Page 61 of Jackie

“When the press comes at you,” says Bobby, “what are you going to say?”

“That I called Mrs. King because it was the right thing to do.”

“That’ll look like grandstanding.”

“Even if I win, there’ll be consequences for that call. They’ll expect a lot from me.”

“And if you lose?”

“I’ll go write another book.”

—

When Pierre Salinger hands him a copy of The Chicago Defender with the photo of King reunited with his family, it’s the daughter who catches his eye. About six, in a pale dress, black patent-leather shoes, white socks, a cardigan sweater, small bows in her hair. She stands by her mother’s elbow, that shining wonder in her face, a little girl staring up at her father like she can’t quite believe he’s returned to her.

Over the next few days, the press tweaks the story of that phone call to Coretta King, adding more raw emotion, more humanity, softer phrases, words he never used.

“You said that to her, Jack?” Salinger says.

“Can you imagine me saying that?”

“Seems to be working. Even the Times reported today, Kennedy gaining strength in Southern states once meant for Nixon…”

“And the Southern whites?”

“Jury’s still out,” says Salinger.

“That jury’s always out.”

“I like to think the jury will see things your way on November eighth.”

He shakes his head. “That’s the day that, if I win, they’ll start to love me less.”

—

The final two weeks of the campaign.

Tuesday: Philadelphia to Los Angeles.

Wednesday: San Francisco.

Thursday: Phoenix, New Mexico, Oklahoma.

Friday: Virginia, then a torchlight parade in Chicago, where 1.5million turn out for a rally at the stadium. Mayor Richard Daley introduces him as “the Irish Prince.”

The following night, the plane touches down long after midnight in Bridgeport, Connecticut. From the airport, the motorcade snakes through the Naugatuck Valley, headlights brushing the stubbled green of trees. For twenty-five miles through town after town, crowds flank the route—lanterns, flashlights, flares. Hands wave, faces lit, nightgowns, pajamas, and slippers under winter coats. They’ve tumbled from their beds to line the road. Thousands. They chant. The cold dark is filled with his name.

November 9, 1960, Hyannis Port

When I wake, it is night still. The light has just begun to rise. Muffled sounds in the yard below. I pull the curtain back and see them. Dark forms. The number seems to have doubled. They move differently, a certain necessary intention and skill. I can hear Jack’s light snore from the bed, still in the dark of the room; I want to crawl back under the covers, move close to him, be in that same dark. My throat feels tight. I watch the men below. My fingernails dig into the sill. What will happen now? To our life? The children? My freedom and solitude, the new glow of happiness between us? Everything, from this point on, will change.

The baby kicks. I run my hand over my stomach, find the knob of one small shoulder.

The night before, I had a quiet dinner with Bill Walton. We asked him to stay with us, in the guest bedroom of the small house Jack and I have rented near Joe’s. Bill and I sat together in the dining room after we ate, and we talked about painting. We talked about how if Jack won, I’d need a house away.

“What about Camp David?” Walton asked.

“Sometimes I’ll need away-away,” I said.

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