Jackie and Maria

by Gill Paul

  “I’m putting you through,” the receptionist said after almost ten minutes.

  “You heard the news?” Maria began as soon as his voice came on the line.

  “It’s shocking. I can hardly believe it.”

  “Nor I. Is it definitely true? Is he really dead?”

  “He is,” Ari said. “They got him to the hospital within minutes but he was declared dead half an hour later. Lyndon Johnson was sworn in as president on board Air Force One.”

  She could hear a television in the background and guessed that was where he was getting his information. “Who did it? Do they have any idea?”

  “The newscaster is saying that a policeman was shot and killed trying to apprehend a man who fled the scene. I hope they’ll catch him soon. It’s a terrible day for the world.”

  “Are you alright, darling?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. How about you?”

  She told him about the announcement in the restaurant and the nervous chatter as everyone speculated on who could have done it and why. “I couldn’t stay. It was too upsetting.”

  “I wish I could be with you,” he said. “At times like this, you feel you should be with your loved ones, holding them close.”

  “I wish that too. Is it too late for me to jump on a plane to Hamburg?” She glanced at the clock, only half-joking.

  “We need a time machine,” he replied. “It could bring you to me instantly, whenever I need you, and it could also go back in time and have someone shoot the man who assassinated Kennedy before he could open fire.”

  Neither wanted to hang up; they said “I love you” many times and whispered goodbye, then held on longer, listening to each other’s breathing along the telephone wires.

  MARIA SAT UP watching television till she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, and the next morning she turned on her radio as soon as she awoke, feeling she had to hear every last detail. Only then could she begin to make sense of it. France Inter had nonstop coverage, and Maria learned that a man called Lee Harvey Oswald had been arrested and charged with shooting the president. The name meant nothing to her.

  When the morning papers arrived, most featured a front-page picture of Mrs. Kennedy standing by Lyndon Johnson as he was sworn in. She was gaunt, eyes round and staring, clearly in shock, with smears of her husband’s blood on her suit. Maria’s heart went out to her. It was inhuman that she was being photographed straight after such an appalling trauma. Why was no one protecting her?

  Mrs. Kennedy was said to be in the White House, planning her husband’s funeral. Bobby Kennedy had met her when the plane landed in Washington. Maria guessed Lee would fly out to join her. She was probably on her way.

  Details were sparse, so the newscasters kept repeating the same story, finding eyewitnesses to give their accounts. It was only in repetition that Maria could begin to feel it had really happened. She invited Bruna to join her in listening to the radio, and they discussed the minutiae. Where had the president’s protection officers been? Why were they traveling in an open car? Presidents had been assassinated before—these things happened in America—but somehow this killing felt earth-shattering. He’d been so young, so eloquent, so good-looking.

  At six that evening—the time they always spoke when they were apart—Maria rang Ari’s hotel.

  “I’m afraid he’s checked out,” the receptionist told her.

  That was odd. He hadn’t said he was leaving Hamburg. And then it occurred to her that he might be on his way to Paris. Perhaps he would arrive that evening. She smiled, with a quiver of excitement.

  “What’s for dinner?” she called to Bruna. “Is there enough if we have an unexpected guest?”

  She touched up her makeup, just in case, but Ari had not arrived by dinnertime. She opened a bottle of champagne and sipped one glass, then another, while watching television, but when Ari had not arrived by midnight, she started to get anxious. They always spoke in the evening, no matter what. Had something happened to stop him?

  She couldn’t sleep for worrying that he had been in an accident. Perhaps he was dead too. The idea took root in her head and she obsessed through the early hours, tossing and turning till the sheets were tangled in knots.

  She must have dozed off toward dawn but was awakened a couple of hours later by the sound of the telephone. Straightaway she leapt out of bed and rushed to the hall to take the receiver from Bruna, bracing herself for bad news.

  “Oh, thank God!” she cried when she heard Ari’s voice. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Washington, D.C. I flew out to see if I could be of any help to the Kennedy family. My plane landed just a couple of hours ago.”

  Maria was stunned. It made no sense. “Surely they’ll want privacy at a time like this. You can’t just walk in offering your services . . .”

  “I was invited,” Ari said. “I’m staying in the White House. That’s where I’m calling from.”

  Maria frowned. “But you hardly know Mrs. Kennedy. You spent two weeks with her, and suddenly you are a close confidant?” She paused, and then the truth dawned on her. “Did Lee invite you? You’re still sleeping with her. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “No, Maria, no.” His voice was soothing. “Lee and Jacqueline are friends of mine so I’m here to support them in their hour of need. I was surprised when they invited me but it would have been bad manners to refuse.”

  “Friends?” She raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure about that?”

  She couldn’t shake off her suspicions about Lee, but a transatlantic telephone call was no place to argue with him. They probably taped calls at the White House. Perhaps the FBI listened in.

  “I wish you had called me last night,” she said instead. “I’ve been worried sick.”

  “I know, I’m sorry I missed our call but when the invitation came I rushed to catch the first flight. I’ll call you again this evening at six your time. It’s nighttime here so I must try to get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

  His voice was gravelly with tiredness. She was reluctant to hang up, though. Then she would have to wait nine hours till she spoke to him again.

  “Have you seen your room?” she asked. “What’s it like?”

  “It’s adequate. Simple decoration and a rather too-firm mattress. But I could sleep on a plank of wood right now if I had to.”

  “When will you be back? When will I see you?” she asked, hating herself for sounding desperate.

  “I’ll come to Paris straight after the funeral,” he promised. “I miss you. I love you so much.”

  When he hung up, she tried to feel reassured by those last words, but they weren’t enough to quell the sickening anxiety she felt at the thought of him staying in the White House, with Lee wandering around in an emotional state, seeking comfort . . . it felt as if he were slipping away from her and into the arms of the Radziwill woman, and there was no way she was going to sit back and let that happen. She would fight it with every bone in her body. But how?

  Chapter 42

  Washington, D.C.

  November 25, 1963

  Jackie lay wide awake, despite the Amytal the doctor had injected into a vein in her elbow. Her head was woolly with tiredness, her limbs leaden, but her brain was on full alert and would not let her doze off. Obsessive thoughts flickered like an old black-and-white movie, and her heart raced like a metronome. There was so much to be done. She had to find a new home for herself and the children as soon as possible, because, although the Johnsons had been the soul of kindness, they needed her to vacate the White House. Before she could start house hunting, though, she had to keep a firm grip on every detail of the funeral plans.

  Everyone—even Bobby—had tried to talk her out of walking behind Jack’s casket, saying it was too great a security risk, but she wasn’t going to be deterred. It was imperative that this funeral be as magnificent as that of Lincoln, the other truly great American president who had been assassinated. She gave little thought to Lee Harvey Oswa
ld, the assassin, who had been shot and killed the previous day while in police custody. It had infuriated her when she’d heard that her beloved husband had been killed by a silly little Communist; if he had to die, she wished it could have been because of a great issue, such as his civil rights bill. But he was gone, and nothing could bring him back.

  She looked at the clock: 3:20 A.M. This was the worst time of night. At one o’clock, she could tell herself some folks were still out at parties; at five, some were getting up for work. But between two and five were the dead hours, when she felt like the only person in the world who was awake.

  She could have asked Lee, or Stas, or Bobby, or even her mother (God forbid), to sit with her. But the only person she wanted was Jack, and she was burying him the next day.

  Details of their last conversations ran through her head, all of them inconsequential. What time they were meeting; what she was wearing; him wanting her to charm the ladies at luncheon; and then that last instruction to take her glasses off. His final words should have been profound, about world peace or racial equality, not about sunglasses.

  Last words. Tears filled her eyes. She would never hear his voice again, never hear him teasing her or saying he loved her. Last meant last.

  MRS. SHAW BROUGHT Caroline and John to her room, so smart in their pale blue coats and shiny shoes that it made her want to weep. They’d been little angels since their daddy died. John was too young to understand, but Caroline knew. She kept trying to comfort her mother, clinging to her arm like a koala bear. It was tragic that she would grow up without a daddy. Black Jack had been a flawed father in many respects, but he was the lodestar that Jackie’s young life was shaped by. Her childhood would have been less joyous without him; she’d have been less confident.

  She found it hard to speak now, her throat tight with nerves. Others addressed her, their words floating over her head but not entering her brain. There was still an overwhelming sense of unreality. How could it be that Jack, who had been so full of life—the most dynamic person she had ever known—was gone?

  WHEN BOBBY SAID it was time, she walked out of the White House, gripping a child’s hand in each of hers. There were hordes of photographers and television cameras recording each moment as they went to the Capitol to see Jack’s coffin lying in state, but she didn’t acknowledge them. Her mother had raised her to retain her dignity in public no matter what, and Jackie knew she would have to call on every ounce of that training. She was determined not to break down, because, if she did, that would be the photograph emblazoned on tomorrow’s front pages. Today should be about Jack, not her.

  As she followed the flag-draped casket to the cathedral, she did not glance around at all the heads of state she knew were following, or at the military bands or the thousands of spectators—not even at the Kennedy brothers on either side of her. She didn’t worry about someone taking a potshot at her, but kept her eyes firmly fixed on the caisson that was transporting Jack’s body and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. It felt like the last time she could be with him, the last service she could do for him, and that was in the forefront of her mind.

  Thank God there was a degree of privacy inside the cathedral. She could huddle in the midst of the black-clad Kennedy tribe, each one grieving their own version of Jack while milling around to protect her, like an invisible shield. There was comfort to be had in large families, she’d learned. After years of her feeling somewhat of an outsider, they’d all made it very clear that she was a Kennedy now and they would look after her. Bobby had been like her shadow from the moment Air Force One had landed back in Washington. Today he stood so close their arms were touching.

  She kept her dignity during the eulogies, but as Luigi Vena sang “Pie Jesu,” the emotion welled up suddenly, like a pot of milk on the boil. That perfect music soaring around the nave and up to the cupola penetrated her defenses, and a sob burst out. Bobby put a protective arm around her and Caroline squeezed her hand hard. She was strong, her daughter; thank God for her strength.

  After they left the cathedral, she prompted John to salute his father’s casket and heard the clack-clack-clack of hundreds of flashbulbs. That most private of moments—a son bidding farewell to his father—could not remain unphotographed. It was awful; just awful.

  THE CHILDREN WERE taken back to the White House while she continued to Arlington for the burial, and now she felt as if her legs might give way at any second. Who would catch her if she fell? Probably Bobby. He was right there, as he had been all day. But she wouldn’t collapse; she mustn’t.

  The Irish cadets were unbearably moving as they performed their silent drill. She had invited them in deference to the heritage Jack had been so proud of. He had loved his visit to Ireland that summer—just five months earlier—and Jackie wished with all her heart she had gone with him despite her pregnancy. She had Irish blood on her mother’s side, and they’d always planned to visit together. Of course, they’d assumed they had decades in front of them. Now she would never see the land of their fathers by Jack’s side.

  It was her moment to step forward and light the eternal flame. She took the torch, but her hand was shaking badly and she couldn’t touch flame to wick. The one thing she had to do, and she couldn’t manage it. Her resilience was running close to empty and she almost burst into tears. But she mustn’t; she wouldn’t. She clutched her wrist with the other hand to steady it and finally managed to get the wick to light.

  Soon she would be back at the White House, where she would close the doors, kick off her shoes, light a cigarette, and gulp down a vodka. She had done what was required of her; she had given Jack a send-off befitting a great world leader. The greatest. Now she just had to find a way to live without him.

  Chapter 43

  Paris

  November 25, 1963

  Maria watched the coverage of President Kennedy’s funeral on French television and was moved beyond words by the austere dignity of the former First Lady, rake thin and fragile behind her black veil, two tiny children clutching her hands. It had been only three days since her husband was shot as he sat in a car beside her. How could she get out of bed, never mind parade in front of the world’s television cameras? She must have nerves of steel.

  Maria scanned the images, looking for Lee, but couldn’t spot her. Today was all about the Kennedys.

  She was surprised when Ari called at six o’clock, because she’d thought he would still be with the mourners.

  “I didn’t go to the funeral, but I had dinner with the extended family last night,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of alcohol that was consumed, and the jokes turning the air blue.” He chuckled. “Bobby Kennedy’s face was a picture when he came into the room and spotted me. I thought he was going to choke, but instead he started needling me, calling me an ex-convict.”

  “That was uncalled for.” She was annoyed on his behalf.

  “He was trying to make me lose my temper, and I was determined not to give him the satisfaction. Then he disappeared and came back with a document that said I promised to give half my wealth to the poor of Latin America and invited me to sign it. I signed but added a few codicils in Greek to make it unenforceable.”

  “You’d best get your lawyers to check,” Maria cautioned. “As America’s attorney general, I imagine he knows a few tricks.”

  “Don’t worry—he wouldn’t try to use it.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because he knows that I know about him and Jack and Marilyn Monroe. The minute he took any action against me, the story of their sordid little threesome would appear in the press.” He sounded cocky, but Maria was alarmed by his lack of scruples and the risk he was taking.

  “No wonder Bobby hates you!”

  “Yes, the feeling is entirely mutual. Later in the evening he took me aside and told me not to show my face at the funeral. He said it would attract adverse coverage. I decided it wasn’t the time to argue.”

  She could
tell he was pleased with himself all the same, flattered to have been a guest in the White House, delighted that Bobby was not able to get the better of him. But surely it was odd that Ari, who had met the president only once or twice, should be present at such a close family gathering?

  “Was Mrs. Kennedy there?” she asked. Somehow she couldn’t imagine the grieving widow being part of such tomfoolery.

  “No. I’ve hardly seen her,” he replied. “She’s keeping to her private rooms. I telephoned her to express my condolences but we didn’t speak for long.”

  So was it Lee who’d invited him? Maria wondered. It must have been. She wouldn’t ask, though. He’d be back in Paris soon. That’s when she would try to find out what was happening with her rival and figure out how she was going to put a stop to it once and for all.

  AFTER LUNCH, SHE sat down to write a letter of condolence to Mrs. Kennedy, but it was hard to find the words. She started many times, then crumpled the paper into a ball. She knew there would be many thousands of such letters and Mrs. Kennedy would probably not even see hers, but, still, it should be right.

  “I met your husband only once,” she wrote, “after his birthday celebration at Madison Square Garden, but in the space of our short conversation I could sense his integrity, his warmth and his humor.” She paused, then continued: “I knew he would do great things for his country and felt reassured that the peace of our planet rested in his hands. It is unbearably cruel that he had so little time to achieve his aims, and yet I hope you can take some comfort from the knowledge that the world is a better place because of him.”

  She didn’t follow politics closely, but she knew President Kennedy had persuaded the Soviet leader, Khrushchev, to limit nuclear-weapons testing; she’d read that he was responsible for the Equal Pay Act in America and had signed an order stating that employees should be treated equally regardless of race, creed, or color; he had also established the Peace Corps to help the needy in foreign lands.