Jackie, Ethel, Joan: Women of Camelot
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Shortly after the Time magazine feature, CBS aired an hour-long special, “CBS Reports: Teddy,” which would turn out poorly and would bode ill for Ted’s campaign and his hopes of ever being elected President. No matter how much preparation, no matter how much strategizing, no matter how much everyone in the Kennedy camp hoped to fool everyone else, the simple fact that Ted was not being honest—about his life, perhaps, Chappaquiddick, and most certainly his marriage—would be his ruination. The interview, taped earlier at his home in Squaw Island, was conducted by Roger Mudd, who wasted little time before asking Ted about “the present state” of his marriage.
Ted, never a spontaneous speaker, seemed caught off guard, though the question was inevitable. “Well, I think it’s a—we’ve had some difficult times, but I think we’ll have…” he began, stumbling. “We’ve, I think, been able to make some very good progress and it’s—I would say it’s—it’s—I’m delighted that we’re able to share the time and relationship that we—that we do share.”
“Are you separated or are you just, what?” Mudd asked, pressing.
“Well, I don’t know whether there’s single word that should—have a description for it,” Ted said, sputtering along as if about to run out of gas. The expression on his face indicated that he knew he was in trouble.
After a commercial, the report reexamined the Chappaquiddick tragedy—one decade and two months later—bringing back into focus that there were more than a few unanswered questions regarding the matter. Then, as if to drive any remaining nails into his own coffin, Ted botched the answer to the most important question of the evening, why he wanted to be President. It seemed as though he was unable to articulate his goals; he mumbled something about it being “imperative for this country to either move forward, that it can’t stand still, otherwise it moves back.”
The broadcast was devastating; no one in the family was pleased about it, least of all Ted, who felt that he had been sandbagged by Roger Mudd. If anything, it set the tenor for the way the media would handle Ted for the rest of his campaign: suspiciously. While Jackie’s reaction to the interview was unknown (though she probably wasn’t surprised by the way Ted had seemingly sabotaged his own campaign, since she had always believed that he would never allow himself to be President), when Ethel saw it on television, she ran to her bedroom, slammed the door, and did not emerge for three hours. Joan watched with Marcia Chellis. Afterward, the two women sat in utter astonishment, before Joan finally got up and turned off the television.
Joan in Control of Joan
A week before Ted’s official announcement, a meeting was held at Joan’s Boston apartment with Milton Gwirtzman and Ed Martin, both of whom had worked for Ted in previous campaigns. Gwirtzman—an excellent speechwriter as well as media strategist—had been one of JFK’s aides, and was sent to Ted’s office during Jack’s administration to watch over him and make certain that the junior senator didn’t say anything to the media that would conflict with Jack’s or Bobby’s points of view. It had been Gwirtzman who picked up Joan at the beauty parlor the day Jack was shot, and stayed with Joan while Ted tried to find a telephone with a working line so that he could figure out what had happened to his brother in Dallas.
The two men from Ted’s office had been sent to divine how Joan hoped to handle tough questions about her alcoholism and her marriage and, it was hoped, convince her not to say too much about anything. During Ted’s 1976 senatorial campaign, a drinking Joan—who looked puffy and much older than she would just three years later—was led around like a dog on a leash, and it was hoped that, this time, she would be just as compliant. However, Joan was a different woman now. She had strong feelings and wanted them known.
Also present when the advisers met with Joan were Sarah Milam and Sally Fitzgerald, both friends of Ted’s and Joan’s who would assist with campaign decisions, and Marcia Chellis, Joan’s assistant. Gwirtzman and Martin were both opposed to Joan’s making a statement at the time of Ted’s announcement.
“Here’s what I think,” Joan said, after everyone had their say. “We need to deal with these issues head on. It’s the thing that’s going to cause us the most problems early on, the so-called ‘Joan Factor,’ ” she said, with a smile. “They think I’m in trouble, a sorry sight. But I’m not, and we need to prove it. Ted can’t talk about this,” she continued, “only I can. I should make a strong statement of support at the press conference, and then deal with the other questions later in other forums. And during the course of this campaign, I should answer every question about my alcoholism and life with Ted. If I rehearse and know what I’m doing, I can pull it off.”
Everyone in the room looked at her with amazement.
“Well, I disagree,” Ed said. “I say she should just sit up there with the family. Ted makes his announcement. She looks at him with adoration. She leaves with him. Everyone smiles, and that’s it. No problems.”
Joan became clearly annoyed that she was being talked about as if she were not present. She rose and walked over to Martin. “I’m here, Ed. See me? I’m right here,” she said as she waved her hand in front of him. “And I am not just going to sit up there and look like an idiot,” she declared. “Everyone knows that Ted and I are having problems, and everyone knows that I’m an alcoholic. I need to say something.”
Milton Gwirtzman’s mouth opened and stayed that way as Joan walked past him and sat back down.
“The problem, Joan, is that people don’t care about your marriage as much as you think they do,” Ed said, directly. “They want Ted to come out strongly and powerfully and confidently because deep down they’re afraid that…” he paused, perhaps for dramatic effect, “… they’re afraid that he’ll be assassinated like Jack and Bobby. And they want to see that he’s not afraid of it too.”
For a moment, Joan looked as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She could not meet Martin’s gaze. “She was obviously fearful for Ted’s life,” said Joe Gargan of Joan, now voicing her then-secret apprehension, “because of what had happened to Jack and Bobby.”
“Look, if anyone asks questions of a personal nature, well, Ted can handle it,” Ed continued, his tone more conciliatory now that he thought he had Joan back in control. “For instance, if they ask about your alcoholism or your marriage, Ted can deal with it.”
“Oh, yeah?” Joan said, her anger suddenly rising. “How? That’s what I’d like to know. Ted doesn’t know what he’s talking about half the time when it comes to me, my problems, and my marriage. The political issues? Yes, he obviously can handle those. But when it comes to me, forget it, Ed. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”
It was difficult to argue with her when she was so determined and confident. “I know what I want,” she told the group, “and I think, I really do, that we should do it my way.”
Finally, it was decided that a person who would be situated in the assembly of reporters in advance would ask a question—the third one of the conference—about whether or not Joan was supportive of Ted’s efforts. Then Joan would come forward and answer quickly and briefly. She would look happy and in control, “like I really feel,” she offered.
“And what are you going to do if some idiot asks about Chappaquiddick, Joan?” Ed said. “Or the other women in Ted’s life. What are you going to do then? Have you thought about that?”
Joan seemed annoyed, but she must have known that the questions could come up. She admitted that “those are some tough areas for me,” adding that “if you think about it, they have nothing to do with me. Those are Ted’s screwups, not mine.” She said that she felt comfortable speaking about her mistakes, but not Ted’s. “I can speak about my own, but when it comes to his, well, I don’t know if I want to…” She hesitated for a moment. “The best I can offer, I guess, is that, yes, he has his problems, I have mine, and we’re both working on our problems,” Joan concluded. “That’s the truth. That’s what I’ll say.”
The Announcement: EMK for President
Margaret (Meg) Leaming was a friend of Ethel’s at this time. The two had met in Aspen during one of the Kennedys’ skiing trips there. In two years, she would be ousted from the Kennedy circle for giving an interview to a biographer of Ethel Kennedy, for a book that would go unpublished. She now recalls, “Ethel wrote Joan a letter asking for a luncheon, but Joan didn’t respond. From my understanding, Ethel then telephoned her a few times. Joan ducked her calls, but finally did have to speak to her. She told her that she appreciated her offer, but she had a full staff of people at her disposal advising her on the very topics that Ethel wanted to discuss with her—people like Marcia Chellis. Ethel was very hurt. ‘I’ve been there for her in the past,’ she told me, ‘and I don’t know why she’s cutting me out now. I have so much to offer. I’ve done this. I know what I’m doing. I want to do my part.’
“I don’t think Joan realized that Ethel was a very different person by 1979,” continues Leaming. “Ethel was much more withdrawn. She had become a hermit, really, only going out for charity causes and special Kennedy functions. True, she was still unkind to her servants—wouldn’t think twice about slapping them if they talked back—but that was just Ethel. She had only a few friends. She trusted no one, really. She wanted to be a part of Ted’s campaign, she so wanted to do something. When Ted called to ask her to do some commercials for him, she jumped at the chance.”
In fact, Joan still thought of Ethel as the critical, difficult woman she had been during the Camelot years, and she didn’t want Ethel around lest she would undermine her hard-earned self-confidence. After years of successfully doing so, Ethel knew how to push those “buttons” in Joan that would set her into a tailspin; and so, perhaps wisely, Joan avoided her as much as possible. Unfortunately, Jackie avoided Ethel as well. In the end, it seemed, Ethel had fixed it so that both of her sisters-in-law, and many others, didn’t want much to do with her by the end of the seventies. Ethel had her children, though. And her memories.
On November 7, 1979, Ted Kennedy was scheduled to make his big announcement at Faneuil Hall in Boston, in front of an assembly of reporters, other politicians, and campaign staff members. Present and seated in one heavily guarded section were members of the Kennedy family, including Ted’s sisters Eunice and Jean (with their husbands Sargent Shriver and Steve Smith) and Pat Kennedy Lawford, as well as the eighty-nine-year-old Kennedy matriarch, Rose. Also there was Ethel, looking a bit vacant-eyed and lost. The big surprise of the day, though, was the appearance of a radiant Jackie Kennedy Onassis.
Ted had called Jackie personally to ask her to be present, and she had agreed. However, with the exception of a quick hello and a hug, Jackie, who had seen Joan two weeks earlier at the dedication of the JFK Library, would have no contact with Joan on this day, and neither would Ethel, for that matter. The event would be so hectic, and there were so many security guards and Secret Service agents around Ted and Joan, that it would be impossible for anyone to have a real conversation with them. As she walked onto the stage, Joan spotted Jackie in the audience. She smiled broadly as Jackie raised a thumbsup sign. With Ted at a podium and Joan and their children behind him, Ted made his announcement.
“It just seemed as you watched him that the weight of his brothers’ legacy was on his shoulders and that he was only a human being, but that they were expecting him to be Jack and Bobby all together,” recalled one observer. “And I think he knew that very day that there was no way he could be that. No one could.”
After formally announcing his candidacy, Ted took questions from the media.
“Senator, is Joan in favor of your running for President?” the “plant” asked.
Ted paused for a moment then, acting as if the question was impromptu, he turned to Joan and offered to let her address it. Joan, wearing a short lavender dress with a pleated skirt and matching jacket, glanced at Ted and smiled broadly at the assembly. Shedding the pitiable image of the wronged wife, Joan seemed refreshed and positive.
“I look forward to campaigning for him,” she said in a small sound so reminiscent of Jackie’s on-camera voice. “And not only that, I look forward very, very enthusiastically to my husband’s being a candidate and then as being the next President of the United States.” Suddenly, her voice lifted and strengthened. “I will be talking with members of the press and at that time I hope to answer all of your questions that you might have on your minds today.” The crowd applauded as Joan bowed out and took her seat, indicating that this was really Ted’s big moment, not hers. Still, she had made her point, not only with her brief words but with her presence. She looked completely at ease, totally in control, and ready for whatever lay ahead. In the audience, Jackie seemed delighted as she clapped her hands, her eyes aglow at Joan’s triumph.
A couple of months later, Joan had the promised press conference at her home in Boston, a group of reporters pummeling her with a barrage of personal questions about Chappaquiddick, her marriage, and alcoholism. A well-meaning but, perhaps, somewhat naïve Eunice had told Joan to avoid all questions about the death of Mary Jo Kopechne, refuse to discuss her drinking problem, and refer to her marriage as a stable, good one.
“Eunice was usually the one Kennedy less concerned about the politician and more concerned about the person,” observed Richard Burke. “She was always interested about the human aspect of any decision, what would be the easiest for the person involved. Once, I was in the car with Eunice and Ted and we were discussing the fact that Ted was going to be forced to divulge all of his financial information during the campaign. Eunice said, ‘Absolutely not. That’s personal.’ It was a normal person’s reaction rather than a politician’s. That’s how she thought.”
Joan had also telephoned Jackie in New York for moral support. When she asked Jackie what she thought of Eunice’s opinion, the former First Lady had to laugh. She said that Eunice was “still stuck in the sixties,” and that “someone needs to tell her that Camelot is over.”
Jackie maintained that the media would no longer buy a perfect picture of a perfect marriage, the way it had with her and Jack’s, if it wasn’t absolutely true. Jackie told Joan to be as forthcoming as possible, “without losing a shred of dignity.”
After Joan followed Jackie’s advice, the press conference was a success, though it did have its tough moments, such as when one reporter observed that Ted’s “number one love is politics” and asked her how it felt “to be second.” Joan’s hands seemed to tremble as she responded, “I am not second. Just ask Ted Kennedy.”
Joan’s White House Fantasies
At first, Joan Kennedy decided to go along with Ted’s presidential campaign—and with the charade that the two of them had a sturdy, albeit troubled union—as incentive for her to stop drinking. However, after Ted made his official announcement, it would seem that the confidence Joan felt at having pulled herself together so well up until this point gave her reason to believe that she could fulfill even greater aspirations. Her self-esteem had been raised to the point where the idea of being First Lady had actually become appealing to her. Not only was she in the process of learning how to handle life’s pressures without the need to fortify herself with liquor, she also had years of experience as a political wife. She believed that she had much to offer. She may have reasoned, “Why not?”
Said Richard Burke, “Being First Lady began to take hold for her as a personal dream. She used to talk about it quite often. I remember being in her apartment many times as she was getting ready for interviews, and we woul
d converse about what life would be like for her in the White House, some of the things she wanted to do, the plans she hoped to implement. ‘I really do want this,’ she told me. ‘I think I could contribute a lot, like Jackie did.’ I think she almost felt a sense of destiny at work that Ted be in the White House, and she there at his side. The effort she was putting forth became not only about Ted’s future, but also about her own.”
Of course, the happily married couple Ted and Joan had been portraying for the media was a complete charade; they had been separated for years. How, should Ted actually be elected into office, did they intend to perpetuate this farce in the White House?
The senator told Richard Burke and others on his staff that, if elected, he had reason to believe he would be able to continue with the “Big Lie” (as he called it) just based on the fact that, in his view, he and Joan had been successful with it up until this point in the campaign. He would have his girlfriends, and his wife, and somehow he would do it all as President. (It’s been done before, and has certainly been done since.)
For her part, Joan was now operating under the notion that, as unhappy as she was in her marriage, she was willing to put up with it if it meant she would be in the White House. Apparently, whether she realized it or not, she had been sucked into the unrealistic whirlwind of Ted’s campaign, just like everyone around her.
“I also believe that, deep in her heart, she hoped that she and Ted would reconcile once they were in the White House,” observed Marcia Chellis, “that he would so appreciate all she had done for him during the campaign and be so happy with her at his side that he would want to do anything to reunite the family. As angry as she was at him, I always believed that if he had at least tried, Joan would have still wanted to save the marriage and transform it into the happy union they were trying so hard to convince the press existed between them.”