnsons.

Jack laughs. “You used to call them Colonel Cornpone and his little Porkchop.”

“They’re kind,” I say.

“Do you think she’ll ever call me Jack?”

“On the last day of your presidency. Or maybe the day after.”

—

We’re alone, and he tells me then about the oxygen chamber he saw earlier that day at the aerospace center. He’s sitting at a small desk, digging a pen into a doodle on the hotel stationery.

“I pulled one of the scientists aside,” he says, “to ask if space medicine would have saved Patrick.”

Every time he says Patrick’s name, I feel a shift in him, like the name is a key that unlocks a door that swings open into a pool of dark. He keeps on with the doodle, silent.

“It’s time to get ready, Jack.”

“I know.”

I cross the room and kiss his cheek. I see it then, the sketch on the hotel stationery. A sailboat.

“I love that, Jack. Look how fast it’s going. But no one is in it. Who has the tiller?”

“He’s behind the sail.”

“Why’s that kite up in the corner?”

“That’s the sun.”

“Shaped like a diamond. Reluctant abstractionist, you. Are you sure it’s not a kite?”

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