Jackie and Me(93)

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LOUIS BAYARD


I don’t mean to suggest a rupture. For as long as Jack and

Jackie lived together, I was welcome in their home, wherever that was. How many of their pals had his very own weekend guest room at the White House? I remember Jackie once

saying to a Secret Service official that Mr. Billings had been her houseguest for as long as she could remember and she couldn’t see that changing anytime soon. I smiled at that and smiled, too, when I overheard her describing me to Arthur Schlesinger as “that cozy funny fellow.” Because, of course, that’s all I’d ever aspired to be.

Whenever I saw her, there was good cheer, good humor,

a fund of anecdote, everything that would make a man feel

welcome. There was also the memory of what was lost.

Never again would she be my Jackie.

The curious thing is that Jack would never again be my

Jack. Not exactly. What I mean is that, after our pre-wedding conversation, he became a little less forthcoming with me—certainly about his girls. I like to think that, with his customary prescience, he gave me the out I didn’t know I’d need. Whenever one of those biographers asks me some pru—

rient question along the lines of Marilyn this, Judith that, I can truthfully say I know nothing about it. But it may be that he just no longer trusted me with such privileged information and that, in defending Jackie, I lost him and that, in defending Jack, I lost her, and that I’m still not clear what that leaves me with.

THIRTY-SIX

M y friend Raul once asked me why I had so many

framed photographs of the Kennedys. “You have

more pictures of them than your own people,” he said.

Well, he has a kind of Cuban fixation on birth families,

so I had to explain to him that the Kennedys were “my people” quite as much as if I was born to them.

“And Mrs. Onassis?” he asked. (For he insists on calling

her that.) “Is she your people, too?”

“I certainly think of her that way.”

“And does she have many photographs of you in her

apartment?”

“I have no way of knowing.”

“Oh, why is that?”

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LOUIS BAYARD


And when I failed to answer, he suggested it was because

I was never invited over.

Which led to another flare-up, and days went by, and then

he showed up out of the clear blue sky with a propitiatory

gift. A framed photograph of him! Taken some time around

his collegiate days when his hair was still becomingly floppy.

I was so touched by the gesture that I put it on the Pembroke side table, next to Kick Kennedy. I began then to think of his various kindnesses through the years: the postcards he sends from right across town, the phone calls for no reason, just the way he laughs at my jokes sometimes. He even enjoys buying me ties, though I haven’t worn one in years.

I thought, too, with great affection of the rumpled figure he always presents when he comes over. Bermuda shorts

and flip-flops in nearly all weather, a T-shirt that hangs off his welling belly. The whiskers he doesn’t bother to shave.

The way he plants his feet so unthinkingly on my ottoman. There’s something so domestic about him in these

moments—as if he’s always been here.

And why shouldn’t he? Always be here, I mean. I began

to think that the arrival of his photograph was one of those moments when an alongside life pulses briefly into view, waiting to be either grasped or abandoned. And honestly,

how many more such crossings will I have? My doctors have

been coy about an expiration date, but let’s say it holds off another year. That could translate to dozens more opportunities to see Raul’s hairy toes on my ottoman. Which, all things weighed in the balance, could be a worse way to finish out the whole business.



JACKIE & ME

331

Well, I kept my counsel until the next time he came

over. We chatted and drank some rather nice bourbon and

watched the Mandrell sisters, a country trio who sing har—

mony and play a great many instruments. I can’t explain my

affection for them—I mostly loathe their music—but I think

it has something to do with their indomitable cheer. Raul, as usual, put up with my latest enthusiasm and had a great deal of fun decoding the Mandrells’ Presbyterian white blouses and black-leather skirts. The evening was passing along in

a perfectly relaxed spirit, and it was then I said, with all the insouciance I could muster:

“You know, you could always keep some clothes here.”

He didn’t appear to hear at first. Then he slowly leaned

his head my way.

“Why would I do this?”

“In case you ever decided to stay over. A toothbrush,

even. I wouldn’t be offended.”

He was silent for a good time.

“I don’t believe Ross would be pleased with this,” he

said.

How grateful I was in that moment for the Mandrell sisters. They gave me somewhere to look.

“Ross,” I said. “I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”

I could feel him studying me.