Negi ran out of the car and up to the cops, waving the invitation to John’s funeral as if it were a badge.
“Can you let us through?” she pleaded. “This is John Kennedy’s assistant. We’re going to the funeral and can’t be late. She’s got to read something.”
“I can’t let you through,” the cop said. “But get in and we’ll take you.”
Negi and I hopped into the back of a cop car as if it were something we did every day and zipped uptown on the empty avenue.
“What’s going on, anyway? Why’s Park Avenue closed?” I asked, calming down now that we were getting a police escort. The officer looked at me like I was crazy.
“It’s for John’s funeral.”
Of course. John was someone whose life—and now death—was shared by the world.
“I feel like a perp sitting back here,” I said, trying to change the subject.
“What do you know about perps?” the cop in the passenger seat said.
“From John’s days at the DA’s office, he used to say, ‘Perps don’t die. You can shoot a cop once and he’ll be dead on the spot. You shoot a perp twenty times and he’ll live.’”
The cop laughed. “That’s true!” Then he turned around to look at me. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “The whole city is in mourning today.”
It took everything inside me to keep from breaking down. John was a New York City fixture. When I realized how much John meant to all kinds of people, just like the cop, the loss grew even larger.
The police dropped us off outside St. Thomas More, where a media circus had assembled, every outlet in the world vying for the best position to film the somber dignitaries as they entered the church. Inside, people came up to me asking me where they should sit. Where should you sit? I wanted to say. Don’t worry about where you’re sitting. It’s a funeral, not a cocktail party.
The endless jockeying around John, even in a moment like that, made me sick. It was as if the church pews had become social strata. I could tend to the mourners, tell them what to do and where to go, but I didn’t want to work right then. I wanted to scream: I’m not just an assistant. I’m a mourner, too. Not being a family member, childhood friend, or college buddy, I felt alone in my grief.
The organizers had wanted me to sit up front with the people reading passages, but I stuck close to the members of George who had shown up to honor their boss. They anchored me as I watched my life drift away on the backs of eulogies and tears. Tony, who stood in the back of the church as a pallbearer, found me with his eyes.
When I walked to the front of the church to give my reading, past every single Kennedy, past President Clinton, his wife, Hillary, and daughter, Chelsea, my knees were shaking to the point where I didn’t think they would hold me. That sense of duty to John, which had defied my skepticism in the beginning and had supported me through the ups and downs of his life, pushed me forward.
Back inside John and Carolyn’s apartment a week after the funeral, I couldn’t hear if the paparazzi were still waiting for famous faces to appear, or whether mourners continued to leave flowers at the makeshift shrine. None of the street noise that penetrates a typical New York City apartment interrupted my isolation. The silence was different from the first frenetic days after the crash, when the phone and fax lines refused to stop ringing—an endless loop of calls placed, received, returned, and missed. While the Coast Guard searched the unyielding water, I had a purpose—to disseminate information. But now I faced only silence. More than anything, the silence forced me to come to terms with the reality that John and Carolyn were gone. Their day planners had always been crammed with friends and obligations. Now there were only empty pages.
I don’t remember who asked me to pack up their things, probably Caroline, but it made sense. I had run John’s life for the past five years. Nobody was close to him in quite the same way I was. Of course, he had countless friends and relatives, but they all had lives of their own. I, on the other hand, was with him every day, all day. So why wouldn’t I be here now?
Still, I didn’t feel right dismantling their lives. But I did it because I was the only person who could. I tended to the practical stuff first, such as cleaning out their fridge: emptying the fruit, tossing the Gatorade and white wine. I pulled the vodka and ice cream out of the freezer and threw it in the trash. I moved on to the bedroom—which was furnished with a big bed, two nightstands, a television, and a pair of dressers with a few photos of them together—and laid items from the closet and drawers on the bed.
The closet was divided into two sides, one for her and the other for him. Carolyn was very organized, and she kept John’s side neat, too. She always picked up after him. When he came out of the bathroom after showering, she yelled, “John! Three wet towels on the floor!”
She didn’t have an enormous wardrobe, but everything she had was beautiful: sumptuous cashmere sweaters, sleek pencil skirts, formfitting sheath dresses, and incredible shoes. Carolyn shopped in high-end stores, but she wasn’t excessive with her purchases, and she didn’t go to fashion shows and order trunks filled with clothes. She edited herself mercilessly and wore mostly black, navy, and gray. It was relatively easy to pack up her side of the closet.
Cleaning out John’s side was much more arduous. I pulled out his shoes, then his T-shirts. Going through his hats was the worst part of the process. He had so many beloved, goofy hats—wool hats, caps, berets, the pom-pom hat he wore the first time I met him at PR/NY. They say the shoes define the man, but in John’s case, it was his hats. Not surprisingly, his sister, Caroline, gave them to the women John had been close with.
He also had many beautiful ties. Those Caroline parceled out to the men in John’s life.
I tried not to think about John as I pored through his clothes; otherwise, I would never be able to get through it. I contained my grief then the same way I had while helping Caroline plan the funeral. But memories, of course, flooded my mind as I touched his things: My favorite tie, navy blue with a wonderful, bright green pattern. And one of his suits, a navy Zegna with chalky blue pinstripes. I remembered when he first wore it, for a meeting.
“You look gorgeous in that suit,” I’d said. It was one of only a handful of times I told him he looked handsome.
“Whoa,” he said. “What did you say?”
“If you wore a red tie, it would be very ‘John F. Kennedy Jr.,’” I sassed, bringing us back to our usual selves—the Bronx Upstart messing with the Most Famous Man in the World.
With every happy memory, a dark shadow followed close behind. A lurking fear. John, how dare you leave me here. I didn’t know what would happen to me or where I would go now that he had disappeared. Once his things were packed, I didn’t have a job. I didn’t have anything. I would be starting all over again and I was terrified. I felt silly and selfish for thinking such things, but I had devoted myself to buoying his successes, holding his secrets, and cleaning up his messes. In return, he looked out for me and brought me into a world that few would ever experience. Now I didn’t know whom to turn to. Frank being gone made it even worse. He was the first person I would have turned to in this situation. I could picture him standing in the kitchen while I packed, mixing drinks and telling me things would be okay. Instead, I moved around the apartment completely alone.
CHAPTER
11
A padlock on John’s office greeted me when I returned the Monday after he passed away. Death had quickly and easily shut out everything I’d worked for over the past five years.
I had ordered the lock put on because John’s office contained priceless objects: a framed flag that Neil Armstrong had taken along on his historic mission to the moon; a document with the original signatures of every president up to his dad; a note from Andrew Jackson; and a paper signed by Abraham Lincoln. Also, I quickly realized, anything belonging to John could become an auction item.
Mike Showalter, the head of facilities for Hachette and a saint, had left a message on my work phone ove
r the weekend saying he and his people were available for “whatever you need.” They were devastated; John had always been nice to them. “We’ll sit outside your office all day if you need us to,” he said.
Instead, I had him put on the padlock, which I now faced as if it were the grim marker of a crime scene.
By contrast, around my desk only a few steps away, flowers spilled from every surface and halfway down the hallway. I couldn’t believe how many floral arrangements were there. They covered my desk, chair, floor, and windowsill in a bright, lively display that, like the padlock, only reminded me of John’s absence.
I could hardly move because of all the flowers, but I pushed them aside, determined to sit at my desk and open the notes. That’s my job. Open the mail. The first rule of working for John was not to let his mail pile up or I would never get through it. I had opened his correspondence every morning without fail for the past five years. Today would be no different.
Except today, the notes were addressed to me. I was shocked. I was so used to John being the recipient of the messages that I didn’t realize so many people understood what I did and how close I was to him.
July 21, 1999
Dear Rose Marie:
I’m so sorry about the loss of your guy. I wanted to just send you my deepest sympathy and prayers at this terribly sad time for you. I hope it’s some comfort to you knowing that he had someone as wonderful as you taking care of him while he was here on earth. If I could express this better I would. I guess I just want you to know I’m thinking about you and I hope you’ll try to be strong.
Love,
Liz R.
Liz Rosenberg, Madonna’s publicist.
BRUCE TRACY
Bruce Tracy, editor of two books published by George magazine: The Book of Political Lists and 250 Ways to Make America Better.
TO: ROSEMARIE TERENZIO
FROM: TERRY and BOB DOLAN SMITH
We haven’t had the TV on since Saturday afternoon when there was still that faintest hope.
Terry and I know you are grieving but we hope you are taking immense solace in the quiet knowledge that you WERE John Kennedy Jr. in so many ways. It was your subtle guidance, your consul, and, in the very best sense of die word, your “mothering” which helped die world see the very best John Kennedy. We know how much he relied on you and as scores of lesser outers scramble to the heat of the camera to pontificate on every aspect of a John Kennedy they barely knew, WE, and I am sure many others, know who was really there for John.
Bob Dolan Smith, a writer for Johnny Carson for twenty years, then for Jay Leno.
I didn’t think anyone knew who I was, yet all those people, whom knew John well, took the time to send me their condolences. Some more eloquently than others (Joey sent me a mixed tape with a note on a torn-out piece of notebook paper):
Self-pity, which I had yet to let myself feel, expressed itself in silent tears as I continued sorting through the mountain of cards. When the phone rang, any normal person would have let it go to voice mail, but, accustomed to answering, I instinctively picked it up.
“Random Ventures,” I said, even as I thought: There is no more Random Ventures.
“Is this RoseMarie?” a familiar voice said.
“Yes.”
“Do you know who this is?” he asked.
I wasn’t in the mood for games. “No,” I replied.
“You hear my voice every day on the radio and you don’t know who I am?”
I almost died. It was Howard Stern.
Even after we moved to the Hachette building, I kept Howard’s show on at the office. At first John made fun of me, but soon enough he was hanging around my desk to listen for a few minutes, or if I was laughing at a joke he’d missed, he asked, “What’s Howard talking about today?”
When I first suggested that John put Howard on the cover of George, he was skeptical. But I convinced him that Howard had the same mission as the magazine: to bring up important issues by way of entertainment.
Going to the cover shoot was a major perk for me, and John came along—which wasn’t his usual MO—because he knew what an important event it was for me. I was extremely nervous, worse than anything I had ever experienced, even on my first day of work. That was the biggest celebrity moment in my life.
When Howard arrived on set, tall and perfect, Matt Berman brought him directly over to the couch where I was sitting.
“This is John’s assistant,” Matt said. “She’s the reason you’re on the cover.”
I wanted to die right there.
“So I hear you have a crush on me,” Howard said. “You work for JFK Jr. and you have a crush on me? What’s wrong with you?”
I didn’t speak or even look at him. I was too scared.
“That’s because Rosie’s a loser,” John said.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Howard said.
I was so tongue-tied that I couldn’t even tell him about how I excoriated John when I first met him because he had ripped my head shot of Howard. It was all I could do to stand up when he put out his arms for a hug. Then he said, “Will you go on a date with me?”
“Yes, of course I will,” I said in a tiny voice.
When the issue was set to hit newsstands, John decided to go on Howard’s show to promote the cover, because the King of All Media had been the only on-air celebrity who didn’t make his cover participation contingent on John appearing on his radio program. “I feel like I owe it to him,” John said. “He was such a gentleman.” Hachette’s PR people and Nancy Haberman were very distressed, but John told them he could handle it. I was elated.
The morning of the show, Carolyn called me at six, when the program began, and we sat together on the phone listening to the radio.
“I’m so nervous,” Carolyn said.
“So am I.”
“What? Don’t say that! I thought you said you weren’t nervous about him going on the show.”
“No, no. He’ll be fine,” I said. I was really nervous. Howard had an unmatched ability to make people look stupid.
Howard, a total genius, questioned John about all the taboo topics and had his famous guest laughing. He even referenced the “Brawl in the Park,” a videotaped fight between John and Carolyn when they were still dating that had earned a paparazzo a six-figure paycheck and made my life miserable for the entire week it aired on Hard Copy.
“You’re dating the hottest chick and you’re fighting? Why are you fighting with her? Over a dog? If she were my girlfriend, I would say, ‘You want the dog? Take the dog. Take my hand with the dog.’”
Carolyn laughed into the phone and said, “Oh my God. I love him now.”
John was comfortable sitting in Howard’s studio because he and Howard weren’t that different. Both had outsize personas (albeit dissimilar types) and were fundamentally good guys.
“I’m so sorry. What a tragedy,” Howard said to me on the phone the Monday after John died. “If you need anything, you call me.”
Although I appreciated Howard’s sentiment (Howard Stern wanted to help me), I was a bottomless pit of need to the point where no one could help. Without John around to protect me, I felt vulnerable. I wasn’t the only one.
That same Monday, Jack Kliger assembled the staff of George and addressed John’s death with all the sensitivity of a serial killer. I didn’t blame him—who was prepared to handle something like this?—but his speech to us was: “We don’t know what’s going to happen with the magazine. I wish I could tell you, but we just don’t know. This is a business, and for now, we have to keep going.” We were still trying to process what had happened over the weekend; nobody gave a shit about the magazine or the state of our jobs.
I didn’t last long at George (I was John’s assistant and John was dead), but before I left, I found myself locked in a battle with the publishing company over my severance. Because my executive assistant title was that of an entry-level position, the Hachette HR wanted to give me six weeks of severance. Me
anwhile, editors who were part of the mass exodus after John’s death and who hadn’t worked for the magazine nearly as long as I had were getting six months. I might have just taken the money and walked—moved on with my life, even though I felt like I didn’t have one—but when Hachette tried to renege half my bonus because I didn’t work the whole year, I decided to fight (I eventually won, after John’s lawyers got involved).
I stayed through the last issue John had worked on, which we refused to call a tribute because John would have hated that. “Oh, brother, people die every day,” I could hear him say in my head.
John had said that if George ever folded, he wanted the last cover image to be of George Washington in a coffin, a funny swan song. Matt and I pitched the idea, but nobody was on board. So instead (refusing to put anyone’s image—especially John’s—on the cover), Matt created a beautiful and memorable design in its powerful simplicity: a blurred image of the American flag blowing in the wind. The flag represented George and what it stood for—American politics, John’s passion. So we did pay tribute to John, in a way that would have made him proud.
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