When Sinatra heard that the Kennedy car was at last pulling up to the door, he rushed into the swirling snow to personally escort them inside. Jackie, her hair heavily lacquered to withstand the fiercest gusts, extended her white-gloved hand and Sinatra led her into the building.
At this time, it was no secret that Jackie disliked Frank Sinatra. She found the singer’s personal style and behavior unseemly. On this point, she and Bobby were in wholehearted agreement. About three weeks after the Pre-Inaugural Gala, when Jack mentioned that he and Jackie should buy Sinatra a gift to thank him for his work on the campaign, Jackie would suggest a book of etiquette—“not that he would ever actually read such a thing.”
However, this was such an important night—the kickoff to what would be her career as First Lady—that Jackie transcended her dislike for Sinatra. While flashbulbs popped all around her, the glamorous Mrs. Kennedy just smiled broadly as the handsome crooner led her to the raised presidential box.
Sinatra’s friend Jim Whiting, who was a part of the singer’s circle for years, recalls that “Sinatra once told me that when he was escorting her to the box, she may have been all smiles, but she was very tense. She was gripping his hand so tightly he didn’t know whether she was angry at him or just nervous.”
According to Whiting, when Sinatra whispered words of comfort in Jackie’s ear, she poked him in the ribs with her elbow and, still maintaining a happy face for the photographers, hissed at him under her breath, “Look, Frank, Just smile. That’s all you have to do, okay? Just smile.”
“Frank said that she was very rude,” recalled Whiting. “He said she was pissed off, at the weather, at him, and who knows at what else. Frank was annoyed at her as well, because as he said, ‘If it wasn’t for me, the whole goddamn event wouldn’t have taken place.’ He set it all up, every second of the entertainment, anyway.”
During the show, Sinatra sang a special rendition of “That Old Black Magic” (changing the lyrics to “That old Jack magic has me in its spell”), while a white spotlight fell on the President and First Lady, bathing them in an ethereal glow. Later Sinatra sang the title song from his 1945 Oscar-awarded short film on racial tolerance, “The House I Live In,” which reduced even the chilly Jackie to sentimental tears. “She was dabbing at her eyes like some little bobbysoxer,” Whiting said. “In the end, I guess even she couldn’t resist him.”
The next day, January 20, was a bitterly cold Inauguration Day, but the always distinctive Jackie would be the only woman on the President’s platform not covered in mink. Her refusal to wear a fur coat had inspired Cassini to design a simple, fawn-colored suit with a trim of sable and a matching muff. On her head she wore what would soon become a trademark of hers—a pillbox hat—this time in matching beige, by Halston.
At twelve o’clock, Jackie stood in the freezing cold between Mamie Eisenhower and Lady Bird Johnson in the stands and watched the historic moment as her husband was sworn in as the thirty-fifth President of the United States, taking his oath on the Bible that had belonged to his maternal grandfather, “Honey Fitz” Fitzgerald. Along with her sense of style and fashion, Jackie’s other touches were already imprinting a sense of culture and beauty on the Kennedy administration. It was she who had suggested that Robert Frost recite a poem at the ceremony. The eighty-six-year-old poet, blinded by the sun and continually interrupted by the fierce winds blowing at his pages, gave up trying to read what he had written especially for the occasion and instead recited a poem from memory. It was Jackie’s idea also for black opera singer Marian Anderson to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” making a statement about civil rights right from the beginning of her husband’s administration.
Ethel, Joan, and the other Kennedy women—the sisters, Eunice, Pat, and Jean, and mother, Rose—watched with misty-eyed reverence. “We all knew that Jack had reached a new plateau,” Ethel would later recall, “and that nothing would ever again be the same, for any of us.”
Probably because so much attention was focused on Jackie, there was some discussion among reporters about the fact that her relationship with Jack seemed remote, even on this important day. For instance, after the swearing-in ceremony, he didn’t follow tradition and kiss his wife, as his predecessors had done. Because she was regarded as having been so loving and supportive through the years, the fact that Jack seemed to ignore her did trouble some female observers. (He hadn’t mentioned her name when he accepted the nomination of his party in Los Angeles, either.)
“Why didn’t he kiss her? That was what a lot of women wanted to know,” recalls Helen Thomas. “Actually, he didn’t really pay any attention to her at all. It made some women in the country a bit uncomfortable. However, Jack also fairly ignored his own mother, Rose, that day. His was considered a male victory by the men in the family, and the hugs and handshakes between Jack and his father and brothers made that fact clear not only to Jackie, but also to Eunice, Pat, and Jean, as well as Ethel and Joan.”
For her part, Jackie did not attempt to kiss her husband when she saw him at the Capitol rotunda following his speech, not so much as a matter of taste but rather because she was just feeling so unwell. “Everyone noticed how detached she looked during the ceremonies,” recalls John Davis, Jackie’s first cousin, who was present, “and how she and Jack never seemed to exchange even so much as a glance during the speeches and recitations. Grimly, she hung in there, trying to look enthusiastic in the freezing cold.”
Jack
John Fitzgerald Kennedy, known to his friends and family as “Jack,” was born on May 29, 1917, in the Massachusetts suburb of Brookline, the second of nine children. Descended from Irish forebears who had immigrated to Boston, his paternal grandfather, Patrick J. Kennedy, was a saloonkeeper who went on to became a Boston political leader. Jack’s father, Joseph Patrick Kennedy, a Harvard graduate, was a bank president at twenty-five before marrying Rose Fitzgerald, the daughter of John Francis “Honey Fitz” Fitzgerald, mayor of Boston.
As an infant, Jack lived in a comfortable but modest home in Brookline, but as the family grew and Joseph made more money in the stock market, the Kennedys moved to larger, impressive estates, first in Brookline, then in the suburbs of New York City. Jack’s childhood was a happy one, full of the family games and sports that would characterize the Kennedys’ competitive nature. He attended private, but not Catholic, elementary schools. He later spent a year at Canterbury School in New Milford, Connecticut, where he was taught by Roman Catholic laymen, and four years at the exclusive Choate School in Wallingford, Connecticut. Jack grew up in the shadow of his older brother, Joseph, who dominated family competitions and was a better student. However, after young Joseph was killed when his plane exploded in midair over England during World War II, father Joseph focused on Jack as the family’s entree into political prominence.
Of the three remaining brothers, Jack was the first to enter the political arena, running for Congress from Massachusetts’ Eleventh District in 1946, which he won by a large majority. He stayed in the House of Representatives until 1953, when he was elected senator. Every step along the way, Jack was encouraged, prodded, coaxed, and bullied by his father to run for President. However, during the 1960 Presidential campaign, Joseph kept a low profile. Even though he was constantly advising Jack and Bobby, he stayed away from crowds and photographers, giving rise to the then-popular chant: “Jack and Bobby will run the show, while Ted’s in charge of hiding Joe.” Joseph realized that coming out in support of his son would not enhance the candidate’s progressive image. It was good that he stayed out of sight because, politically, Joseph was poison. He had completely destroyed his own political career and reputation by making negative comments about FDR and seeming to endorse some of Hitler’s policies, so suppressing his inflammatory nature was the best thing he could do at this time. The less said by him during his son’s campaign, the better.
Jack was an urbane, Harvard-educated, good-looking, Northeastern Irish Catholic—the first President of that faith in
a country that was, at the time, only 26 percent Catholic. Brimming with ideals and youthful vigor—or vig-ah, as the Kennedys pronounced it in their Boston accents—he would usher in a new era in history, not just for this country but for the world at large. At forty-three years of age, he was the youngest President ever elected.
During his short Presidency—the New Frontier, as it was called—JFK would be best remembered for the deep sense of idealism he would rekindle in millions at the dawn of the sixties. He was a President who made Americans feel that anything was possible. His optimism and eloquence, his ability to communicate to all Americans the possibility of a better life, made him unique in every way as he challenged Americans to look beyond the selfishness of their daily lives and focus attention on their communities, their nation, their world. Many young people would enter politics because of Kennedy’s influence. On a larger scale, Kennedy’s attempt to communicate a giving, open spirit caused many to join the Peace Corps or begin careers as teachers, nurses, and other public servants. Kennedy’s Inaugural Address that wintry day in 1961 would be widely acclaimed as the most memorable and unifying symbol of the modern political age: “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.”
Perhaps the late Laura Bergquist Knebel, who covered the Kennedys for Look magazine and wrote many insightful pieces about the family, said it best when, at the age of forty-five in 1963, she observed, “For the first time in my life, the President of the United States was not an Olympian-remote, grandfatherly figure, but a contemporary—brighter, wittier, more sure of his destiny and more disciplined than any of us, but still a superior equal who talked your language, read the books you read, knew the inside jokes. In a world run by old men, he was a leader born in the twentieth century, and when they said a new generation had taken over, you realized it was your own.”
The Five Inaugural Balls
Five official Inaugural Balls were held to celebrate the incoming administration. For the first one, at the Mayflower Hotel in Washington, D.C., Jackie was spectacularly gowned in a white chiffon sheath with a bodice embroidered in silver thread, over which she wore a billowing, floor-length, white silk cape. She accessorized with long white opera gloves and dazzling diamonds borrowed from Tiffany’s. With an afternoon’s rest, her troop of beauty experts, and the aid of the Dexedrine flowing in her veins administered by her husband’s doctor, Janet Travell, an exhausted Jackie managed once again to rise from the ashes like a glittering white phoenix.
Joan and Ethel were, of course, also dressed in elegant evening gowns. Ethel’s was white with straps and matching gloves; Joan’s was white too, but with a black-sequined strapless bodice. Ethel had been concerned earlier because her gowns for the day’s and evening’s events had been stuck in the trunk of her dressmaker’s car, which was buried under heaps of snow. She was relieved to find that, once the snow was shoveled off the automobile, her expensive gowns were unharmed.
But the crowds really weren’t that interested in Joan or Ethel anyway, nor in Rose, the Kennedy sisters, or any other woman at the ball. At least in terms of exquisite glamour, this evening was all about Jackie, for she was the greatest symbol of the new Kennedy era. Or as Ethel put it to Bobby, “Jeez. They just want to touch her, don’t they? It’s like being at a wedding with the most popular bride in the world.”
Even Ethel, who was rarely impressed by Jackie, appeared awestruck by her sister-in-law’s charisma and beauty. In fact, there were times when she was caught staring at Jackie, a curious expression on her face. During these moments, she would watch the new First Lady’s every movement: the lively way she greeted boring dignitaries, as if she had found a long-lost friend; the casual way she tilted her head back when she laughed at jokes she must have known were not funny; the frosty way she stared at anyone who approached her before first greeting her husband, the President. It was as if Ethel were studying her sister-in-law in the hope that she might learn a little something—a new trick, perhaps—about the simple but not easy art of high elegance. At one ball, a Secret Service agent noticed Ethel watching intently as Jackie stood alone, doing nothing at all, Just being Jackie.
For Joan’s part, whenever she got near Jackie, she could only gaze at her and become tongue-tied whenever she tried to speak. To Joan, it was as if her sister-in-law had undergone some magical transformation. No longer was she the worried, pregnant Jackie who needed an understanding ear while walking along the beach a couple of months earlier. Now she was a completely different woman, someone who possessed so much self-confidence that it was difficult to believe she had ever experienced a confused or vulnerable moment. This new Jackie was not to be touched, certainly not to be comforted, but rather to be just looked at and adored from afar as if she were a portrait in oil crafted by a European master. As happy as she surely was for Jackie, Joan must have felt a great divide between herself and this rare work of art.
Ethel felt it as well. “Jackie completely ignored me the whole night,” Ethel would later complain to Eunice, who had sprained her ankle earlier in the week and was limping about throughout the festivities. “I would walk over to her, wanting to introduce someone, and she would look right through me. It was humiliating. At one point, I waved my hand in front of her face and said, ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ And she just stared at me. I’m telling you,” Ethel decided, “that girl was on drugs or something.”
“Of course she was,” Eunice said. “She was sick because of the baby. And Ethie [the family’s nickname for her], do you have any idea how much pressure she was under? She was dazed the whole time.”
But as far as Ethel was concerned, Jackie was not the only one with overwhelming responsibilities that evening. “We were all under pressure,” she told her sister-in-law. “But I was friendly to everyone, just as I always am. And you know I always am!” Ethel was obviously disgruntled. “You would have thought she would be the happiest woman in the world,” Ethel continued, according to a Kennedy intimate. “But no, not Jackie Kennedy. To tell you the truth, I felt like going over to her, shaking her, and saying, ‘Would you please smile? You’re the First Lady, for goodness’ sake!’ ”
By the time the Kennedy contingent reached the third ball at the Armory, Jackie’s Dexedrine was wearing off. The crowd of one thousand people gave the First Couple a twenty-minute standing ovation, which, as Rose Kennedy later observed, “engulfed the President and First Lady with a tide of love and admiration,” As Jack and Jackie waved from their silk-draped presidential box on the balcony, a spotlight shone on the new President and the band played “Hail to the Chief.” It was a thrilling experience, but not enough to keep Jackie afloat. The blinding glare of the searchlights that had been trained on her and Jack had given her an intense headache, even though one would never know it from the wide smile on her face for the benefit of cameras.
Right behind Jackie sat her young and completely awed sister-in-law Joan, her eyes wide with astonishment at all the pomp and circumstance. She had never seen so many people, all packed shoulder to shoulder below her, gazing up at the presidential box. “It was like we were somehow different from them,” she would later recall. “A very strange feeling to be stared at and cheered by so many people.”
The Kennedys were used to pageantry—though perhaps not of this magnitude—having been in politics for years, winning elections, dealing with people, being respected and the subject of great attention and even adoration. While Ethel had already seen a number of campaigns through to their conclusion, this one had been a new experience for Joan. The inaugural proceedings had the younger sister-in-law captivated. As her sister Candy put it, Joan was “like Dorothy in Oz, it was all new and exciting. But more than that, it was surreal. Joan said she spent most of the time walking around with stars in her eyes, spellbound.”
Joan was supposed to be seated next to Jackie’s stepfather, Hugh “Hughdie” Auchincloss, with Ted to her left. However, because Hughdie didn’t show up—though no one seemed to know why—there wa
s an empty seat between Joan and Jackie’s mother, the socialite Janet Auchincloss. Throughout the proceedings, Joan seemed preoccupied. Should she remain with her husband, or should she move over and sit next to the dour-looking Janet? Or was the presence of Janet’s stepson, Hugh “Yusha” Auchincloss, Jr., to Janet’s right, enough to keep the older woman from looking so alone on television? For Joan, this was a predicament.
Joan glanced at Janet and then motioned to the vacant seat. With all of the noise and lights, perhaps Janet misunderstood Joan’s intentions and thought she was indicating that she (Janet) should move over and sit next to her. Or maybe Janet simply didn’t want Joan filling the empty seat. Whatever the case, she shot Joan a cross look so uninviting that it visibly startled the Kennedy wife. Joan quickly averted her eyes, probably hoping nobody had noticed the exchange.
Ethel, however, seated to the left of Ted, had observed exactly what had occurred between Joan and Janet. The next day she commented, “Jackie’s mother gave Joan a look that took the poor dear’s breath away. Now, if it were me and she had ever dared to look at me that way, I would’ve hit the old bag right over the head with my purse.”
After this ball was over, Jackie made her apologies and told Jack to go to the rest of the functions without her. She would regret it later, saying, “I was just in physical and nervous exhaustion because the month after the baby’s birth had been the opposite of recuperation. I missed all the gala things…. I always wished I could have participated more in those first shining hours with him [her husband], but at least I thought I had given him the son he longed for. It was not the happy time in my life that it looks like in all the pictures. You know, you just sort of collapse. He [John Jr.] was born prematurely because of all the excitement. He was sick. I was sick.”
Jackie, Ethel, Joan: Women of Camelot Page 4
