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

the front wall of the Kennedy’s property, adjacent to the entry gate, which had been set up as the Secret Service Palm Beach Command Post. A telephone was installed with a direct line to the house so that if the president-elect or Mrs. Kennedy needed us for any reason, we could respond immediately. There was a coffeemaker, a small table, and a couple of chairs, but basically it was a corner of the garage.

Mrs. Kennedy was recuperating well, and slowly gaining strength, but she was hesitant to leave the privacy of the residence, especially after seeing the crowds that had greeted her at the airport upon her arrival.

We had been there just a few days when Mrs. Kennedy called me at the command post.

“Mr. Hill?” she asked in her soft, whisper-like voice.

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy. What can I do for you?”

“I need some things from Elizabeth Arden, but I just know if I go to Worth Avenue, I’ll be mobbed. I was wondering if you would call over there and arrange for someone to bring me some clothes and beauty supplies. I have a list all ready for you.”

I had never heard of Elizabeth Arden, and arranging for home shopping wasn’t something I’d ever done for President Eisenhower, but I did as Mrs. Kennedy desired, and arranged for one of the salespeople from Elizabeth Arden to come to the residence.

In addition to worrying about her wardrobe and makeup, the move to the White House—and how to make it a home rather than a museum—was uppermost on Mrs. Kennedy’s mind at this time. She wanted the White House to be a place in which her children could grow up as normal as possible even with maids and butlers, doormen and ushers, and uniformed officers and Secret Service agents all over the place.

On another occasion, I was waiting in the Secret Service office when she called for me.

“Mr. Hill?” she said. “Will you please join me outside by the pool? I need to talk to you.”

It was a beautiful afternoon and the sun felt warm on my face, as I walked across the lawn past the back of the house, toward the rectangular swimming pool. Two of my colleagues on the president-elect detail were standing post at the corners of the property bordering the beach, and I gave them each a quick wave. In Palm Beach the Secret Service agents shed our standard uniform of a dark suit and shined dress shoes for more casual clothing, with the intent of melding into the local populace to appear as inconspicuous as possible. The two agents in their cotton-knit shirts and cotton trousers looked like they could have just walked off the golf course. In the distance, a Coast Guard boat patrolled the waters along the coast.

Next to the swimming pool, Mrs. Kennedy was sitting on a chaise lounge, in a revealing bathing suit, with a stack of books by her side and a yellow legal pad in her lap. Caroline played and splashed in the pool while one of the agents who had been assigned to her protection stood watch nearby, ready to render assistance if needed.

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy?” I asked as I approached her.

She looked up at me, her eyes hidden by a pair of large round sunglasses, and said, “Come sit down, Mr. Hill,” as she gestured to the lounge chair beside her.

Dressed in my normal attire for working in Palm Beach—a pair of khaki slacks and a short-sleeved shirt worn outside my waistband to conceal the .38-caliber handgun strapped to my hip—I felt somewhat awkward sitting next to her in her bathing suit, but sat down as instructed.

After seeing how the Secret Service operated with her husband, Mrs. Kennedy was concerned about what their family life would be like in the White House.

“I’m worried, Mr. Hill,” she said, as her brow furrowed slightly, “about losing all semblance of privacy.”

She turned toward the two agents posted at the beach. “Are these Secret Service men and other agents going to be around us constantly? Even in the White House?”

Although she was used to having maids and cooks in the house, I could tell that having the Secret Service around all the time was troubling her, so I attempted to explain our role and tried to put her at ease.

“The second floor of the executive mansion is considered off-limits pretty much for all employees, including the Secret Service. This is the private area for use as a home by the first family, and you may restrict access to whomever you desire. The Secret Service agents will only come up there if called, or if there is an emergency. And the household staff is very professional—most of them have been around for years and are able to do their jobs unobstrusively.”

“Well, that is good to know,” she said, as her facial expression relaxed. “I’m just so worried about Caroline and John growing up in such a restricted environment. I want them to have as normal a childhood as possible.”

As she said this, I thought to myself, after January 20, Caroline and John will forever be the children of the president of the United States. They will be saddled with that title for the rest of their lives. A “normal” childhood will be impossible.

“The goal of the Secret Service is to allow you and your family to do the things you want to do, while maintaining your safety and security at all times,” I said aloud. “The key is communication. If you can give us as much advance notice as possible about your plans, then we can make the appropriate arrangements. And if there’s ever anything that bothers you, just let us know.”

My answer seemed to appease her fears about privacy, so she moved to the next item on her legal pad.

“It seems that I am not receiving my mail in a timely manner. What is happening with our mail?” she asked.

“As a matter of security, all incoming mail to this address is redirected back to