Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

by Clint Hill

  “Middleburg is beautiful,” I answered. “How did you come across this place?”

  “Our dear friend Bill Walton found it for us. It’s called Glen Ora, and I haven’t actually seen it myself—just photographs, but I trust Bill’s judgment and it seems perfect for us. It’s a colonial home with a swimming pool, poolhouse, and stables on four hundred acres in the hunt country. Four hundred acres of privacy where the children and I can have a very normal life and the president can get to very easily.”

  “It sounds very nice,” I said.

  “Well, the grounds are lovely, but the interior of the house needs to be entirely redone. Fortunately, the owner, Mrs. Raymond Tartiere, has kindly allowed me to make some changes so it suits our needs.”

  The news of the rented house in Middleburg created a variety of concerns for me. First, how would we adequately protect her while she was riding, yet still give her the privacy she desired? I knew she was an accomplished equestrienne and I was quite certain that my childhood riding experiences would not be enough to keep up with her. In addition, we would have to make sure there was adequate space for helicopter takeoffs and landings, and additional personnel would be required to maintain security at all times.

  ON DECEMBER 8, President-elect Kennedy returned to Washington for the christening. Mrs. Kennedy and the baby were still patients in the hospital, so the service took place in the chapel at Georgetown University Hospital. It was clear that Mrs. Kennedy didn’t have much energy, but she was determined to stand for a few minutes during the service. The press was eager to snap photos of the Kennedys holding their newborn son in his traditional flowing white christening gown, but Mrs. Kennedy, especially, was very concerned about the privacy of her children. The few members of the press who had been invited were very restricted, and although they were only allowed a brief amount of time to photograph and speak with the family, I could tell that even this slight bit of activity was wearing on Mrs. Kennedy.

  First Lady Mamie Eisenhower had invited her to come to the White House the following day, December 9, at noon, for a tour of the mansion, including the private living quarters on the second and third floors. Dr. Walsh had agreed to release Mrs. Kennedy and John from the hospital, but everyone was concerned about her ability to go through with the White House tour, since she had struggled to stand during the brief christening ceremony. Mrs. Kennedy herself seemed apprehensive about her physical ability, but she was desperate to see her new home so that she could determine what changes she might want to make once they moved in on January 20, following the Inauguration.

  “How about if I call J. B. West, the chief usher of the White House, and ask him to have a wheelchair for you, Mrs. Kennedy?” I asked her. “I know Mr. West well, and I am sure he will want you to be as comfortable as possible during the visit.”

  She had been looking rather forlorn, but with this new option, suddenly her eyes lit up.

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Mr. Hill,” Mrs. Kennedy said. She smiled and added, “Then I won’t have to worry about fainting and making the headlines.”

  “Fine, then. I’ll phone Mr. West and make the arrangements.”

  The chief usher holds a prominent position within the administrative staff, as he is responsible for the management of the White House. He must coordinate with the Secret Service and the presidential staff to ensure the effective and efficient day-to-day operation of the residential portion of the White House, known as the executive mansion, as well as the public and historical rooms. Mr. West had held the position of chief usher since 1957, but since the position is a presidential appointment, it hadn’t yet been determined whether he would be retained with the new administration.

  The next day, Mrs. Kennedy and John were released from the hospital and we took them to their home in Georgetown. Mrs. Kennedy barely had time to change clothes and freshen up before it was time to depart for the White House.

  I pulled the Kennedy’s three-year-old blue station wagon up to the front of the house and got out to help Mrs. Kennedy into the car.

  When I went to open the back door, she asked, “Is anyone else coming with us?”

  “No, it’s just you and me, I’m afraid,” I answered.

  “I’ll sit in the front seat then,” she said.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said as I closed the back door and opened the front passenger door for her. I held her elbow as she timidly stepped into the car. She smoothed her dress as she sat down and looked up at me with a smile.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hill.”

  When we arrived at the White House, J. B. West was there to greet us. He escorted us into the Diplomatic Reception Room, and I watched as Mrs. Kennedy’s eyes took in the details of the décor—the walls, the rug, the flowers, and furnishings—all without saying a word.

  We stopped at the elevator that led to the second floor, the private quarters, and Mr. West said, “Mrs. Eisenhower is waiting upstairs.” He looked at me and added, “The first lady would like to take Mrs. Kennedy on the tour in private.”

  I nodded and Mrs. Kennedy stepped into the elevator with Mr. West.

  I went to the chief usher’s office to stand by, knowing I would be fully aware of Mrs. Kennedy’s activities from this location and not wanting to impinge on the tour of the two first ladies. A few minutes later, Mr. West joined me in his office and we caught up on all that had happened since I’d left President Eisenhower’s detail.

  Ninety minutes later, at exactly 1:30 P.M., the buzzer in the office sounded twice. Mr. West jumped up from his chair and walked quickly to the elevator. The buzzer system in the White House was set up to keep the usher’s office, the uniformed White House police, and the Secret Service informed as to the first family’s movements. Two buzzes indicated the first lady was moving.

  I followed the chief usher and was waiting when Mrs. Kennedy and Mrs. Eisenhower appeared in the elevator. Mrs. Kennedy was extremely pale and looked like she was about to faint. I looked her straight in the eyes and raised my eyebrows as if to say, Are you okay? She returned my gaze and gave a slight nod.

  The two women walked to the south entrance, as Mr. West and I followed several steps behind. The White House photographer took a photograph of the outgoing first lady and her successor smiling and saying good-byes, but I sensed that Mrs. Kennedy was simply being outwardly gracious. Something had happened upstairs.

  I helped her into the front passenger seat and took my place behind the wheel of the station wagon, and headed toward the southwest gate. As soon as we turned onto State Place and proceeded to E Street Northwest, Mrs. Kennedy turned to me and asked, “Mr. Hill, did you call Mr. West and request a wheelchair?”

  I turned to her and said, “Yes, I called him this morning and he said it would be no problem at all. He said it would be waiting for you. I assumed they had it upstairs for you.”

  “Well, when I got out of the elevator on the second floor, there was just Mrs. Eisenhower and no wheelchair in sight. She never mentioned it, so I assumed it simply hadn’t been arranged.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to make excuses, but I had indeed spoken to J. B. West that morning.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Kennedy. I don’t know what happened.” I felt awful, imagining that somehow I’d done something that had caused her difficulty.

  I later found out from J. B. West, whom President Kennedy did indeed retain as chief usher, that the wheelchair had been ordered. The problem was that Mrs. Eisenhower didn’t want anyone to accompany her and Mrs. Kennedy, and she certainly wasn’t going to push the new first lady—her political rival—through the executive mansion. She had told West that the wheelchair would be available, but hidden, and brought out only if Mrs. Kennedy requested it.

  Mrs. Kennedy didn’t blame me at all for the mishap. She was intuitive with people and had figured that Mrs. Eisenhower had simply ignored her request. She was far more concerned with the state of the White House.

  “So what did you think of your new
home, Mrs. Kennedy?” I asked.

  “It’s going to need far more work than I’d even imagined,” she said in her soft, breathy voice. “We are going to be busy, Mr. Hill.” After all our earlier conversations about the history and importance of the president’s residence, I could see her mind already working as to how she intended to put her stamp on the White House.

  The hour-and-a-half tour had depleted Mrs. Kennedy’s energy and I could tell she needed a rest. Unfortunately, it had previously been decided that she and the president-elect would fly with their newborn son to Palm Beach immediately following the White House visit, so there was no time for her to relax, just yet.

  The schedule had been set with little room for delay, so we returned to 3307 N Street to pick up President-elect Kennedy; baby John; Provi; Elsie Phillips, a new nurse and friend of Maud Shaw’s who had been employed to help with John Jr.; Louella Hennessey, the longtime nurse of the Kennedy family, who had come to help Mrs. Kennedy with her recuperation; a mound of luggage for the first lady; and a suitcase each for Jeffries and myself, and headed to Andrews Air Force Base, where the Caroline was waiting for our departure.

  The wind was blowing and the air was frigid as I followed Mrs. Kennedy up the steps to the plane. When we got on board, the president-elect helped her take off her coat and said, “The weather in Palm Beach has been beautiful. Some time in the warm weather and sunshine will do wonders for your recovery, Jackie.”

  “Yes, I’m looking forward to it,” Mrs. Kennedy said as she sat down gingerly on the sofa-like lounge. She was pale and clearly exhausted from the day’s outing.

  I had never been on a private plane before, and as I settled into a seat next to a window, it struck me that the lifestyle that was normal for the Kennedys was beyond anything I’d ever imagined, let alone experienced. This trip on the Caroline was the first of countless flights I took with Mrs. Kennedy on the family plane. It soon became normal for me, too.

  3

  A Palm Beach Christmas

  Agent Jeffries, Pam Turnure, and Mrs. Kennedy with the Caroline in background

  There was a great deal of turbulence on the flight from Washington to Palm Beach. Howard Baird, the captain of the Caroline, was a superb pilot, but the altitude limitations of the Convair 240 meant that the plane could not get above certain storm areas. The bumpiness made it impossible for Mrs. Kennedy to rest, and while she never complained, I could see that she was exhausted and physically drained from her tour of the White House.

  It was evening by the time we landed, but the temperature was in the mid-70s—nearly 40 degrees higher than what we’d left in Washington, D.C. There was a crowd of people waiting at the Palm Beach Airport as well as some press photographers and as soon as Mrs. Kennedy saw them, she turned to her husband and said, “I am not talking to the press. And I don’t want any photographs of the baby. I was hoping we would have more privacy down here.”

  The president-elect nodded in understanding. Members of the President-elect Secret Service detail had secured the area and had cars waiting for us. President-elect Kennedy stepped out of the plane and as he walked down the steps, he smiled and waved to the small but enthusiastic crowd. He walked over and shook some hands as a couple of Secret Service agents stayed close.

  As soon as Mrs. Kennedy appeared in the doorway of the plane, at the top of the portable stairs, several people yelled, “Jackie! Jackie! Look over here!”

  She looked at the crowd and smiled, but held tightly to the railing as she walked down the stairs and headed straight for the car. Unfortunately, the privacy Mrs. Kennedy sought would be elusive for the rest of her life. People were fascinated by her, and there would be few places she could escape. Palm Beach was certainly not one of them.

  The town of Palm Beach is actually a long, narrow barrier island off the southeast coast of Florida, and it was like nowhere I had ever been before. The Intracoastal Waterway separates the island from the ordinary mainland cities of West Palm Beach and Lake Worth, like a moat, and when you cross one of the few bridges into Palm Beach, it is like you are crossing into a world imbued with privilege and power. Sixteen miles of pristine white sand beaches on the Atlantic Ocean form the east side of the island, along which is a string of mansions. From the interior roads, the homes are secluded by tall, natural barriers of hedge, bougainvillea, and palm trees. It is only when you fly overhead or sail along the coast that you can see the grandeur of these magnificent estates, which are used mainly as winter getaways by the ultrarich. The resort-like town offered an elite escape where the men would golf and socialize at the exclusive Palm Beach Country Club, while the women loved to shop in the glamorous shops of Worth Avenue.

  Ambassador Joseph Kennedy bought the home at 1095 North Ocean Boulevard in 1933 as a place for his large family to congregate during the winter holidays when it was too cold on the Cape. The six-bedroom, 8,500-square-foot Mediterranean-style house sat on two acres of well-manicured lawns and gardens, and had a stunning view of the Atlantic Ocean. President-elect Kennedy had informed the Secret Service that this would be his “winter White House” and that in the weeks leading up to the Inauguration, this is where he would spend most of his time. Because this would be a regularly used residence for the first family, the Secret Service had to establish security on a semipermanent basis. This meant checking everything from the basic construction of the building to access from any and all directions. Secret Service agents would be posted at strategic points on the property, but because of the limited resources and personnel in the Secret Service, the security operations would have to be a joint effort on the part of the entire law enforcement community. Fortunately, the Palm Beach Police Department and the state and county officials were all very cooperative, freely sharing information and personnel to ensure the safety of the Kennedy family.

  Ambassador Kennedy residence, Palm Beach

  As soon as our small motorcade arrived at the residence, Mrs. Kennedy immediately went to her bedroom to rest, and rarely emerged for the next week.

  Prior to our arrival, one of the supervising agents on the president-elect detail had arranged accommodations for the Secret Service agents in nearby—and not so posh—West Palm Beach, at a place called Woody’s Motel. Woody’s was a one-story, U-shaped building with a small rectangular swimming pool situated in the middle. It had been around for a while and was rather run-down, but it offered two key advantages: the rooms were air-conditioned and the price was right. The negotiated rate for our extended stay fit into our limited per diem allowance of twelve dollars, out of which we had to pay for hotel, meals, dry cleaning, laundry, and miscellaneous expenses while traveling. My annual $6,995 salary didn’t stretch very far, and like the rest of the agents, I was very frugal and careful with expenditures.

  Each morning I would report to 1095 North Ocean Boulevard, usually by 8:00 A.M. in order to be there prior to the time Mrs. Kennedy awakened. There was a garage attached to the front wall of the Kennedy’s property, adjacent to the entry gate, which had been set up as the Secret Service Palm Beach Command Post. A telephone was installed with a direct line to the house so that if the president-elect or Mrs. Kennedy needed us for any reason, we could respond immediately. There was a coffeemaker, a small table, and a couple of chairs, but basically it was a corner of the garage.

  Mrs. Kennedy was recuperating well, and slowly gaining strength, but she was hesitant to leave the privacy of the residence, especially after seeing the crowds that had greeted her at the airport upon her arrival.

  We had been there just a few days when Mrs. Kennedy called me at the command post.

  “Mr. Hill?” she asked in her soft, whisper-like voice.

  “Yes, Mrs. Kennedy. What can I do for you?”

  “I need some things from Elizabeth Arden, but I just know if I go to Worth Avenue, I’ll be mobbed. I was wondering if you would call over there and arrange for someone to bring me some clothes and beauty supplies. I have a list all ready for you.”

  I had never h
eard of Elizabeth Arden, and arranging for home shopping wasn’t something I’d ever done for President Eisenhower, but I did as Mrs. Kennedy desired, and arranged for one of the salespeople from Elizabeth Arden to come to the residence.

  In addition to worrying about her wardrobe and makeup, the move to the White House—and how to make it a home rather than a museum—was uppermost on Mrs. Kennedy’s mind at this time. She wanted the White House to be a place in which her children could grow up as normal as possible even with maids and butlers, doormen and ushers, and uniformed officers and Secret Service agents all over the place.

  On another occasion, I was waiting in the Secret Service office when she called for me.

  “Mr. Hill?” she said. “Will you please join me outside by the pool? I need to talk to you.”

  It was a beautiful afternoon and the sun felt warm on my face, as I walked across the lawn past the back of the house, toward the rectangular swimming pool. Two of my colleagues on the president-elect detail were standing post at the corners of the property bordering the beach, and I gave them each a quick wave. In Palm Beach the Secret Service agents shed our standard uniform of a dark suit and shined dress shoes for more casual clothing, with the intent of melding into the local populace to appear as inconspicuous as possible. The two agents in their cotton-knit shirts and cotton trousers looked like they could have just walked off the golf course. In the distance, a Coast Guard boat patrolled the waters along the coast.

  Next to the swimming pool, Mrs. Kennedy was sitting on a chaise lounge, in a revealing bathing suit, with a stack of books by her side and a yellow legal pad in her lap. Caroline played and splashed in the pool while one of the agents who had been assigned to her protection stood watch nearby, ready to render assistance if needed.