November 22 1963

by Braver, Adam

  “I’ll tell him you need more time.”

  By August of 1963 it is hard to argue that the value of a human life has not diminished. The population of the world has grown five times in the past hundred years. In this year alone the world seems content to take without conscience or measure. Over one hundred killed in Vietnam. More than four thousand killed between the earthquakes and the landslides. Yugoslavia. Liberia. Chad. Japan. Italy. Birmingham. The innocent die as quickly as they wake up.

  On August 7, life does matter. Jackie is in labor, and in the back of the ambulance she heaves with each contraction. Her face is red, and she can’t make a fist because her hands are too weak and too wet. Although she is ready for this to end, for a moment she thinks she needs to keep the baby inside, protect him just a little bit longer from the world he is about to enter. And she really wishes she had the physical ability to do that, but the boy is stubborn, and too eager to submit.

  He is born Patrick Bouvier Kennedy, named in honor of his two grandfathers. As though his first inhalation sucks in the sins of his heritage, Patrick is found to have a lung disease and is pronounced dead two days later.

  Despite the state of the world, she thinks, the value of his life will not be diminished. That will be validated when the world mourns with her. But they’ll mourn a little more softly. These days there is not enough to go around.

  Jackie can’t even think about it. Is Kenny O’Donnell playing her? Maybe he is just another political hack who holds allegiances only as long as they are breathing. He had palled around with the Kennedy boys as far back as Harvard, been working with Jack since the Senate campaign, but now he seems too resolute. He was just one car back in the motorcade. Surely he must have seen the explosion of blood. Seen the springs and coils burst out of the body machine. Smelled the almost-instant rot of exposed brain the way she did. In this room, it feels as if she is the only one who cares. The only one who recognizes the tragedy.

  Jackie already knows that she will hate herself for thinking that about Kenny. But it doesn’t change the moment. It doesn’t make it any more certain that when he knocks again, she will square her shoulders as best she can and rise to welcome him into the room before allowing him to escort her to the cabin to stand beside Johnson, who is likely to rush the oath with the same purpose in which he pushed for this trip, before he scurries off to have the furniture moved, the rocking chair taken out, creepy bull’s horns and dried-up cow skulls brought in, where he’ll tell those long, ginned-up, boring stories that are such contrivances that only he believes, all with his crass smile and conspiring smirk, a little too comfortable in the Oval Office, already forgetting how he got there. That’s what standing next to him will bring. What her presence will validate.

  She can’t give in. She needs to hold on to Jack a little longer. However, their skills of persuasion are far greater than her resolve—especially in this condition. Maybe if Bobby were here. Maybe if Jack weren’t lying in a casket in the back of the plane.

  She knows they’ll wear her down. Eventually. They always do. Always do.

  There is a knock on the door again, short little knuckled raps, followed by O’Donnell’s voice saying “Mrs. Kennedy. Mrs. Kennedy.”

  This time she does not invite him in. Instead she says, “No,” and she can visualize the two-letter word floating across the room and quietly yet firmly bolting the door shut.

  He knocks again. This time with a bit more urgency. “Mrs. Kennedy.” He speaks as though someone is monitoring him. “Mrs. Kennedy.”

  It is not silence on her part, it is a lack of reply. The noise is loud and clear. Behind the door a woman talks to Kenny, rushing through jargon and logistics. But then the woman’s voice lowers, and all Jackie can make out is first lady. Once with a question mark, the next followed by an exclamation point.

  It is a title she had tried to resist. She didn’t want to fit into someone else’s coat. But now the thought of not having it—of not being first lady—seems worse. She had it thrust upon her, and now it’s been stripped away just as easily. The Johnson people will minimize her as quickly as possible. They will want her to disappear. Vanish like breath on a chilled morning.

  It is a terrible existence to be constantly afraid of losing it all.

  Jackie still keeps dresses on consignment in Cambridge, collecting the money and laundering it away just in case. They are not the premier gowns from the magazine spreads and statehouse dinners; instead, she sells the dresses that are gifts, the comps that come in weekly, occasionally worn to a luncheon, though rarely unfolded from the box. All the labels are recognizable, the quality exquisite. It’s not a huge take, but every bit helps her to feel a little more secure.

  Perhaps when your father leaves you at ten nothing ever seems sure. The first loose pebble in the landslide? Or another way of looking at it: the gift that allows you to see into your future, giving you ample time to prepare for what lies ahead.

  In the mirror her hair looks dry and dirty, giving Jackie the pale dullness of the unwashed. “Go away,” she yells at the door. “Go away.” But there isn’t a sound. Has she lost her ability to speak? Screaming and screaming when nobody hears is not necessarily a sign of craziness—more likely, it’s that nobody cares what you have to say.

  And it is unfair, this idea of mechanics and engineering, where a metal hammer no larger than her little finger can rocket a teeny fragment into a skull in only seconds, boring in just deep enough to drain out all the life. Nothing of consequence should be able to change that quickly. And she thinks of her children, of how she will even begin to explain to them what this all means. They haven’t lived in the world of risk. They are too young to know the unsteadiness of the ground beneath them.

  O’Donnell finally walks into the room without formality. He swings the door closed but it doesn’t catch all the way. It bounces and settles, leaving just a sliver of light. The noises of the outside world seep through. Voices rising. Cameras loading. Papers shuffling. Adrenaline and anxiety set loose. Jackie knows the soundtrack.

  “Only for my children,” she says before O’Donnell can speak. “I will only do it for my children. And I am not changing my dress. No pageants.”

  O’Donnell nods his head, biting his bottom lip. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” His index finger presses into his cheek. If she didn’t know better, she would think all this bored him.

  “No pageants. It’s not for him. Not for Johnson.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want you to tell his people that. In fact, I want you to tell Johnson himself that I am only coming out for my children. To let them know that their father can’t leave that easily. I just can’t validate worthlessness. I need that to be clear. Are you going to tell him, Kenny? Are you going to make that clear to Johnson?”

  O’Donnell continues to nod his head. What else can he do? He has no choice but to forgive her demands and reasoning. Jackie can see her reflection in his eyes, and it is not just a literal refraction, but the way his brain is seeing her. It causes her to pause. In the last hour and a half she hasn’t stopped to consider anything. She is a pure form of trauma.

  She stands up, weightless, already floating on her feet. Looking in all directions, she tries to catalog and inventory everything around her, from the rumpled dent in the bed to the red finger marks on O’Donnell’s face to the smell in the room, which still smells of last night, of normal. It is important to remember. Because despite her justifications and demands about the swearing-in, this new administration is about to create its own vision of history. O’Donnell probably won’t say anything to Johnson, and even if he does, it won’t be heard. She will be posed beside the incoming president, arranged like a decorative stem to look as if she is giving him her full support and trust. The photographs will preserve that moment until, like the rest of the world, she will have to maintain vigilance not to believe their version, too.

  But for now she will try.

  Her legacy will still matter. The memories wil
l not be whitewashed and then covered with a fresh coat. At least not yet. Not here on a plane, with her husband’s freshly murdered body lying in cargo, on a tarmac in Dallas, at an airport called Love Field, proving that the world does not need poets, it does a fine job in creating its own sense of irony.

  ZAPRUDER’S VIEWFINDER

  The Bell & Howell 414 DP Discovery Series Movie Camera.

  Thoroughly reading the user’s manual will ensure that the camera captures what it sees in the most accurate way.

  Start with the basics:» How to operate the Start button (Page 7)

  » Loading the film (Page 2)

  » The Zoomatic lens (Pages 5, 6, 10)

  » Electric Eye operation (Page 8)

  » Built-in filters (Page 4)

  » Zoomatic Viewfinder (Page 5)

  And make sure to read the tips:» “Don’t zoom too much. Like any good technique, it will be most effective when used sparingly.” (Page 11)

  » “If your fingers block the Electric Eye when you shoot, your camera will not ‘see’ things in their proper light. Don’t confuse the camera. Make sure it sees everything.” (Page 12)

  » “Try to plan your movies so that they’ll tell a story with continuity and interest . . . Once you’re familiar with the Electric Eye camera you can take thrilling automatic movies you’ll always be proud to show.” (Page 9)

  It’s all about resisting the temptation to control the camera. To think it can see what you see. Because that’s where the whole process can falter. Forgetting that the camera acts as its own witness.

  The Interview.

  About an hour and a half after the shooting, Abe Zapruder is in the studios of WFAA-TV. He is seated at a desk next to Jay Watson, the station’s program director, who is not used to being in front of the camera. Watson smokes furiously, his attention scattered, taking phone calls on the air while simultaneously introducing his guest. There’s barely an inch between them. Initially Abe looks comfortable in his jacket and bow tie, as though he’s hosting his own television show. Still, he swivels as he talks. It’s in his eyes. Where the composure starts to wilt.

  Watson asks, “Would you tell us your story, please, sir?” and Abe starts at a half hour before the shooting. Talks about finding the spot. Clears his throat. And he hears the shot. Models how Kennedy slumped. In describing the next gunshot (I couldn’t say if it was one or two), he says he saw Kennedy’s “head practically open up, all blood and everything, and I kept on shooting. That’s about all, I’m just sick, I can’t . . .” Here you sense him breaking, but still there is an incompleteness to it all. There clearly is shock. Anguish. But it is deeper than that. As though part of his memory is in that camera.

  Maybe sensing this, Watson reminds Abe that they do have the movie camera in the studio, and “We’ll try to get that processed and have it as soon as possible.” Then the station cuts to coverage of the hearse leaving Parkland Memorial Hospital. This is the collective memory. The real-time experience. And in the interview, you can almost see Abe contemplate trying to hang on to his memories. Somehow knowing that once the film is developed, his memory will become part of the collective. A commonplace experience. Maybe that’s why he ends the interview the way he does. Brings it back to the first blast, when he still thought it was a joke, like when you “hear a shot and somebody grabs their stomach.” Maybe that’s all he has left. Something no film footage will co-opt. That little bit of shame is all his.

  Background.

  Just forty years ago in the Ukraine, Abraham Zapruder was watching his neighbors and fellow Jews being terrorized and slaughtered during the Russian civil war. The Zapruder family escaped because the fight would be futile; an escape that he remembers as both cowardly and brave. They emigrated from Kovel to Brooklyn when he was fifteen. At thirty-six, Abe left Brooklyn for Dallas to found his own dress-manufacturing business, two floors’ worth. Abe is a man who recognizes hope and opportunity when he sees it. He knows it can come in all sorts of disguises. How the unexpected moments can be the ones that most inspire you.

  On Elm.

  Kennedy was riding on his side of the street. Leaning forward. Smiling. Waving. For just one second, Abe wanted to lower the camera and see the president with his own eyes. But he was determined to capture Kennedy. He was glad he’d brought the camera. He had not intended to. It would only get in the way of seeing the president. That’s what he’d told Lillian, his secretary at Jennifer Juniors. The reason he gave her. He wanted to see Kennedy for himself. Not just steady a camera that was doing the actual seeing. Lillian convinced him otherwise. Told him he had time to go home to get the camera. Twenty minutes round trip, tops. Seven miles each way. She told him he must have been a mind reader to open his dress business on Elm Street. Front row seats for the Kennedys, Mr. Z. Make use of it. He’ll be glad to have this memory. Go on, Lillian kept at him. She got his other receptionist, Marilyn, in on it. Really, Mr. Z, they went on.

  He thought about traffic. About parking. How with the expected mob coming downtown, twenty minutes could turn into hours. But it was just a little past eight. He supposed he had time, even in the worst-case scenario. Plus it would be something to have a movie of Kennedy. Think about your grandchildren, Mr. Z. It’s the Kennedys, Mr. Z. Isn’t this just the thing you bought the camera for? And they started to get to him, Lillian and Marilyn. This would be the story to tell his future generations. Not of pogroms or daring yet ambivalent escapes. Rather, of when he was just feet away from John F. Kennedy.

  The day had started rainy and hazy, lighting that would complicate any filming. If it did start to pour, would he switch to the Haze Filter, or just leave the Type A all the way out? It wouldn’t make for much of a movie, having to film through all the umbrellas, not to mention that the president likely would be covered up in his car, just waving through the window. But those concerns were soon lost. The sun came out, and as quickly the day turned more springlike. The Kennedys bring sunshine wherever they go, one of the office gals said. Abe smiled. He was not one for platitudes. But he did believe it.

  Rushing out of the Dal-Tex Building at 501 Elm Street, Abe and Marilyn crossed the street, sidestepping their way through the School Book Depository employees that had crowded the sidewalk. He moved quickly. Glancing back at the route. Seeing it as though he were the camera lens. Looking for the right perspective. The best angle. With Marilyn still trailing he continued down Elm, toward the underpass. He checked his watch. Looked back up the street. Some other employees from Jennifer Juniors had caught up with them. But he didn’t talk to them. Just kept moving. Getting closer to the underpass.

  Finally he found a big concrete square, nearly four feet high. He lassoed the camera to his wrist as he climbed up. The sun was over his shoulder for ideal lighting. He checked his watch again. According to the published schedule, there were at least ten minutes to spare before the motorcade was due to pass through. He took a long breath and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

  He pointed the camera at his employees, reviewing the user’s manual in his head. They looked at him. Smiled. One shaded her face, turning her back to him. I’m just testing, he said. Running a few frames to make sure she’s working okay. He zoomed in on them. Standing on the grass. A marble slab in the background. He pushed the Start button. Listened for the clicking. Moved the zoom in, moved the zoom out. He called to Marilyn once he stopped. Can you stand behind me? he asked. I don’t know why, but this telephoto lens spins my head a bit. Makes me dizzy. If you can just stand behind me. Maybe hold my coattail to keep me balanced. And together they stood there. Looking up Elm toward Houston. Waiting for the limousine to make the turn.

  The next thing he knew he was yelling out, They killed him. They killed him. Running up the grassy knoll. Toward the pergola. They killed him. They killed him. His body screamed. His mind couldn’t make sense. A moment ago Kennedy had been clowning around. And now. They killed him. He didn’t even know how he got off the abutment. He was ghostlike. Walking through walls.
Through people. Calling out, chanting, They killed him. They killed him.

  What’s happening? people asked him. What’s happening?

  They killed him. And each time he said it, it seemed another person wilted and fell away.

  The camera still hung from his wrist. It banged against his thigh. Hitting the same place over and over. Pummeling him black and blue.

  At the Dal-Tex Building.

  Abe slumps forward on his desk. The television news is playing. The movie camera sits on top of the filing cabinet. It’s unfairly still.

  Somewhere there is a breath in his chest.

  Darwin Payne from the Times Herald is in his office. Sitting across from him, talking with his hands. Payne will help him get the film developed, he says. This movie is that important. But Abe can barely speak, other than to say he knows Kennedy is dead. He knows he’s dead. The TV news anchors can say what they want. They can talk hopefully about wounds—even serious wounds—but Abe knows Kennedy is dead. He saw it through the viewfinder.

  Finally he gathers the strength to brush Payne away, explaining that someone from Life contacted him first, and though he doesn’t know what is what, he is a man of his word. As he closes the door behind Payne, Abe’s not sure if the film is news, commerce, or evidence. At this point, it’s physiology and technology. The rest of the people there witnessed the moment of the killing, and then that quickly it was gone. But Abe Zapruder has a record of what his eye saw. It’s sitting on his file cabinet. Waiting to be processed. A visual replica of his memory. And, looking up at the camera again, he considers just popping open the door and exposing the film. A drastic surgical remedy.