Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir by Clint Hil (love letters to the dead TXT) 📗

I pulled the Kennedy’s three-year-old blue station wagon up to the front of the house and got out to help Mrs. Kennedy into the car.

When I went to open the back door, she asked, “Is anyone else coming with us?”

“No, it’s just you and me, I’m afraid,” I answered.

“I’ll sit in the front seat then,” she said.

“Certainly, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said as I closed the back door and opened the front passenger door for her. I held her elbow as she timidly stepped into the car. She smoothed her dress as she sat down and looked up at me with a smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Hill.”

When we arrived at the White House, J. B. West was there to greet us. He escorted us into the Diplomatic Reception Room, and I watched as Mrs. Kennedy’s eyes took in the details of the décor—the walls, the rug, the flowers, and furnishings—all without saying a word.

We stopped at the elevator that led to the second floor, the private quarters, and Mr. West said, “Mrs. Eisenhower is waiting upstairs.” He looked at me and added, “The first lady would like to take Mrs. Kennedy on the tour in private.”

I nodded and Mrs. Kennedy stepped into the elevator with Mr. West.

I went to the chief usher’s office to stand by, knowing I would be fully aware of Mrs. Kennedy’s activities from this location and not wanting to impinge on the tour of the two first ladies. A few minutes later, Mr. West joined me in his office and we caught up on all that had happened since I’d left President Eisenhower’s detail.

Ninety minutes later, at exactly 1:30 P.M., the buzzer in the office sounded twice. Mr. West jumped up from his chair and walked quickly to the elevator. The buzzer system in the White House was set up to keep the usher’s office, the uniformed White House police, and the Secret Service informed as to the first family’s movements. Two buzzes indicated the first lady was moving.

I followed the chief usher and was waiting when Mrs. Kennedy and Mrs. Eisenhower appeared in the elevator. Mrs. Kennedy was extremely pale and looked like she was about to faint. I looked her straight in the eyes and raised my eyebrows as if to say, Are you okay? She returned my gaze and gave a slight nod.

The two women walked to the south entrance, as Mr. West and I followed several steps behind. The White House photographer took a photograph of the outgoing first lady and her successor smiling and saying good-byes, but I sensed that Mrs. Kennedy was simply being outwardly gracious. Something had happened upstairs.

I helped her into the front passenger seat and took my place behind the wheel of the station wagon, and headed toward the southwest gate. As soon as we turned onto State Place and proceeded to E Street Northwest, Mrs. Kennedy turned to me and asked, “Mr. Hill, did you call Mr. West and request a wheelchair?”

I turned to her and said, “Yes, I called him this morning and he said it would be no problem at all. He said it would be waiting for you. I assumed they had it upstairs for you.”

“Well, when I got out of the elevator on the second floor, there was just Mrs. Eisenhower and no wheelchair in sight. She never mentioned it, so I assumed it simply hadn’t been arranged.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to make excuses, but I had indeed spoken to J. B. West that morning.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Kennedy. I don’t know what happened.” I felt awful, imagining that somehow I’d done something that had caused her difficulty.

I later found out from J. B. West, whom President Kennedy did indeed retain as chief usher, that the wheelchair had been ordered. The problem was that Mrs. Eisenhower didn’t want anyone to accompany her and Mrs. Kennedy, and she certainly wasn’t going to push the new first lady—her political rival—through the executive mansion. She had told West that the wheelchair would be available, but hidden, and brought out only if Mrs. Kennedy requested it.

Mrs. Kennedy didn’t blame me at all for the mishap. She was intuitive with people and had figured that Mrs. Eisenhower had simply ignored her request. She was far more concerned with the state of the White House.

“So what did you think of your new home, Mrs. Kennedy?” I asked.

“It’s going to need far more work than I’d even imagined,” she said in her soft, breathy voice. “We are going to be busy, Mr. Hill.” After all our earlier conversations about the history and importance of the president’s residence, I could see her mind already working as to how she intended to put her stamp on the White House.

The hour-and-a-half tour had depleted Mrs. Kennedy’s energy and I could tell she needed a rest. Unfortunately, it had previously been decided that she and the president-elect would fly with their newborn son to Palm Beach immediately following the White House visit, so there was no time for her to relax, just yet.

The schedule had been set with little room for delay, so we returned to 3307 N Street to pick up President-elect Kennedy; baby John; Provi; Elsie Phillips, a new nurse and friend of Maud Shaw’s who had been employed to help with John Jr.; Louella Hennessey, the longtime nurse of the Kennedy family, who had come to help Mrs. Kennedy with her recuperation; a mound of luggage for the first lady; and a suitcase each for Jeffries and myself, and headed to Andrews Air Force Base, where the Caroline was waiting for our departure.

The wind was blowing and the air was frigid as I followed Mrs. Kennedy up the steps to the plane. When we got on board, the president-elect helped her take off her coat and said, “The weather in Palm Beach has been beautiful. Some time in the warm weather and sunshine will do wonders for your recovery, Jackie.”

“Yes, I’m