In the two months before John Kennedy’s last trip to Texas there was something almost Orwellian about the News. To understand some passages, you had to know the code—there were references to Franklin D. Roosevelt’s “Queer Deal,” the “American Swivel Liberties Union,” and “the Judicial Kremlin” (the United States Supreme Court). The national capital was a bizarre city inhabited by “an unknown number of subversives, perverts, and miscellaneous security risks” and ruled by a dangerous faker. Occasionally members of the News staff disagreed about what sort of faker he was. Sometimes he was dismissed as an idiot—when the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty was signed, he was branded “50 times a fool.” Other times he appeared to be a cunning thief—“although definite proof” had “not yet been established,” it seemed that he had accepted a “$22,000 bribe from a swindler” to stop certain deportation proceedings. More often he was portrayed as a Judas who followed “the communist line, which is an atheistic, godless line”; who supported forces of disorder with “communist-front affiliations”; who championed unwed motherhood, welfare chiselers, and “compulsory unionism”; and who was eager to take “a man’s income tax and, without his permission, spend it abroad as ‘foreign aid’ in countries which deny the existence of a Supreme Creator.”
But it is idle to look for subtle delineations in the News’s concept of the President. The paper was mounting an all-out assault on him. On October 10 readers learned that “Mr. Kennedy’s State Department” had “loudly objected to seizure of power by anti-communist forces” in the Dominican Republic and Honduras. Earlier in the month an editorial had hailed publication of a bitterly anti-Kennedy book, written by a captious writer, who, according to one of the closest confidants of Kennedy, had never met the President. Now the paper began serialization of the text, with an editor’s note assuring subscribers that since “all the facts are documented,” the author could and would “introduce you to the real John F. Kennedy.”
Given time, the heaviest ironies pass unnoticed. No one thought it singular that the façade of the News building should carry the credo, sculpted in gigantic letters:
BUILD THE NEWS UPON THE ROCK OF TRUTH AND RIGHTEOUSNESS CONDUCTED ALWAYS UPON THE LINES OF FAIRNESS AND INTEGRITY ACKNOWLEDGE THE RIGHT OF THE PEOPLE TO GET FROM THE NEWSPAPER BOTH SIDES OF EVERY IMPORTANT QUESTION
—G. B. DEALEY.
George B. Dealey (1859–1946) was Ted’s father. His statue, visible from the building, dominates a little park three blocks down Houston Street. There stands George, sturdily facing downtown Dallas in a bronze business suit, his broad bronze back turned to four bas-relief panels acclaiming Dealey contributions to local journalism, history, philanthropy, and civic leadership. Beyond the panels lies a railroad overpass (underpass if you are a motorist) spanning traffic from Commerce, Main, and Elm streets. In New England the green area would be designated a common. Readers of the News have long known it as Dealey Plaza, and as such it has become at least as famous as Ford’s Theatre. This is as sardonic as the credo. For the memorial was an afterthought. The park itself was built between 1938 and 1940 by the WPA, which, as every old News subscriber knows, was the most notorious boondoggle of FDR’s Queer Deal.
In some respects the plaza itself is queer. It rather resembles a crude baseball diamond built on a slope. The green is fan-shaped and flanked by curious little white concrete bleachers whose real function is obscure. They can only be meant to be ornamental. On most days the spectacle is quite boring—all you can see is the statuary, stagnant pools on either side, and three noisy streams of automobiles—and anyone anxious for a good view would ignore them and ascend to an upper floor of one of the adjacent buildings. The most prominent of these is the sore-eyed, tan brick structure at the corner of Houston and Elm which began as railroad offices, became a branch of the John Deere Plow Company, served later as the headquarters of a wholesaler for fancy groceries, and was converted, early in the 1960’s, to a warehouse for the Texas School Book Depository. The interior is grimy, the two freight elevators are temperamental. But if you really want a proper perspective of the Dealey Memorial, the northeast window on the sixth floor of the warehouse is incomparable.
Book One
CHARCOAL
One
WAND
Before breakfast on Thursday, November 21, the President of the United States drew on his back brace, laced his shoes, the left one of which had a quarter-inch medical lift, slipped into the clothes his valet had selected, anchored his conservative tie with a bright PT boat clip, and pocketed a black leather wallet containing $26 in bills, a gold St. Christopher medal which was clipped to it, and Massachusetts driving permit 053332D. As usual, his signature was as legible as a doctor’s prescription, but the text identified the licensee as John F. Kennedy of 122 Bowdoin Street, Boston. It warned that unless this license was renewed, his right to drive in the Commonwealth would expire on May 29, 1965, making him subject to arrest by Massachusetts State Police, and it gave a terse description of the potential offender: height 6/00, hair code 4 (brown), eye code 6 (gray), date of birth 05/29/17. The small card was the only identification he carried.
He inspected the reflection in his bedroom mirror before setting out. The dresser glass was cluttered. Thrust into the frame at odd angles were a picture postcard of the Kennedy “ancestral home” in Ireland; another postcard from Amalfi, Italy (“I like Italy better than Hyannis but I like Hyannis a little bit more because there’s fairs. I miss you daddy very much X Caroline”); a scribbled schedule of Washington Masses (“St. Stephen’s 8, 9, 10, 11 high, 12 noon; Holy Trinity 8, 9, 10 high, 11:15, 12:05; St. Matthew’s 10 high, 11:30, 12:30”); a snapshot of Caroline standing in her mother’s shoes; a Polaroid shot of Jackie; and an old photograph of Jack, Jackie, Bob, and Ethel. In the group picture Jackie seemed thoughtful, Ethel and Bob were beaming, and the President himself was conspicuously youthful. He lacked that look this morning. Nearly three years in the White House had taken their toll. His code 4 hair was flecked with gray, his face was lined, especially around the mouth. Eisenhower continued to call him “the boy,” but at forty-six he obviously had his full growth and then some.
Yesterday at the pool he had weighed in at exactly 172½. He was in fighting trim and in the prime of life. The reflection in the looking glass was that of what physicians call a ruddy, well-nourished, Caucasian male. His Lindbergh profile was still lean and handsome, his code 6 eyes were clear, his complexion glowed, with just a faint touch of crimson at the temples. The swing into Florida had given him a light tan. He looked like a successful, confident American father about to embark on a crucial business trip, which is precisely what he was.
“Caroline!” he called. “John!”
He clapped his hands, and they came running—John in plaid short pants, Caroline in a blue leotard and a dark blue velvet dress. Maude Shaw had told the children that their parents were going to Texas. That meant nothing to John, but his sister had learned a lot of geography from her father’s trips. She liked to make the partings which preceded them memorable. Last night she had chosen her clothes with special care and laid them out by her bed—to Miss Shaw’s exasperation, she had changed her mind in the morning—and she had been primping just outside, awaiting the deep, familiar voice of command. The President knew it was unwise to disregard her sprucing; you ignored now and paid later. He murmured a gallant compliment and swept on to the table, trailing them in his wake.
Their mother was having her hair combed, so they had him pretty much to themselves at breakfast, babbling excitedly as he riffled through the newspapers and telephoned an instruction to Under Secretary of Defense Ross Gilpatric. At 9:15 the President’s daughter had to go to school. She embraced him and whispered “ ’Bye, Daddy” (“ ’Bye, Caroline”) and was gone in a twinkle of thin, blue-clad legs. The President left for the West Wing a half-hour later, but there was no farewell for John. Kennedy liked to spend as much time as possible with his son; he intended to take him to the airport. The little boy bid
ed his time, playing with toy planes and watching the cloudy sky outside. A fine, smoke-colored rain had begun to fall.
The President spent a crowded hour in his office. Two more U.S. ambassadors received their marching orders (to Upper Volta and Gabon). He then signed Air Force promotion lists for God McHugh, telephoned Bob Kennedy and Arthur Goldberg, inscribed a book for Professor Clinton Rossiter, autographed a picture for a Worcester, Massachusetts, school superintendent, phoned Bob again, and sent his personal condolences to the survivors of five American servicemen who had made the supreme sacrifice abroad. “I want you to know,” he wrote two Texas children,
that your father was an outstanding soldier who repeatedly demonstrated his loyalty and devotion to duty. These fine qualities won for him the respect and admiration of those with whom he served. As you grow older you will realize the full importance of the service your father rendered his country and will take pride and comfort in the knowledge that his countrymen are deeply grateful for his contribution to the security of the Nation. Mrs. Kennedy joins me in extending our heartfelt sympathy to you in the loss of your father.1
He strolled into the Cabinet Room and admired the draperies which had been hung yesterday. Fingering the red border of one, he called to Evelyn, “When do we get ours?” “While we’re in Texas,” she called back. “Rugs, too?” he asked. “Rugs, too,” she assured him. “Good,” he said. “When we get back we’ll have new offices.” Then he told her to get Ted Sorensen, and Ted entered with his Texas speeches. They had been bouncing drafts back and forth for a week. It was an old routine, and although the result was joint authorship it bore the unmistakable JFK stamp, for Ted had adopted the literary style which could be discerned in Kennedy’s first book, published thirteen years before the two men met. The President was concerned now about his Trade Mart speech. He wanted to be sure Dallas got the message, so they sat across from the old nautical desk Mrs. Kennedy had resurrected from a White House storeroom, donned their glasses, and sat in intent silence while the President pored over the original and Ted fingered a carbon.
“It’s good,” the President finally said. But the Dallas News wouldn’t think it good. Sorensen had preserved his toughest passages, and Kennedy could be as rough as a Pier 6 brawl in Boston’s old Ward 8. “There will always be dissident voices heard in the land,” Big D’s tycoons and their wives were to be told, “expressing opposition without alternatives, finding fault but never favor, perceiving gloom on every side and seeking influence without responsibility. These voices are inevitable. But today other voices are heard in the land—voices preaching doctrines wholly unrelated to reality, wholly unsuited to the Sixties, doctrines which apparently assume that words will suffice without weapons, that vituperation is as good as victory and that peace is a sign of weakness.” The right-wing notion “that this nation is headed for defeat through deficit, or that strength is but a matter of slogans,” he would say, “is nothing but just plain nonsense.” Strength, he would conclude acidly, is meaningless without righteousness—“For as was written long ago: ‘Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.’ ”
The President worried his ear lobe. Maybe he should leaven the text with a little wit. Weren’t there some good stories about Texas? Ted said he’d consult his joke file. He departed in pursuit of mirth, and the President rang for Evelyn. “How about this weather report?” he asked. He waved Godfrey McHugh’s forecast. “I want that checked.” At 10:42 A.M. she tiptoed back with bad news. There was a new prediction from Texas. The next two days would be hot. “Hot?” Kennedy cried in dismay. He lunged for his telephone console and dialed his wife’s maid’s extension. “Pack some cool dresses,” he said urgently. Fresh dismay on the other end, a stream of excited Spanish (Provi had never really mastered English), and then the stammer: “Too late, Meester President. They are all packed. Muggsy—” Muggsy O’Leary, Kennedy’s Jack-of-all-trades—“peeked them up at nine o’clock. They are already in thee chopper.” Kennedy hung up and swore mightily under his breath. All his careful planning, all his precautions to make certain that his wife would have a good time, and now debacle. He pictured her riding in the Dallas motorcade, perspiring in that pink suit, and made a grim face at Evelyn Lincoln.
God had blundered badly. It wasn’t the first time, either. Before the Caracas trip McHugh had confidently promised blue skies, and when they landed the airport was being lashed by a driving rainstorm; the President and the First Lady had been obliged to stand at attention, drenched and frozen, through both the Venezuelan and American national anthems. There had been plenty of rockets over that. McHugh’s alibi had been that his forecast had been based on sea-level temperatures and Caracas was in the mountains. It wouldn’t happen again, he had vowed, and to make certain that it didn’t he had mobilized every veteran meteorologist in the government. Before a trip McHugh would assemble reports from the U.S. Weather Bureau, from Andrews Field, and from the weather bureau at the Chief Executive’s destination. Data would be accumulated on the present and on the predictable future. Godfrey hadn’t stopped there; he had purchased three expensive thermometers in Washington. One would be assigned to an advance man who would stand on a ramp at the very spot where the President would disembark from Aircraft 26000. A second reading would be taken inside the downtown hall where he was to speak, and a third at the next stop on his schedule. All these statistics were incorporated in a formal procès-verbal to the Commander in Chief from Brigadier General Godfrey McHugh, USAF. It was very military, and it was infuriating, because for reasons unknown to its inventor the system didn’t work. The result was this Thursday-morning dilemma.
Kennedy’s blood was up. He dialed McHugh’s extension, chewed him out, and summoned O’Donnell. “Damn it, Kenny, let’s check with local airports from now on,” he stormed. “Or let Mrs. Lincoln do it. The whole United States Air Force mounts a high-level mission against a not-so-very-difficult target and misses it completely, and then my secretary gets on the horn and scores a bull’s-eye. From now on, clear it with Mrs. Lincoln. She’s accurate. She’s also cheaper.” He swore again. “Hot. Hot. Jackie’s clothes are all packed and they’re the wrong clothes.” Another oath. He rose, wrathful. “Yes, Ted. What is it?”
The unlucky intruder was Ted Reardon, the oldest member of the Irish-Harvard mafia, who had been with the President since Kennedy’s freshman term in Congress. Reardon had an administrative problem. Christmas and New Year’s Day were going to come in the middle of the week this year. The last time that had happened Eisenhower had been President, and Ike had given all government employees a half-day off on the eve of each holiday. Reardon thought that was a good precedent.
Still mad, the President gave him a baleful look. “They get twenty-six days a year as it is. Why should they be given any time at all?”
“It’s Christmas, boss!” Reardon protested.
The boss grunted, like Scrooge. O’Donnell said quietly, “Political year coming up.”
But that merely reminded Kennedy of something else. He jabbed a finger at Reardon. “You brought Bud Wilkinson here as my physical fitness adviser. Is he going to run for the Senate?”
A political colloquy followed. Reardon hedged. So did O’Donnell. The President told Reardon to review Wilkinson’s chances with Bob Kennedy—and suddenly it was 10:45, departure time. “I’ve got to pick up John,” he said, heading out, “but I want to discuss this Oklahoma thing as soon as I get back.”2
“What about the troops?” Reardon asked hopefully. “Do they get any time off?”
“Oh—do what you two want,” the President called over his shoulder. “Give them the half-day. Draw it up and I’ll sign it later.”
On the mansion’s second floor he almost collided with his wife’s maid. “Where’s John?” he demanded.
“Well, I don’t know,” Provi remonstrated timidly. “It’s raining, and Miss Shaw doesn’t want heem to go.”
“She’s scared of getting him wet.” He laughed. “Go down t
he hall and make sure he’s dressed now. I want to take him with me.”
In moments the delighted little boy was snug in his London Fog raincoat and sou’wester, which actually resembled a miniature Army fatigue hat. Nanny appeared, fidgeting. “Bye-bye,” Miss Shaw said anxiously, and then the Otis elevator door closed on them. At the bottom, at Secret Service Post F-5, Agent Bob Foster of the kiddie detail joined them. The President snatched up a hat, and they ran out to the helipad, where most of the Texas party had gathered, together with a handful of hardy well-wishers who had strolled out from West Wing offices to see them off. Evelyn Lincoln, Ted Clifton, and three agents were already aboard helicopter No. 1. Young John joined them. Dr. George Burkley was on No. 2; Mac Kilduff was in No. 3 with reporters of the White House press pool. A humble God stood off to one side while Kennedy, bareheaded in the drizzle, pocketed Sorensen jokes, listened absently to Andy Hatcher, and glanced through some last-minute papers for Fred Holborn, notably a velvet-gloved jab at the State Department. Foggy Bottom was being difficult about a commission which the White House wanted to establish contacts with youth abroad. The President had dictated one of his “I-Mean-What-I-Say” memorandums, and now he initialed it.
Ken O’Donnell stood off to one side, the squire awaiting orders. Larry O’Brien trotted up, wheezing. “Hello, Charlie,” he greeted Ken. “Hello, Harry,” Ken replied, responding to a private joke. O’Brien heard the President muttering furiously, “Her winter clothes!” and asked sotto voce, “What’s the story on the weather?” “McHugh must have averaged it out,” O’Donnell whispered. “I’ll tell you later.” But Kennedy’s spirits were returning. Holborn handed him a witty memo from McGeorge Bundy, requesting a two-week vacation at the end of January. He grinned and scrawled across the bottom of it, “Fine—I think it’s time I left myself. JFK.”
The Death of a President Page 9