Page 87 of Jackie

A hostile letter arrives from Khrushchev, stating the U.S. blockade is a violation of terms. In the letter, he implies his ships will run it.

—

Jack comes back late—two, three in the morning.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I told our men to postpone the challenge to Khrushchev’s first ship, an oil tanker, the Bucharest. I sent word to Khrushchev suggesting we both hold up until we can talk. I’m not sure it was the right thing to do. It puts the ball in his court. Gives him time.”

“John’s fever is down,” I say. He looks startled and I realize he’d forgotten, then he looks relieved.

—

On Friday two messages come in, private Teletype direct from Khrushchev, appealing to Jack to de-escalate and offering consideration of terms.

—

Jack sends me to Glen Ora with the children. He promises to join us the following day.

Early on Sunday, the news is announced that the two nations have reached an agreement.

—

I’m waiting for him when the helicopter touches down. As we walk inside, he tells me he can only stay for a few hours. We go into the bedroom to talk. Yesterday, he says, it all nearly derailed. An American U-2 plane was shot down, the pilot killed, and McNamara contended that war was not just imminent but inevitable. Jack waited, though. No retaliation, he told McNamara. Not yet. He sent another private message back to Khrushchev, promising to withdraw missiles from Turkey if they could reach terms on Cuba, but he also said that if the compromise on Turkey leaked out, the United States would deny it. Khrushchev conceded and agreed to remove Soviet missile sites from Cuba.

“You must feel good about what you’ve done, Jack,” I say.

“Well, it’s done.”

I smile. “Give yourself half a day to enjoy it.”

“Can’t get complacent.”

Just a month ago we were looking at portraits of Lincoln, the progression of his face during his years in the White House. “Older and older, like what’s happening to me,” Jack had remarked.

“Something else,” he says to me now. “I need you at home to plan some victory dinners.”

“You mean home at the White House?”

“Yes.”

“I can do that.”

“And you should know we’ve agreed to seize Cuba and make Bobby mayor of Havana.”

I smile. I’ve bitten down one of my nails. I take a nail file from the bureau and start to work on the torn edge.

Jack

A Sunday in November, Glen Ora.

The rim of the tub digs into his shoulder, that spot where the muscle weaves against the collarbone. It’s not an unpleasant pain. Dave Powers sits on the toilet, reading off appointments for the upcoming week.

As he sinks deeper into the warm water, he thinks about his life. He’s forty-five years old. There’s less future loaded into him than past.

His wife walks in.

Her white shirt wrinkled from being tucked into her riding pants, but she’s not wearing pants, nothing but the shirt, boots, a riding whip in her hand. It’s unexpectedly violent, the whip and that glimpse of her thigh. Intentional. Her head tips toward her shoulder and she looks at Dave Powers, who is trying to keep his eyes focused on her face.

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