Page 71 of Jackie

“When you’re back in Europe, Lee, I’d like your help. I’ve hired a designer for the White House who I have to pretend doesn’t exist.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s French. Stéphane Boudin. We will focus on American history, American design, but Stéphane has a truly unique talent, and if there’s an antique on your side of the Atlantic he recommends, I’ll need you to go see it for me. You can be my eyes.”

It’s the kind of project my sister will love. The conversation takes off, away from Jack.

—

I return to Washington for a state dinner and two other events, then the children and I fly to Palm Beach. Jack joins us for Easter. We stay with Joe, who insists Jack sit at the head of the table. When Jack refuses, his father’s fist comes down. “You’re the president now. That’s where you’ll sit.”

I almost point out that since Jack is president, he should be able to sit where he likes.

After dinner, when it’s just the three of us, Jack talks more openly about Cuba and a new proposed plan. The men, Cuban exiles covertly trained by the American military, will land at a different beach farther up the coast, near an inlet, the Bay of Pigs. The goal is to spark an organized resistance against Castro’s regime.

“They want air cover for the landing,” Jack says. “A B-52 strike to take out Castro’s air force.”

“Who is ‘they’?” Joe asks.

“CIA, the joint chiefs.”

“Then do it.”

Jack shakes his head. “Air strikes are noisy. The plan should be strong enough to succeed without them.”

“I disagree,” says Joe. “If it succeeds, it’s a huge win. You show the world, including Khrushchev, what you’re made of.”

“And if it doesn’t?” I say.

Joe looks at me, his eyes cool.

I stand up. “Well, that’s my cue to go and be a good mother.”

Joe laughs and says, “I’m sure you haven’t finished putting in your two cents.”

I smile back. “My two cents, Joe, will never equal your ten.”

—

Jack is quiet on the flight back to Washington, but his mind seems lighter, like the sun and the warmth have blown the dust off things. He sits in the row across from me, alone.

“You’ve decided, haven’t you?” I say as we begin our descent.

When we land, he leaves for a meeting in the West Wing, and the children and I go back to the Residence. It’s late by the time he comes home for dinner. I don’t have to ask what decision he’s made. I can read it in his face. Later, as we lie in bed, the air is full with what we don’t say. We listen to low strains of music playing on the Victrola. Ella Fitzgerald. When he falls asleep, I slip out of bed; the floor feels strangely cold under my feet as I cross the room, through the open door into the dressing room. As I lift the needle off the record, I know somehow in that silence he is making a mistake.

…

The following afternoon, Jack brings the British prime minister, Harold Macmillan, to the Residence to meet me. I’ve skimmed his briefing papers:

…shot through with Victorian languor…He walks with a slow, stiff shuffle that might cause some to think him incapable of serious action, but in fact he is masterful, dominating, shrewd—able to spring onto his toes like a ballet dancer.

Macmillan is tall, gray hair swept back, a high forehead, and an unruly mustache. His eyes droop, but he seems aged and wise, with a kind of shattering dignity, like an old tree. I like him immediately. I’ve heard rumors about his marriage—his wife and a torrid affair she kept up for years with a man named Boothby.

I mix cocktails for Jack and Macmillan as they pick up the conversation they began a few weeks ago when they met in Key West, about Laos, the political crisis there, and whether or not America should intervene.

I notice Jack doesn’t mention Cuba. I can feel he wants to. If Macmillan is advising against military intervention in Laos, what would his thoughts be on Cuba?

Before Macmillan leaves, I invite him to visit us at Glen Ora. Jack looks surprised.

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