Page 146 of Jackie

“Where was he?”

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It’s a strange power the dead have—not to cross over or enter the physical sphere but to step down on the heart.

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“What were the last words he said to you, Mrs. Kennedy—your husband, the president, do you remember what he said?”

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Take off your sunglasses, Jackie, so they can see you.

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Turn on the lights. I want them to see you.

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Say, maybe I can take you for a drink someplace?

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Don’t tell me you’re a romantic, Jack, I teased you once.

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You shook your head and grinned. Nope. An idealist without illusions.

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“You’re not going to answer?” the writer says, almost sneers. He seems annoyed.

“No,” I say.

“Let’s go back. Once more. Tell me again what you remember as the car was moving toward the tunnel.”

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Over a year ago, your last winter, I watched you walk out on the South Lawn with Charlie. The snow was up to your knees. You’d throw a stick, and the dog would fly after it, dig that stick from the snow, then rush back to drop it at your feet. It went on for half an hour. Just this. You throwing the stick, Charlie fetching it back, the stark and gentle winter lawn, bare trees, and the dog moving through the snow. That chromatic light. I watched you from the window, wanting only to stay there, watching you, in that forever of an ordinary moment.

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“The tunnel, Mrs. Kennedy?”

My mind snaps back.

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Everything and nothing. The shade of the tunnel, how much I craved that dark—it was so hot—but we’ve already been over that, I’ve already told them all how it felt like the sun was stripping our faces. I had my sunglasses on. You told me to take them off. Then there was that sound, and the sky tore.

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“Mrs. Kennedy, is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

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The smell of salt, your hair blown around in the wind, sunlight on your skin.

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