Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir (27 page)

Mrs. Kennedy had a yellow legal pad devoted to the Malraux dinner on which she kept all her notes and ideas, and as the date drew nearer, she would be so excited to tell me which guests had replied and would be attending.

“Oh, Mr. Hill, you won’t believe it. Listen to who we have now.” She would rattle off names of the writers, poets, artists, and actors who had responded: “Arthur Miller, Thornton Wilder, and Tennessee Williams; Lee Strasberg, Julie Harris, and Geraldine Page; Andrew Wyeth and Mark Rothko; George Balanchine and Leonard Bernstein!”

President Kennedy had made one specific request for the guest list: Charles Lindbergh—who would soon celebrate the thirty-fifth anniversary of his solo, nonstop flight to Paris from New York City—and his wife, an aviator and author herself, Anne Morrow Lindbergh. When Mrs. Kennedy found out that the Lindberghs had accepted the invitation, she was over the moon.

The dinner was a huge success. Mrs. Kennedy appeared in a strapless shocking pink ball gown with white gloves up to her elbows, and from the moment she walked into the East Room, it seemed no one could take their eyes off her.
I had never seen her look more lovely. She was the belle of the ball, and once again she had orchestrated an event the likes of which had never before been seen at the White House.

Despite the amazing collection of people representing the arts, however, Charles Lindbergh was the big hit of the party, and he and his wife ended up staying overnight at the White House. For Mrs. Kennedy, the highlight of the evening was when Malraux promised to bring a collection of French masterpieces to the United States for a special exhibition at the National Gallery of Art.

“He even promised
La Giaconda
—the
Mona Lisa
!” she told me the next day. “I’ve always felt that I was so fortunate to be able to see these great works of art, and now the American public will have the same opportunity. Isn’t it wonderful, Mr. Hill?”

The
Mona Lisa
had never before been outside of France. And now she was coming to America. I was impressed.

I
T WAS NOW
back and forth between the White House and Middleburg, and since I was now the only agent permanently assigned to the First Lady’s Detail, it was just Mrs. Kennedy and me. The weekend of May 18, we were back at Glen Ora, as usual. The weather was beautiful this time of year, and Mrs. Kennedy longed to take advantage of every opportunity to ride Sardar. Additionally, she had entered the Loudon Hunt horse show and was scheduled to ride the Sunday of that weekend. The president had been opposed to her competing in the show, thinking it wouldn’t look good politically, but in the end he had acquiesced. Thus far it had been kept a complete secret from the press, and she was really looking forward to it. She was in a particularly happy mood.

As we were driving along one of the secluded country roads, smoking and talking, as usual, Mrs. Kennedy told me about her upcoming plans.

“I’m thinking of spending some time in Italy this summer,” she said casually.

“Oh? Where in Italy?”

“Perhaps on the Amalfi Coast. I have some friends there, and I’ve never been. There’s a village on the coast called Ravello I’ve been told about. Have you been there?”

“I’ve been to Italy, but no, never to the Amalfi Coast. I would imagine it is beautiful.”

“Yes, Lee and I are talking about taking her son, Tony, and Caroline with
us. Caroline is old enough to travel abroad I think, and it would be a wonderful experience for her. What do you think?”

“Summer in Italy? The Amalfi Coast? What’s not to like?”

She laughed and said, “Oh, Mr. Hill. I know
you
will enjoy it, but do you think it will be all right for Caroline?”

“Oh, I think it would be a great experience for her,” I said. “And very relaxing for you, too. Just let me know when you finalize your plans because the sooner I know, the better.”

T
YPICALLY
, P
RESIDENT
K
ENNEDY
would join Mrs. Kennedy at Glen Ora on Saturday, but this particular weekend he was in New York City, and wouldn’t arrive until Sunday evening. A Democratic fund-raiser had been organized at Madison Square Garden on Saturday night, May 19, in which fifteen thousand donors paid $100 to $1,000 for a ticket to see a lineup of entertainment that included Ella Fitzgerald, Jack Benny, Harry Belafonte, and Marilyn Monroe. President Kennedy’s forty-fifth birthday was ten days later, and the show was billed as a birthday celebration. Mrs. Kennedy despised these kinds of functions, and it was not at all surprising for her not to attend. She was much happier spending the weekend at Glen Ora with her hunt country friends than making shallow conversation with political donors.

The morning after the event, it was reported in newspapers across the country how Marilyn Monroe had sung a “sultry rendition” of “Happy Birthday” to the president, after which he had quipped to the audience, “I can now retire from politics having had ‘Happy Birthday’ sung to me in such a sweet, wholesome way.”

I read the article and I’m sure Mrs. Kennedy did, too, but neither of us ever brought up the subject. It was never discussed.

I
WAS PLEASANTLY
surprised to find out that the president and Mrs. Kennedy and the children were going to spend the Fourth of July weekend at Camp David. We had just returned from a highly successful trip to Mexico, where more than
two million
people had lined the streets in Mexico City to see President and Mrs. Kennedy. After one night at home—just enough time to unpack and repack my suitcase—I was back at the White House the morning of July 2.

Mrs. Kennedy and the children would fly ahead to Camp David, and the president would join them the evening of the Fourth, after some events in Philadelphia.

Maud Shaw had brought John and Caroline down to the Diplomatic Reception Room to wait for the helicopter that would be landing shortly on the South Lawn. Little John was twenty months old at this time, and boy did he love helicopters. He was bouncing around the room, so excited he could hardly contain himself. It wasn’t often that he got to ride in the chopper, so today was a special day.

“Hey, John,” I said, as I squatted down next to him. “You ready to ride in the helicopter?”

“Yeah!” he squealed in his little-boy voice, jumping up and down. Just then the unmistakable sound of the helicopter rotors could be heard overhead, and he ran toward the doors. “Copter!” he yelled. “Copter!”

It
was
quite a spectacular sight—to see a helicopter land in your backyard.

Watching John’s reaction as we lifted up and flew away from the White House toward the Washington Monument was a joy in itself. Sitting on his mother’s lap, his nose pressed against the window, he could barely sit still. His innocent enthusiasm was precious, and a reminder of just what a privilege this was.

I
HAD SPENT
considerable time at Camp David during the Eisenhower administration and for me it was like going home. All familiar territory. Mrs. Kennedy had been there only briefly the previous year, and I had come to learn that one of the reasons she hadn’t been enthusiastic about spending time at Camp David was that there were no stables for her horses. So, as was her way, she managed to have stables built at the presidential retreat. Sardar and Caroline’s pony, Macaroni, were transported by trailer and were there waiting upon our arrival.

As we were walking along one of the pathways through the woods on the property, Mrs. Kennedy said, “Oh, Mr. Hill, you were right. Camp David is wonderful. It is so secluded and private.”

“I thought you would like it here,” I said. “It’s a great place to relax and get away from the Washington scene.”

“Yes, and you know how much I need that,” she said with a laugh. “That reminds me, I have finalized the dates I’ll be in Italy. Caroline and I will leave during the first week of August, and I think we may be gone three weeks. Lee, Stash, and their children will be joining us in Ravello.”

I had been wondering if the trip was going to materialize, since I hadn’t heard anything since she’d first mentioned it to me in Middleburg.

“Three weeks in Italy. Sounds wonderful,” I said with a smile. “I better brush up on my Italian.”

She laughed and said, “Oh, is your Italian as good as your French?”

“I’m afraid not.” I laughed.

“Well, I’m not worried about that,” she said. “I have decided, however, that the only staff I’m bringing with me is Provi.”

She stopped and turned toward me to make a point. “You know, Mr. Hill, I realized that I really don’t need anyone but you—you handled everything so well on the trip to India and Pakistan. I’d much rather have you deal with the press and take care of personal things that come up. You understand how I like things done. Do you think you can handle that?”

I was somewhat surprised by this—that she wanted me to handle the kinds of details normally taken care of by her personal and social secretaries—but I also understood why. It gets tiresome having people around you all the time, and she wanted this to be a very private vacation.

“Of course, Mrs. Kennedy. I’ll do the best I can.”

She smiled and said, “I know you will, Mr. Hill. You always do. There is never any question about that.”

A
fter the Fourth of July weekend at Camp David, Mrs. Kennedy and the children spent the rest of July 1962 in Hyannis Port, with the president joining the family every weekend. Having a separate residence in Palm Beach away from the hubbub of the ambassador’s house during the winter months had worked out so well that this summer they had rented the home of singer Morton Downey, on Squaw Island, which was just about a mile away from the Kennedy compound. Squaw Island wasn’t really an island, but was connected to Hyannis Port by a narrow beach road that was used only by the small group of residents who lived there. The Downey home was larger than President Kennedy’s own house on the compound, was much
more secluded, and with little or no traffic between the two locations, it was ideal.

Lunch on the
Marlin
or the
Honey Fitz
was almost a daily routine. But frequently the president would sail the
Victura
, the twenty-six-foot Wianno Senior sailboat that his parents gave him on his fifteenth birthday. He loved that boat. He could maneuver it with such grace and ease that it was almost like it was an extension of himself.

One day at the end of July, the president and Chuck Spalding were sailing the
Victura
close to shore, just off the dock from the ambassador’s residence. It was a cool summer day, and both were dressed in chino pants and cardigan sweaters. They were in the midst of a deep conversation and didn’t realize they were coming upon some rocks. Suddenly the boat stopped dead in the water, as it got wedged in between the rocks.

I was in a jetboat nearby, watching the scene unfold, fully expecting the president to get the boat moving again with ease, but the boat wasn’t budging. President Kennedy dropped the mainsail to let the wind out of it, stood up, and turned toward me.

“Hey Clint, can you give us a little help? We seem to be stuck.”

“I’ll be right there, Mr. President,” I said as I jumped into the water.

We were so close to shore that the water was only up to my thighs, so I waded over to the stuck sailboat.

There was a glare on the water such that you couldn’t see the problem from above, so I took a deep breath and went under the boat. Sure enough, the hull was jammed into some boulders.

“Looks like you’re wedged in between two big rocks, Mr. President. Let me see if I can rock the boat to get it moving. You may want to sit down.”

The president laughed and said, “Good idea. But I’m more concerned about the boat than Chuck and myself.”

I placed my feet on top of one of the boulders and squatted with my back against the bottom of the hull.

“Hang on, Mr. President,” I said. “Here we go.”

I began to rock up and down and as the boat started to move, I gave one big thrust upward with my body while simultaneously pushing down with my legs. As I did so, the
Victura
slid off the rocks, causing my feet to slip down each side of the rock on which I was standing. The rock was shaped somewhat like a cone, and that final thrust caused me to go straight down, with the cone-shaped rock crashing into my groin area.