Page 85 of Jackie

Home at the end of August. We spend the weekend as a family in Newport. Caroline and I share stories of our trip. Before Jack leaves for Washington, he asks me to go for a walk on the beach. He tells me about simmering tensions with the Soviets in Berlin. Riots along the Wall. There are reports he’s seen that contradict other accounts. Things don’t add up.

“Other accounts?”

“While you were gone, we learned Khrushchev sent troops to Cuba. We thought it was just defensive, but last week a U-2 plane spotted what looks like missiles in Cuba.”

“So you’ll respond?”

“Some response. But I can’t give him a reason to stir up Berlin.”

We continue walking; he shifts topics—a game of golf he played last week, a movie he saw while I was away. He jokes that he managed to sit all the way through it. I tell him about a message I received from the curator at the National Gallery, who’s starting to fret about France’s loan of the Mona Lisa and her transatlantic voyage.

“He’s afraid of the risk,” I say.

“Life is risk,” Jack says. It’s a gorgeous day, the air soft and cool; it all feels a little weightless—the anecdotes, the ritual exchange. He tells me about a two-day trip he’s taking to Texas in September. NASA has finished the new spacecraft center of research and development for the Apollo program. The Mercury 7, including John Glenn, will go with him. Jack tells me Lyndon thinks this trip could galvanize national support for the space program.

“We need people to understand this is a choice we’re making as a country. It may not always be easy, but that freedom to choose is a distinctly American freedom.”

“And in space, there’s no Berlin Wall.”

He smiles. “Eisenhower’s crew are griping about the cost.”

“Did you say you’d be away mid-September? What day exactly?”

“September twelfth, I think.”

“Our anniversary.”

A pause in the air. He hadn’t remembered.

…

Joe flies to Washington for a visit. A bright October afternoon. When the children wake up from their naps, I bundle them into the car. We drive to meet him at the airport.

I push Joe’s wheelchair into the Lincoln Bedroom.

“You’ll stay here,” I say, kissing him on the cheek. “Tonight we’ll have dinner with Jack, and tomorrow I’ve canceled everything to have the day just with you. I want to show you the designs we’ve made for Lafayette Square, the buildings we’re preserving—they are so old and beautiful, Joe. You will love this project. The architect’s nickname is, of all things, Rosebowl. Some ex–football star. He and I were just talking yesterday about how meaningful it is to spruce up the world a bit, if you have the chance, leave it better than you found it. You understand that, dear Joe, don’t you?”

He looks at me—his sweet, incomplete smile—an intermingling of grief and gratitude in his eyes.

—

The next morning, Jack and I are still in bed when Mac Bundy brings in photographs of ballistic missiles armed with nuclear warheads near Cristobal, Cuba. Large enough to reach the United States.

“Khrushchev can’t do this to me,” Jack says. He pulls on his clothes and strides out. Later, when he comes home, his face is strained.

“Don’t ask,” he says. “For now, the less you know, the better.”

“What do you need from me?”

“Go about your day as planned.”

“I’m with your father all day.”

“Good. And we’ve got that dinner in Georgetown tonight.”

“Won’t you need to be here?”

“Bobby can be me where I need him.” I realize it then. He’s already slipping Bobby into meetings with his core group of advisors from the National Security Council: the ExComm. Bobby is the only one he trusts.

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