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

well on this particular morning, when I noticed a man crouched down in the field, just ahead of the riders.

Oh crap. As I got a bit closer, I recognized the man as Marshall Hawkins, a local photographer noted for his pictures of horses and the various hunt clubs in the area. He had positioned himself near a fence the group was about to jump. The hounds were running silently, and the only sound you could hear was that of the horses’ hooves hitting the ground as they galloped closer and closer. I was on the road, a good hundred yards from the fence, too far away to do anything other than yell. Yelling, though, I figured, could potentially make matters worse. I didn’t think Mrs. Kennedy was in any danger, but I knew she would be furious if Hawkins managed to get a photograph of her.

I got as close as I could and stopped the car, just as the group began jumping the rail fence, one by one. Hawkins was still crouched in the grass, not making a sound. Then, just as Mrs. Kennedy approached the fence, he suddenly stood up and started snapping away.

The sudden movement and sound of the camera caught Bit of Irish by surprise, and the horse reacted by digging in his front feet in an abrupt stop.

I watched in horror as Mrs. Kennedy went flying off, over the head of her horse, and over the rail fence, headfirst.

I jumped out of the car, and was about to leap over the property fence that bordered the road when Mrs. Kennedy got up, remounted, and rode away with the rest of the group without saying a word. She had put her arms out in front of herself to break her fall, and thank God she appeared to be all right. Now my fear for her safety turned to fury at the photographer.

I ran across the meadow, adrenaline coursing through my body.

“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed.

He hadn’t realized I was watching and seemed startled to see me coming toward him in a rage.

Seconds later I was standing eye to eye with him.

“What the hell are you doing?” I repeated.

“What I always do,” he answered caustically. “Taking photos of the hunts in the field.”

“Damn it! You could have got Mrs. Kennedy seriously injured.”

I reached for his camera and said, “Give me that goddamn film, Marshall.”

“Oh no,” he said as he clutched the camera to his chest. “This is mine and I’m keeping it.”

Unfortunately, this was a personal issue, not a matter of national security, and I was pretty sure he knew that. I would have to bluff him into giving me the film.

“You don’t want to embarrass Mrs. Kennedy, do you?” I asked. “If you use that photo of her falling, she will be humiliated. Is that what you’re after?”

“I’m not giving you this film, Clint.”

I tried to convince him but realized it was futile. He knew he had a valuable shot, and he wasn’t falling for my efforts to get the film. I had to get back to the car and catch up with the hunt, so I just shook my head in disgust and walked away.

“Tell Mrs. Kennedy I’m sorry if I caused her to fall,” he called after me. “I’ll print a copy for her, if she likes.”

I felt like turning around and punching him in the face, but I knew that wasn’t going to solve any issues, so I broke into a jog and made my way back to the station wagon.

I drove down the road that surrounded the Mellon property and saw the hunt just as they were dismounting. Everybody was gathered around Mrs. Kennedy.

Oh God, I hope she’s not hurt. I couldn’t see her facial expression, but she was at least standing.

I jogged up to her just as she was taking off her helmet. With her helmet in one hand, she used the other hand to run her fingers through her hair.

“Mrs. Kennedy, are you all right?”

She turned toward me, and smiled.

“Yes, Mr. Hill, I’m fine,” she said softly.

Then, concerned, she asked, “Did you talk to the photographer? Did you get the film?”

“I’m afraid he won’t give it up. I’m going to see what I can do about it after I get you back to Glen Ora. I’m just glad to hear you’re not hurt. That was quite a fall.”

She laughed and said, “Oh it wasn’t the first time I’ve fallen off a horse, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

Her friends laughed and somebody said, “Who wants breakfast?”

“Enjoy your breakfast, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said. “I’ll be standing by.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hill,” she said as I started to walk away. “I really am all right. But I sure would like to get that film.”

Yeah, me too. I was so relieved she wasn’t hurt, but I knew that I would be typing up a lengthy report on the details of what happened, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.

I contacted Marshall Hawkins several more times, but his position remained the same. The last time we spoke he said, “I’ll print a copy for you, too, Clint.”

I knew he would be attempting to sell that photo to the highest bidder, and that is exactly what he did. Mrs. Kennedy was embarrassed when it came out in Life magazine, and I felt terrible that the incident had happened on my watch and I wasn’t able to confiscate the film.

A few weeks later a poster-sized framed photo of Mrs. Kennedy falling off the horse arrived at the White House to my attention. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I took it home and stuck it in a closet.

THE PRESS, AND probably many Americans, seemed to think that President Kennedy was on a permanent vacation when he was in Hyannis Port or Newport, when in reality the responsibility of the job never leaves the occupant of the office of president. The international situation had deteriorated as the Soviets,