JFK and Mary Meyer

by Jesse Kornbluth

For me—and for Ken22 and Jules23—color feels like the subject.

  Because we stain the canvas, the absence of brushstrokes suggests the absence of the artist.

  Nothing remains but the art—a pure experience, we say.

  It doesn’t feel like enough for me.

  JANUARY 5

  Jack, on the phone, 3 p.m.: Got an hour?

  - I’m working. Go away.

  - You can’t leave?

  - Not if I want to be in a show.

  - Mrs. Meyer is very determined.

  - Thanks for the compliment.

  - Is it possible your ambition is even greater than your talent?

  - I don’t know, Jack—that seemed to work for you.

  - Ouch.

  - Well, that was a nasty thing you said.

  Long pause.

  - It was. I’m sorry. Go back to work.

  JANUARY 9

  Jack, on the phone, 8 p.m.

  - Why are you so independent?

  - I need to be.

  - What will you do for security?

  - Are we talking about money?

  - No. A man.

  - I tried that. It’s anything but security.

  - That’s not the opinion in this house.

  - I’ve read my Buddhism. The ground is not solid.

  - You could come to grief.

  - If grief is the price you pay for independence, I’ll pay it.

  - The loneliness, Mary—how do you stand it?

  - My loneliness ended the day Cord moved out.

  - Too glib.

  - When you have creative work, the work keeps you company.

  - Creative work is often inspired by deep pain, isn’t it?

  - Yes. But an artist can relieve her pain in her work.

  - Do you?

  - In my work, I work it out. Some of it.

  - Yeah. Me too.

  I could imagine his expression. He’d said too much.

  He switched gears.

  - By the way, what does Ken Noland have that I don’t?

  - Hmm.

  - One thing. Just one.

  - How about…mystery?

  Laughter.

  JANUARY 10

  I could spend a year with a great many men. Jack isn’t one. When I think of him, I get a very cold image, like being in line at a counter. There’s someone in front of you, and you’re waiting your turn, and there’s someone behind you, waiting her turn. And someone behind her.

  JANUARY 12

  Jack called.

  I’m not responding, so why me? It can’t be “pleasure.” He can get that anywhere, anytime. He must like the chase. The challenge. He actually believes no woman can resist him for very long.

  Well, he’s right—I want to say yes.

  JANUARY 20

  A year ago today…

  No sense of his achievements, only of his style. His presidency is shallow as glass.

  JANUARY 22

  Important to get every detail right—there’s only one first time. And I want to get it all down, because it’s not going to last and I’ll want to go back and see when it went wrong.

  I wore the blouse he liked.

  In the car on the way to the White House, I thought: I’m about to go to bed with the biggest star in the world.

  And then: What if it’s awkward? Not great? What if we’re a mismatch?

  I most definitely did not think: How can I make it great for him?

  The Yellow Oval Room.

  He was waiting. Reading a memo.

  I said: Don’t get up.

  He got up: Want a drink?

  A bottle of wine on the table. Opened. One wine glass. He was drinking water.

  I said: No.

  - Come here.

  I didn’t.

  I said: I also see…someone. Is that a problem?

  He said: I also see…a few people. Is that a problem for you?

  We sat across from each other. An awkward moment. My God, was Jack…shy?

  - Inside you, Jack Kennedy, there’s a quiet boy screaming to get out.

  - I don’t remember that boy.

  - You do. And you’re going to see him again.

  - Where?

  - In bed. With me.

  I took his hand. He led me into a bedroom, and I realized—I was surprised to realize—it was his bedroom, not a bedroom he shares with Jackie.24

  Breathtaking.

  The simple fact.

  Taller than he looks in pictures, or dressed. And skinny, so he seems taller.

  No fireworks and rockets for me. I felt clear-headed. Wide awake. Like we’d just accomplished something.25

  To understate: Jack was relaxed.

  - I won’t make you talk.

  - I tend to doze off.

  - I’ll show myself out.

  - You’re not offended?

  I kissed my fingers, put them to his lips.

  JANUARY 23

  I’m picturing Jack having Dave Powers find out when Jackie’s going away next.26

  JANUARY 25

  Gertrude Stein, on Picasso: “He is a man who always has the need of emptying himself, of completely emptying himself, it is necessary that he should be greatly stimulated so that he could be active enough to empty himself completely.”

  Who does that sound like?

  FEBRUARY 4

  Art starts with vision.

  Who has the best?

  Falcons.

  The resolution of the falcon’s retina is eight times higher than ours. They can see the movement of their victim from a distance of more than a mile.

  Why do falconers put hoods on them? Because they’re so visually oriented the falconer wants nothing to distract them—they’re not fearful of what they can’t see.

  I read this:

  Some say that blinders were invented when a preacher had a wager with one of his friends. The preacher bet that his horse could walk up the stairs in his home, which the horse did with no problem at all. But when he tried to coax the horse down again, it wouldn’t budge! So the preacher covered the horse’s head and led him down. He realized that covering all or part of the horse’s vision could encourage the horse to take chances it would not normally take.

  Just what they don’t teach you in school: If you look straight ahead, you can take more chances.

  FEBRUARY 8

  Jack, 4 p.m. The phone.

  - Could you stop whatever you’re doing and…?

  - I’m working, Jack.

  - For half an hour, could you stop?

  - In an hour, I could finish.

  - If there were a fire…

  - I’d rescue this painting, and then I’d call you…

  - Happy to know how little importance I have in your life.

  - In fact, I was just thinking about you.

  - Tell.

  - Yesterday you expanded the Cuban trade embargo.

  - Widely reported, I’m pleased to say.

  - And now it covers imports.

  - Yes.

  - Even for you?

  - Yes.

  - No more cigars?

  - Before the announcement, I bought twelve hundred Petit Upmanns.27

  And then that great laugh.

  FEBRUARY 10

  Wild night last night. Jackie had seventy-five for a black tie dinner for Jean and Steve Smith, who are moving to New York.28 After dinner, forty more for dancing.

  I arrived as Jackie was twisting with Averell Harriman, with Bob McNamara impatiently waiting his turn, and Oleg Cassini giving lessons.

  Jack saw Jackie was busy. Signaled. We met in the hallway. Went upstairs.

  On the second floor, we ran into Betty Spalding, sitting alone.29

  Jack asked if she was okay.

  Skiing injury. Sore. Just need to sit quietly.

  As Jack opened a door, I saw Betty’s look of disgust.

  Inside, I understood why: this was the schoolroom and playroom for Caroline and her friends.

  It was hot and quick
and fun, and we were downstairs before anyone noticed we were missing.

  Jack told me a story: Betty is a two-handicap golfer. I played with her after the Bay of Pigs. When we finished, she told me, “This is not the time to correct your slice.”

  He laughed, and it was funny, but I couldn’t help thinking: She’s married to one of your closest friends. And she is your good friend. She will judge us harshly. And she will talk.

  I felt a twinge.

  It passed.

  Jackie has a problem, but I’m not it.

  FEBRUARY 11

  Looking down at Jack…his face was like twenty. I felt what kids feel when they’re in the backseat of a car parked by the lake on a moonlight night in summer…pure pleasure. Pleasure before we were force-fed adulthood, and romantic disappointment, and the constriction and boredom of marriage, and the weight of children and houses and jobs. And “morality.” And hypocrisy.

  FEBRUARY 14

  Valentine’s Day.

  TC called. I invited him here to watch Jackie’s tour of the White House.30 He laughed. And surely made another call.

  Just as well. Jackie’s show was…“agog” is the only word.

  FEBRUARY 15

  Tony called to gush about last night: Jackie this, Jackie that, and how Jack looked at Jackie with love and admiration as they watched.

  This is not the Jack I know.

  I called Helen Chavchavadze.31 She’s seeing Jack. Isn’t hiding it. We all know.

  She had seen the show.

  She didn’t want to talk about it.

  She wanted to talk, woman to woman, about Jack.

  I didn’t say I was seeing him.

  I did say: He seems to have an interest in me.

  - With the right attitude Jack is fun… for women like us.

  - Who are?

  [Editor: Mary’s handwriting here is scribbled, as if Helen were talking fast and Mary was trying to keep up.]

  - Women who are educated, and can talk back, and who can go to bed with him without getting hung up on romance and what he calls “all that other twaddle.”

  - That’s what I expected. Tell me about the surprises.

  She laughed.

  - That’s the surprising thing—there are none. The first time you sleep with him, you get the picture: it’s all about Jack. Your reward is just to be there.

  - As a lover, how would you rate him?

  - Enthusiastic.

  - As in…eager?

  - As in…you know.

  - When you see Jackie…you don’t feel bad?

  - No.

  - Why not?

  - She’s like a European wife. She thinks this is what men do.

  - Not all of them.

  - Let me know when you find one who’s faithful. But yes, Jack is an extreme case—he’s as horny as a frat house cat.

  - Jackie knows this.

  - The way she sees it, it’s better for Jack to sleep with women he can never be seen with in public than for him to have a serious girlfriend and leave the marriage.

  - Does she know about you?

  - I have children. I’m busy. I’m Jackie’s friend. I’m safe.

  I thought: So am I.

  - How long do you think…

  - I’m ending it before he does.

  - And then?

  - We’ll all be friends. Just like before.

  - Jackie will invite you to dinner? Like it never happened?

  - This will be a delicious secret, safe in a Swiss bank.

  - Later, when you look back, how will you think of him?

  - He loves sex. He loves women less. He got that from his father, who’s a nasty piece of work. And Jack’s not. He’s got a little sweetness, and a great, quick brain—he’s actually pretty sensitive. Then his need for sex shows up, and a dark cloud comes over him and destroys everything good in him. It’s a sad story. He’s a lovely guy. But…out of control.

  I got off the phone before she could give me some good advice.

  MARCH 11

  Jackie’s off to India.

  In bed, after, Jack smoking a cigar.

  - Do you smoke cigars because Churchill did?

  - My father. After dinner, he’d sit back with a Cuban. No one ever looked more self-satisfied.

  - Do you think they’ll name a cigar after you?

  Laughter: I’ll be lucky to get an airport.

  We dozed…on opposite sides of the bed, not touching.

  Later: When is Jackie back?

  - Maybe the 29th.

  - Do you feel the luxury of knowing we can have some time together?

  My self-confidence surprised me. Jack too, I think.

  MARCH 15

  2 p.m. Jack called.

  I said I couldn’t see him tonight.

  Giving a man what he wants when he wants it is always a bad idea.

  8 p.m. The phone rang. I let it.

  MARCH 17

  Everything I do alone I feel sad about.

  MARCH 20

  Dinner in the Yellow Oval Room. Lamb chops and baked po-

  tatoes. Somehow we started talking about “the one who got away.”

  Jack: Gene Tierney.

  - When?

  - Right after the war.

  - Wasn’t she married to Oleg?

  - They were separated.

  - Why didn’t you marry her?

  - I wasn’t ready.32

  - How old were you?

  - Twenty-eight. Maybe twenty-nine.

  - Old enough.

  - How about you?

  - No one you know.

  - Who?

  - Bob Schwartz.

  - Jewish.

  - Not very.

  - How old were you?

  - Twenty-three. A good age to be wildly in love.

  - Was he?

  - It was a flawless romance.

  - Why didn’t you marry him?

  - I would have.

  - But…

  - He didn’t have money. He thought I was…royalty. That I had more…credentials. So he broke it off.

  - And in swept that great lothario, Cord Meyer.

  I didn’t want to hear Jack going off on Cord. I asked about Jackie.

  - It’s not a very romantic story.

  - I’m not sure I want to hear this.

  - You do. You do. His name was John Husted.33 Excuse me: John Husted, Jr. From Bedford. And St. Paul’s, Yale, stockbroker.

  - We know a hundred guys like that.

  - Right. A dead-ass bore. But all of her friends are getting married, and Jackie, who’s now twenty-two, is afraid that if she doesn’t get to it soon, she’ll be a spinster, so after six or seven minutes, they get engaged. Only at the engagement party, her mother learns that Husted makes…I think…no more than $17,000 a year. And has no family money. Jackie is shocked: “How did I not know this?” And her mother, sticking the knife in, says, “You tell me.” And she breaks the engagement. Ask me how.

  - Do I want to know?

  - She tells friends he’s boring and his work is dull. She tells him nothing. But when she takes him to the airport, she slips the engagement ring into his jacket pocket.

  - Jackie told you this?

  - Lee did.

  - And then this rich, Irish lothario comes along.

  - Saving her from a terrible fate.

  - There would have been someone else. But if no one had come along…if Jackie hit twenty-five without a husband…she would have started going to Wall Street buildings at noon, taking the elevator to the top floor, and doing her absolute best to meet a guy before they got to the lobby.

  - Chilly.

  - Very.

  - I mean you, Jack.

  MARCH 27

  Jackie’s in London, I think, on her way back.

  In bed, Jack is distracted.34

  APRIL 1

  Dinner with TC.

  He’s in no way a simple man but compared to Jack…a child.

  His best story last night: a client who paid a bri
be in order to avoid an indictment for paying bribes.

  He slept over, and everything was just so…smooth. After, it felt like the tide going out. In the dark, he said, “I’m only superficial on the surface.”

  I loved that. Why don’t I love him?

  APRIL 2

  Jackie went to India on March 11.

  She returned on March 29.

  She immediately took the children to Palm Beach.

  A wife who does that—she either is very secure in her marriage, or knows her marriage is dead, or just doesn’t want to think about her marriage.

  Jackie and I once talked about reading.

  I told her when I was sick in the 10th grade I read Gone with the Wind nonstop for a day and a half, dozing a little, drinking ginger ale and eating saltines, and feeling like I was alone, but it was okay because I had this book.

  Jackie said Jack’s childhood was like that—when he was sick, he’d read a book a day.

  She said she and Jack gave each other books.

  I asked their favorites.

  Jack gave her a biography: The Young Melbourne.35

  She gave him a French book—I didn’t get the name and didn’t want to ask her to repeat it.

  APRIL 3

  Jack invited me to spend mornings in the Oval Office.

  - I’m drowning in a sea of pragmatism. Nobody has your point of view—liberal, idealistic, completely impractical. I’d like you to sit and listen, and later we can talk.

  I thought: Good idea. I’m not wedded to the policies of the past because I’m female, and women had nothing to do with creating those policies. But…

  - Will I sit behind a screen? Wear a cloak of invisibility?

  - You’re a family friend. No one will care. And the proof is, if you want to read or sketch or—God forbid—knit, everyone will understand, because most of the business of government is boring.

  - I don’t see how this won’t raise eyebrows. I am Ben Bradlee’s sister-in-law, I could toss a tidbit to Ben every day.

  - Ben traded his journalistic independence for access and friendship.36

  - Seriously?

  - Completely. If you share a tidbit with Ben, it won’t travel further. If anything, tidbits flow the other direction.

  APRIL 4

  Oval Office. My first day. The meetings were about budgets.

  Good thing I brought a book: the life of Melbourne. I did laugh once: “No one ever happened to have coats that fitted better.” Mostly I was interested in Melbourne’s philosophy, which was just like his coats: the world was ruled by vanity and selfishness. Life was one day, endlessly repeated: “Nobody learns anything from experience; everybody does the same thing over and over again.” His goal was to get through life with as little unpleasantness as possible—and the best way to achieve that was to do very little. Of course, he was a Whig—a rich man accustomed to being rich. Like his friends, he believed you could do anything…as long as you maintained decorum.