The Second Marriage, page 22
Why was she there? Why wasn’t she with Jack? None of these people loved him. He needed her more than he had ever needed her. She must be by his side when he died.
Suddenly she made a decision, stood up, and pushed through the swinging doors. No one stopped her this time. Inside she saw Jack lying on a narrow bed, wearing only blue boxer shorts. Tan lines from the summer marked his legs and arms. There was bandaging around his head and his eyes were closed.
The doctors turned but didn’t stop her from approaching. Jack didn’t look himself anymore. She had often watched his face in sleep, when the frown lines softened and his jaw relaxed, but this was different. His features were tightening as death took hold.
She bent and kissed him on the lips, and he didn’t kiss back.
“A priest is coming, Mrs. Kennedy,” someone said, but she knew it was too late. Jack had gone. She wasn’t sure of the exact moment when his spirit had risen out of his body, but she knew he wasn’t there now.
She slipped off her wedding ring and pushed it onto his little finger. Was there still a realm in which he could sense her presence? Was his spirit in the room, watching them?
The priest arrived, very somber, and made the sign of the cross over Jack, anointing him with holy oil and murmuring about forgiveness of sins and eternal blessing. There should have been some comfort in the words. Wasn’t that the point of religion? But there was none.
“Bring him back!” she wanted to scream. Jesus had raised Lazarus. Why couldn’t one of the learned men in this room perform a miracle?
Instead they formally pronounced him dead, citing the time of death as 1:00 P.M. exactly.
There was a lump in her throat, as if a rock were lodged there, but she didn’t cry. She felt frozen, trapped in the horror of the moment.
She took Jack’s hand, lacing her fingers through his. It was the saddest thing in the world to hold the hand of the person you loved and not feel any response at all, not even the tiniest flicker of a muscle.
There was only one person she wanted to tell about this, and he had gone forever. She was alone.
Act III
Chapter 41
Paris
November 22, 1963
Maria was dining with Maggie van Zuylen and two other friends at Le Train Bleu, a smart restaurant above the Gare de Lyon, when the maître d’ made an announcement.
“Mesdames et messieurs,” he called out. “Terrible news from America. President Kennedy has been shot dead.”
The murmur of chatter stopped, and forks clattered onto plates as a shockwave traveled around the restaurant. For a few seconds there was silence. Maria looked at her companions, suddenly petrified.
“Can it be true?” Maggie asked. “I don’t believe it.”
“He had a lot of enemies,” a man at the next table said, leaning over. “It could have been the Russians.”
“Or the Mafia,” someone else suggested.
“No, the Mafia would hit Bobby Kennedy if they were going for anyone. He’s the one who’s been locking them up.”
“What about the Ku Klux Klan? Could it be them?”
“You met him, didn’t you?” Maggie asked Maria, and all heads in the vicinity turned toward her.
“I did. He was charming. I can’t take it in.” She shivered as if someone had walked over her grave, and she wrapped her arms around her shoulders. Suddenly she felt an urgent need to get back to her apartment. She wanted to be safely within her own four walls and she wanted to talk to Ari. “I’m going home.” She scraped her chair back and stood.
“You’ve hardly touched your meal,” Maggie protested. “Let’s finish, then we can leave together. It might not even be true. You know how false rumors spread.”
“I want to go home and check if it’s on the television news,” Maria said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll hail a taxi.”
She picked up her purse and raced for the door. Several other customers had also decided to leave and there was a line at the cloakroom, but as soon as she exited the doorman found her a cab. She felt panicky as the city lights flashed past. It took her right back to the campaign of intimidation against her at La Scala. When you were in the public eye, you were always vulnerable. It just took one crazy person with a gun, and your life could be over.
She dashed into the apartment, and before taking off her shoes or coat, she dialed the number of the hotel in Hamburg where Ari was staying while he supervised work on a new oil tanker.
“I’m afraid his line is engaged,” the receptionist said. “Do you want to hold?”
“Yes, please.”
She sat down at the telephone table, phone in hand. Bruna came into the hall.
“Did Ari ring when I was out?” Maria asked, covering the mouthpiece with her hand.
“No, madame, not since you spoke to him earlier. Can I get you anything?”
“A brandy,” she said. “Please.”
She sat waiting, listening to the clicks and a hint of indistinct voices speaking German at a telephone exchange hundreds of miles away.
“I’m putting you through,” the receptionist said after almost ten minutes.
“You heard the news?” Maria began as soon as his voice came on the line.
“It’s shocking. I can hardly believe it.”
“Nor I. Is it definitely true? Is he really dead?”
“He is,” Ari said. “They got him to the hospital within minutes but he was declared dead half an hour later. Lyndon Johnson was sworn in as president on board Air Force One.”
She could hear a television in the background and guessed that was where he was getting his information. “Who did it? Do they have any idea?”
“The newscaster is saying that a policeman was shot and killed trying to apprehend a man who fled the scene. I hope they’ll catch him soon. It’s a terrible day for the world.”
“Are you alright, darling?” she asked.
“I’m fine. How about you?”
She told him about the announcement in the restaurant and the nervous chatter as everyone speculated on who could have done it and why. “I couldn’t stay. It was too upsetting.”
“I wish I could be with you,” he said. “At times like this, you feel you should be with your loved ones, holding them close.”
“I wish that too. Is it too late for me to jump on a plane to Hamburg?” She glanced at the clock, only half-joking.
“We need a time machine,” he replied. “It could bring you to me instantly, whenever I need you, and it could also go back in time and have someone shoot the man who assassinated Kennedy before he could open fire.”
Neither wanted to hang up; they said “I love you” many times and whispered goodbye, then held on longer, listening to each other’s breathing along the telephone wires.
MARIA SAT UP watching television till she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, and the next morning she turned on her radio as soon as she awoke, feeling she had to hear every last detail. Only then could she begin to make sense of it. France Inter had nonstop coverage, and Maria learned that a man called Lee Harvey Oswald had been arrested and charged with shooting the president. The name meant nothing to her.
When the morning papers arrived, most featured a front-page picture of Mrs. Kennedy standing by Lyndon Johnson as he was sworn in. She was gaunt, eyes round and staring, clearly in shock, with smears of her husband’s blood on her suit. Maria’s heart went out to her. It was inhuman that she was being photographed straight after such an appalling trauma. Why was no one protecting her?
Mrs. Kennedy was said to be in the White House, planning her husband’s funeral. Bobby Kennedy had met her when the plane landed in Washington. Maria guessed Lee would fly out to join her. She was probably on her way.
Details were sparse, so the newscasters kept repeating the same story, finding eyewitnesses to give their accounts. It was only in repetition that Maria could begin to feel it had really happened. She invited Bruna to join her in listening to the radio, and they discussed the minutiae. Where had the president’s protection officers been? Why were they traveling in an open car? Presidents had been assassinated before—these things happened in America—but somehow this killing felt earth-shattering. He’d been so young, so eloquent, so good-looking.
At six that evening—the time they always spoke when they were apart—Maria rang Ari’s hotel.
“I’m afraid he’s checked out,” the receptionist told her.
That was odd. He hadn’t said he was leaving Hamburg. And then it occurred to her that he might be on his way to Paris. Perhaps he would arrive that evening. She smiled, with a quiver of excitement.
“What’s for dinner?” she called to Bruna. “Is there enough if we have an unexpected guest?”
She touched up her makeup, just in case, but Ari had not arrived by dinnertime. She opened a bottle of champagne and sipped one glass, then another, while watching television, but when Ari had not arrived by midnight, she started to get anxious. They always spoke in the evening, no matter what. Had something happened to stop him?
She couldn’t sleep for worrying that he had been in an accident. Perhaps he was dead too. The idea took root in her head and she obsessed through the early hours, tossing and turning till the sheets were tangled in knots.
She must have dozed off toward dawn but was awakened a couple of hours later by the sound of the telephone. Straightaway she leapt out of bed and rushed to the hall to take the receiver from Bruna, bracing herself for bad news.
“Oh, thank God!” she cried when she heard Ari’s voice. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Washington, D.C. I flew out to see if I could be of any help to the Kennedy family. My plane landed just a couple of hours ago.”
Maria was stunned. It made no sense. “Surely they’ll want privacy at a time like this. You can’t just walk in offering your services …”
“I was invited,” Ari said. “I’m staying in the White House. That’s where I’m calling from.”
Maria frowned. “But you hardly know Mrs. Kennedy. You spent two weeks with her, and suddenly you are a close confidant?” She paused, and then the truth dawned on her. “Did Lee invite you? You’re still sleeping with her. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“No, Maria, no.” His voice was soothing. “Lee and Jacqueline are friends of mine so I’m here to support them in their hour of need. I was surprised when they invited me but it would have been bad manners to refuse.”
“Friends?” She raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure about that?”
She couldn’t shake off her suspicions about Lee, but a transatlantic telephone call was no place to argue with him. They probably taped calls at the White House. Perhaps the FBI listened in.
“I wish you had called me last night,” she said instead. “I’ve been worried sick.”
“I know, I’m sorry I missed our call but when the invitation came I rushed to catch the first flight. I’ll call you again this evening at six your time. It’s nighttime here so I must try to get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”
His voice was gravelly with tiredness. She was reluctant to hang up, though. Then she would have to wait nine hours till she spoke to him again.
“Have you seen your room?” she asked. “What’s it like?”
“It’s adequate. Simple decoration and a rather too-firm mattress. But I could sleep on a plank of wood right now if I had to.”
“When will you be back? When will I see you?” she asked, hating herself for sounding desperate.
“I’ll come to Paris straight after the funeral,” he promised. “I miss you. I love you so much.”
When he hung up, she tried to feel reassured by those last words, but they weren’t enough to quell the sickening anxiety she felt at the thought of him staying in the White House, with Lee wandering around in an emotional state, seeking comfort … it felt as if he were slipping away from her and into the arms of the Radziwill woman, and there was no way she was going to sit back and let that happen. She would fight it with every bone in her body. But how?
Chapter 42
Washington, D.C.
November 25, 1963
Jackie lay wide awake, despite the Amytal the doctor had injected into a vein in her elbow. Her head was woolly with tiredness, her limbs leaden, but her brain was on full alert and would not let her doze off. Obsessive thoughts flickered like an old black-and-white movie, and her heart raced like a metronome. There was so much to be done. She had to find a new home for herself and the children as soon as possible, because, although the Johnsons had been the soul of kindness, they needed her to vacate the White House. Before she could start house hunting, though, she had to keep a firm grip on every detail of the funeral plans.
Everyone—even Bobby—had tried to talk her out of walking behind Jack’s casket, saying it was too great a security risk, but she wasn’t going to be deterred. It was imperative that this funeral be as magnificent as that of Lincoln, the other truly great American president who had been assassinated. She gave little thought to Lee Harvey Oswald, the assassin, who had been shot and killed the previous day while in police custody. It had infuriated her when she’d heard that her beloved husband had been killed by a silly little Communist; if he had to die, she wished it could have been because of a great issue, such as his civil rights bill. But he was gone, and nothing could bring him back.
She looked at the clock: 3:20 A.M. This was the worst time of night. At one o’clock, she could tell herself some folks were still out at parties; at five, some were getting up for work. But between two and five were the dead hours, when she felt like the only person in the world who was awake.
She could have asked Lee, or Stas, or Bobby, or even her mother (God forbid), to sit with her. But the only person she wanted was Jack, and she was burying him the next day.
Details of their last conversations ran through her head, all of them inconsequential. What time they were meeting; what she was wearing; him wanting her to charm the ladies at luncheon; and then that last instruction to take her glasses off. His final words should have been profound, about world peace or racial equality, not about sunglasses.
Last words. Tears filled her eyes. She would never hear his voice again, never hear him teasing her or saying he loved her. Last meant last.
MRS. SHAW BROUGHT Caroline and John to her room, so smart in their pale blue coats and shiny shoes that it made her want to weep. They’d been little angels since their daddy died. John was too young to understand, but Caroline knew. She kept trying to comfort her mother, clinging to her arm like a koala bear. It was tragic that she would grow up without a daddy. Black Jack had been a flawed father in many respects, but he was the lodestar that Jackie’s young life was shaped by. Her childhood would have been less joyous without him; she’d have been less confident.
She found it hard to speak now, her throat tight with nerves. Others addressed her, their words floating over her head but not entering her brain. There was still an overwhelming sense of unreality. How could it be that Jack, who had been so full of life—the most dynamic person she had ever known—was gone?
WHEN BOBBY SAID it was time, she walked out of the White House, gripping a child’s hand in each of hers. There were hordes of photographers and television cameras recording each moment as they went to the Capitol to see Jack’s coffin lying in state, but she didn’t acknowledge them. Her mother had raised her to retain her dignity in public no matter what, and Jackie knew she would have to call on every ounce of that training. She was determined not to break down, because, if she did, that would be the photograph emblazoned on tomorrow’s front pages. Today should be about Jack, not her.
As she followed the flag-draped casket to the cathedral, she did not glance around at all the heads of state she knew were following, or at the military bands or the thousands of spectators—not even at the Kennedy brothers on either side of her. She didn’t worry about someone taking a potshot at her, but kept her eyes firmly fixed on the caisson that was transporting Jack’s body and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. It felt like the last time she could be with him, the last service she could do for him, and that was in the forefront of her mind.
Thank God there was a degree of privacy inside the cathedral. She could huddle in the midst of the black-clad Kennedy tribe, each one grieving their own version of Jack while milling around to protect her, like an invisible shield. There was comfort to be had in large families, she’d learned. After years of her feeling somewhat of an outsider, they’d all made it very clear that she was a Kennedy now and they would look after her. Bobby had been like her shadow from the moment Air Force One had landed back in Washington. Today he stood so close their arms were touching.
She kept her dignity during the eulogies, but as Luigi Vena sang “Pie Jesu,” the emotion welled up suddenly, like a pot of milk on the boil. That perfect music soaring around the nave and up to the cupola penetrated her defenses, and a sob burst out. Bobby put a protective arm around her and Caroline squeezed her hand hard. She was strong, her daughter; thank God for her strength.
After they left the cathedral, she prompted John to salute his father’s casket and heard the clack-clack-clack of hundreds of flashbulbs. That most private of moments—a son bidding farewell to his father—could not remain unphotographed. It was awful; just awful.
THE CHILDREN WERE taken back to the White House while she continued to Arlington for the burial, and now she felt as if her legs might give way at any second. Who would catch her if she fell? Probably Bobby. He was right there, as he had been all day. But she wouldn’t collapse; she mustn’t.
The Irish cadets were unbearably moving as they performed their silent drill. She had invited them in deference to the heritage Jack had been so proud of. He had loved his visit to Ireland that summer—just five months earlier—and Jackie wished with all her heart she had gone with him despite her pregnancy. She had Irish blood on her mother’s side, and they’d always planned to visit together. Of course, they’d assumed they had decades in front of them. Now she would never see the land of their fathers by Jack’s side.
