(17 of 20)
Jacqueline Kennedy had been trying to escape for days. No single human being had endured more public attention, more of the camera watching, the microphones intruding, the tears caught glistening, the children's hands curling in her own, than she had in the telecasts of the assassination and the ceremonies. She had performed flawlessly, superbly. I know now she wanted to cry, and she could not. She had fled from Washington to Hyannisport, to be away from it all. But still with her, in the room when I entered, were several good-willed comforters. She did not want anyone there when she talked to me. So they left. I sat down on a small sofa, looked at her, the journalistic imperative forcing reportage almost automatically into my notes: "... composure ... beautiful ... dressed in black trim slacks, beige pullover sweater ... eyes wider than pools ... calm voice ..." She was without tears; drained, white of face.
She had asked me to Hyannisport, she said, because she wanted me to make certain that Jack was not forgotten in history. The thought that it was up to me to make American history remember John F. Kennedy was so unanticipated that my pencil stuttered over the notes. But there was so much that this woman—who regarded me as one of Kennedy's "scholar" friends rather than an "Irish" or "swinging" friend—wanted to say that if indeed I was a friend (as I still feel myself to be) my first duty was to let this sad, wan lady talk out her grief. And let LIFE'S presses wait.
What bothered her was history. She wanted me to rescue Jack from all the "bitter people" who were going to write about him in history. She did not want Jack left to the historians.
There poured out several streams of thought that mingled for hours. Jacqueline Kennedy, that night, talked first of her personal anguish, then of what she thought history might have to say of her husband, and then wandered from his childhood to Dallas, trying always to make clear to me that I should make clear to the people how much magic there had been in John F. Kennedy's time. She thought her husband was truly a man of magic, which is a lovely thought in any wife.
We talked for a few moments aimlessly and then the scene took over, as if controlling her.
"...there'd been the biggest motorcade from the airport. Hot. Wild. Like Mexico and Vienna. The sun was so strong in our faces. I couldn't put on sunglasses ... Then we saw this tunnel ahead, I thought it would be cool in the tunnel, I thought if you were on the left the sun wouldn't get into your eyes ...
"They were gunning the motorcycles. There were these little backfires. There was one noise like that. I thought it was a backfire. Then next I saw Connally grabbing his arms and saying no, no, no, no, no, with his fist beating. Then Jack turned and I turned. All I remember was a blue-gray building up ahead. Then Jack turned back so neatly, his last expression was so neat... you know that wonderful expression he had when they'd ask him a question about one of the ten million pieces they have in a rocket, just before he'd answer. He looked puzzled, then he slumped forward. He was holding out his hand ... I could see a piece of his skull coming off. It was flesh-colored, not white—he was holding out his hand ... I can see this perfectly