Jackie, Ethel, Joan: Women of Camelot (38 page)

Standing in front of Trauma Room One, Jackie waited for word about Jack’s fate. Drying blood and brain matter caked the right side of her dress and her leg. Her once-white gloves were stained almost completely crimson. If she hadn’t been standing, some observers might have thought she too had been shot.

She noticed Dave Powers leaning against a wall and walked over to him. “You’d better get a priest,” she said. He stared at her as she walked away, back to her own corner.

A few more endless minutes passed. Then Jackie could take it no more. If Jack was dying, her place was at his side. “I’m going in there,” she told a nurse. “And I’m staying.” There was a scuffle between Jackie and the nurse, attract- ing the attention of Dr. George Burkley. “I want to be in there when he dies,” Jackie insisted to him. Reluctantly, the doctor led Jackie into Trauma Room One, repeating to him- self, “It’s her right. It’s her prerogative. It’s her right,” as if trying to convince himself that it was the correct thing for him to do, even though he realized what she would see in

that room would likely haunt her forever.

“The President’s Been Shot”

I
t was an unseasonably warm day at Hickory Hill, and Bobby Kennedy was inspired to invite two of his associates, Robert Morgenthau, the U.S. Attorney in New York, and Silvio Mollo, the chief of the criminal division in the Man- hattan office, to his home for a poolside lunch. Because they had been working hard during a two-day intensive seminar regarding the fight against organized crime, Bobby thought that a leisurely meal away from the office would be a nice break for his coworkers.

Ethel, excited to have her husband home midday and anx- ious to show off the new baby to his colleagues, had ordered

the cook to prepare a lunch of chowder and tuna fish sand- wiches.

It was just a lazy, ordinary afternoon. The children were at school and the grounds were quiet. Earlier, Ethel had played a quick game of tennis with a girlfriend. When Bobby ar- rived home for lunch with his guests, he changed into his swimsuit and took a quick swim before the meal was served. As they ate their soup and sandwiches, workmen painted the new wing of the house. It was 1:45 when Bobby glanced at his watch and decided that he and his associates should re- turn to the office. Just as he was getting up to change clothes, the phone rang. Ethel, who was closest, answered it. A strange expression came over her face. “It’s J. Edgar Hoover,” she said, dread creeping into her voice.

Because there had always been a certain animosity be- tween J. Edgar Hoover and the Kennedys, the FBI Director rarely called Bobby at home. So his sudden call signaled that something important must have happened. Bobby jumped up and snatched the phone from Ethel.

Just then, one of the workmen painting the house began running in the direction of the poolside table where the guests sat. In his hand, the painter held a small portable radio pressed to his ear. He excitedly shouted something, but no one could understand what he was trying to convey. At exactly the same time, Hoover said to Bobby, “I have news for you. The President has been shot.”

Bobby blanched. “What? . . . Oh. I . . . Is it serious? . . .

I . . .”

“I think it is serious,” Hoover responded without emotion. “I’m endeavoring to get details. I’ll call you back when I find out more.”

At that precise moment the others finally understood what

the workman was shouting: “They’re saying the President’s been shot.”

Ethel rushed to Bobby and put her arms around him. Bobby stumbled forward, clasped a hand over his mouth and, echoing the housepainter, screamed out, “Jack’s been shot! It may be fatal.”

Joan Kennedy sat at her kitchen table in her home on 28th Street in Georgetown, and over a steaming cup of coffee planned her day’s activities with her social secretary. A full day awaited.

First, Joan had to take Kara, almost four, and Teddy Jr., two, to the kindergarten Jackie had organized at the White House for her children and for those of any family members, special friends, and government officials who wished to have their youngsters close by. The school was another pro- ject Jackie was proud of, and Joan agreed that having all the children learning together was a plus. “I want them to know their cousins,” Joan said at the time. “And you know that if Jackie had anything to do with it, the teachers are the best in the world.”

After dropping the children off, Joan would take a taxicab to the posh, seven-story Elizabeth Arden salon at 1147 Con- necticut Avenue to have her hair styled. A big evening was planned. She would be hosting a fifth anniversary party for herself and Ted. Joan’s sister, Candy, and her husband, Robert McMurray, would be flying in for the occasion. The celebration was to be a week early because all the Kennedys would be going to Hyannis Port for the Thanksgiving holi- days.

The next morning, Ted, Joan, her sister and brother-in- law, and some other friends planned to attend the Harvard-

Yale football game and then remain at the Cape for the weekend.

It was while Joan was having her hair done in a cubicle on the fourth floor that the salon’s manager, Barbara Brown, heard the terrible news on the radio: The President had been shot.

Barbara took an elevator to the fourth floor, found Joan’s hairstylist, Marguerite Muguet, and pulled her aside while Muguet’s assistant extracted curlers from Joan’s long blonde hair. The two women wondered how to tell Joan the news— or whether to tell her at all. Joan had recently told them of how distraught Jack had been over the loss of Patrick, and how close the two of them had become while at Squaw Is- land.

The two women didn’t want Joan to hear the tragic news on the radio, but at the same time they didn’t feel that it was appropriate for her to hear such important, life-altering in- formation from them. As they tried to determine a course of action, Joan’s secretary, who was back at the Georgetown house with a shaken Ted, called to tell them she was sending Ted’s aide, Milton Gwirtzman, to pick up Joan and take her home.

Barbara Brown instructed Marguerite Muguet to finish Joan’s hair as quickly as possible and get her downstairs quickly to meet Gwirtzman. Once finished with Joan, they quickly escorted her to the elevator, and then took her down to the ground floor without telling her why they were in such a hurry.

“Don’t tell Joan a thing,” said the manager. “Let’s just get her out of here.”

Holy Mary, Mother of God

O
nce inside Trauma Room One, Jackie Kennedy saw her husband lying on the table. She approached him cau- tiously, perhaps with the realization that this was only the beginning of a hurt that would not lessen but would spread and deepen over time. She watched as they worked on Jack, stuffing a tube into a hole dug into his lower neck. Another tube had been thrust up his nose, others protruded from his chest. Blood seemed to be spurting from every- where.

A doctor pounded on Jack’s chest. Again and again he pounded, as Jackie looked on, helplessly. Whatever the doc- tor was trying to do wasn’t working. Jack’s eyes were fixed and staring up at the ceiling. His frozen expression was one of stunned dismay. His mouth was agape.

As everyone in the room watched, breaths held—doctors, nurses, Jackie—a thin green line moved straight across the screen of a monitor. The room was in dead silence except for the muffled sounds of weeping.

Dr. Crenshaw looked down into a nearby bucket, and lost his composure. There, mingled with the President’s brain tissue and his lifeblood, were a few of Jackie’s long- stemmed red roses.

A terrible stillness came over Jackie’s face. Then, in an in- stant she was overcome and fell to her knees in despair, pay- ing no attention to the pool of blood into which she sank.

Another doctor turned to Jackie. Brushing the tears from her cheeks, she rose as he approached.

Holy Mary, Mother of God
307

“Mrs. Kennedy, your husband has sustained a fatal wound,” he said.

“I know,” she whispered, the words barely escaping from her lips. Later she would say her very life ended on that warm day, November 22, 1963, at one o’clock in the after- noon.

Dr. Burkley came over to her, his face inches from hers. “The President is dead,” he said, his voice choked with emo- tion. Jackie looked at him and, noticing his great and obvi- ous despair, touched her cheek to his. The doctor openly wept.

Jackie approached her dead husband and stood by his shoulders. The wound was hidden from her, but Jack’s face was visible and still so handsome. She was completely transfixed. How could this man’s expression be so peaceful after experiencing such violence? A priest’s presence shook her from the spell under which she seemed to have fallen as he murmured his condolences and then began the Last Rites, followed by the Lord’s Prayer and then the Hail Mary.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Jackie spoke the words. “Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

Another priest had entered the room. He blessed himself and said, “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord.”

“And let perpetual light shine upon him,” Jackie intoned, the words rising from her by rote.

The second priest approached Jackie to quell any fear she may have had about the legitimacy of the Last Rites having been performed on the President so clearly after he was dead. “I am convinced that his soul has not left his body,” the priest said, as Jackie nodded. “This is a valid last sacra- ment.”

Jackie seemed faint. She was about to pass out when a nurse approached her with a cold towel. She held it to her forehead while the wave passed over her. Then she left the room.

Emerging from the madness of humanity rushing in and out of Trauma Room One was Jackie’s friend Lady Bird Johnson. She had just been informed of Jack’s death. “You always think of someone like her as being insulated, pro- tected,” Lady Bird recalled of Jackie. “She was quite alone. I don’t think I ever saw anyone so much alone in my life.”

“Jackie, I wish to God there was something I could do,” she said as she embraced her. Jackie stared straight ahead, her face a frozen mask.

Meanwhile, inside the emergency room, nurses washed down Jack’s body as janitors mopped up the blood before Jackie was allowed back into the room for a few final mo- ments with Jack. When Jackie reentered, she noticed her husband’s white foot sticking out from under the hospital sheet. Shockingly white. She bent down and kissed it.

Then, Jackie slowly pulled away the sheet, revealing his face, his still-perfect face. The staring blue eyes—she kissed his eyebrows. The open mouth—she kissed his mouth.

Several other doctors entered the room. Like most of the times during their life together, this sacred moment would not be a private one. Perhaps last night had been her last truly private time with her husband. After a busy day, she had turned in for the night but couldn’t sleep. Later, she would remember, something didn’t feel right to her. Something was very wrong, in fact. She needed Jack, she wanted him to hold her in his arms. She didn’t feel safe and she didn’t know why. So, as she would later re- member it, she let herself into her husband’s room at

about 2
A
.
M
., slipped into his bed, and roused him from a sound sleep. Then, after making love, husband and wife fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Now he was dead. In full view of the doctors and nurses, Jackie took her husband’s hand and pressed it to her cheek. She kissed his fingers.

Then Jackie took off her blood-soaked gloves and re- moved her wedding ring, also stained with blood. She was remembering her own father, the first man she had ever seen dead, at his viewing. Black Jack had given her a bracelet when she graduated, a gift she treasured. At his funeral, she took it off and placed it in his hand. Now Jackie wanted to slip her wedding ring on Jack’s finger. An orderly managed to get it over Jack’s knuckle, using cream.

She stood at his side and gazed down at her husband. He was so handsome.