Page 130 of Jackie

“I’d like you to come, Jackie.” That’s what you said a few weeks before Dallas. Then you added, “You’d be a great help.”

“That’s why you want me to come?” I teased you. “So I can be useful?”

“I want you with me.” It was strangely direct, the way you said it. Then you did that little awkward thing with your hair you used to do when we first met, pushing it back from your face, and I suddenly realized you were nervous. Even after ten years of marriage, it made you nervous to admit you needed me.

—

“I’ve changed my mind,” I tell Miss Shaw. “The children should stay here this morning. They don’t need to go to the Capitol. They can meet us at St. Matthew’s.”

I take the elevator down with Bobby and Teddy. The car comes around to the North Portico. We drive down Pennsylvania Avenue. I’m between Jack’s brothers as we enter the rotunda. We walk to the casket, kneel, rise, and walk back out the same door. A blaze of daylight. I reach for Bobby’s hand. At the base of the steps, we wait as Jack is carried down to us. We wait until he’s lifted onto the gun carriage. Then we climb back into the car.

“Unroll the window, please,” I say. Strains of the Marine Corps band drift as we flow down the road to the White House and a milling sea of world leaders. My mind starts to work through them, cataloging, like I used to do at a state dinner or event. De Gaulle, Prince Philip, the king of Belgium, the mayor of Berlin, Eamon de Valera, Queen Frederica, Haile Selassie.

All morning, Bobby says, there’ve been assassination threats. Dean Rusk has tried to talk Lyndon out of walking. They’ve tried to persuade De Gaulle to take a car, citing the nine attempts on his life so far. Just before we get out of the car, Bobby asks again if I really think it’s wise to walk.

“What does wise mean at this point?”

I take my place with Bobby and Teddy as the procession assembles. The cadets; the Marines; the Scottish Black Watch in their white spats, plumed headdresses, tartan kilts. The bagpipes begin; notes rend the air. I reach for Bobby, but after several steps I drop his hand and walk alone. Rows of people everywhere, along the sidewalk and gathered on the balconies above, children standing with solemn faces on the curb. I keep my eyes fixed on the riderless horse, the sheathed sword, empty saddle, boots reversed in the stirrups. It’s a huge gelding and the young soldier leading him is tall, but he can’t manage that horse. He can’t make it behave. Everything else is in such perfect order, not a beat off—all but that mad, lovely horse and the dissonant tattoo of its hooves on the street, the bright defiant glint of tack.

—

For you, history was never something bitter old men wrote. History, you told me once, makes us what we are. As we walk, I watch that horse and think of you as a boy in that small bedroom, reading stories of kings and warriors, the Knights of the Round Table, your Buchan and your Marlborough. For you, history was full of heroes. Human, flawed, dazzling.

—

At St. Matthew’s, I wait for the children. The car pulls up, and they scramble out in their pale-blue coats. I take them by the hand, and together we walk up the steps. I feel stronger when they’re with me. As I bend to kiss Cardinal Cushing’s ring, John starts to cry.

“Where is Daddy?”

“Shhh, darling,” I say, and he bites down gently on his lip, trying to be good, and for a moment I regret it.

During the service, I lose my composure only once, when Luigi Vena sings Ave Maria. Clint Hill leans forward to hand me a handkerchief, and I realize I’m crying. Caroline has edged her small body right up against mine, like she could hold me there, in place. John squirms on his seat, and I feel a stab of panic. I just need to get out, sweep them up in my arms, away from all this.

Mr. Foster picks up John and carries him away as Cardinal Cushing says, “May the angels, dear Jack…” His voice breaks. Caroline is still pressed right against me, and I can feel the riderless horse outside, waiting, the buck of that horse, its dark mad revolt, the weight of absence on its back.

—

Afterward, on the steps, Mr. Foster brings John to me.

They secure the casket to the caisson. The men salute. I lean down to John and whisper. He raises his hand to his brow.

I tell Clint I’ve changed my mind again. The children will not go to Arlington. He and Agent Foster work to find a car for the children. They’re taking someone’s car, asking the man and his wife to get out of it. They bundle the children in, and I am suddenly alone.

“Mrs. Kennedy,” Clint says. “It’s time to go.”

—

At the close of the ceremony at Arlington, following the gun salute, “Taps” is played. I take Bobby’s hand. The hill is awash in flowers.

…

Before heading upstairs to the children, I meet with De Gaulle, Selassie, and others at a reception in the Yellow Oval Room. I spend a few moments with De Gaulle. I show him the chest he’d sent as a gift after our visit to Paris. Daisies in a vase on top of it. I take one and give it to him.

“Souvenez-vous,” I say. Remember.

He puts the flower carefully in his jacket pocket. When he raises his eyes, the expression is not what I expect. Depth, a true sorrow.

He inclines toward me, a slight bow. “You have taught us how to grieve,” he says.

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