Page 30 of Jackie

…

On June 25, we are in The New York Times.

Senator Kennedy to Marry in Fall

Son of Former Envoy is Fiancé of

Miss Jacqueline Bouvier, Newport Society Girl

I have to resign from the Times Herald. I knew it was coming; perhaps I’d known all along. Jack doesn’t ask me to, which I appreciate, but I bring it up so he won’t have to. We’re at Martin’s. Brunch. Our table. The leaves are full and green on the trees. We order root beer floats. I ask for extra whipped cream.

“I know Eleanor Roosevelt had her own column,” I say, “but that was different, the focus was different, and she was the president’s wife. I’m sure there were strict orders on what she could and could not say. I can’t imagine the ambassador would appreciate having his, or your, ambitions at odds with anything the Inquiring Camera Girl might want to ask.”

He laughs, then, “Dad did ask if you were going to keep working. But I don’t want you to feel you have to stop.”

“I know,” I say.

…

Joe summons us to Hyannis Port. A family weekend, he calls it. Once we’re there, he mentions he’s invited a few people from Life magazine to stop by. He says it like he’s explaining why there will be green beans instead of broccoli for dinner.

“They want to do a story on the engagement,” he says.

I say, “You mean you want them to do a story.”

He grins. “Well, there might be a little of that.”

—

The crew from Life is there the next day. Jack and I are arranged, made up, our clothes styled casual, collars unbuttoned, sneakers barely tied, hair windblown, just enough. They snap photographs of me swinging a baseball bat and running with a football. Someone suggests the sailboat.

“I’m not really dressed for a sail,” I say to the editor.

“We only need you in there for the shot.”

“Of course,” I say, wondering if I’ll ever fit in the corners of this life I play so well. We climb into the boat and set off, Jack at the tiller. I’m beside him, the photographer crammed in the bow, asking me to move closer to Jack and asking Jack to tack, please, so it will look like we’re out in open water. The boat starts to heel; the photographer slides.

“That’ll cockeye the horizon,” I say quietly to Jack.

“Just look happy,” he says. “Almost done.”

An hour later, back on land, they ask him to hold my hand for a series of shots on the lawn.

“Put your arm around her,” the editor says, and he does, but we’re awkward, his arm like a metal hanger draped over my shoulders.

“It feels so fake,” he says under his breath. “I never stand like this. I hate being fake.”

“It’s all fake, Jack.”

He starts to laugh. They snap the picture then.

—

At the end of the day, after the crew has packed up their tripods and cameras and left, as I’m walking from the kitchen with my book and a glass of water, I overhear Bobby, Jack, and Joe in the sunroom. I hear my name. They’re talking about me like I’m some kind of asset, like I’m the state of Rhode Island. I feel a sharp chill and sit down.

There’s still a chance to get out.

But he’s brilliant. A maverick thinker, and when I am with him, I can feel my edges burn. He’s almost died three times. He is by turns impatient and nonchalant. He has Addison’s disease, recurrent malaria, and a spinal condition. The left side of his body is smaller than the right, shoulder lower, left leg shorter. He’s a clumsy dresser, lanky, that unruly shock of hair. He’s known, too well, for his sexual exploits, every woman smoothing her skirt when he enters a room like the room belongs to him, and—poof!—in seconds, it does.

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