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

Gwen to park on West Executive Avenue—the driveway of the White House. When she and the boys arrived, I walked out to meet them, and together we walked next door to the Treasury Building.

There was a small room next to the fourth-floor conference room. Paul Landis had brought Mrs. Kennedy, her sister, Lee, and the president’s sisters Jean Smith and Pat Lawford. I was surprised to see them there—the president’s sisters.

I introduced them to my family and Mrs. Kennedy said, “You have such fine-looking young sons, Mr. Hill.”

I looked into her eyes, still so filled with pain. Did mine look the same?

“Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy. They are good boys.”

At eleven o’clock, we went into the conference room for the ceremony. Some of the press were there. They snapped pictures and took notes as Treasury secretary Douglas Dillon made a speech and presented me with the award. I was embarrassed by all this undeserved and unwanted attention, but I accepted the award and thanked Secretary Dillon, as Mrs. Kennedy stood and watched.

My family went home, and I went back to my office, glad it was over.

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 6, was moving-out day. Two good friends of President and Mrs. Kennedy, Mr. and Mrs. Averell Harriman, had graciously offered their home in Georgetown as a temporary residence to Mrs. Kennedy and the children. Everything had been packed and sorted, with most of the belongings being sent into storage until Mrs. Kennedy decided where she and the children would live on a permanent basis.

President Johnson had also decided to award the Medal of Freedom, posthumously, to John F. Kennedy, at a ceremony in the State Dining Room, on this day. As Attorney General Robert Kennedy accepted the award on behalf of his brother, Mrs. Kennedy watched, sitting in a small adjacent room, behind a folding screen, her presence unannounced until the ceremony was over.

Everything had been packed and loaded into trucks. Now it was time to say good-bye. Mrs. Kennedy said good-bye to Chief Usher J. B. West and the household staff—staff that had grown to love John and Caroline. It had been such a joy to have children in the White House. Throughout the entire house, from the upstairs maids to the stewards in the Navy Mess, tears were flowing.

A few days earlier, Secret Service Chief Jim Rowley had called me into his office.

“Clint,” he said, “President Johnson has requested the Secret Service provide protection for Mrs. Kennedy and the children for at least one more year. We have agreed to do so.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Rowley. I think it’s a good decision.”

“The president told Mrs. Kennedy, and said she could have any agents she wanted. Take her pick.”

I nodded. A lump filled my throat. I would do whatever Rowley requested—he was my boss. I would understand completely if she didn’t want me. Every time she sees me, it must bring back the horrible memories of that day, that dreadful day in Dallas. But I couldn’t imagine not being with her.

“Clint, Mrs. Kennedy didn’t hesitate. She wants Bob Foster, Lynn Meredith, and Tom Wells to stay with the children.”

I nodded. Held my breath.

“And for herself, she said there was no choice to be made at all. She wants Paul Landis and Clint Hill.”

Tears welled in my eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Rowley. Thank you.”

Clint Hill, Mrs. Kennedy, and Caroline arrive atHarriman residence, 12/6/63

So on December 6, as Mrs. Kennedy and the children moved out of the White House, so did I. I would no longer have my office in the Map Room. Jerry Behn said Paul and I could share a desk in his office temporarily, but we’d have to figure something else out. We were no longer on the White House Detail.

Mrs. Kennedy, Miss Shaw, Caroline, and John got into the limousine at the South Portico and we drove from the White House together for the last time. It was quiet. Nothing was said. There was just a heavy sadness inside all of us.

The Harriman house was at 3038 N Street Northwest—just three blocks down from the house where Mrs. Kennedy and I first met. As we drove through the narrow streets with the historic redbrick homes on each side, the memories came flooding back. Three years earlier, she was eight months’ pregnant, and I was so disappointed to have been given this assignment.

John was carrying an American flag as he jumped out of the car and went inside. A few neighbors and a handful of curious onlookers were standing nearby, watching us, but far fewer people than I had imagined would be gawking.

This looks pretty good. Maybe the people will leave her and the children alone, out of respect.

The Harrimans had left some of their household staff to assist Mrs. Kennedy, and that first night, it almost felt like they were staying in a hotel with personal servants there to help in every way.

The next weekend Mrs. Kennedy wanted to go to Atoka. “I guess we will have to drive,” she said. No longer did we have helicopters at our beck and call. She told me that from now on she was going to call the house at Atoka “Wexford,” after President Kennedy’s ancestral home in County Wexford, Ireland. It was nice to get back to the country again, to be around the horses she loved so. But still the smile did not return. The laughter was gone.

When we returned to the Harriman house in Georgetown, she informed me that she and the children would be spending Christmas and New Year’s in Palm Beach, staying at the C. Michael Paul residence again. We would leave the following Wednesday.

“I wanted to give you something, Mr. Hill,” she said as she handed me a typewritten letter. “I sent this letter to Secretary Dillon, and I thought you should know. I’d like you to pass it along to the other agents on our little detail, too. Go ahead, read it now.”

I began to read the letter—it was two-and-a-half pages long, single-spaced,