Chapter 49
December 1963
At the White House, they’ve laid out Jack’s clothes on the bed. For me to decide what to keep.
Trunks and boxes, lids flung open. Such a disarray.
I put the Lincoln book back. Not where it belongs. Just flat on a shelf. Mr. West will find it. He will set it in its place, and all will continue.
The day before the children and I leave, I walk through the house with Mr. West. In the doorway of the state dining room, I pause.
“Mr. West.”
“Mrs. Kennedy.”
“I love this portrait of Lincoln.”
“As do I, Mrs. Kennedy.”
“I love that it was at first rejected for not being enough, but then his son bought it, because he saw his father in it, and his wife sent it to Roosevelt, and now it is here. Things don’t always happen in a straight line, do they, Mr. West?”
I told you once I wanted the children to understand it would be temporary, living here. But in the end, it was ours, wasn’t it, Jack? This house I never loved. It grew up with us. Became beautiful with us. Restored to something it never was before but was always meant to be.
“Mr. West, do you think you could do something for me?”
“Of course, Mrs. Kennedy.”
The sun is low. Afternoon rays shoot like arrows through the windows as we make our way upstairs. We come to the bedroom.
“I’d like a mantel carving for this room,” I say. “Do you think that would be possible?”
“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy.” A gentleness in his voice I almost can’t bear.
From my pocket, I draw out a folded piece of paper.
In this room lived John Fitzgerald Kennedy with his wife, Jacqueline—during the two years ten months and three days he was president of the United States, January 20, 1961–November 22, 1963.
“Thank you, Mr. West.”
I hand it to him. How many lists I’ve made on yellow lined paper just like this. Lists of names and plans.
The next day is Friday, the sixth of December. It’s the slightest thing, the sadness I feel, the children’s small hands in mine as the three of us walk out the door. Fresh cold air snaps my face.