Page 72 of Jackie

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On Wednesday, April 12, during a press conference, a reporter asks Jack, “Mr. President, have you reached a decision on how far this country will be willing to go in helping an anti-Castro uprising or invasion of Cuba?”

“There will not, under any conditions, be an intervention in Cuba. This government will do everything it possibly can to make sure there are no Americans involved in any actions in Cuba.”

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Friday morning, he asks if I’ll take another walk with him. A brilliant morning. The lawns stretch away from us—the light sharp, the sky that steep, untampered blue. We walk down to the pond.

“I have to approve or cancel air strikes in Cuba by noon,” he says. “An hour from now.”

“And?”

“I don’t know.” He picks up a stone, brushes off the wet dirt, and turns it in his hand.

“Something else,” he says. “That Russian’s space flight. I’ve called a meeting later today. Khrushchev’s too far ahead. We have to catch up.”

It’s been all over the news. Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin—the first human being to orbit the earth—was fired off in a Vostok rocket from the Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan. Shortly after Gagarin landed, Khrushchev issued a statement proclaiming Russia’s lead in the space race.

“You sent a telegram to Khrushchev, didn’t you, Jack? Congratulating him and expressing a desire to share resources, research.”

“I sent it.” That’s all he says. The American space program hadn’t been a priority. Three years ago, after Sputnik, Eisenhower established an organization called NASA to map strategies that might close the so-called “missile gap.” Until now, though, there’d been no push, no sense of urgency. Gagarin’s flight—and the explosion of press around it—has changed that.

“I have to get back,” he says. “I need to decide on the air strikes.”

“You’ll make the right decision.”

I feel a heaviness inside him as we cross the lawn. I reach for his hand.

He heads toward the office. I head to the Residence. At the end of the hall, I look back. He isn’t there. I knew he would have already turned the corner, but I look for him anyway. I walk upstairs and pack reports I’ll read over the weekend to prepare for next week’s visit from the Greek prime minister. I throw in a copy of Edith Hamilton’s book The Greek Way.

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Jack flies to us in Glen Ora the next day. The helicopter touches down just before lunch. I walk out to meet him and know from his face things haven’t gone well.

It all looked on track at first, he tells me, but by 11, the UN was involved.

“Then Adlai will handle it,” I say.

“He still doesn’t know. He can’t know and, at the same time, deny U.S. involvement.”

I stand still for a moment, light currents of air shifting through my skull. Jack has allowed the United States to back a covert military invasion, and his UN ambassador hasn’t been told.

“What’s for lunch?” he says.

“Hamburgers,” I say slowly.

“Good. Let’s eat, then we’ll take a drive over to the steeplechase races.”

“Why did you come here today, Jack? Not that I don’t want you here, but it seems like you’d be able to handle things better from Washington.” We’ve almost reached the house.

“It’s out of my hands, Jackie.” His jaw is set. “I’m not going to stay and oversee something the United States isn’t involved with.”

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He doesn’t last at the steeplechase. When I come back to Glen Ora, I find him whacking golf balls in the back pasture. Strong, hard strikes. He aims for the horizon without looking at it; he just sets the next ball down on the tee.

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