Page 137 of Jackie

“I promise,” I say.

Satisfied, he trots out but stops in the doorway, looking at something around the door. The paintings, I realize, as he takes the lollipop out of his mouth and leans to kiss the canvas.

“Good night, Daddy,” he says.

…

Days slip by. The sunlight tidal. It creeps in, floods the room, recedes.

—

It feels bizarre, even cruel, how the world continues.

—

What did you know, before it happened?

You didn’t want to go to Dallas. You could feel it, couldn’t you? The hatred lying in wait. They talked you into going. They said everything would be fine.

How much has been lost for the sake of that word—fine?

—

Someone is home. John and Nanny Shaw. I hear his small voice. Footsteps below. I should get up and go downstairs. It’s cold—the should.

—

Nighttime again. The children stand at the foot of my bed. They want to kiss me good night. Sweet, pinched faces, miles away.

…

Still Bobby comes.

Beloved.

Familiar.

—

“How are you?” he says, just like always.

—

The world is hardly there.

—

“What can I do for you, Jackie? What do you need?”

—

I need Jack.

I need everything back the way it was. Even the things that infuriated me, the things we had not yet dealt with. I miss them now, desperately. What else could I possibly need?

January 1964

Outside this interim house that is not mine (lent to me, as much of my life, it seems, has been lent), crowds linger on the sidewalk. They call my name and leave bouquets of flowers and gifts, offerings that get trampled, stolen, knocked over.

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