November 22 1963

by Braver, Adam

  She stands up, taking her hands off the casket, and turns around to try to catch O’Donnell. She has always been impulsive. Ideas come crashing into her head, and she has to act on them with immediacy or else she loses interest. She calls after him. She calls out, “Kenny,” but there’s so little power in her voice.

  As she walks through the cabin, all the staff stares. Most of their names escape her, and several of the faces are unfamiliar—probably Johnson’s people. And though walking seems impossible, instinct is gone—as though her brain has to send detailed instructions to every joint and muscle—under all those eyes she feels the need for poise. She pulls her head up, squares her shoulders, tugging on the hem of her jacket to straighten it, the blood stains like badges. She feels the tone of the room change from pity to respect as she moves through the cabin, searching for O’Donnell, pushed by her vision.

  She finds him leaning over a desk, one finger tracing sentences in an open binder, a phone to his ear. He nods an affirmation to Pam Turnure, who, barely twenty-five, must be feeling twice her age. Normally the press secretary to the first lady, on this trip Pam had been directed to devote her time to assisting Mac Kilduff with the president’s press duties. It was what Jackie wanted—to direct all the attention toward Jack. Not another Paris. No more sympathy cards. Jackie had come to Texas only to support her husband, the first time she’d traveled with him since his election. It will be the first of many times, she’d instructed Pam to say to the media.

  Pam excuses herself. Her hip knocks against the chair back. She looks down and mumbles something about being in touch with Nancy in Washington. Jackie can’t understand her. All mumbles. Jackie doesn’t ask. Personally, she’s never been sure how much to trust Pam. But she’s always been able to rely on Pam’s loyalty to the administration.

  O’Donnell closes the notebook and clumsily cuts off his call as the phone slips off his shoulder and lands on the desktop like a hammer. He looks weathered and exhausted, driven only by the need to stay busy.

  “Jackie,” he says, then glances at a passing staffer and corrects himself. “Mrs. Kennedy. I was just speaking with Sargent Shriver. He’s already working with MDW. They said Jack didn’t have any funeral plans in place.”

  “He’s only forty-six, Kenny.”

  “It just complicates things a bit. They have to create a plan. It’s being assigned to . . .” He looks down at his notes. “ . . . Major General Wehle. Philip Wehle. There are so many arrangements. So many details.”

  “Tell Philip Wehle I want him to follow the protocol of the Lincoln procession. Or tell Sargent. Or whomever.”

  O’Donnell nods. “I did mention it. And Pam’s been speaking with Mr. West. The usher staff is working on getting a replica of the Lincoln catafalque for the White House viewing. There’s just so much . . .” His voice breaks. He looks so powerless.

  “Well,” Jackie says, speaking on the exhalation. She knows she’s on her own. “Please be sure that I have a book. One that details President Lincoln’s procession. I’ll brief Sargent. This General Wehle at MDW and anybody else who doesn’t understand the level of detail that I intend to see for my husband’s funeral. This will not be a slapdash re-creation of text from a policy and procedure manual. This will have the elegance, dignity, and honor that Jack deserves. It is all in the details, Kenny. Each one must be sculpted. Every beat of every song considered.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Kennedy.”

  “So, please forward that to Sargent. And have someone gather up all the books about President Lincoln’s funeral procession. Immediately, please.”

  She touches O’Donnell lightly on the shoulder. She doesn’t want him to think her angry with him. In some respect, at this particular moment, on an airplane, wandering across the country, without their families and friends, all they have is each other.

  Squaring her shoulders, Jackie walks back through the cabin. She holds her chin up and breathes through her nose. It is impossible to swallow.

  The sight of the bronze casket is jarring. She has a terrible sense of guilt for leaving Jack’s side for even a moment. She puts her hand atop the casket. She doesn’t bother saying his name again. But if she did, she would whisper. Explain to him that she needs to think like this. Make these plans. That as much as the world adores them, the world doesn’t understand them. All they had ever wanted was to make the extraordinary ordinary. But, she would say, if she doesn’t maintain her vigilance they will be lost to mediocrity. It is the natural tendency of the world. She just wants them to burn on forever.

  And she’d ask for his patience. His understanding for when she’ll call out for Kenny. For Pam. Words that will nearly trip over themselves, tumbling through the door. Calling out. Demanding. There are plans. There are plans.

  But for now she stays at his side, keeping her hand on the box, believing he can warm her forever. Hoping for something greater than science. Anything that will defy explanation.

  HEAVIER THAN AIR

  IT’S THE OPPOSITION of pressure that keeps a bird in flight. The air on the top of the wing has a lower pressure than the air on the bottom. That difference is what makes the wing able to lift. This principle is especially important to understanding how tons of steel can stay aloft. Still, it barely makes sense when you really think about it. Floating an object that is heavier than air?

  She can sense the plane starting to lower. It is smooth, almost imperceptible. But it’s there in her stomach. A sinking sensation. She looks up from the casket toward the window. It’s dark already. Maybe someone could set the clock back a few hours. She can’t see a thing. Not even her own reflection. But she knows what she looks like. She can smell it. Her body is tired and has sweated out too many rounds of fear, along with the chemicals the doctors have injected into her. She inhales her own toxicity and sees her whole tired frame. The blood on her dress has dried. Already leathered the fabric. A slaughterhouse apron. It stinks as such. Nothing is familiar beyond the interior of Air Force One. Not even herself. She smells wrong. Her mouth tastes wrong. Everything is wrong. A big bronze casket wedged in the plane’s living room is wrong. This is somebody else’s life she’s entered. And she wishes the plane would keep flying. Step on the gas, Captain Swindal, drive this thing through some kind of time and space continuum. But don’t land yet. Not yet. Not until she gets her life back. Else she’ll be stuck with this one forever.

  In 1951, when Jackie was twenty-two, she took a job for the Washington Times-Herald following her studies at the Sorbonne. She roamed D.C., interviewing people on the streets about issues of the day, photographing them, and running their responses and pictures in her column, Inquiring Camera Girl by Jacqueline Bouvier. The paper gave her $42.50 per week and a Speed Graphic press camera made by the Graflex company. She was told that nothing in the camera was automatic. Pay attention to what you’re doing or you’ll be shooting out of focus, double exposing, or coming out with blanks. It’s not so hard. They told her the camera only looks complicated. Before you know it, you’ll be used to it.

  It was only two days ago. She was crouching down, her skirt pulled over her knees, a hand on each of her children’s shoulders. They looked misty-eyed and bewildered as their father hurried around with his usual group of men, talking and reading papers at once, pausing for a goodbye that he seemed reluctant to say. She gently kissed each of their cheeks. Told them it was a quick trip. Next week would be John-John’s birthday and Thanksgiving. Nobody was going anywhere. She sensed worry in their faces. She could not ignore it. The children had every right to be worried. Only three months ago they’d watched her leave for the hospital to have Patrick. She hadn’t returned the same. Kneeling in the Cross Hall, she looked them straight on. We’ll be back before you know it, she thinks she said. You can trust me, she thinks she said. You can trust me. Then she rose and told them she loved them. The children backed up into Miss Shaw’s legs, leaning against their nanny like she was a wall, as they watched their mother back away, bent forward and blowin
g kisses. Then she turned around and walked a pace behind Jack, feeling less and less like a mother.

  Now she would have to tell them everything would be all right.

  How could they ever trust her again?

  Pam Turnure barely knocks, but it sounds like thunder. Jackie tells her to come in. The supposed younger version of herself. The subject of rumor and innuendo. She could hate her and blame her. Accuse her. Believe that it was Pam whom she associated with the feminine smells on her husband’s body. But Pam enters the living room in loyalty and service. Willing to hide the heartbreak. Her notebook tucked under her arm. Mascara hastily mobbed in the corners of her eyes. Pam stands to the side of the casket. Licks her lips. “Yes, Mrs. Kennedy?” she says. “Yes?”

  “You need to call Maud Shaw right away,” Jackie says.

  “Call Maud Shaw.”

  “She’ll have to tell the children tonight. I’ll see them in the morning. I’ll be back so late. But they need to know. Miss Shaw needs to.”

  Pam stands silent. Swallows. Puts the tip of her pen on the notepad. “So they should receive the news from Miss Shaw?”

  “That’s what I’ve said.”

  “She’ll ask what she should say. What would you like her to say?”

  “Tell her to tell them that Johnson did it.”

  “Mrs. Kennedy?”

  “Or God.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  Pam says nothing. She makes as though she’s going to write, but the pen rests lazy in her hand.

  Jackie closes her eyes, sucking in a breath. It lingers in her stomach, swelling it. “Miss Shaw can tell them that the same God who took Patrick also called for his father. That God knew Patrick would be lonely in heaven. That his father was needed to look after him because he needed a best friend.” And in principle and faith, she believes that statement. But for right now it is only a series of words. Each as weightless as the next.

  A smaller bird uses all her excess energy to keep warm. She is designed to keep a sophisticated flow of energy in her body while maintaining her lightness. Her skeleton is hollow to reduce weight; and, in the course of her evolution, she has lost all unnecessary bones.

  The Graflex camera ended up being easier to use than she’d expected. Jackie stopped thinking about the mechanics of the range finder or the shutter options, instead opting to focus on the composition of each picture in collaboration with the words.

  Initially, she’d almost taken a job at Vogue, debated and deliberated, but ultimately found the Washington Times-Herald more appealing. There was the allure of the man on the street. Washington socialites. Politicos. They all talked to her. Pat Nixon. Vice President Nixon. Senator Kennedy. Senator Kennedy again. And again. She never stopped her work. Wandering the capital’s streets. The parties. Overseas to England to cover the coronation of Queen Elizabeth. The Times-Herald was where she cut her teeth. Negotiated the demureness of the obedient debutante with the confidence of the grown woman. It was where she learned how the quiet in her voice could carry its own strength.

  After she arrived back from London, Senator Kennedy proposed to her. She’d known this day was coming from the first night they’d met. She’d been charmed by him, and suspicious of him, but wasn’t that every man? Four months later they’re on the sidewalk on Spring Street in Newport, Rhode Island, just married. In the sunlight and cheer, the homely St. Mary’s Church sits as a backdrop, having found its good looks. And she’s wearing a silk dress with a portrait neckline, and a bouffant skirt banded by over fifty yards of flounces. Jack starts to say something to her. She looks at him through the same veil that her mother wore at her own wedding, then adjusts her pearl choker, mouthing, What? He says it again, but she still can’t hear. There are more than eight hundred people streaming around them, and the cameras are flashing, and as they are heading for their car, she thinks that once she gets him alone she’ll be able to hear what he is trying to say to her. But they’re off to the reception at the Auchincloss estate, where there are an additional four hundred guests, and a wedding cake nearly as tall as she; and it’s hard to hear anything amid the conversations. In their one free second, she says, “What did you say to me in front of the church?” and just when he leans over to speak, Meyer Davis starts up the orchestra, and the horns are competing with the drums, and then she and Jack are paraded out on the dance floor, and immediately congratulated by every twirling couple around them. Then it’s down to Acapulco, and up to Montecito, and by then she’s forgotten to ask what he said, taken in by all the sights and the gangs of friends and family members and associates that appear in the corners of every circumstance. Before she knows it they are back in Georgetown, and they’re sitting at the breakfast table before a morning session, and she looks at him and says, “Jack, what were you trying to say on that sidewalk? At our wedding. As we were leaving St. Mary’s.” He considers, and then smiles. The smile turns to a laugh that rocks his shoulders. She is laughing too, but she doesn’t know why. Finally, he takes in a breath, then exhales with a light whistle. “The thing is,” he says, “I can’t remember right now.” He starts gathering papers into his satchel. “You’d think it was so long ago, these past weeks. And I just can’t remember. But I will. I will.”

  That was in September of 1953, and since then she’s never stopped. A decade straight through. Campaigns. Children. Back and forth across the country. Across the world. Empty beds. Unfamiliar perfumes. Never even a pause.

  And now, as the plane is set to land, it seems as though she might be stopping for once. After more than ten years running.

  She is guilty with relief. It’s only a pause. But, still, she feels the relief.

  The plane bends, making a slight turn to the right. The pull of the earth is stronger. Pam starts to back out of the room. An elongated version of her face reflects off the bronze casket. Jackie says, “Wait, please,” and Pam stops. Looks right at her, mouth slightly open, looking every bit as callow as her twentyodd years would suggest. “Mrs. Kennedy?” she says. “Mrs. Kennedy?”

  “It’s too soon for the plane to land.”

  Pam stands still.

  “You’ll have to tell Captain Swindal. You’ll have to tell him I don’t want him to land the plane.”

  Pam doesn’t move. She leans forward, rubbing the tips of her fingers together. “I think it’s too late, Mrs. Kennedy. Too late for that.”

  Jackie pushes down on her ring finger, twisting, as though the ring were still there. “I don’t know,” she says. “There is still so much to plan. We need to take hold of the details. We need time, Pam.”

  Pam starts to sit but stops, knees buckled. She has not been invited. She hugs her notepad against her chest.

  “Has anyone talked with Mr. West yet? What has he found out? In the White House Library, Pam. There is a book. It has illustrations of the White House while President Lincoln was lying in state. Somebody needs to find that. And they need to get that book to William Walton. He’ll know how to reproduce the drapings for the East Room. W-A-L-T-O-N. But somebody needs to be doing that—getting the book. Getting it to him. Is Mr. West doing that?”

  “Let me check, Mrs. Kennedy.”

  “That’s what I mean. We don’t have enough time. There’s no time for checking. How can we be landing already?”

  “My understanding is that under Mr. West the White House ushers are working on everything. Schlesinger and Goodwin are also at the Library of Congress tracking down information on the Lincoln funeral.”

  “Yet we still need to pack. Pack up the plane. We can’t just leave Jack’s things here, Pam. Somebody needs to make sure. Will you make sure?”

  “I will, Mrs. Kennedy.”

  “But you don’t have the time.”

  “The flight crew will see to it.”

  “I don’t want the flight crew. It’s not cleanup. I wish Mary could pack. But she doesn’t have the time. We don’t have the time. Don’t you feel the wheels dropping, Pam? Don’
t you?”

  O’Donnell comes into the room to tell Pam that Mr. West is on the telephone. West has one question, a single one that he hopes to have answered before the plane lands. O’Donnell apologizes for the intrusion. He explains, “It’s just that West sounded urgent.”

  Pam looks to Mrs. Kennedy, who says, “Take it. And please call Miss Shaw. For the children.”

  Pam nods. She starts to turn. Tries to look assured. At least convey some confidence. But as she exits the room Pam is slightly hunched, shoulders slouched. Her skirt is off center, tugged slightly to the right.

  O’Donnell walks along the walls, as though avoiding any potential contact with the casket. Ending up by the cupboard, where the glasses and liquor are kept, he looks over at Jackie. They’ll be landing soon, he says. She just nods. “Maybe a scotch before we touch down,” he suggests. She says, “You know I’ve never had a scotch in my life.” He tells her, “Now might be as good a time as any.”

  He says he’d better take his seat for the touchdown. He understands by now that she prefers to be left alone. As he starts to leave, she says, “Kenny,” and he stops still. She drops her face into her hands. They are sticky. She wants to cry but she’s all cried out. That alone seems impossible, that the body could dry itself out. “Maybe just ask Captain Swindal how far he thinks we could go?”