Jackie, page 18
“You found this in the mail room?” I ask.
He smiles. “No. But it’s nice. His response to my inaugural.” He hands me the letter, I sit down and read it. Steinbeck has written how a nation might be shaped by its statesmen and military but is often remembered for its artists. He writes how grateful he feels to Jack for capturing it.
“Excellently written…” I read aloud, “that magic undertone of truth.” I set the letter down. “I love this, Jack.”
“Let’s replace all the generals with artists.” He toys with an empty glass on the table, turning it over like there’s something in it he is looking for, and I think about how glass isn’t brittle at all but solvent, fluid, when it meets the right heat.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Communism. Vietnam. The disintegration I’ve inherited.”
“You’ve known all of that.”
“And Cuba. A plan developed by Eisenhower and his CIA. They want me to back a strike against Castro eight weeks from now. Exiled Cuban leaders trained by our military.”
“For what?”
“To incite a civilian uprising.”
“What about the UN?”
“There’s that.”
“Your address was about peace and cooperation, global understanding. Overthrowing another government doesn’t quite align.”
“The Cubans want this,” he says. “They’re depending on it.”
“What does Adlai think? He’s your UN ambassador.”
“Adlai doesn’t know.”
“He doesn’t know what he thinks, or he doesn’t know?”
He just looks at me. They haven’t told Adlai Stevenson.
* * *
…
By early February, Caroline’s room and the nursery are finished. The solarium on the third floor has been turned into a schoolroom. I’ve arranged for Caroline’s playgroup to move to the White House. Some of the mothers, I tell Jack, are concerned. He’s come home for lunch and a rest.
“Their kids will never be safer than when they’re here,” he says.
“I’ve told them that, and now I’m trying to woo them with guinea pigs.”
“Good,” he says.
I look past him to the molding by the bed table, studying it.
“You’re going to need to be discreet, Jack. Here. You know that, don’t you?”
“Don’t mix that up with the children.” His voice is sharp.
I look at him then. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“I’ve got to get back to work.” He reaches for his watch.
* * *
—
John and Caroline are flying in from Palm Beach. As we drive to the airport, Jack tells me the press will expect photographs.
“Of course,” I say. “That will be fine. We can get on the plane and get them ready.”
He smiles. “You mean you’ll wrap the baby in so many blankets they can’t see his face?”
“It is winter.”
* * *
—
The White House gardeners have built a massive snowman for Caroline—twice her size, with a panama hat, a carrot nose, a red ribbon bow tie. She flies out of the car and pokes at the coal buttons at its portly waist, then looks back at me. Her hair has grown longer in the last weeks, past her shoulders now, stripped lighter by the Florida sun. So beautiful, her shy, thrilled smile.
* * *
—
Jack asks me to go for a walk that afternoon. He throws a stick for the dog. Charlie bounds away from us, tripping on a crust of deep snow.
“There’s a lunch on Friday,” he says. “I’d like you to be there with me.”
“I was planning to take the children to Glen Ora Friday, but that’s fine, we can leave afterward.”
“Is the house finished?”
“Almost.”
“It’s just a rental, Jackie. Whatever you do there has to be undone before we move out.”
I clap for the dog, who bounds back, the stick in his mouth, muzzle caked in snow.
“What is it, Jack?” I say. “What’s bothering you?”
“Cuba.” He shakes his head. “And I can’t talk about it.”
* * *
—
The rambling mansion is just visible in the dusk as we fly in. John is on my lap, Caroline beside me.
“Look,” I say, pointing through the helicopter window. “That’s Glen Ora.”
Stone terraces, stucco walls, old shutters painted white. Our family place away. The helicopter touches down in a cleared field. It’s dark by the time we walk into the house. I squeeze Caroline’s hand.
High-ceilinged rooms, a library, a large kitchen, five bedrooms upstairs. Most of the furniture is from our home in Georgetown.
“We’ll ride every morning we are here,” I say.
“Tomorrow?” Caroline asks.
* * *
—
Jack flies in on Saturday, lugging his battered briefcase full of memos, marked Urgent.
It comes up again and again: Cuba. He shares some of the briefs and memos with me. One from Arthur Schlesinger, the tone startling as he argues that, as the president’s first major foreign-policy initiative, an engagement in Cuba could dissipate all the extraordinary good will which has been rising toward the New Administration…
“Surprising, coming from Arthur,” I say. “He reveres you.”
“Not in this case.”
“How will you respond?”
“If it succeeds, I won’t have to.”
* * *
—
In March, Lee flies from London to New York. I meet her for dinner and a play.
“You must have things in Washington you’re supposed to be doing, Jacks,” she says.
“There’s some delegating. But look on the bright side, Lee—I didn’t delegate you.”
“Jack doesn’t mind you aren’t there?”
I feel a light flash of anger. My sister knows better.
“He’d rather have me away and happy than underfoot and not.”
I don’t tell Lee about the rumors of the naked swimming parties in the pool while I am away for the weekend in Glen Ora or the scent of other women I sometimes notice on his clothes. As long as I don’t have to watch it play out right in front of me. He’s that kind of man, like my father. I tell myself that. I knew it going in. It means nothing. I am fine.
“When you’re back in Europe, Lee, I’d like your help. I’ve hired a designer for the White House who I have to pretend doesn’t exist.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s French. Stéphane Boudin. We will focus on American history, American design, but Stéphane has a truly unique talent, and if there’s an antique on your side of the Atlantic he recommends, I’ll need you to go see it for me. You can be my eyes.”
It’s the kind of project my sister will love. The conversation takes off, away from Jack.
* * *
—
I return to Washington for a state dinner and two other events, then the children and I fly to Palm Beach. Jack joins us for Easter. We stay with Joe, who insists Jack sit at the head of the table. When Jack refuses, his father’s fist comes down. “You’re the president now. That’s where you’ll sit.”
I almost point out that since Jack is president, he should be able to sit where he likes.
After dinner, when it’s just the three of us, Jack talks more openly about Cuba and a new proposed plan. The men, Cuban exiles covertly trained by the American military, will land at a different beach farther up the coast, near an inlet, the Bay of Pigs. The goal is to spark an organized resistance against Castro’s regime.
“They want air cover for the landing,” Jack says. “A B-52 strike to take out Castro’s air force.”
“Who is ‘they’?” Joe asks.
“CIA, the joint chiefs.”
“Then do it.”
Jack shakes his head. “Air strikes are noisy. The plan should be strong enough to succeed without them.”
“I disagree,” says Joe. “If it succeeds, it’s a huge win. You show the world, including Khrushchev, what you’re made of.”
“And if it doesn’t?” I say.
Joe looks at me, his eyes cool.
I stand up. “Well, that’s my cue to go and be a good mother.”
Joe laughs and says, “I’m sure you haven’t finished putting in your two cents.”
I smile back. “My two cents, Joe, will never equal your ten.”
* * *
—
Jack is quiet on the flight back to Washington, but his mind seems lighter, like the sun and the warmth have blown the dust off things. He sits in the row across from me, alone.
“You’ve decided, haven’t you?” I say as we begin our descent.
When we land, he leaves for a meeting in the West Wing, and the children and I go back to the Residence. It’s late by the time he comes home for dinner. I don’t have to ask what decision he’s made. I can read it in his face. Later, as we lie in bed, the air is full with what we don’t say. We listen to low strains of music playing on the Victrola. Ella Fitzgerald. When he falls asleep, I slip out of bed; the floor feels strangely cold under my feet as I cross the room, through the open door into the dressing room. As I lift the needle off the record, I know somehow in that silence he is making a mistake.
* * *
…
The following afternoon, Jack brings the British prime minister, Harold Macmillan, to the Residence to meet me. I’ve skimmed his briefing papers:
…shot through with Victorian languor…He walks with a slow, stiff shuffle that might cause some to think him incapable of serious action, but in fact he is masterful, dominating, shrewd—able to spring onto his toes like a ballet dancer.
Macmillan is tall, gray hair swept back, a high forehead, and an unruly mustache. His eyes droop, but he seems aged and wise, with a kind of shattering dignity, like an old tree. I like him immediately. I’ve heard rumors about his marriage—his wife and a torrid affair she kept up for years with a man named Boothby.
I mix cocktails for Jack and Macmillan as they pick up the conversation they began a few weeks ago when they met in Key West, about Laos, the political crisis there, and whether or not America should intervene.
I notice Jack doesn’t mention Cuba. I can feel he wants to. If Macmillan is advising against military intervention in Laos, what would his thoughts be on Cuba?
Before Macmillan leaves, I invite him to visit us at Glen Ora. Jack looks surprised.
* * *
—
On Wednesday, April 12, during a press conference, a reporter asks Jack, “Mr. President, have you reached a decision on how far this country will be willing to go in helping an anti-Castro uprising or invasion of Cuba?”
“There will not, under any conditions, be an intervention in Cuba. This government will do everything it possibly can to make sure there are no Americans involved in any actions in Cuba.”
* * *
—
Friday morning, he asks if I’ll take another walk with him. A brilliant morning. The lawns stretch away from us—the light sharp, the sky that steep, untampered blue. We walk down to the pond.
“I have to approve or cancel air strikes in Cuba by noon,” he says. “An hour from now.”
“And?”
“I don’t know.” He picks up a stone, brushes off the wet dirt, and turns it in his hand.
“Something else,” he says. “That Russian’s space flight. I’ve called a meeting later today. Khrushchev’s too far ahead. We have to catch up.”
It’s been all over the news. Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin—the first human being to orbit the earth—was fired off in a Vostok rocket from the Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan. Shortly after Gagarin landed, Khrushchev issued a statement proclaiming Russia’s lead in the space race.
“You sent a telegram to Khrushchev, didn’t you, Jack? Congratulating him and expressing a desire to share resources, research.”
“I sent it.” That’s all he says. The American space program hadn’t been a priority. Three years ago, after Sputnik, Eisenhower established an organization called NASA to map strategies that might close the so-called “missile gap.” Until now, though, there’d been no push, no sense of urgency. Gagarin’s flight—and the explosion of press around it—has changed that.
“I have to get back,” he says. “I need to decide on the air strikes.”
“You’ll make the right decision.”
I feel a heaviness inside him as we cross the lawn. I reach for his hand.
He heads toward the office. I head to the Residence. At the end of the hall, I look back. He isn’t there. I knew he would have already turned the corner, but I look for him anyway. I walk upstairs and pack reports I’ll read over the weekend to prepare for next week’s visit from the Greek prime minister. I throw in a copy of Edith Hamilton’s book The Greek Way.
* * *
—
Jack flies to us in Glen Ora the next day. The helicopter touches down just before lunch. I walk out to meet him and know from his face things haven’t gone well.
It all looked on track at first, he tells me, but by 11, the UN was involved.
“Then Adlai will handle it,” I say.
“He still doesn’t know. He can’t know and, at the same time, deny U.S. involvement.”
I stand still for a moment, light currents of air shifting through my skull. Jack has allowed the United States to back a covert military invasion, and his UN ambassador hasn’t been told.
“What’s for lunch?” he says.
“Hamburgers,” I say slowly.
“Good. Let’s eat, then we’ll take a drive over to the steeplechase races.”
“Why did you come here today, Jack? Not that I don’t want you here, but it seems like you’d be able to handle things better from Washington.” We’ve almost reached the house.
“It’s out of my hands, Jackie.” His jaw is set. “I’m not going to stay and oversee something the United States isn’t involved with.”
* * *
—
He doesn’t last at the steeplechase. When I come back to Glen Ora, I find him whacking golf balls in the back pasture. Strong, hard strikes. He aims for the horizon without looking at it; he just sets the next ball down on the tee.
* * *
—
Sunday afternoon, the phone rings.
“I’m not signed onto this,” he says harshly into the receiver. He hangs up.
“Who was that?” I ask. He shakes his head and walks to the bureau. He picks up a tie clip, then puts it down and leaves the room. I follow him. He walks into the kitchen and sits at the table. He looks at me for a moment, then away.
“We’re in it,” he says. “Rusk told me to call off the second round of air strikes. The generals object. How can men land without air cover?” He is asking the empty room, not me. I sit down at the table with him.
“I have to get back early tomorrow,” he says ten minutes later, out of nowhere.
“We’ll leave first thing,” I say.
* * *
—
The phone shatters the dark at half past four Monday morning. It’s the secretary of state, Dean Rusk, again. Then the deputy CIA director, General Cabell, is on the phone. He’d gone to Rusk, begging for air cover.
Jack hangs up and just sits there, on the edge of the bed.
* * *
—
By nine o’clock when we reach the White House, two American ships transporting men and supplies have been sunk by Castro’s planes. By three that afternoon, Castro’s tanks are on the beach. They’ve surrounded the exiles.
* * *
—
I find a sheet of paper with his notes on his desk.
Only the one word staggered again and again throughout, circled.
Decision.
Decision.
Decision.
* * *
—
When he comes home hours later from the Cabinet Room, he barely meets my eyes. He touches Caroline’s head; his fingers graze her hair. He kisses John, then slips past them and goes into the bedroom.
“We’ll be right back,” I tell the children. I follow him into the bedroom, closing the door behind us. He sits with his head in his hands. He is crying. He tells me the air raids failed—too late, it all failed, a devastating rout. The U.S.-trained Cuban exiles were trapped on the beach. Hundreds of them, surrounded by twenty thousand of Castro’s troops.
“Those were men,” he says. “I sent them off with my promise and I knew in my gut it might be the wrong call, but I kept telling myself to trust Eisenhower’s plan, trust his generals. The CIA organized this. They said the invasion would spark a coup, but there was nothing. A disaster. You can’t half-do a thing like this and have it end well.
“Dulles wore his goddamn bedroom slippers,” he tells me. The CIA director just sat there in the Cabinet Room, puffing away on his pipe, as he went through the list of every damn thing that had gone off the rails, quietly blaming the defeat on Jack’s refusal to approve the air strikes and on soft-pedal political compromises. All through that long awful day, news filtered in. The brigade of Cuban exiled leaders trapped, support trucks burned, as Castro’s tanks spread out, took over the beaches where the men still alive had fled.
I sit down beside him and say his name. In his face, humiliation and a bewildered rage.
