The arrival of the body back at the White House was initially projected to be at about 11:00 p.m. However, eleven o’clock melted into midnight and far beyond. And as the night crept toward dawn, two camps worked on the majesty to follow. At Bethesda there was Jackie, Bobby, and Secretary McNamara,
while at the White House it was Shriver, Walton, and Richard Goodwin.
Many were huddled in the bedroom. The TV, tuned to NBC, droned as
Robert MacNeil reported that a suspect was charged in the president’s murder.
It was approaching midnight when he handed off to Frank McGee, who
chronicled the tragedies of the Kennedy family, culminating with Jackie’s three lost pregnancies and “today the loss of her husband…The thoughts
and sympathies of all of us are with the first lady.” He then concluded his broadcast, “There is no way of calculating the millions of words that have been uttered during the course of this day…I seriously doubt that any words uttered by anyone, anywhere have succeeded in expressing what you feel
yourself.” He paused, clearing his throat as he struggled to choke out his words, “The answer for that is only to be found in the hearts of each of us.” 368
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The room grew silent, and the gathering began to dissipate. Jackie,
sitting around the kitchen table that intermittently included Toni, Martha, Jean, Ethel, Marge McNamara, Pam Turnure, and Nancy Tuckerman, had
finally “talked out” the details of the assassination, and the conversation had moved on to the details of the funeral. “I am going to walk behind the casket,” she told Turnure. “Whatever procession there was, the one thing she wanted to do was to walk behind it, and considering the emotional state she was in…she was thinking of all sorts of details and other people…instead of waiting to be told…she was already thinking about how it must be done.”
“She was very much in command of herself,” recalled Tuckerman.
“Obviously…in a certain amount of shock, but she could operate and she
could make sense, and she realized that she had to make certain decisions and she did them simply beautifully.” 369
She was now doing her best to simply be a gracious hostess, once again
refusing a sedative and her mother’s suggestion to change. “It was,” thought Martha Bartlett, “as if she didn’t want the day to end.” 370
Friday, November 22, was drawing to a close, and Ben and Toni Bradlee
were the first to leave the Bethesda suite. Jackie, ever gracious, suggested that Pam, Nancy, Evelyn Lincoln, and Mary Gallagher go home and get some
sleep. “Somehow,” she said, “we’ve got to get through the next few days. Be strong for two or three days, then we’ll all collapse.” 371
There was no sleep for Pam or Nancy as they returned to the White
House to assist Walton and his work crew. “William Walton was there with books he had gotten from the Library of Congress, showing how the room
had looked at the time of Lincoln’s funeral, and we spent a great deal of time putting up this black crepe paper around the mantel piece, and…the
chandeliers…until about three in the morning.” 372
Forever steadfast and determined, Jackie made it clear that she would
not be “leaving here until Jack goes,” and Dr. Walsh was growing increasingly concerned for her. Thirty-six hours ago she had awakened early in the White 161
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House, beginning a frenetic day that took her through three Texas cities before ending after 1:00 a.m. in Fort Worth. She was now approaching a
twenty-hour day that began in Fort Worth and deteriorated into the rigors of a nightmare that seemed to have no end. Long, emotionally grueling
days awaited her, and he was worried just how long she could endure. She had talked herself out and refused Bobby’s suggestion that she return to the White House. Walsh approached her with a needle containing one hundred
milligrams of the sedative Visatril. He showed it to her.
“Just give me something so I could have a little nap,” she said, holding out her arm. Convinced this would take hold in less than a minute, he
administered the shot, found a chair, and instantaneously was asleep. 373 Ten minutes later he was startled by Jackie walking past his chair looking for a pack of cigarettes. She smiled at the look of astonishment on his face, and Walsh knew his patient would not sleep this night.
No less than twenty-five people had joined the crew of Shriver, Walton,
and Goodwin preparing the East Room to welcome home their chief. It
was the artist Walton to whom all had deferred, and he directed the laying of black crepe as it lay neigh a century ago around the body of Abraham
Lincoln. At Bethesda, Jackie, Bobby, and McNamara were discussing funeral details. Jackie “wanted the coffin closed.”
“It can’t be done,” they countered. “Everybody wants to see a Head of State.”
“I don’t care,” she replied. “It’s the most awful morbid thing, they have to remember Jack alive.” 374 Jackie fell silent, which was mistaken for consent.
It was 4:34 a.m. when the Marine Deathwatch greeted their president as
Bill Greer drove the chief through the front gates of the White House for the final time. Exiting the car Jackie and Bobby were greeted by their brother-in-law, Sargent Shriver, who took their hands as the honor guard got into place to carry the president home. They followed the coffin through the front door and down the hallway toward the East Room, where the catafalque came
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into view. She entered the room behind the coffin and stood watching as, beneath the portraits of George and Martha Washington, Jack was placed
upon the bier. The honor guard in place, an altar boy lit four candles, and then Father John Kuhn of St. Matthews’ offered a prayer. “Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord; Lord hear my voice,” he intoned. Jackie stood stoic, still wearing her husband’s blood on the pink suit she’d donned nearly twenty-It was 4:30 a.m. when Jackie, still in her blood-stained pink suit, brought Jack home to lie in state in the East Room, bedecked in black precisely
as it had been when Lincoln lay there a century earlier. Hugh and Janet
Auchincloss stand third and fourth from left.
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four hours earlier. The prayer finished, and she knelt at the head of the coffin, reached under the flag, lifted it, and buried her face in its field of stars.
Her deplorable, despicable, daunting day was over. Jack was home. She
stood, walked back through the hallway and up the stairs, leaving Bobby to view the body and learn what she already knew: the coffin would be closed.
Dawn’s first light was leaking through the gray clouds when she reached
her private quarters. Provi Paredes, her longtime aide, was waiting for her, and they exchanged a tear-filled embrace. Finally, with Provi’s help, she removed her suit and sank into a bath. Sleep was still illusive. Dr. Walsh prepared another injection, which he administered to her after her bath. She lay upon her bed and wept until finally she drifted off to sleep. It was just short of twenty-four hours since she had awakened in suite 850 of the Hotel Texas in Fort Worth.
Light came to the morning of November 23, but there was no sun, only
murky gray skies that, as if in a release of cosmic anguish, poured down a steady, soaking rain throughout most of the day. Jackie’s sleep was but a nap; at 8:15 a.m. she was speaking to Caroline and John, trying to make sense of the insensible. Caroline knew her daddy was gone. Maud Shaw had told her.
Just after 7:00 a.m., she entered her daddy’s room and found granmère Janet and Uncle Hughdie. “She had her big giraffe with her,” Janet remembered,
“and John came in pulling some toy.” Pointing to a picture of her father covering the newspaper’s fro
nt page, Caroline asked, “Who is that?”
“Oh, Caroline,” said Janet. “You know that’s your daddy.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” came her rhetorical inquiry. “A man shot him,
didn’t he?” 375
Janet could only nod. “A bad man shot daddy,” Jackie told her son and
then caught herself, clarifying that he really wasn’t bad, merely “sick.” 376
When told that daddy had gone to heaven, John simply wanted to know
when he was coming back.
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The East Room ceremonies began with a private mass for the family at
10:00 a.m., marking the first collective gathering of family and close friends.
Throughout the service, quiet crying gave way to sobs and an occasional wail.
The book of Isaiah tells us “a child shall lead them,” and in the East Room of the White House on a dreary rainy November Saturday, a six-year-old
little girl sought to lead her mother through her anguish. As the mass was coming to an end, Uncle Sarge was behind Caroline and Jackie, who were
kneeling together. Following prayer Jackie stood, and Shriver observed a
“mask of agony.” Standing with her, “Caroline took Jackie’s left hand in her right hand…patted her mother’s hand and looked up with an expression of
intelligence and compassion and love, trying to comfort her mother.”
An impromptu receiving line formed, waiting to express condolences to
the widow as they passed out of the room and into the hall. Dutifully, Jackie stood, offering words of gratitude and affection for the fierce loyalty each had given her husband. Some couldn’t bear to hear them. Ben Bradlee left the room, and Red Fay simply stood back, lingering, watching the rain fall outside the window. Just as she had on Air Force I’s flight the day before, she was, in Powers’ words, “holding us together.”
This effort drained her both physically and emotionally; however, her
compassion was unyielding when the White House chief usher Bernard
West approached her. He was the last in the line. He stood speechless, trying to capture words that simply eluded him. In her own anguish she managed a faint smile. “Poor Mr. West,” she said. “Will you walk with me…over to his office?” Words stuck in his throat. West could only nod, and the two of them, along with Clint Hill, made the silent, short walk to the Oval Office.
Jackie had overseen a remodeling, the particulars of which she had
kept from Jack so he would be surprised when he returned from Texas. She wanted to check on some of Jack’s personal items. The room was already
being packed, and Jackie felt in the way. West took notes of the items Jackie wanted; among them were the encased coconut shell from Jack’s PT 109
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rescue, his scrimshaw collection, and family photos. As she left, Jackie walked by his rocking chair and softly ran her hand over it.
Throughout the remainder of Saturday, a collection of mourners paid
their respects. The Kennedy appointees, the cabinet, and the White House staff were followed by the Supreme Court, then the Senate, House, governors and, finally, Washington’s chiefs of diplomatic missions.
Jackie returned to the second-floor living quarters, where she would
remain throughout most of the day, choreographing her husband’s funeral.
A firestorm of protest came when she chose St. Matthew’s Cathedral over the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. The assumption of all was that the
Shrine, the largest cathedral in North America, would be the obvious choice.
It was majestic, regal, and held 2,500 people. Knowing that the hierarchy of the church would be disappointed did not dissuade her. She was unimpressed with the Shrine and knew that, despite the fact that it was antiquated and by comparison raggedy, St. Matthew’s was the right choice because it held memories of masses they had attended there together. She also intended to walk behind the caisson to the church.
This brought a cacophony of discord. Angie Duke and the Secret Service
were added to the list of those telling her why walking couldn’t and/or shouldn’t be done. Her intention was to walk from the White House to St. Matthew’s and then from the church to Arlington. It was just under a mile to the church, but Arlington was a little over three miles. Duke was not sure this would fall in line at all with American protocol. He wasn’t sure there was a precedent for it. Added to that were the heads of state who would fall in behind her, and Duke was facing a protocol nightmare the likes of which had never been seen.
As for the Secret Service, still stuck in the throes of what had transpired a scant twenty-four hours earlier, they were beyond leery of President Johnson and a host of government officials, including Jackie, being exposed in such a manner.
Duke was satisfied about the Americanism of the walk when he learned
that processions had walked behind the coffins of Washington, Lincoln,
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Grant, and Teddy Roosevelt. His attentions now turned to the protocol for the walking heads of state. The joint chiefs of staff were Jackie’s only ally in this effort, for in the minds of warriors there could be no more fitting tribute than to march behind the caisson of their fallen commander.
It was General Clifton who appealed to her to reconsider. “Gentlemen,”
he told her, “would not remain seated while the widowed first lady was on foot…and few of these gentlemen were fit for such a hike.” In his pragmatic plea he reminded her that behind her would be members of Congress, many
of them septuagenarians and octogenarians, not to mention many aging
heads of state as well. Thoughtfully considering Clifton’s plea, she offered a compromise. Abandoning the walk from St. Matthew’s to Arlington, she
would only walk to St. Matthew’s. Others still pushed to forsake the entire idea of walking, but as she had been since Dallas, she remained resolute.
Those unable to walk could be driven to St. Matthew’s beforehand, and she offered, “Nobody has to walk but me.”
Still pushing, someone asked, “What if it rains?”
“I don’t care,” came her reply. “I’ll walk anyway.” 377 Her unwavering,
insistent tone put the matter to rest.
However, the Secret Service was, to say the least, anxious. Gerald
Behn, the agent in charge of the White House detail, summoned Clint Hill.
“Clint…you must explain to her how dangerous this will be…It’s a security nightmare. You’ve got to convince her this is a bad idea…We’ll be sitting ducks. 378 This funeral is going to stretch our security capabilities to the max as it is. Will you please try to talk her out of it? You’re the only one who even has a chance.” 379
Hill knew her better than any member of the Secret Service, and though
he thought the idea of her walking “insane,” he also understood and respected her need to do it. He knew that his plea would fall on deaf ears; however, he did his duty. After calling Jackie, he made his way upstairs, where she was waiting for him.
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“Hello Mr. Hill, come in,” she said with profound sadness etched in her
face. They exchanged cordialities, and Hill got to the point of his visit.
“Mrs. Kennedy,” he began, “I’ve been told you intend to walk in the funeral possession…and I wanted to clarify what exactly it is that you intend to do.”
“Oh Mr. Hill,” she replied. “Don’t worry, I’ve decided not to walk all the way, only from the White House to St. Matthew’s.”
Not quite satisfied with half a loaf, Hill pressed. “Mrs. Kennedy, there’s a lot of concern about other people who might decide to walk, if you walk.”
“Well, Mr. Hill,” she said, “they can ride or do whatever they want to.
I’m walking behind the president to St. Matthew’s.”
The firmness of purpose he heard in her voice affirmed what he already
knew, and he thanked her for seeing him and returned to his office. “Gerry,”
he said to Behn, “she does intend to walk…but only from the White House
to St. Matthew’s.”
Behn beseeched Hill again. “No chance to talk her out of it, Clint?”
Hill laid the matter to rest once and for all. “Believe me, Gerry, nothing is going to change her mind. She is walking.” 380
Through the incessant rain, friends, dignitaries, and White House
staff arrived in the East Room, where the flag-draped coffin lay beneath the chandelier shrouded in black crepe. Black crepe also framed the mantle and the windows. Outside the people stood—hundreds, maybe thousands—
beyond the White House gates. Some were under umbrellas, some not,
watching, each paying his or her own silent tribute to the slain president.
As Saturday morning creeped toward afternoon, virtually all believed
that President Kennedy would be buried at home in Massachusetts. Protocol officer Angie Duke, in referencing the death of FDR and his subsequent
burial at his home in Hyde Park, New York, asked, “What’s the Hyde Park
of the Kennedy family?” 381 The answer, of course, was Brookline, where baby Patrick lay at rest. All that appeared to still be decided was if the president would make his final journey by train, by plane, or by sea.
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Three people, however, still had Arlington on their minds: Robert
McNamara, Arlington superintendent John Metzler, and the president’s
widow. Responding to two different radio reports suggesting Arlington
as a possibility, Metzler visited early on Saturday, selecting three possible gravesites. McNamara was in his office at 6:00 a.m., and before the East Room mass, he had already met Metzler and been shown the three designations. As the mass came to an end, McNamara found Bobby, his sisters Jean and Pat, and Bill Walton, informing them of his morning foray and suggesting they come with him on a return visit. Walton and McNamara took a cab, and the Kennedys followed in a White House car. The morning mist had become
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