Page 113 of Jackie

I laugh. “How dim of me not to remember.”

“It was in the papers. Kenny saw it and told me.”

“I don’t trust Texas, Jack. Connally—I hate his big soft mouth.”

“You mustn’t use that word.”

“Mouth?”

“Hate.” He looks at me. “Let’s give Mrs. J. Lee Johnson a call.”

“She’s probably a Republican.”

“I’m sure she’s a Republican.”

“Do we have time?”

“Always.”

“If that was true, you wouldn’t need to rush me to get here and there, would you?”

“The faster you get down to things like ballroom breakfasts, the more time you have with me.” He smiles as he says it. It’s not the kind of thing he’d usually say, and he’s only half serious. That’s how he talks around things he cares about—he floats them out in a teasing way, making a joke, testing the air or the heart.

He picks up the phone and asks the operator to help hunt up this Mrs. Johnson III. I study the Van Gogh on the wall. The paint does not seem dry.

“Well, Mrs. Johnson,” Jack says into the receiver, “Mrs. Kennedy would like to express her thanks to you as well. Let me get her for you.”

He holds out the receiver, and I take it.

—

“That was nice,” I say, hanging up.

“Come to California with me.”

“Is that the next trip?”

“In two weeks.”

There’s a knock on the door.

“Open,” he shouts. He’s still looking at me, waiting for my answer.

“I guess I’ll go anywhere with you, Jack.”

The papers Kenny O’Donnell brings in include The Dallas Morning News turned to a black-bordered full page and a large headline that reads: Welcome Mr. Kennedy to Dallas.

“It isn’t good,” Kenny says. “This either.” He tosses another paper on the table, with a half-page article about how Jack has failed to recognize the needs of the South.

“I was looking forward to the treason leaflets myself,” Jack says. “Got one of those for me?”

Kenny digs into his jacket pocket and tosses one down. I pick it up. Two photographs of Jack—mug-shot style, one face forward, one at profile. Underneath in large type:

Wanted

For

Treason

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