Jackie's Girl

by Kathy McKeon

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  To Jackie—

  Your extraordinary courage and strength were an inspiration for me, and strongly influenced the proud mother and grandmother that I am today. Thank you for allowing me into your family.

  To John and Caroline—

  I believe that individuals come in and out of our lives for a reason, and that we need to slow down long enough to reflect on how they may have influenced who we are today. It’s hard to put into words exactly how your mother influenced me . . . but I have tried to capture it here in my memories of her and of the both of you. Thank you for allowing me to share these memories with others.

  “If you produce one book, you will have done something wonderful in your life.”

  —Jackie Onassis

  PROLOGUE

  Where Were You When It Happened?

  In 1964, the shock of President Kennedy’s assassination was still fresh, and the question felt more urgent than casual, popping up the way it did at bus stops and lunch counters, on church steps and park benches, within moments of meeting someone for the first time. It was as if everyone thought that collectively reliving that last moment of innocence might somehow help us recapture what was lost forever. That question would linger for five years, then ten, then fifty. . . .

  But in 1964, people were already beginning to reframe their lives around it.

  At nineteen, I was still too naive, though, too foreign, to grasp its significance. My worldview back then was no bigger than the servants’ quarters of the wealthy Manhattan households where I worked—making beds, polishing crystal, and caring for the well-groomed children of posh society women. I was really no more than a child myself when Jacqueline Kennedy came into my life and made me part of hers.

  I was in Caroline’s room one afternoon soon after I was hired when the question was directed at me. I froze for a panicked moment. No one had told me what to say, if there were rules I was to follow, or an answer I was meant to give. If the slain president’s seven-year-old daughter all of a sudden wanted to know: “Where were you when it happened, Kath?”

  Caroline, more than anyone, deserved an answer—of that much I was certain. I would have to trust that even at such a tender age, she had already learned in the months since her father’s murder what reminders of him might ease her heartache. After all, it was she who had broached the delicate subject. She had been showing me some of her favorite storybooks and toys when she paused and looked up at me.

  “Did you know my father was president of the United States, and that he got shot?”

  “Yes, I did know,” I answered carefully. “And I’m so sorry that happened, Caroline.”

  The words felt too thin to hold the weight of the moment, but Caroline seemed happy, not sad, to be talking about him.

  “Were you here or back in Ireland?”

  I told her I had been back home, in a wee village called Innis-keen, where I lived on a small farm with my parents and seven brothers and sisters. Caroline pressed me to go on.

  “The people in Ireland must be very sad, because my daddy was Irish, and very popular and people loved him,” she said. I was surprised that she seemed to know about her father’s deep bond with my homeland, and I could tell she was hungry to hear more about it firsthand.

  “You’re right,” I said. “We were all very sad. Every family had a picture of your father hanging up in their house, right next to the pope’s. My mother kept ours right there in the kitchen.”

  “Where were you when it happened, Kath?”

  Keeping my voice steady and calm, I told her my story.

  “There was a dance in the village every Friday,” I began. “My older sister, Briege, and I would always go with our friends.” We would spend hours getting ready, putting together our outfits and curling our hair using strips of clean rag. First we’d tie a length of cloth into a loose circle, then take a section of damp hair and wrap it around the circle before tying the two ends of the rag together tight. By the time our hair dried and we untied our rag curlers, we’d have ringlets to style into a bouncy sock-hop ponytail or a teased flip like Sandra Dee. I told Caroline how we had primped as usual in front of the broken kitchen mirror that night and started walking to the village. We stopped at a little shop on our way to buy sodas, or maybe it was breath mints. The shopkeeper, Mrs. Finnegan, looked at us and clucked her tongue.

  “I hate to tell you girls, but there’s no dance tonight,” she said. “The president of the United States, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was shot today. Everything is canceled.”

  Just five months earlier President Kennedy had visited his ancestral home in Dunganstown, County Wexford, arriving in Ireland mere hours after delivering his historic “Ich bin ein Berliner” speech in divided Germany. He had vowed to return to us soon, promising next time to bring his wife, Jackie, and their two children.

  We had no television at home—no electricity, even—but two days after the shooting in Dallas, Texas, my whole family spent hours huddled around Dad’s cheap battery-operated radio to listen as President Kennedy’s funeral Mass, then the long procession to Arlington National Cemetery, and his graveside service were all broadcast across the Atlantic. I remembered catching the faint echo of hoofbeats three thousand miles away as the horse-drawn caisson carried the fallen president to his final resting place. And then came the muted roar of fifty military jets flying overhead in tribute. It wasn’t that sound but the stillness that followed that made me feel connected for the first time in my life to a vast world beyond our small, rural corner of Ireland. Nothing this big had ever happened in my memory. I sensed that this sadness I felt was but a stitch in a tapestry more vast and intricate than any of us could possibly imagine.

  Now I was telling President Kennedy’s little girl how my father had come to our room that night, as he usually did for bedtime prayers, kneeling as he always did on the hard concrete floor, and how he offered up our daily rosary to the soul of President Kennedy and to his grieving family. “Peace be with them,” he murmured as we finished our final round of three Hail Marys, one Our Father, and a Glory Be. Peace be with them, I echoed. I went to bed wondering what their lives would be like now.

  I fell silent and saw tears falling down Caroline’s cheeks. She was very quiet for a few moments then spoke up in a clear voice meant to reassure me she was all right.

  “I was just saying a little prayer for him,” she said, wiping her eyes.

  “That’s good, Caroline,” I said. “I’ll say one for him, too.”

  I couldn’t know then, mere days into my new job, how thoroughly I would be swept up into this most royal of American families. How their everyday life would also become mine, my heart lifted by the powerful love they shared, and shattered by the unimaginable tragedies they endured. That I would someday tuck a piece of Caroline’s wedding cake in my freezer, or teach her brother how to ride a bike. I had no inkling that their beloved mother would play such an important part in shaping the woman I was yet to become. That not only my life, but my very character, would be transformed not by where I was when it happened, but after.

  Five years passed, then ten, then fifty.

  And now, I’m finally ready to tell my other Kennedy story.

  ONE

  Meeting Madam

  On a chilly fall Thursda
y morning in 1964, I stood beneath the green awning at the entrance to an elegant prewar apartment house at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Eighty-fifth Street. Central Park was right across the street, trees ablaze in full autumn glory, and I could see the grand steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art just down the block. After almost a year in New York, I was starting to become familiar with the city’s landmarks, but the sense of awe that I was actually living here now was as fresh as it had been the day I stepped off the plane that had carried me from Ireland to John F. Kennedy International Airport. No one back home would ever believe that an uneducated immigrant farm girl was now moments away from meeting one of the most sophisticated and admired women in the world. I felt like a peasant about to have a private audience with the queen. What would Jacqueline Kennedy make of me? Pure Irish luck had landed me this interview, and all I could do now was pray that it would carry me through.

  I swiped my clammy palms across my cheap, tatty coat and caught sight of the clunky black shoes I instantly wished I hadn’t worn, not that I had so many others to choose from in my sparse wardrobe. I patted my head to make sure no stray hairs had escaped from the bobby-pinned bun that I thought might make me look more grown-up and professional than my age and résumé disclosed. I felt dowdy as a park pigeon as all the smart young secretaries and career girls hurried by on the sidewalk in their pencil skirts and heels. Christ almighty, I scolded myself, were you thinking the Kennedys would be hiring a milkmaid, now? I faked a brave smile for the Secret Service agent who greeted me and ushered me to the elevator. He was the one I really had to thank for this golden opportunity: My cousin Jack Maloney was a New York City policeman who had been assigned to do crowd control outside Mrs. Kennedy’s building, and he’d become pals with this particular agent, a Boston-born-and-bred Irishman in his sixties by the name of John James O’Leary, who preferred to be called Mugsy. Mugsy tipped off Jack that Mrs. Kennedy was looking for a nice Irish girl to fill a position as a live-in domestic on her staff.

  “Here you are,” Mugsy said now as the doors parted at the fifteenth floor and I stepped out. “Good luck.” He pushed the down button and disappeared before my legs could heed the urgent message my brain was sending to turn and run. What are you thinking? You don’t belong here! I found myself inside a small foyer.

  The door leading to the apartment’s grander main entryway opened, and an older woman in a black uniform greeted me in a soft Irish brogue. The familiar lilt did nothing to calm my nerves, though; on the contrary, I instantly took note that her accent was nowhere near as thick as my own. Nearly a year in New York had done nothing to change it. It was like a porridge that refused to thin no matter how much milk you poured into it. I was constantly being asked to repeat myself in America. What if Mrs. Kennedy couldn’t understand a word I said?

  The housekeeper led me down a hallway, past a large mirror hanging on the wall in a beautiful tortoiseshell frame. I stole an anxious glance at my reflection: I looked every bit as awkward as I felt. My dark brown hair fell nearly to my waist when it was down, but it was too straight and fine to make a good bun. I had a knack for styling hair, but today’s effort, to my disappointment, tilted more toward biddy than ballerina. I could say the same about my figure. I’d been athletic and nicely toned when I’d left Ireland, to be sure, but the loneliness and sheer misery of my first job in America—the one I was now trying to escape—had sent me on a junk-food binge that pushed my weight up to nearly 180 pounds on my five-foot-seven-inch frame. I averted my glance from the big mirror, focusing instead on the small silver saber, ornately sheathed, that rested on the polished mahogany console table beneath the mirror. The Irish maid led me down the hall to a formal living room with soaring picture windows facing Fifth Avenue.

  “Mrs. Kennedy will be with you shortly,” she said before disappearing.

  I stood alone in the middle of the large room, wondering how to place myself. Should I be waiting for her, back straight, eyes ahead, like a soldier reporting for duty? Something about the decor told me this wasn’t that stiff a household—it was a cross between cozy and elegant, the green velvet sofa with cream piping more plumply inviting than imposing. I gazed out the tall windows at the magnificent view. Central Park’s billion-gallon reservoir shimmered like a giant’s rain puddle. I could see the hansom cabs lined up on the street far below, tiny horses waiting to take tiny tourists on carriage rides. Ladies with shopping bags and businessmen with briefcases hurried along Fifth Avenue. Manhattan suddenly seemed like a toy village.

  I turned my attention back to the living room, my eyes gravitating to the treasures so casually and perfectly displayed—lacquered boxes and porcelain vases, fancy ashtrays, framed etchings and oil paintings hanging on the walls. In the corner by the doorway stood a life-size statue of a headless naked person, illuminated by its own spotlight. Instinctively, I drew my arms closer to my body. I could hear the sharp voice of my current employer in my head, hectoring me about my clumsiness. She wasn’t entirely wrong, but her badgering made me nervous, and that, in turn, caused even more mishaps. She docked my wages for each one. My paycheck would never begin to cover the replacement cost of anything I accidentally broke, burned, or bleached at this address. Calm down, I told myself. If I made myself any more nervous than I already was, I would be too tongue-tied to even utter my name, much less answer any interview questions.

  I decided I would perch daintily on the edge of the green sofa. Polite and poised, that would be the perfect note to strike! I sat, only to sink deeply into the down cushion. I was struggling to rearrange myself so I wouldn’t look like Cleopatra lounging around in hopes of being fed a grape when a small boy with a mop of brown hair wandered into the room. A black-and-white cocker spaniel bounded after him.

  “Hello,” the boy greeted me politely. “I’m John. Do you want to see my dog do a trick?”

  Both his grin and his energy were infectious. I smiled back and nodded.

  “Sure!”

  “Shannon!” he commanded. “Roll over!” Tail wagging, the dog flopped onto the silk Oriental rug and rolled over. “Roll over again!” John urged him. Shannon immediately obliged.

  I was genuinely impressed. I’d grown up with a farm full of animals, forever chasing them down or being chased by them, it seemed, and here this little guy was practically P. T. Barnum before even his fourth birthday. He wasn’t done. “Watch this,” he said, taking a bone from his pocket and shoving it beneath one of the couch cushions.

  “Shanny, get the bone!” John urged, the excitement in his voice sending the spaniel into what looked like a tail-wagging state of rapture, barking as he leaped up onto the sofa and began searching for his prize. The dog pawed furiously between the cushions until he found his bone and retrieved it.

  I clapped my hands. “Wow, what a smart dog!” I exclaimed.

  The little boy beamed with pride.

  “Seriously, John,” I went on, “that’s no easy thing you’ve done there. You’re a terrific dog trainer!”

  “John, you’re not letting that dog ruin my couch, are you?” I heard a woman softly chide. Neither of us had seen her slip into the room. I had no idea how long she’d been standing there. She stepped forward with a warm smile.

  “Hi, I’m Mrs. Kennedy,” she introduced herself, needlessly. We were the same height, I would come to find out, but with her regal bearing, she seemed taller. I self-consciously straightened my shoulders and sucked in my stomach as I rose to greet her. She wore a long turtleneck sweater, smartly belted around her narrow waist, with tailored slacks. I caught just a whisper of her perfume, something floral but light. I was surprised by how naturally elegant she was—no big flashing diamonds or movie-star makeup. I could immediately see the resemblance between mother and son; both of them had fair skin and wonderfully thick, wavy dark hair, but her brown eyes were as deep and unreadable as John’s were open and guileless.

  I had barely stammered out my introduction when she nodded and asked me her first question: “Can
you start right away?”

  I was dumbfounded. Had she just offered me the job, without so much as a single query about my qualifications? I would learn much later from the staff that she had been watching from the hallway the whole time I was chatting with John. Here I had been worried about having to undergo some rigorous interrogation and Secret Service check, but the truth was, I had just been vetted by a preschooler and his cocker spaniel.

  “I don’t know, I mean, I haven’t told my employer anything, and I’ll need to give her a few days’ notice,” I sputtered, wondering even as the words left my mouth why I felt the least bit of obligation to the bitter divorcée who had first hired me when I came to America months earlier. I was supposed to be her governess, but what she really wanted, it had turned out, was someone she could berate on a daily basis now that her browbeaten husband had left. I could do nothing right. My very existence seemed to exasperate the woman I’ll call Mrs. C.

  “Could you tell her today, and start tomorrow?” Mrs. Kennedy suggested.

  “I suppose I could, but she’ll likely get angry and not give me a good reference,” I fretted aloud.

  Mrs. Kennedy smiled the Mona Lisa half-smile that so bewitched every photographer who ever tried to capture the “real” her. “You don’t need a reference,” she pointed out. “You’ve already got the job!”

  We agreed I would return the next morning with my suitcase. It all seemed strangely matter-of-fact, more like I was watching a dream than having it, much less actually living it. I suppose I was just so filled with relief to be freed from my awful situation with Mrs. C that it didn’t even fully register at first who had just rescued me. My self-esteem by then had sunk so low that I couldn’t even congratulate myself for having just landed the most coveted job in America for a girl of my station.