Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir (19 page)

She laughed. “Well, now you know I have to go, Mr. Hill.”

Sure enough she put on a black neoprene wet suit, and we pulled her around
with the jetboat. The calmest waters were in Potter Cove or near Bailey’s Beach, a private beach club, and you could practically see the word getting passed around as the people on the beach stood up and stared. Some members of the press had rented boats, and while we did our best to keep them away, there was not much we could do as long as they remained outside the security perimeter we would establish. Mrs. Kennedy didn’t like the attention, and neither did I. I kept thinking about how cold that damn water would be if I had to jump in after her. I didn’t have a skin-diving suit. Fortunately, she didn’t require my assistance, and I didn’t see any pictures in the newspaper the next morning.

Around this time Mrs. Kennedy also decided to take up golf. I accompanied her to the Newport Country Club, where she took some golf lessons and practiced with her longtime friend Bill Walton. As with almost any sport she tried, Mrs. Kennedy was a natural. She hit the ball long and straight, and her form was so good she reminded me of some of the female pro golfers I had observed. She was determined to do well, and you could see it in her attitude that she really wanted to improve and was going to work hard to do so.

The weather in Newport had been very pleasant with crisp temperatures, and a mixture of sun and clouds. But as is typical along the New England coast, the weather can change rapidly, and in the early evening hours of Friday, September 29, a cold, dense fog settled in, and decided to stay.

We had just returned to Hammersmith Farm from an outing when I got a call that my wife had gone into labor and had been taken to Alexandria Hospital in Alexandria, Virginia. I was taken by surprise because the baby wasn’t due for at least another two weeks.

I immediately informed Mrs. Kennedy.

“Mrs. Kennedy,” I said, “I just got word that my wife has gone into labor, so I’m going to need to get back to Washington as soon as possible.”

“Oh, Mr. Hill,” she said with a look of sincere concern, “yes, absolutely. You must get there right away. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Unfortunately, getting back to Washington on this particular night was going to be next to impossible. The closest commercial airport was in Warwick, but the fog was so dense that flights were grounded. The next option was the Naval Air Station at Quonset Point, which handled a variety of aircraft. They weren’t flying, either. We contacted the U.S. Coast Guard and they said they could see what they could do, but they got back to me with the same report: nothing was coming in or going out. There was nothing anybody could do. I was stuck in Newport.

The next day, the weather cleared, and I was finally able to get a flight out. An agent from the White House Detail met me and we raced to the hospital, where I got to see and hold my son, Corey Jonathan, for the first time. He was a bit premature, but healthy, and I was thrilled to now be the father of two sons.

The Kennedys’ hectic schedule was difficult for all the agents and their families. President Kennedy traveled far more than Eisenhower had, so the agents on his detail were often gone, too. The difference was that Mrs. Kennedy was rarely in Washington, which made my absences lengthier and more frequent. Fortunately the Secret Service wives had a good support network, and I was thankful for that. Many of us lived in the same area and had children around the same ages, so when the guys were traveling, the women stuck together.

When we returned to the White House on October 27, I presumed our time in Newport and on the Cape was pretty much finished for the year. Only Thanksgiving left. I was really looking forward to sleeping in my own bed each night for a month, and spending some time with my family. But, that wasn’t to be. It was back to Hyannis Port the next weekend, and then back to Newport, before returning to Washington for a few days to entertain the visiting prime minister of India, Jawaharlal Nehru, and his daughter, Indira Gandhi. I was realizing that Mrs. Kennedy made every effort to be away from the White House as much as possible. It turned out that she no more wanted to attend ladies’ luncheons and tea parties than I did. She really abhorred being in the spotlight, and having to make small talk. She would pick and choose which events were important to her, yet there were plenty of times she committed and then changed her mind. It was frustrating to Tish Baldridge, who would have to find replacement hostesses when Mrs. Kennedy told her she felt ill or had changed her plans—only to learn that we had gone off to Middleburg.

When it came to visiting heads of state, however, Mrs. Kennedy would throw herself into the planning of an event. I think the success of the dinner at Mount Vernon really boosted her confidence, and also showed her that she could think big when it came to entertaining on behalf of the White House. One of the most important and memorable events was the night Pablo Casals came to play.

“Mr. Hill, do you enjoy music?” Mrs. Kennedy asked me one day when we were up in Newport.

“I love music, Mrs. Kennedy,” I replied. “In fact, one thing you probably don’t know about me is that I used to sing in a quartet in college.”

“Really?”

She looked like she was about to burst into laughter, as if the idea of me,
the tough Secret Service agent, singing in a quartet was beyond her comprehen-sion.

“Yes, really,” I said, with a smile. “And I also played the trumpet. I wasn’t bad, if I do say so myself.”

She laughed and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Hill. I don’t mean to laugh, but you are always so serious—I never thought of you as being someone who would sing and play an instrument.”

“I am serious about my job, Mrs. Kennedy, that’s for sure. But I can have fun every now and then, too, you know.”

“I didn’t mean to insinuate that you don’t have fun, Mr. Hill,” she said, laughing. “But now that I know you appreciate music, you’ll have to make sure you’re on duty for the state dinner for the governor of Puerto Rico.”

I was aware that Governor Luis Muñoz Marin and his wife were being honored at a state dinner, but I couldn’t figure out what this had to do with whether I enjoyed music.

“And why is that, Mrs. Kennedy?”

“We’re going to have a very special after-dinner concert. Pablo Casals, who is perhaps the world’s greatest cellist, has agreed to play for us. He hasn’t played in the United States in thirty-three years. Isn’t that exciting?”

Her subtle enthusiasm was contagious. “I’m sure it will be fantastic,” I said. “I guess I better take my tuxedo to be dry-cleaned.”

On November 13, 1961, I did wear my tuxedo, and while I wasn’t an invited guest, I did stand at the back of the East Room when eighty-four-year-old Pablo Casals played the cello, accompanied by pianist Mieczyslaw Horszowski and violinist Alexander Schneider, in what was the most moving concert I had ever heard.

Being able to showcase the very best talent in the world to emphasize the importance of the arts was one of Mrs. Kennedy’s favorite things to do, and she was very successful at getting the most sought-after performers to come to the White House. For this spectacular evening, she and the president had invited people who truly appreciated this once-in-a-lifetime chance to hear Casals perform in the United States. The guest list included composers Leonard Bernstein; Aaron Copland; Eugene Ormandy; and Leopold Stokowski; as well as Henry Ford II; Thomas J. Watson, the founder of IBM; oil tycoon Edwin Pauley; and Alice Roosevelt Longworth, the daughter of President Theodore Roosevelt, who had been in attendance the last time Casals played at the White House in 1904. Thus it was not just Casals himself, but also the
collection of guests that made the night so memorable. I was privileged to have been one of them.

Mrs. Kennedy was in her glory and as usual, she looked ravishing. It was a white-tie event and everyone in the room was dressed in their most formal attire, but Mrs. Kennedy stood out among everyone with the way she carried herself, and the smile that lit up her face the entire evening.

There had been a lot of publicity surrounding Casals’s performance at the White House, and while Mrs. Kennedy thoroughly enjoyed the event, when it was over she was eager to get out of Washington. So the next day we headed to Middleburg, for a few days at Glen Ora.

Still beaming from the success of the Casals performance, Mrs. Kennedy had a stack of newspapers she brought with her. As I drove, she sat in the front passenger seat and read some excerpts of the rave reviews to me.

“It really was a marvelous evening, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said. “You should be very proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hill,” she said with a smile. “I’m so glad that you were able to enjoy the evening. I know it wasn’t the same as if you had been a guest, because you were working, but I wouldn’t have wanted you to miss such a special experience.”

“I do appreciate that, Mrs. Kennedy. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“I hope you know that I appreciate everything you do for me, Mr. Hill. You’ve certainly changed my view of the Secret Service.”

O
N
F
RIDAY MORNING
, November 17, I drove Mrs. Kennedy from Glen Ora to ride with the Piedmont Hunt, while her horse Bit of Irish was transported by trailer.

It had been a long time since she’d ridden and she was excited to be back in the Virginia hunt country. Dressed in jodhpurs, a blazer, and boots, with not a stitch of makeup on, she looked even more beautiful than she had in her fancy gown at the Casals concert. This was the Mrs. Kennedy I had come to know—at ease and comfortable in her own skin, away from the public eye.

“We might have quite a long ride today,” she said. “I’ll be joining everyone for the hunt breakfast when we are through so I may be longer than usual.”

“That’s fine, Mrs. Kennedy. Just enjoy yourself and I’ll catch up with you when you’re ready to leave.”

Behind her, the riders were assembling, as the hounds scattered around
barking. I noticed the handler seemed to be having a bit of difficulty with her horse.

“Bit of Irish looks anxious to go,” I added. “Be careful out there.”

She glanced at the horse and said, “Oh, he can be a handful, but I’ll be in control. Don’t worry, Mr. Hill.” Then she broke into a grin and said, “You be careful driving over all that rough terrain trying to keep up with me!”

I laughed and watched as she walked toward the rest of the riders who had gathered in the meadow.

“Good morning, Jackie!” they called. “So great to see you!”

“Good morning!” she replied. She was so relaxed in this environment. Here she was just another rider in the Hunt Club. They didn’t treat her any differently than anyone else, and that is what she loved. Here she could shed the first-lady moniker and just be Jackie.

I watched as she put her foot into the stirrup and mounted the horse. Then I drove the station wagon to place myself in a position where I could observe the group as they started on their ride across the rolling hills of the Mellon property. The whips were cracking, the hounds were yelping, and I wondered how the hell they thought they could sneak up on a fox with all that racket.

The riders set out along the course for the day and one by one they would jump over the rail fences and hedges at various points. Mrs. Kennedy loved to jump, and she was very good at it. I drove slowly along the country roads trying to keep the group in sight, but it wasn’t always easy.

Things were going along 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.