Page 189 of Jackie

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I’m nearing the end of a stack of papers when a loose sheet falls out. I look more closely—my handwriting from when I was younger. These are the bones of desire. A few lines crossed out. The paper is torn. Only a fragment. I wonder why I would’ve kept it. For a moment I can’t place the context, then I do. A day years ago; we were not yet married. In Georgetown, at the corner of N Street, as Jack said goodbye, he touched my waist, leaned in, and kissed me briefly on the cheek. Something so pedestrian—a boy, a girl, a street corner. I’d filled pages, I remember now. Far more than just these lines. I start to shuffle through that pile, then untie the next and go through that too, but I find nothing else. I leave the papers strewn around. No neat ribboned bundles now, no order. I stand up, thirsty, but my head is light; I sit back down.

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One night years ago, at a dinner party, you were talking to Ben Bradlee about biography.

“What makes that kind of writing so fascinating,” you remarked, “is the struggle to answer the single question: What was he really like?”

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In history, you told me once, we turn toward what was lost because we crave the dream of a world that might have been.

…

I write out a will.

For Bunny Mellon, the eighteenth-century Indian miniature Lovers Watching Rain Clouds.

For Maurice, the Greek alabaster head of a woman.

For Alexander Folger, a copy of Jack’s inaugural address, signed by Robert Frost.

The White House things still in my possession will go to the Kennedy Library; the furniture, knickknacks, and other tangibles to Sotheby’s to be sold. My books I’ll leave to the children. My books and my houses and some money. And the vastest sky. And all the time in the world, which, when sooner turns to later, is the only currency we have.

…

In April, Carly invites me to lunch at her apartment on Central Park West. Joe Armstrong is there, as are my friends Peter Duchin; his wife, Brooke Hayward; and Ken Burns. I ask Ken about the documentary he’s finishing on the history of baseball.

“Is it true that Carly’s going to sing ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’?”

“Could we have it any other way?”

I laugh. “We could not.”

Joe asks how I’m feeling.

“It’s a nuisance,” I say. “Four more weeks, this treatment will be done, and I’ll get my life back. I’m going to spend the summer on the Vineyard.” They go on talking. I half listen, settling back into the sofa. I’m tired. But Caroline is bringing the children to visit tomorrow. I look forward to that. There are so many things, it seems, to look forward to. Carly is laughing now at something Joe said. Her extravagant strong-hearted laughter lights a room. I love how Carly laughs—without caution or distance or fear. We’ve talked together about how you can’t live your life on eggshells and live it well.

A few years ago, Carly and I were sitting in this same room. We’d decided to go to the movies. She was flipping through the listings, theaters, and showtimes. We were looking for something in the late afternoon, planning for dinner after.

“What about that new film JFK?” Carly said.

“I don’t actually think I could see that,” I said. Her head snapped up, eyes wide, horrified. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Oh, Jackie, I’m so sorry. I just forgot. I can’t believe I forgot.”

“And you have no idea how much I love that you forgot.”

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“I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they’ve gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.”

Catherine Earnshaw said this in Brontë’s Wuthering Heights.

It’s a passage I’ve always loved. It’s different to me now because of you.

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