Page 95 of Jackie

“I don’t want Johnson in the Rose Garden with me,” says Bobby, “when I meet with King and the others.”

He can be so scrappy. Fists swinging. He and Lyndon don’t get along, but they come down on the same side of civil rights. I’ve heard that Johnson complains Bobby’s just using a pop gun when he could pull out the cannon.

“Use Lyndon with the Southern whites,” I say. “He’ll make it a Christian issue, a moral issue. They respect that kind of courage.”

I use that last word intentionally. Bobby won’t notice, but it will register with Jack. Cowards and courage. I know that.

—

While Jack is in Europe, the children and I will go to Hyannis Port. He’ll meet us there in July. The night before I leave Washington, Bob McNamara and I watch a replay of Jack’s speech in Berlin, where he talks about the Wall and the perils of division. I rewind that moment when he cries to the crowd, “Ich bin ein Berliner!”—I am a Berliner!—so we can watch it again.

“He worked hard to become a strong speaker,” I say. “He wasn’t always, you know.”

I draw another tape off the shelf and hand it to Bob. “This is a speech he gave in the fifties, when he was still quite terrible at it. Watch it sometime; you’ll see the change for yourself.”

It’s curious what happens then. McNamara seems almost reluctant to take the tape. Finally, he does. So interesting, though. Jack’s men. They don’t want to see his flaws, his weakness, or his humanness. They want to imagine he’s just sprung into their midst—godlike, fully formed.

…

That summer, we’ve rented a different house, a short distance away from the family compound, isolated, at the end of Squaw Island. I swim in the mornings with the children and spend afternoons in the sunroom on the second floor, reading Grimal’s The Civilization of Rome and writing memos to send down to the East Wing staff. I order a dress for the baby’s christening in October. I create a scrapbook for Jack. It’s our tenth anniversary this fall. I fall asleep to the lash of the surf against the rocks while the moon rips the surface of the sea. Sometimes it feels like a dream, those nights alone in the house with the children, moody and ethereal, like it’s only the three of us, the sea, and the sky.

—

On July 28, I turn thirty-four. Our friend David Ormsby-Gore gives me a book called The Fox in the Attic, about Hitler in Munich and the rise of fascism. Averell Harriman arrives with a jar of caviar so large it has to be wheeled in. A birthday gift from Khrushchev. The contrast makes me laugh.

“He’s trying to say he might play by the rules,” I tell Jack when he arrives that weekend. “Perhaps he’ll agree to sign your test-ban treaty.”

Jack shakes his head. “Khrushchev’s sense of rules is too fungible to be considered rules, but it’s a limited treaty, so he’ll sign it.”

—

I take John to Caroline’s riding lesson one morning in early August. Jack’s in Washington for the week. I’m standing by the fence at the ring, holding John’s hand, when I feel the world swim, a wave of weakness. I grip the fence and turn to the agent near me, but it isn’t Clint—where’s Clint? Is it his day off? Mr. Landis. Is that who it is? My head so light, the air blurs.

“Mr. Landis, I’m not feeling well. I need to go back to the house.”

The pain shoots through my body as we drive on the bumpy dirt road. Faster, please, Mr. Landis. I’ve begun to sweat. My skin hot and cold at the same time, the fear rising, I can’t breathe, my throat tight. I think I’m going to have that baby. Please, Mr. Landis. The hospital.

They fly me by helicopter to the hospital at Otis Air Force Base. Dr. Walsh is with me. Clint drives up as we land.

“It’s your day off,” I say.

“It’s going to be okay, Mrs. Kennedy.” He stays with me, walking alongside as they rush me into the wing they’ve prepared.

“You’ve told the president, Mr. Hill?”

“He’s already left Washington. He’s on his way.”

“Thank you,” I say, because I need to say something. I need him to read my mind and reassure me again, even with that fear in his eyes, that everything will be okay.

—

Jack is there when I wake up. The room very sharp and white. His face.

“Where’s the baby?” I say.

“There’s a problem with his lungs.”

“Like John?”

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