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These are the principles by which Ethel believes Bobby lived. They are the principles she intends to carry forward. "Sometimes a seed has to die before it takes," she says. "I will bring up the children the way he would have wanted. He has already established the pattern. They all understand that they have a special obligation. They've been given so much; they must try to give that again. Bobby's life, for example: how much more meaning it had because of what he was able to do in Bedford-Stuyvesant. The people who can't be bothered about those situations—well, there's a whole dimension of life that they're completely missing."
The children are still too young, of course, to be deeply involved in such things. Ethel herself is still observing her year of mourning. She rarely goes out socially, hardly ever appears at public functions. Basically her life is at Hickory Hill. The vast affairs that once characterized the place are no more. But her home is still constantly filled with guests of every rank and background, and they find the quality of life there surprisingly unchanged.
Brumus is still in residence. Visitors are welcomed by the same assault wave of small Kennedys tumbling happily down the red-carpeted stairway virtually into their arms. There is always an extra bed in one of the 19 rooms for an unexpected guest, just as there is always another chair—or two or three—at the table. When someone turns up, a few positions are shifted, and the visitor finds himself sitting next to Ted Kennedy, onetime Football Great Roosevelt Grier, Supreme Court Justice Byron ("Whizzer") White, Actress Lauren Bacall—or perhaps a trio of civil rights workers from the South. It all seems so natural, says Dave Hackett, Bobby's prep-school roommate and longtime friend, that "you have the feeling he himself will come walking in."
Sprint Around the Lawn
Ethel is no longer the prankster she was in days past, when she would string up a dummy parachutist in a tree by way of greeting General Maxwell Taylor, who parachuted into Normandy on Dday. But evenings at Hickory Hill are hardly occasions for quiet conversation. "After dinner, you never just sit around and talk, because she's not comfortable in that type of situation," says a friend. There is always an activity of some sort—charades, games of "who said that?" based on the day's news—or a movie in the playroom by the pool. A recent guest remembers pushing back from the table after a particularly mountainous meal, only to hear Ethel announce "O.K., everybody, let's have a race," and then lead the way at a full sprint around the lawn.