Page 126 of Jackie

“I need you to be honest with me.”

“Of course.”

“My children—they are good children, aren’t they?”

“Certainly.”

“They’re not spoiled.”

“No, indeed.”

“The president loved the Green Room most. It was his favorite room. I want to do something in that room for him that he would love.”

Mr. West’s eyes fall. That he would have loved, I realize. That’s how I should have put it.

“Also, I’d like to give small gifts, things of Jack’s, to members of the staff. They’ve been so good to us. Will you help me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy.”

“Oh, Mr. West—” My voice starts to break then, and I can’t let it. So I thank him and leave, Clint beside me; we walk along the colonnade. I look out to the saucer magnolias planted in the four corners of the Rose Garden. They came from a tidal basin, their branches silvered pale. In the rain, they glow. I remember a day in August 1961, when Jack and I came ashore from the boat to Bunny Mellon’s house on Cape Cod. We’d come for a picnic and, as we walked toward the low dune, Jack said to me, “I’m going to ask Bunny to design a garden like the ones we saw in France.”

“You should do that, Jack,” I said.

“I’ll tell her I’ve read Jefferson’s gardening notes and I want the same flowers he would have had in his time.”

“And you’ll tell her you won’t take no for an answer.”

“That’s the easy part,” he said. “I never do.’’ He reached for me then and pulled me close, his arm around me, as the house came into view. Then his arm dropped, he drew slightly away, and it was there again, that thin layer of remove that only really broke down in those last few months, after Patrick.

—

Had we really begun to figure everything out?

—

I turn away from the Rose Garden. Clint and I continue walking.

…

“We’ll have to keep certain things,” I tell my mother. “I’ve drafted a list. Documents, letters, everything on his desk—notes, doodles, even things that seem like trash.”

My mother nods. “Yes.”

“And the suit,” I say. I see her face shift. “Have it stored just as it is.”

—

Because when these four days are over, the world will churn on. The world will forget, and I can’t let that happen.

—

I go to my room and lie down in that place on the bed where he will not be. I lie there and do not sleep. My mind is fire.

—

Saturday afternoon.

“I am going to walk with the caisson,” I tell Clint. “I’m letting you know now because you are the one Bobby will send to talk me out of it.”

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