by Wendy Leigh
LATER STILL I just couldn’t keep quiet, so I went over to Linda and asked if I could talk to her. She seemed in a better state and said yes. So I sat down next to her, took her hand, looked deep into her eyes, and said this to her: Linda, I want you to know that I understand how you feel and how you hate everybody. I do too, sometimes, as well. But you shouldn’t say anything bad about Jews. My three-year-old little brother was thrown into the oven alive and burned to death, and if you say anything bad about Jews, you are acting like the Nazis who did that to him.” She didn’t say a word, so I just came back here. They’ve just brought dinner. Dinner? A piece of green-looking fish and some potatoes that taste like sugarless cotton candy.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON When I woke up this morning, there was someone banging on my door. Linda. I let her in, and before I could stop her, she threw her arms around my neck. “Marilyn,” she said, “I couldn’t sleep all night. I am so sorry I called you a whore, and I’m sorry about your little brother. Please forgive me.” I said I did, she went off to breakfast, and I thought that was the end of it, but it wasn’t. She came over to me again and said, “Marilyn, I want you to know that I am getting to love you.” I said, “Thank you.” Then she came closer. “I have to make a call, and I need some cigarettes, but they won’t give me any money. …” I went into my room and got her some. Next thing I knew, about two hours later, she came over to me again, grabbed me by the arm, and said, “I’ve got to have your number, please, please, please. I asked her why. “Shhh,” she said. “When I get out of here, I’ve got nowhere to stay … please, Marilyn, please.”
I felt dreadful for her, but I knew I couldn’t give her my number. So I just mumbled something and slunk back in here. But I know it is just a matter of time before she comes after me again.
THE NEXT DAY They had to smuggle me out the back way because of Linda, and now I am back home. But I can’t stop thinking about her and all the other sad and lonely, frightened people back there.
I have to end now—appointment with my analyst. I wanted also to say that I understand if, now that you are First Lady, you—and Jack as well—want to forget all about me. I don’t expect to ever hear from you again, although I would love to, and to hear what life is like for you inside the White House. If you don’t have time to write, or don’t want to, of course I will understand.
But if you ever can, please think good thoughts for me.
Love,
Martha
THE WHITE HOUSE
Martha Marshall
882 North Doheny Drive
Beverly Hills, California
February 18, 1961
Dearest Martha,
Your letter touched my heart immeasurably. How could you possibly think that I would not have the time or interest to reply to your patently sincere and highly detailed letter! I am immensely flattered that you feel able to write to me in such honest and direct terms and hope very much that your horrendous ordeal has come to an end and that you are now safely home again. As for that psychiatrist, your instincts, Marilyn, are so acute that I have no doubt whatsoever that his intentions were less than honorable. Thank God you had enough strength and self-preservation to remove yourself from his evil reach. Your description of the other patients was most moving and I only wish something could be done to alleviate their suffering. Your own actions in that direction are praiseworthy and I deeply admire your sensitivity and commitment.
Of course I should be delighted to tell you all about my strange, bewildering new life inside the White House. Before I start, though, please know that if ever you come to Washington, both Jack and I should be delighted if you would plan to come here and amuse both of us in this dreary Maison Blanche.
In any event, thank heavens all the furor is over. Since the campaign, I’ve felt so mercilessly exposed. Now I can think of nothing I’d rather do than write to you.
I’m writing this late at night in the Queen’s Bedroom (my new bedroom), where I sleep each night in Andrew Jackson’s bed. One of my first actions, you will be pleased to learn, has been to purchase for my bedroom wall an early-nineteenth-century engraving of the Empress Josephine.
But lest you imagine the Empress Josephine’s boudoir, think again! The White House is a million miles removed from Malmaison in style or grandeur. I am absolutely horrified by what I have found here and desperately want to renovate it, starting with the Oval Office. I adore the view from there of the Washington Monument and the Jefferson Memorial, but I hate all that morose blue. And as for the East Room, it reminds me of a roller skating rink with those awful orange walls. In most of the other rooms, the carpets—including the spectacular Aubusson rugs which I adore and are priceless—are covered in spots. The draperies are tattered and torn. The fireplaces don’t even function.
To give you a flavor of the shabbiness of the entire White House (and I am now quoting from my detailed plan of action), there are 412 doorknobs (should be polished twice daily), 147 windows (should be cleaned biweekly), half an acre of marble corridors (must be polished twice daily), half an acre of carpet (must be vacuumed thrice daily). The linens are yellowed and need replacing, and the china (all 10,000 pieces) is chipped and cracked.
Most of the furnishings look like something left over from a yard sale: jumbled, dusty, with very few pieces that are of historical importance. Before Jack and I moved in, I toured the place with Mamie. Her decorating taste, you will probably surmise, was, to put it kindly, deficient. Her bedroom wall was decorated in a horrendous combination of vomit green and rose pink, and on either side of the door leading from the Oval Office sitting room into the main upstairs hall, two portholes had been built expressly for the Eisenhowers. When I chanced to inquire as to their purpose, an usher opened them, revealing a television sequestered in each porthole. Apparently, Mamie and Ike favored TV dinners, of which they partook in front of the televisions, with Mamie watching soaps on one and Ike, Westerns on the other.
Somewhat dispirited, I explored the house, and was elated to discover in the basement an 1817 Pier table. Some cretin had sprayed it with gold radiator paint but I think it can be rescued. There is also a wonderful Hepplewhite mirror I love that belonged to George Washington. If I could find more pieces like that, perhaps the White House could be made livable after all.
Really, the whole place desperately needs renovating so that it reflects the glory of the nation. The White House should be the grandest residence in the land. Thomas Jefferson would have understood (he ordered silks and furnishings from France when he lived here), but I doubt that Jack will. He is so uninterested in decor that he probably thinks chintz is a small animal. …
Of course, I wouldn’t touch some things—like Lincoln’s Bedroom, which, to me, is inviolable. Sitting on Lincoln’s rosewood carved bed earlier this evening, I felt that he was watching me. I wonder what my life would have been like had I been married to him. Probably not much better … If I could have picked any American President as a husband, Jefferson would have been my choice. If only for his taste …
Back to my plans: I intend, first and foremost, to dispense with as much stuffy protocol as possible. I shall abolish that dreadful custom of serving guests seven-course dinners. Imagine living in Grant’s day and having to plow one’s way through twenty-nine! All the women must have looked like giant pandas. … I also intend to dispense with that stupid custom of men and women being segregated after dinner, too; women assembled in the Red Room for coffee, and men in the Green Room for brandy and cigars—dreadfully mannered and affected.
Living in the White House would probably have been greatly facilitated for me had I been born in Poughkeepsie, for then I might not have had small, instead of great, expectations. I wouldn’t have been so disappointed in my surroundings, and instead of noticing the dirt, dust, and dreariness, I would have been dazzled by the White House. Instead (and I know this may sound spoiled, but given your honesty, I do not intend to prevaricate with you), I dread the prospect of spending four years living in this
soul-destroying mausoleum. I feel as if I have been sentenced to prison.
Since we moved here, I have been confronted by a series of less than pleasant surprises. On our first night here, I returned to my room alone (I don’t want to speculate where Jack was, or with whom …), only to realize that I was famished because I hadn’t eaten all evening for fear of spilling something on my white Givenchy.
Consequently, I dialed the kitchen, and the following dialogue (which I hope will amuse you) ensued.
“This is Mrs. Kennedy,” I said. “I should be extremely grateful if someone could bring up some Scottish smoked salmon, toast points (brown bread, please), and a bottle of Dom Pérignon.”
There was a silence while a female on the other end of the line digested the information.
“Of course, Mrs. Kennedy. Is this on your account?”
To cut an extremely disconcerting story short, it transpires that unless they are entertaining in an official capacity, the First Family actually has to PAY for every single solitary one of their White House meals! Horrifying! I thought it would be Beluga all the way. … I suppose it is my fault; I was so caught up in the whirlwind of the campaign (which can age you thirty years in just one day—my mouth paralytic from all that smiling, my hand practically crippled from all that shaking) that I didn’t consider all the ramifications of living here.
It has also become clear to me that one of the major obstacles confronting me is the ever-present, forever-intrusive media. The reporters appear set on stalking Caroline, and are determined to turn her into a ghastly Shirley Temple figure. I shall fight tooth and nail to prevent this from happening. Fortunately, I have managed to create a little playroom for her and a few friends in the third-floor solarium. It consists of a sandbox, rabbit hutches, fish, guinea pigs, and plants.
Since we moved here, I have managed to cajole Jack into establishing a regimen in which at 1:30, each and every day, he has a swim, and afterwards we take a nap together. No matter what I am doing, however important, I join him. We close the bedroom door, no calls are put through, and, for once, I have Jack to myself.
However, as you know from my previous letters, that is somewhat of an illusion. Apart from the usual situations which we both know simmer beneath the surface of our otherwise pristine marriage, even when Jack and I are together in a group of people, we differ dramatically in our way of relating to them. Jack generally talks to everyone with great animation, asking penetrating questions, sparkling, focusing. Whereas I become shy, distant, restrained, find myself unable to laugh or drink or relax, and fail completely to be myself.
Someone is at the door—one of the hazards of living in the White House—one is never allowed to be alone for long.
My caller turned out to be a page with an invitation from Lady Bird to take tea with her next Thursday. I am less than eager. For although she has been incredibly kind and welcoming, I have scant respect for her subservient attitude to her husband. If Lyndon so decreed, she would waltz down Pennsylvania Avenue naked.
I am constantly beset by cabinet wives, and have very little patience for the breed. As you know (and we share this), I have a great disdain for hordes of women en masse. From our first evening here, I have endeavored to retain the intimate quality of our social life. Our first guests, on the Sunday after the Inauguration, in fact, were Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Bernstein and Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Roosevelt, Joe Alsop, and Bill Walton. The eight of us dined in the Oval Office sitting room on ten pounds of fresh caviar (a gift from a Palm Beach supporter) served out of an enormous yellow metal bucket, plus Dom Pérignon. The atmosphere was congenial, friendly, and almost resembled our pre—White House evenings.
One drawback, however, when entertaining more than eight is that we are compelled to utilize the Family Dining Room, which, apart from being gloomy (with burgundy carpets, curtains, and walls), is also extremely cold. The White House central heating system is archaic and the fireplaces haven’t been used since the year dot. I also want to initiate the custom of placing ashtrays in each room, as well as fresh flowers (white tulips and yellow carnations in the Blue Room, yellow tulips and red carnations in the Red Room) and a bar in the State Dining Room, enabling our guests to drink alcohol, which was banned under Mamie.
I have just re-read this letter and am compelled to laugh at my own bravura style and confidence. Underneath, I am dreadfully insecure, petrified of the scrutiny under which Jack and I will henceforth live, and of the impact it will have on our children. Nonetheless, I will try. Jack expects no less of me.
Forgive me for ending now, but tomorrow I shall be welcoming Lee and her husband to the White House, and must prepare for their visit. I hope it will not be long, dear Marilyn, before you, too, grace us with your presence.
Naturally, I am assuming that you are well on your way to recovery—for you are a strong lady with a profound intelligence and a deep capacity for spiritual regeneration. All my thoughts and good wishes are with you. Please know that my current circumstances render me as open to you and to our correspondence as ever and that I welcome your letters and your friendship with continuing eagerness and warmth.
Fondest regards,
Josephine
__________________________
Extensive accounts of Jackie’s life in the White House can be gleaned from all related books in the bibliography. Sarah Bradford casts further light on Jackie’s first days there: “‘I felt like a moth banging on a windowpane when I first moved into this place,’ Jackie said, ‘it was terrible.… They were painting the second story and they moved us way down to the other end. The smell of paint was overpowering and we tried to open the windows in the rooms and we couldn’t. They hadn’t been opened for years and years. Later, when we tried the fireplaces, they smoked because they hadn’t been used. Sometimes I wondered, “How are we going to live as a family in this enormous place.”‘”
882 North Doheny Drive
Beverly Hills, California
Josephine Kendall
The White House
March 5, 1961
Dear Josephine,
I loved your letter, and felt as if I had actually been inside the White House with you. It seemed so real. I also meant to say that I am really glad that Jack and you take a daily “nap.” In the past, you’ve always been so open and honest about sex, but when I read your letter, I suddenly realized that, with all the things you’ve told me about Jack, you never told me whether or not you still … you know … It feels a little funny asking the First Lady that kind of question, but I have known you long enough, so I guess I can—still have sex together? Or does “nap” mean “sleep”? I hope it doesn’t, I hope it means sex, because I would much rather Jack was happy with you than fooling around with JC or any other woman either.
Warm regards,
M
THE WHITE HOUSE
Martha Marshall
882 North Doheny Drive
Beverly Hills, California
March 18, 1961
Dear Martha,
Your last letter was so cute—and so refreshing, amid the sea of idiotic communications from cretinous women. Imagine, we get literally thousands a week, and I have to deal with them all—answering such profound questions as what brand of shampoo I use and how many curlers I wear in bed and whether or not Jack objects to my doing so. Worse still are the women who persist in sending me their photos, along with the sentiment “Everyone, just everyone says I look exactly like you.” They are even presumptuous enough (or perhaps a better term might be “insecure”) to ask for my advice regarding the toilet training of their children. Tedious beyond belief, I am sure you agree.
However, to answer your perfectly sane and understandable question. Nine times out of ten, Jack really does take a nap. The tenth time, he requires certain sexual services to which I am quite unequal. Forgive me for being reticent, but I do have a horror of talking about that particular phenomenon, and always have.
However, please don’t feel that my current and
relatively new status is holding me back or preventing me from communicating with you as before. Quite the reverse. Being your pen pal has been and continues to be an enriching experience, one which I should not wish my role to curtail.
Apart from the fact that I am in the habit of looking forward to your letters, you are one of the few women in the world—perhaps the only one, apart from the Queen of England, with whom I have very little empathy—with whom I can feel secure in the knowledge that your own glittering career and stratospheric fame ensures that you will never feel any jealousy or sense of competition with me. Which is more than I can say for some of my immediate family, or Jack’s, or my friends and acquaintances.
No, Marilyn, only you and I know what it feels like living our lives in the white heat of limelight, forever on display, forever having to present ourselves in the most glowing of aspects. For example, next week I am compelled to attend a White House lunch for a gaggle of female journalists—all of them dubbed illustrious, and each and every one of them baying for my blood.
You, in contrast, have had years of experience with the terrors of being at the mercy of their spite and the sharpness of their malicious yet powerful pens. Contemplating the prospect of being in their company is, for me, akin to having all my wisdom teeth out on the same day (something I did at the age of 14), only this time without anesthetic.* At least that would be a one-time experience. This, however, will, I fear, be a regular occurrence, and these harridans an integral part of my life. Your help and advice would be most welcome.
On another front, I see that your erstwhile “rival,” Elizabeth Taylor, is currently splashed all over the rags as a consequence of her adulterous romance with the extremely fetchingly masculine Richard Burton. If you have any gossip, I should welcome it as a delightful diversion from the drudgery of politics and life inside my Washington fish bowl.