Mother was a steady golfer. She hit her balls straight down the middle with remarkable consistency. Her shots were short and always straight. We would be respectfully quiet of each other as we teed off, but between shots and between holes, we would walk and talk. She would ask us about ordinary things: friends, school, and the books we were reading. If we had been holding off telling her about trouble with our lessons, that we had failed an algebra or history test, this was our time to confess.
“Mother, I need to tell you something. That exam on the Roman Empire didn’t go as well as I’d hoped . . .”
She would look straight ahead, intently, focused on her ball, but also on our words as we murmured explanations, complaints, excuses, and apologies.
Then came the questions:
“Did you study hard enough, Jean? What parts of the test were difficult?”
Followed by advice:
“You must never give up, Jean. You have to keep at it.”
And a dose of encouragement:
“It will be fine, dear. It just takes a little more time. Don’t rush too much or think about it. Just relax, and it will come to you.”
The conversation completed, we would move to the next hole, her eyes still on the ball.
Mother was a common figure walking along in Hyannis Port, wearing a fashionable but comfortable outfit, always with long sleeves, often topped off by a broad-brimmed hat to keep off the sun and sunglasses to keep out the glare. Mother had a steadfast aversion to intense sunlight. She knew it was bad for a person’s skin. “Put something on!” she would demand if she happened upon us on the lawn, bare arms and legs stretched out to the skies. “You’ll ruin your skin. Stay out of the sun.” She was way ahead of her time on that point.
Mother was not a great one for the car, and turned to it only when absolutely necessary. She did not like to drive herself, but instead would wake one of us before dawn to take her to daily Mass, or call us in from the beach to motor her to an appointment.
One year, we had what we thought was a brilliant idea: to give her a car for her birthday, so that she would not have to rely on us for transportation—and so we could sleep in or keep playing tennis as we pleased.
We pooled our money together and, with an assist from Dad, purchased a small blue coupe. We presented it to her in the circular driveway at the front of the house on the morning of July 22. “Surprise, Mother! Happy Birthday!”
Mother was, as always, appreciative, marveling at the shiny paint, and the knobs and levers inside. The next morning, she rose early as always and drove herself for the first time to Mass at St. Francis Xavier, as the rest of us, stirred momentarily by the running engine, turned back into our pillows. This was to be our new life: Mother, independent, on the road, leaving us, unbothered, with our games, friends, and follies.
But Mother was no fool. That afternoon, after we had all finished our lunches and were ready to head out again, Mother asked for our attention.
“Children, I want to thank you for this wonderful gift. It is extraordinary, and you were so lovely to think of me,” she began very sweetly. “However, I do want to make just one small thing clear. I will drive myself to Mass in the morning. That is fine. But I know you still understand that I expect to be driven as always, by you, to my doctors’ appointments, to the drugstore, to the shoe store, to the beauty parlor, to the golf club, and on various errands like that. You will continue to take me as always. Do you understand?”
She smiled.
“Yes, Mother,” we all responded.
Yet even if she had all nine of us at her disposal to drive her, Mother’s preferred mode of transportation was always her own feet. Wherever she was in the world, she made sure to get her daily walk in—along the boulevards of Paris, through the lanes in England, down the beach in Florida. Mother’s walks led her in very interesting and amusing directions. Once, when her car broke down in Palm Beach and she could not contact one of us by phone, she resorted to hitchhiking, much to the amazement of the couple who picked her up.
Later in life, as Jack rose in politics, our once little-known family became a curiosity for tourists visiting the Cape. Buses would pull into the driveway and park, sometimes at inopportune moments or late in the night. We asked the bus companies if they could try to keep to the road, so that we could enjoy some privacy and exit the drive when we needed to, and they graciously complied.
But one summer afternoon, while Eunice, Pat, and I were eating lunch by the window in the front dining room, we looked out to see, coming around our circular driveway, a giant passenger-laden bus. We could not figure out what was happening, since, at our request, they usually stopped at the top of the street. However, into the driveway this bus rolled, right up to the front door.
We rose from our tuna fish sandwiches ready to see what was the matter. But the scene outside the big picture window brought us to an abrupt stop.
The doors of the bus opened, and a familiar small figure stepped out. And though her face was hidden by her hat, there was no mistaking who it was.
“Is that Mother?” Eunice asked incredulously, though she already knew the answer.
Mother was smiling broadly and chatting, addressing the people who were behind her inside the bus but hidden from our view. Then, with a huge wave of her arm, she beckoned the group forward and directed them to follow her into the house.
One by one, the tourists came down the steps of the bus and marched behind her up the sidewalk and onto the porch as we came out the front door.
Mother immediately took note of our puzzled expressions and met them with a matter-of-fact response: “I was out on my walk and these nice people on the bus stopped me, looking for the Kennedy house,” she explained. “So rather than reciting the directions, I got on board and showed them the way. They want to see the house very much, so I’m going to show them around.”
With that, Mother walked right past us into the house, with the group quickly following in her steps. “This is the sofa where the Pope sat!” we heard her exclaim through the open door. Mother was delighted, and the tourists were, too.
Years later, while she was making one of her regular visits to New York City, Mother came to have dinner with my children, my husband, Steve, and me. Mother always loved to spend time with the children when she was in the city. She would sit around our little kitchen table and ask them interesting questions about what they were studying or about items in the news, just as she had done with us when we were young.
“Would you go to the moon if you ever had the chance?”
“If so, what would you do there?”
“What do you think it looks like?”
After dinner, as the children headed off to bed, it was time for Mother to return to the apartment that she and Dad kept in the city. It was just around twilight, and the sun was going down.
“I’ll call a taxi for you,” I said and started for the phone.
Mother stopped me. “No dear,” she said. “I’d rather walk.”
I thought it was a bad idea. It was getting dark, and Mother was aging. I pressed her further to take a taxi, but she would have none of it. I knew arguing the point was futile, so I told her I would join her.
We headed out into the cool air and strolled along Sixty-Seventh Street, toward Fifth Avenue. As we rounded the corner she said, “Let’s go through the park.”
I asked her not to. “It’s too late, Mother, and it could be dangerous. Let’s stay on the sidewalk.”
But she insisted: “Jean, it’s a lovely night. And I have read that walking on the grass is much better for your feet than walking on the concrete. Let’s go into the park.”
We entered Central Park and started down the path.
Mother walked upright and with a quick step, a black handbag with a short handle always on her arm, like Queen Elizabeth. For such a small person, she had tremendous carriage. Her body language commanded attention and respect.
It was much quieter in the park than on the street.
These were the days before the city had made its significant upgrades to Central Park to make sure it was well lit and safe. Darkness gathered beneath the overhanging trees. A sudden breeze set off a chill.
Up ahead, at the other end of the park, two figures appeared on the path. They were shadows at first, but as they moved slowly toward us, their features began to emerge. Young men, no older than teenagers, in dark jackets. Frowning. Hands stuffed down in the pockets of their jeans.
I immediately went cold. I am sure Mother did, too, but she kept on walking, steadily, assuredly, head forward, as if nothing were wrong.
I breathed in and hoped we would pass the boys without incident. But as we neared, one of the teenagers stepped in front of us. He was large and surly. And I knew instinctively he was trouble. I closed my eyes for a second, hoping he would go away. I opened my eyes.
He was still there.
He held a cigarette up to my mother. “Gimme a light, lady.” It was a demand, not a question.
I sensed movement out of the corner of my eye. The hand that was not holding the cigarette was going for Mother’s handbag. It was all happening too fast. I needed to run, but how could I run with Mother. What if they knocked her out? Should I scream? I was pitiful in my panic. But it turns out that Mother was completely in control.
It did not matter that she was half his size. Back straight, she didn’t miss a beat.
“Young man,” Mother replied sternly. “I do not smoke. And you shouldn’t, either.” The formerly menacing young men, dumbfounded, deflated like a pair of toy balloons.
I was just as amazed as they were. I had no idea Mother knew what was going on.
And in that moment, she made her move.
“Come on dear,” she said, grabbing my arm.
She marched me past the still-stunned teenagers, up through the exit at the other end of the path, and toward the street.
We emerged onto the sidewalk, so glad to be greeted by the sounds of the city, and Mother’s pace returned to normal.
She stopped and turned to me. “I’m sorry, dear. I owe you an apology. You were right. It was not a good time to go in the park.”
Arm in arm we walked, under the streetlights, toward her home.
15
Forever Changed
From faith, and through it, we come to a new understanding of ourselves and all the world about us. It puts everything into a spiritual focus . . . so that love, and joy, and happiness, along with worry, sorrow, and loss, become a part of a large picture which extends far beyond time and space.
—ROSE FITZGERALD KENNEDY
As with any family, our together days came to an end. In 1938, President Roosevelt appointed Dad ambassador to the Court of St. James, elevating our family to a level of renown we had not known before. Within days, or so it seemed, Dad sailed to England to take up his duties. Just a month later, the rest of us followed.
Kick, Dad, Mother, Pat, me, Bobby, and Teddy in front (London, 1938)
© Daily Mirror/Mirrorpix/Corbis.
We traveled with Mother on the SS Washington. Only Joe and Jack stayed behind, to continue their studies at Harvard. Friends hailed us farewell on one side of the Atlantic, and the press greeted us with cameras on the other. We were sailing into a new era, not only for our family but for the world. War was just a year away. But for my ten-year-old self, life was nothing but thrilling.
Teddy and me at the changing of the guard (London, 1939)
AP Images.
Once in London, we moved into the massive six-story Embassy Residence, which had an elevator and, to our tremendous surprise, a television. It was the first time I had ever seen one! Soon after arriving, I enrolled in my new school, the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Roehampton, where I became familiar with the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, the same order of nuns that would teach me for years to come at other Sacred Heart schools in the United States.
At Roehampton, I boarded for the first time in my life. Eunice and Pat boarded there, too, while the others settled into the London home. The rigor of studies under the Sisters was an abrupt change from the Bronxville Public School. I spent hours reading British novels in the library at Roehampton, entranced by the longings of Jane Eyre and the escapades of Oliver Twist.
When I visited London, it was exciting. Bobby, Teddy, and I went to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace and the elephants at the London Zoo.
Almost from the minute she stepped off the boat, Kick became the toast of London, so full of life and fabulous looking. She and Rosemary made their social debut in the months after we arrived by being presented at Buckingham Palace, along with Mother.
There was some whispered concern among staff that Rosemary might not be able to handle the event, but Mother and Dad insisted that she could do it, and they were right—she was sparkling in her white gown lined with silver ribbon, descending the Embassy stairs on her way to the palace. Another momentous occasion at our house was when King George and Queen Mary came for dinner. Mother filled the house with flowers and set the long table in the dining room with the embassy china and crystal. We ate strawberry shortcake for dessert and then the group retired to watch the film Goodbye, Mr. Chips—with the King and Queen! It’s no wonder that to me, our days in England were like a fairy tale.
Kick and Rosemary, with Mother, at their presentation (London, 1938)
© CORBIS.
While in Europe, our family took several trips, most notably to Rome, where we had an audience with Pope Pius XII. This was the same gentle man who had visited us as a cardinal and sat on our sofa years before at the home in Bronxville. Dad arranged through Count Enrico Galeazzi, the acting governor of Vatican City, for Teddy to make his First Holy Communion presided over by the Holy Father. I think it was the most exciting day in Teddy’s entire life.
Our family after being received by Pope Pius XII at the Vatican (1939)
© Bettmann/CORBIS.
Time would soon tell that all was not as smooth or light as it seemed to me then. War gradually made itself known in our lives. In September 1939, England declared war on Germany. Under the imminent threat of bombing raids, Mother and Dad had to decide what to do. Dad felt he needed to stay in England, and thought that Rosemary should stay with him, because she was doing so well at a school there, better than she ever had before. He was devoted to Rosemary and very happy to keep her close to him. The rest of us returned home on an ocean liner bound for the States. The ship’s captain rightly feared that German planes would bomb us if they spotted even a speck of light, so he ordered a complete blackout for the length of the journey. We could move around the ship, but were very subdued. We slept together in one stateroom, completely in the dark. The ship’s crew had drained the enormous swimming pool and laid mattresses on the bottom to create more sleeping space for passengers eager to leave London. Bobby slept in the pool, along with other boys his age making the voyage.
Our lives had forever changed. It was very hard to be separated from Dad and Rosemary, and they missed us as well. Dad was working incessantly, which may have made his loneliness all the worse. “Having to live this life with the family in America is nothing short of hell,” he wrote. “They were with me so much the last year and a half and . . . I had such a great time with them.”
To shorten the distance between us, those of us in America recorded ourselves singing and sent the records overseas to Dad and Rosemary so that they could hear our voices. For Dad’s fifty-second birthday, in 1940, we belted out the Cole Porter hit “You’re the Top.”
You’re the top!
You’re the Coliseum.
You’re the top!
You’re the Louvre Museum.
He reported back in a letter to Mother that he absolutely loved the record and had played it “at least twenty times already.”
“I can’t say that any of my children’s voices have improved in tone quality since I heard them last, but there is still plenty of pep in the sound. And incidentally your piano touc
h was never better.”
Later he wrote to Mother, “Well Darling, I’ve dictated the news but I want you to know that I love you and miss you terribly. The excitement of this life of course keeps one going . . . I just wish I could be with you and help with the children.”
Eventually Dad made the difficult decision to take Rosemary out of her school and send her home. Although she was initially happy remaining in England, her spirits began to drop profoundly from being away from us. Dad could not stand seeing her so sad. Soon after she left, he followed. The conflict in Europe continued to escalate. We later learned that our convent school had been bombed in the raids. The United States entered the war, and Joe and Jack along with it. They both joined the U.S. Navy, Joe as a pilot and Jack at sea.
Fate determined that our family would never be whole again when the news arrived, one hot August day in 1944, that Joe had been lost. Joe had written us a letter telling us that he was on his way home, and our house was full of excitement. But then he sent us another letter, saying that he had actually delayed his return by a few days so that he could volunteer for one more assignment. It was a fearless, selfless decision with tragic consequences. Courageous, brave Joe was flying that final mission over Europe when his plane exploded.
Joe
Photographer Unknown. Kennedy Family Collection. John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.
Mother and Dad learned the news of Joe’s death when two local priests from the church in Hyannis Port arrived at the door that Sunday afternoon. We had just finished lunch on the wide front porch. Dad was taking a nap upstairs; Mother was reading in her sitting room. A group of us was in the living room listening to the radio. The popular wartime song “I’ll Be Seeing You” had just begun to play.
Mother heard the knock on the door and opened it to the priests. They asked if they could have a moment to speak with Mr. Kennedy. Mother recalled later that she was not alarmed by their visit at first because the clergy often came seeking donations for charitable causes. She asked if Dad could speak with them later, as he had just gone up for a nap. They paused and then told her the reason for their visit—that Joe was missing in action.
The Nine of Us Page 11