John looked a little pale, but he was still much calmer than the three of us. He picked up the phone and called another cousin, probably Bobby, though I don’t know for sure. He was on the phone for only a minute or two.
“It was a hoax,” he said flatly after he put down the phone. “Everyone’s fine.”
We all sat there silently, not knowing what to say.
This was John’s life: a little fun, some Portuguese rolls with the gang, and the occasional mention of assassination. He dealt with it, taking the bad with the good. Always smooth.
Four
GRAND TOURING
OUR PLAN WAS to travel to Europe that summer. John could easily have arranged a trip consisting of state dinners in every capital on the Continent. Instead, he and I chose a more personal path. We decided to visit the countries of our ancestors and to explore these lands at pub level. John’s ancestry was famously Irish: His great-great-grandfather Patrick Kennedy arrived in Boston in 1848 from County Wexford. He’d left Ireland to escape the Famine and was part of the first big wave of Irish immigrants to come to America. The Fitzgerald of John’s middle name came from his paternal grandmother, Rose, also Irish. And on his mother’s side, along with the French Bouviers, there were the Irish Lees. So Ireland was on the itinerary.
England made the cut, too, because my ancestor John Littell came from there in 1642 and settled in Elizabeth, New Jersey. Littell is a French name, and John L. was a Huguenot, his family having fled France to England to escape religious persecution in the late 1500s. But neither John nor I spoke a word of French and we figured it would be more sensible to discover Paris with our girlfriends someday, so France was out. On my mother’s side I’m Dutch, so we tossed in Amsterdam for kicks. The trip was John’s idea, suggested at the end of our sophomore year. He was going to be in Africa for July on a business/pleasure tour of Maurice’s company, Leon Tempelsman & Son. I was surprised to learn that John had never been to Ireland but was more than happy to accompany him to the land of Guinness stout. The only fixed point in the plan was our start: We were to meet in London, at the Ritz on Piccadilly Square, on August 2, 1981, at twelve noon. We left everything else up in the air. So on August 2, after a turbulent flight from New York on Laker Airways (which ceased operations several months later), I marched out of an unusually sunny London day and into the elegant lobby of the Ritz. I was wearing a seersucker suit and white bucks—the Ritz was the home of James Bond, in my mind—and my watch read 11:58 A.M., Greenwich Mean Time. Excited, a little nervous, and punchy from the long trip, I stepped up to the tall mahogany reception desk and asked for Victor Legg, the hotel’s venerable head porter and the man Mrs. Onassis had instructed us to seek out. Victor walked over from his head porter station at the left end of the long desk and introduced himself. He had an accent as thick as English toffee and was dressed in green tails with epaulets.
Victor directed me upstairs to the room of Bill Ullman, the man in charge of Maurice Tempelsman’s African operations. Bill was between duties and resting up in the company’s “suite,” a closet-size room that could barely contain the two of us. I’d never met him before, but he was friendly and gentle as he broke the news that John had been delayed in Africa and would be arriving several days late. This was not good news, but Bill cushioned the blow by telling me that Tempelsman & Son had arranged to put me up in the honeymoon suite for the interim. A little stunned by the change in plans, I thanked Bill and mumbled some sort of offer to pay for the room, but he just laughed. As I did later, realizing I’d never see the bill. And I shall never again get to order three Heinekens and a filet mignon from the Ritz at four A.M., either. So to Maurice, I am much obliged.
Big-haired John with the Lost Cousin (John and a monkey grand touring in 1981). (Courtesy of the author)
John showed up on the fifth morning of my stay, after I’d nearly worn out my legs hiking around historical London. I was sound asleep when he clattered through the door, a huge pack on his back and a fearful look on his face. He managed to get out a “Hey, man,” then stuffed his hand into his trousers and pulled out what is known in Nigeria as an “arm” of marijuana. Relief flooded his face. He dumped the large bag of contraband on a table and explained that it had been awkwardly foisted upon him at the airplane gate in Africa by his guide of the past few weeks. It was meant as a going-away present. Unable to unload it discreetly before he boarded the plane or to stash it safely in the tiny first-class cabin, John arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport in clear violation of the law, and in a panic. His plan was to dump the pot in the first garbage can he saw before reaching Customs. That didn’t work. An airport representative met him at the gate so John could skip the regular visitors’ line and zip through the inside office of the Customs Bureau. This should have been a blessing, but as he walked through the office, a German shepherd lunged at him. Animal-loving John misunderstood and reached out to pet the animal, who ignored his affections and instead began barking excitedly, pointing his nose at John’s leg. John realized he’d been busted, at least by the dog. He backed out the exit quickly, choking out a “Th-th-thanks!” as he fled. He was still breathing hard when he reached our room an hour later.
I relieved John of his burden by cramming the bag into the garbage bag of a maid’s cart, but not before we’d sampled the troublesome gift. And it continued to be trouble. Somehow, in trying to clear the smoke from our room, we managed to break a window. The maintenance men arrived promptly, waving the haze out of their path and commenting with amusement that we “must be having a lovely afternoon!” And they were right—we were happy chaps, a couple of self-proclaimed knights on a visit to the magic kingdom. That’s pretty much how we felt the whole trip, as though we’d found the geography to match our mind-set. We knew how lucky we were to be there, and enjoyed every minute of it. It was a great trip, and one that drew us even closer with every laugh we shared.
John and I left the Ritz the next day in grand fashion. Long live the queen, we were somehow still in the hotel’s good graces—probably because we looked so ridiculous. Our plan was to have tea with a relative of mine in the afternoon and then leave for Ireland. Accordingly, we dressed in suits and ties, cleaned our white bucks, and hoisted our large metal-frame packs on our backs. John’s backpack was a tribute to efficient travel, filled with wool hiking socks and a mosquito net and the right balance of warm and cold outerwear. Everything was neatly rolled up and stowed in true Survivor style. My pack contained a pair of black wingtips from Brooks Brothers (white bucks are not appropriate for all occasions), a blue blazer, a tennis racket, a pair of jeans, and a Brown lacrosse T-shirt. I had exactly what I needed for a member-guest weekend at the Tokeneke Club in Darien. I wore my blazer pretty much every day of the trip, not to look preppy but because I was freezing.
As we took the elevator down to the lobby that morning, one dapper guest, perfectly accessorized down to his pearl-handled cane and silk bowler, looked us up and down and then again.
“Camping, gentlemen?” he asked wryly.
John and I obliged him with a sheepish laugh and set out for lunch with my ex-stepuncle, who, given my family tree, was a close relation. We took a train to Holyhead in Wales, where we boarded the overnight ferry for Dùn Laoghaire, Ireland. It was a sleepless night, our berth being located in the drunken loony section of the boat. Then we headed by train to Dublin, where we planned to meet up with John’s cousin Michael Kennedy and his girlfriend, Vicky Gifford, the daughter of football great and sports commentator Frank Gifford. What I didn’t know was that we weren’t meeting up with them right away. First, John wanted to make full use of our camping equipment. He insisted we establish camp in a churchyard outside of St. Patrick’s Cathedral with about a hundred other Americans, a mix of young Eurail pass travelers and aging hippies.
I hate camping. John loved it. He was a decorated veteran of such programs as Outward Bound and the National Outdoor Leadership School and liked nothing so much as sleeping under the stars. He was an acco
mplished outdoorsman, entirely capable, I’m sure, of living on nuts and berries and fish that he caught with his bare hands. He found the wilderness peaceful, and for as long as I knew him he made a point of escaping the city and reconnecting with the natural world whenever possible.
The Dublin churchyard wasn’t wilderness, but John was adamant. Lacking a tent, we unrolled our sleeping bags under a tree, receiving a glare or two for our strange attire. (My blazer in particular, I reckon.) John slept like a baby that night, while I cursed every pebble beneath me, mustering perhaps an hour’s sleep. I finally gave up and spent the rest of the night wandering the tent-strewn graveyard, musing as to how far man had come. You know: indoor plumbing, electricity, the mattress.
In what would become a trend, John and I avoided Dublin’s famed cultural attractions the next day and chose instead to climb up and slide down a small mountain in a park on the south side of the city, Killiney to be exact. We then met up with Wendy Gallagher, the newlywed wife of an old Kennedy family friend, for dinner at a chic restaurant downtown. My luck was about to turn. Mrs. Gallagher, who was about thirty, tall, big-boned, and as rambunctious as any frat boy I’d ever met, insisted we return home with her that evening to visit her husband, who hadn’t been able to make it that day. Home was a hilltop castle in County Wicklow, about forty miles away. Hmmm, what to do—sleep in a graveyard of tents, or a castle? John would probably have chosen the graveyard, but luckily for me, Michael and Vicky were in Wicklow as well. We climbed into Mrs. Gallagher’s Rolls-Royce, and she narrated points of interest on our trip, including the so-called Wicklow Wanker, an older fellow who exposed himself to us gleefully as we drove by. I slept that night in my own turret—John got one, too—in a king-size bed with satin sheets and an eiderdown quilt.
Dinner was lavish, held in an ornate dining room much larger than the apartment I’ve lived in for the past fifteen years. Each course was presented by liveried staff on mirrorlike silver serving trays. After we were done eating, the men—our host Paul Gallagher, John, Michael, and I—retired to the pool room in the basement, really the dungeon. We learned and subsequently played billiards, the sense of competition rising with the night’s advance. For refreshment, we had simply to amble over to the wine cellar, formerly a large prisoner’s cell, and insert the five-pound, three-hundred-year-old key in the ancient keyhole. The wine casks inside were more than eight feet tall. We stayed down there all night, so deep in the keep that we didn’t notice dawn’s approach. Michael hit the final shot a little after eight A.M., and we retired to our turrets to sleep.
For half an hour. Just before nine, Paul appeared in each of our rooms, hovering like an apparition and dressed in some sort of traditional hunting attire. He ordered us to assemble in the dining room immediately. We stumbled downstairs to learn that breakfast had already been served and that we were heading out for a quintessential Irish experience: the morning Guinness at a local pub. Hungover and as stiff as old hound dogs, we shuffled out to the courtyard, past the empty silver warmers that had contained what was surely a grand breakfast.
Apparently the morning Guinness was a men-only custom, since the women were left to slumber blissfully. We piled into the Rolls and motored up and down too many hills before finally arriving at the pub, a small building of an architectural style made popular by Tolkien’s Hobbits. It was packed. We filed in, sat down, and drank our warm beer slowly. This is what’s meant by “nursing a beer.” I learned that you can gauge the freshness of a Guinness by drawing your initials in the foamy head. If they remain visible when the beer is finished, it was a fresh brew. The bartender also informed us that a child can live to the age of six on Guinness alone. I wondered later how he knew that. John took an especially long time with his beer, moaning involuntarily before each sip. By the time we’d finished our “breakfast,” more than a few of the locals were laughing at us. We climbed unhappily back into the Rolls and roller-coastered home.
John and I stayed at the castle for two nights and three days, then headed back to Dublin, rented a red Opel, and started out for County Galway, where Michael had arranged a pleasant excursion. It felt like a long drive, mainly because Michael couldn’t—or wouldn’t—shut up. He was very funny, but finally John couldn’t take it anymore. He turned to Michael and the two of them proceeded to fight like brothers, punching and yelling at each other for two hours. For you women, I’ll explain: They were bonding. It was sweet to see.
County Galway is on the western coast of Ireland and looks exactly like the brochure suggested: green fields strewn with rocks in front of a dramatic, jagged coastline. Michael had arranged for us to stay at the Galway Inn, a low-slung stone complex that had great food and a spectacular view. Our visit, he said, would be free, a gift from the inn to express Ireland’s pride in the Kennedy clan. John wouldn’t have asked for special treatment, but neither of us could think of a reason to turn it down. We checked in and enjoyed ourselves. We got massages and went horseback riding, drank fine wine and ate big steaks, all without thinking of the cost.
Maybe we overindulged. Or maybe Michael had misunderstood the offer. In any case, when we went to check out after five lovely days of lavish living, we were handed a bill that completely wiped out our funds for the rest of the trip. Being the poorest member of the group, I instinctively started to protest, but John put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. He pulled a wad of Irish money from his wallet, compelling me to do the same, and we settled up graciously with the innkeeper. We then asked to use a phone and John called home to request that cash be wired to London. As it was his family that had caused our unexpected cash drain, John insisted on making the first cash call. My turn would come later. John and I then found Michael and accused him of treachery and ruination. He laughed at us.
We said good-bye to Michael and Vicky and drove off on the rest of the planned route, visiting Limerick and Waterford before heading back to Dublin. Rather than seeing “the sites,” we drank a pint in every hamlet we passed. It made for a rather depressing journey, actually, because every single person we met wanted to come to the United States. I’m pleased when I read about Ireland’s recent renaissance, because it was a country in crisis—beautiful but sad—when we were there.
John was completely anonymous on this leg of the trip, just another American kid with a backpack. One kind lady invited us to tea in her home after watching us play Frisbee in the park. On her mantel were two pictures: one of Jesus Christ and the other of John’s father. I almost wanted to tell her who was sitting on her couch, because it would have made her day. But John, generous though he was, would have killed me. I think I said something like “What did you say your name was, son?” as we left her lawn. John dropped his chin and didn’t answer. We slept in the same park—named after President Kennedy—that night, but we didn’t talk about the name. Maybe John had friends who dealt with the ubiquity of his father’s name directly but I wasn’t one of them. I assumed that John’s father was sacred ground to him and that he’d bring him up if he wanted.
He did bring him up from time to time, referring to him as “my father” (never “my dad”), usually in a serious tone. But not always. When Sotheby’s held the Kennedy family yard sale in 1996, John wasn’t the least surprised at the high prices his father’s things went for. Golf clubs for a million bucks? “Cheap! A bargain!” he snorted proudly. A cigar case for four mil? “We’re giving stuff away!” he said despairingly. He never spoke of his father’s politics. In the more than twenty years that we were friends, we never once discussed the Bays of Pigs, the Cuban missile crisis, PT 109, Marilyn Monroe, or Vietnam, although we discussed politics and history a lot.
I don’t mean to suggest that John’s father was some kind of monster in the closet, just that John was clearly sensitive about him. And I, being a true-to-type WASP, found it easy to avoid the subject. Besides, what could he say? He never knew his father personally. He was younger than three years old when he lost him. No one remembers things from when they were
two. So his “memories” came from pictures, from the recollections of others, from the analyses found in textbooks. He couldn’t speak about him intimately, which must have been frustrating. I imagine that any young child who loses a parent has to cope with “secondhand” memories. In John’s case, though, his loss surrounded him daily. Whether it was a plaque on some wall or a reference to the airport, John’s father’s legacy was omnipresent. And his absence was underlined. Though we never talked about his father’s assassination, it’s such a pervasive cultural reference that it seemed to come up all the time. He didn’t flinch. Contrary to the stories I’ve read, I never saw John leave the room when the Rolling Stones song “Sympathy for the Devil” was playing. Actually, if we were in the car or some other private place, he’d sing out, even yell, the lines:
I shouted out,
Who killed the Kennedys?
When after all
it was you and me.
He never looked at me when he did it. And he didn’t laugh. But sing he did. I think he took some sort of solace in the rock ’n’ roll glorification—by his beloved Rolling Stones, no less—of his dad.
It didn’t help that John’s birthday, November 25, was so close to the November 22 date of his father’s death. In 1988, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the assassination, John told me that he wished his birthday fell somewhere else on the calendar. He made a similar comment in 1993, on the thirtieth anniversary. We were Rollerblading in Battery Park, planning on hauling up to Central Park for the exercise. John was lagging the first mile, so I asked if he was tired. This was the sort of question that normally got me passed in a cloud of smog. Instead, John told me that the media coverage of his father was “not so easy” emotionally, and that he’d prefer to just go get a beer. We ended up at Puffy’s on Hudson Street, where I made an effort to let John vent if he wanted. But we stuck to our usual program, playing tough guys in the face of our past.
The Men We Became Page 5