THE THIRD CONVERSATION

Last time, we started talking about the convention, and the months before the convention in 1960, and the President's view of his various opponents and problems, and one of the things that always surprised me was the way in which liberals—the arguments I used to have to have with some of the older liberals and academics and so on, about the President. It sounds very odd now, because no one obviously has done more for intellectuals in the White House since Jefferson. I suppose one of the big reasons for it was the whole McCarthy business. How—you knew McCarthy?¹

No, I didn't know him. I just went to see one of the hearings once. But Jack was sick at the time of the McCarthy thing, wasn't he?

Yes, he was.

And then they knew that his father had been a friend, or hadn't he been to the Cape once? I don't know.

He'd apparently been to the Cape once or twice and—

Never when we were there.

But he wasn't in any sense a pal or chum or anything like that—

Oh, no, never! I just went out of complete curiosity once to see those hearings, and saw that man, who was rather frightening. But I suppose they all thought that because of Mr.—again, I suppose the liberals all attributed it to Jack being his father's son or something like that?

I think that was part of it and also the fact that he didn't attack McCarthy, though, as a matter of fact, very few members of the Senate, including people like Hubert Humphrey and Paul Douglas, attacked McCarthy.² What do you suppose he thought of him?

You know, I think he thought it was awful. You know, the way he was flailing around and handling everything? And then he did make some statement either from the hospital, or was it just before his operation, or he would've voted to censure him but he wasn't there, was that it?

Yes. A speech was prepared for delivery before he went to the hospital. The speech was never delivered and indicated that he was for censure. I think when the actual vote came, he was pretty sick and I don't think any statement was issued at that time.

He thought of McCarthy—well, you know, poor McC—I mean, if you saw McCarthy, then you'd see a man in his last—I remember, I think he was coming in and out of the elevator when I was standing there—well, the man was just gone. He smelled of drink and his eyes looked awful. You know, I think Jack thought just what everyone thought of McCarthy. But again he was never anyone to run in a pack against— And then, of course, I suppose he had partly the political problem at home, didn't he?

Yes.

Every single one of his voters in Boston—anyone whose name was McAnything they thought was wonderful. But I think he did that quite well.

Most of them or a lot of them thought McCarthy was probably a Democrat. No, I can remember at times when I—do you remember the old John Fox—not the good John Fox, not Judge Fox, but—

Oh, the one who owned a paper?

Owned the Boston Post.³ At one time he started an attack on Communists at Harvard, particularly on me. [Jacqueline laughs] And Jack was in town and went up and explained to him that I probably wasn't a Communist, and I shouldn't be attacked. And later, he told me about it and said as a consequence of that he decided that John Fox probably thought that he was a Communist!

Yeah, then Bobby was against McCarthy, wasn't he, or was that later? When was Bobby's thing with Roy Cohn? ⁴

Bobby, well, that was about this time—

Was Bobby working for McCarthy then?

Bobby originally—Bobby was minority counsel. He was counsel for the Democrats on the committee but he had originally—he and Roy Cohn had worked with McCarthy and then he couldn't stand Cohn's methods—and then he was associated with Symington, Jackson, and the opponents.⁵ He apparently was a friend of the ambassador's at some point.

Yes, not a great friend. You know, again, Mr. Kennedy was so loyal. There seems to be all these Irish—they always seem to have a sort of persecution thing about them, don't they? I notice the way Mrs. Kennedy speaks even now about—not even now but, you know we—"Is someone a Catholic?" or "Are they Irish?" As if it's—you know, I guess they've had such persecution.

Mrs. Kennedy can remember what it was like to grow up in Boston—

Yeah, but she even will say now when you say you know someone or someone's coming for dinner—"Is he a Catholic?" or "Is she a Catholic?"—as if that will make them nicer. It's really a timidity. So, I'm sure Mr. Kennedy was rather conservative—you know, he might have just liked Joe McCarthy out of—this was before everything bad happened—because he was Irish, because he was Catholic, and because everyone else was down on him. But you know, never going into anything deep in it. Because they never talked about him at home. And he certainly never told Jack—you know, to be for or against him. It was a messy situation Jack was in—putting out a censure and everything, and they hated it in Boston.

Yeah. It was a very difficult local situation on it. What about the Nixons? Did you ever see the Nixons in the senatorial days?

No. Oh, well, I used to see her at bandage rolling. You know, the Senate wives have to go roll bandages every Tuesday and the vice president's wife is always the chairman of it. She's dressed in a white nurse's uniform. That's the only time I ever saw her.

I think she'd be perfect at bandage—bandage rolling. Well, it's about 1960, the primaries, and you remember the Wisconsin primaries being the hardest. Did the President ever, at any point, seem worried about the outcome or was he too absorbed from day to day to have feelings? Was he up and down or was it a fairly—

Well, you just had to work so hard. You know, when you're really in a campaign, you don't almost have time to think of the outcome, though he'd be going over polls and the this and the that district. But I remember election—primary night in the Hotel Pfister in Milwaukee. You know, that was awful. It was so funny. We were all on—just like on nails. And then it came out sort of a draw. Well, it was just so awful because there everybody had put all they had into a fight and you were just left exhausted. And you saw it had proved nothing. And you'd have to start again. Oh, and I remember that awful man, Miles McMillin, who wrote for the paper in Madison, who is married to—the girl he's married to, Rockefeller, was married to Proxmire.⁶ Well, he used to write all these anonymous letters to the paper, saying scurrilous things about Jack. He was a terrible man. Again, a wild-eyed liberal creature.⁷ He came cruising through the apartment that night when we were all in there counting the returns and—oh, it was awful of me—I walked by him twice without saying hello—cutting him dead. [laughs] And Jack— I mean, I was so mad at him. Jack was polite.

West Virginia, like you said, was more agreeable.

Well, the people were just nicer there. And you know, you went slugging along again, but—oh, and then there, for the first time, we separated, and I'd go off with someone on my own little tour—you know, in and out of little shops or a little bar or all those little mining towns. And the people were all so nice to me. You know, just tiny, little—never more than ten or twenty people.

SENATOR KENNEDY TALKS TO COAL MINERS DURING THE WEST VIRGINIA PRIMARY
Hank Walker, Time & Life Pictures/Getty Images/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

Would you speak, or just—

I'd just say hello to them all, and talk to them. You know, and tell them who I was, and I'd have someone with me. Who was it? Did I go with Franklin?⁸ Because he was usually with Jack. Then every night, we'd be at some big rally, where Franklin would talk. But then, you see, in the middle of that campaign, I started to have John. So then I was sort of—rather sent home a bit. I just was there about the first half.

Had Franklin been an old friend, or did he become a particular friend in West Virginia?

No, he'd been a friend of Jack in Congress. You know, they—they were always running around and busy and everything, but they'd always liked each other. And then—I guess we saw them a few times when we were married. Yeah, we used to see Franklin. So he always was a friend. Not constant. But you could always laugh with him and he—you know, he amused me and he and Jack amused each other. So that's—and I went off with Franklin in Wisconsin, I remember. We went all through one colored district together and all through supermarkets where no one looked up at us. That's when he became—in Wisconsin, he helped there too. But West Virginia is where we saw the most of him and from then on, he was a very good friend.

West Virginia began to get a little bitter. I guess it was pretty bitter in Wisconsin with Hubert.

Yeah. I guess it did because what were they saying? Oh, just as Jack said, a fight always gets bitter. The Humphrey people were saying the Kennedys were buying the election and the Kennedy people—Humphrey had not been—had any military service, and I forget what else it was.⁹ But, you know, Jack didn't say any of that. He was mostly trying to prove why he wasn't dangerous as a Catholic.

Which he did—completely, of course. He won in West Virginia three to one, as I recall. Something like that. And then after that, did—

Oh, do you want to know something interesting about the night that we won there? I guess that night was just too frightening. You know, we didn't want another night like the Hotel Pfister. So he came back to Washington and we went—we had dinner at home with the Bradlees and we went to a movie.

What was the movie, do you remember?

We had been going to some movie at the Trans-Lux, but it was half over, so we went to some strange movie on New York Avenue. Just the only movie that was sort of open that we could get in. It was some awful, sordid thing about some murder in California—really, I mean, just morbid.¹⁰ And then we came home to our house, terribly depressed by this movie, and waited for the phone to ring. And I was in the pantry getting some ice cubes and suddenly I heard this war whoop of joy! And they'd called Jack and it was, well, you know, just fantastic in West Virginia, so then we all got in a plane and flew down there, and got there in the middle of the night. But you know, he was so nervous about it, he just didn't want to be there. So we had this strange little evening of not wanting to be by the radio, the phone, anything.

Is that the—that's the only election you ever did that, isn't it? Most of the other times you were always there.

Yeah. The other times we were always there, yeah.

This was really so much a make-or-break thing. And after this, did it seem to be clear sailing?

Well, I guess it did to Jack. Because then it was to really go around and talk to people, wasn't it, and keep speaking. Well, what month would that have been?

Well, that was May, and then in June there was President Truman's attack. Remember that?

Oh, yeah.

On experience. Did that upset him much or—

Well, you know, it irri— I mean, it was just one more thing to, you know, swat down like a buzzing fly. But I remember when he answered that, because that was on his way out to the convention. So June and July, what did he do? Well, then there was the long session of the Senate.

That was after the convention.

Was that after the convention? Were June and July—I guess he was mostly in Washington, wasn't he? Wasn't the Senate still in session then?

Yes, the convention was in July. It was earlier because the Democrats were out of office and then he came back and the special session began in August.

Then whenever he'd come up to the Cape for a weekend—oh, or a day—you should have seen our little house. There'd be fifty Lithuanians arriving with folk dolls for Caroline or something at eleven in the morning, then they'd go. Then, I don't know, then Tom Mboya¹¹ would come, and then Governor Stevenson, then Norman Mailer, then—just in and out of our house. And everyone on the street outside—I'd started to build a stockade at the convention, but I only had it half finished—that split fence. So, Lee and Stas¹²were staying with us and everyone could see them getting in and out of the bathtub because they had a room on the street. It was rather close living that summer.

About the convention, were you or the President ever alarmed by the way things were going at the convention? For example, all the Johnson efforts or the Stevenson picket line, or anything like that?

You see, I was at home at the Cape with my mother and stepfather and Janet. I was the only person in the whole compound because I was having John.¹³ And I was panic-struck, reading the papers. Well, Jack would always call me up, usually terribly late at night, or say something would be all right, or not to worry, or this or that. I suppose he was worried about me worrying, having a baby. Oh, but I was panic-struck watching it. But I guess they weren't as worried out there, because Bobby told me that once he got to the convention, he knew they'd get—you know, he'd get the nomination.

The President would call you every day—and Bobby, would he call you?

No, no, Bobby told me that later. No, Bobby didn't call me.

JACQUELINE BEING INTERVIEWED IN HYANNIS PORT, 1960
Fay Foto Service/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

So you missed, of course, the sort of business of the great Stevenson act—¹⁴

Yeah, I just saw it on television.

And Lyndon saying—you saw things like the debate between the President and Lyndon. You missed Lyndon's people going around saying—talking about Addison's disease and—¹⁵

Oh, I remember that because when Lyndon Johnson came after the convention to our house at the Cape, we moved out of our bedroom—it was a very small house there—so that he and Lady Bird could have that room. We were sort of sleeping in a single bed in this tiny little guest room. And then we had to go over to Mr. Kennedy's, which was where all the press would meet the next day, and Lyndon plunked himself down in Mr. Kennedy's chair. I was just thinking, "Do you know what chair you're sitting in after the things you said about that man?"¹⁶ And anytime Lyndon would talk that night, Lady Bird would get out a little notebook—I've never seen a husband and a wife so—she was sort of like a trained hunting dog. He'd say something as innocent as—I don't know—"Does your sister live in London?"—and Lady Bird would write down Lee's name and "London." Just everything. I mean, she had every name, phone number—it was a—ewww—sort of a funny kind of way of operating.¹⁷

They were like a hockey team.

Yeah, well, you know, just—she always had these three green notebooks just filled with everything.

We talked about this the other day but it was not on the tape so you were—about the problem of Lyndon's going on the ticket.

Oh, well, I think everyone was disappointed because of all the people, they liked Lyndon Johnson the least, and I must say, Symington behaved awfully nicely there, didn't he?¹⁸

Yes.

You never thought he was any great statesman or anything, but he was just such a gentleman the way he did that. And I know that made Jack sad. I even wrote Symington a letter—which I asked him to burn. [laughs] And he wrote me back that he burned it—saying I wish he had been the vice president. But I know Jack had to do it because—have Lyndon as his running mate—to annul him as majority leader because here this man with this enormous ego would have been just enraged and blocking Jack in every way and yes—you know, and keeping everything in. I know he kept that session in before the convention.¹⁹

I think he called it before the convention.

Yeah, that was it, so Jack couldn't get out and campaign and do more things. I mean, he'd done something before to really make things difficult for him.

I recall it was called before the convention but took place after.

Well, he certainly didn't make—If you'd had him up there with that enormous ego, and thwarted and bitter—so nobody was happy about it. Everyone was even amazed that he accepted. Well, some other people can tell you about it, going down into his room and everything—[whispers] and I guess he was drunk, wasn't he?

Phil Graham was a great go-between and told me—I have notes somewhere—that the Friday I went out and had dinner with Phil, he gave me a great account of his role as kingmaker-intermediary. I think Joe Alsop also thinks that he was responsible for getting Lyndon on the ticket.²⁰

Gosh, I don't know. I suppose Bobby could really tell you all of that.

Bobby was against it.

But, I mean, Bobby knows. All I know is that a call was placed at something like eight o'clock in the morning and Lady Bird answered. And Lyndon was still asleep. And then Jack went down. Lyndon said he'd come up but Jack said no, he'd go down to his apartment and Lyndon just accepted right away. But I don't know what had gone back and forth, and they all were rather surprised. So, I don't know if all these people were kingmakers or not.

Joe and Phil waited on Senator Kennedy on the Tuesday and said he had to put Johnson on the ticket. The President said nothing. But then subsequently, according to Phil, the President called him and I forget where this—and asked him about calling—what he should do about calling—said, "I want to go ahead with Lyndon." And I think then the President called Lyndon directly. Lyndon was asleep and then all this business started. Then later the thing seemed to get off the tracks and Phil was called in to kind of put it together.

I see. Oh, what else was I just thinking of? Can't remember.

Before the President went to Los Angeles, did he talk very much about—did he speculate about the vice presidency?

No, he really didn't. He was at the Cape and I flew down with him to New York and we stayed—did we stay the night at that Idlewild²¹ hotel?—or else I just saw him off and went back to the Cape—you know, and said goodbye to him. I guess we did stay the night because the Truman thing was sometime. He really didn't. You know, it was more just to get it himself. So, that all obviously happened in those four or five days there.

Did he ever get permanently mad at people?

Never! And then I used to say to him sometimes—you know, it was so funny in politics—it was all everyone talked about, every night. And I'd hear him speaking nicely about someone and I'd say, "What? Are you saying nice things about X? But I've been hating him for three weeks." You know, if I saw him in the street I was going to make a point to just glare at him and cross over to avoid him and Jack would say, "No, no, that was three weeks ago. Now he's done x, y." You know, I mean, in politics things do change so quickly and Jack would never—he'd often say that—never get in anything so deep that you've lost all chance of conciliation. I mean, he never treated it—what did he say? "In politics you don't have friends or enemies, you have colleagues"? That isn't quite the right—

Interests. Palmerston used to say there are no permanent friendships or alliances, there are only permanent interests. Something like that.

Yeah, but he never got—I mean, I'd get terribly emotional about anyone, whether it was a politician or a newspaper person who would be unfair, but he always treated it so objectively, as if they were people on a chess board—which is right. I mean, how could you if you—if he'd gotten so mad at all those people, then you may need to work with them again later. So, it's the only way to be effective—which is one reason I think women should never be in politics. We're just not suited to it.

Yeah. He was a great realist in that way, because I remember in Los Angeles, everyone felt as soon as Lyndon attacked the ambassador, that this finished him.²² That's because of the theory that developed of sort of Irish feuding. Too many people had seen John Ford films, which I didn't—²³

John Connally was the one who was going around about saying Mr. Ken—about Addison's disease too. And then, you know, the day before Jack died in Texas, I said to him, "I just can't stand Governor Connally. I can't stand his soft mouth." He was so pleased with himself and he'd spend all our times in the car telling Jack, I guess, how far he'd run ahead of him in Texas. So, I'd say, "What's he trying to tell you? It seems so rude what he's saying to you all the time." And Jack said, "Oh, well, he's been making up with a lot of businessmen down here and gotten a lot of support he didn't have before. That's what he's telling me."²⁴ But Jack would just sort of take it—you know, "yaaah"—and then when I said that, that I hated Connally, Jack was so sweet. He sort of rubbed my back—it was as we were going to bed—and said, "You mustn't say that, you mustn't say that." He said, "If you start to say or think that you hate someone, then the next day you'll act as if you hated him," and then, "We've come down here to Texas to heal everything up and you'll make it all impossible." Nellie Connally was refusing to ride with Yarborough—everybody was refusing to ride with Yarborough—everybody was refusing to ride. And there were two people named Yarborough and, I don't know.²⁵Everybody was hating everyone. And you know, Jack said just, "You know, you mustn't think that about people." He said it so kindly.

And the same way with the Stevenson people. When you think that the top people on the Stevenson drive at Los Angeles were George Ball, Bill Wirtz, and Tom Finletter. All of whom were immediately—²⁶

Oh, yeah, I know. I think it's so good to be able to forgive quickly. That's a quality that Jack liked in me, being married—that if ever there'd be a slight little cloud, I'd always be the—I'd rush and say, "Oh, dear, did I upset you? Did I say something wrong?" Or "I'm so sorry." And he loved that, because I think it's hard for men to make up first in a family, in a rather intimate way. But he did that same thing—I can't do it in my life outside marriage, but he did that same thing outside.

Would he ever get depressed or was his temperament just terribly equable?

Oh, his temperament was terribly even, except when he'd be in pain for a long period of time—for instance, his back—and when he'd done the three or four usual things, which is go stay on crutches four days—if that doesn't work, go to bed for two days, or have a hot pack or something. And if it just seemed to stay on and on, he couldn't shake it, then he'd get very low, but just because of that. But if he had something to do, he'd get up and do it. And then eventually it would get better. But, in the beginning years of our marriage, ill health was—just seeing Jack in pain used to make me so sad all the time, but really after—when? I guess, after the Senate thing, it didn't seem to be as much of a problem anymore.

In 1960, his back didn't trouble him much, did it—during the campaign?

No, I mean, he had the best health in the world. I think one reason was he was doing so much, too much. When he got in the White House, he took this nap every day—it was just forty-five minutes. He'd come—who could be bothered to get in your pajamas for forty-five minutes? —and he'd hit that pillow and go to sleep and wake up again. I mean, I couldn't sleep—it would take me forty-five minutes to doze off, but it was so good for him. Then all his back and his stomach and everything weren't always plaguing him. He just always overtaxed himself. And so he never was in better health or spirits than all his White House years.

Did he ever have trouble sleeping?

No.

Never took sleeping pills? Never—just always—

Sometimes, in a campaign, he would take one tiny little sleeping pill. If you got in late and you had to get up early and you were in some awful smelly hotel bedroom. I remember once there was a whiskey bottle under the mattress because the American Legion had had a convention in that hotel there before and there were whiskey bottles under all our mattresses. Well, you know, just to make sure he got to sleep so he'd be awake the next day. But, a little tiny thing, and then he wouldn't the rest of the time. Because you needed your sleep—my gosh, you only got about four hours. I remember I tried not to take any, and you'd toss and turn, so then I'd borrow one of his sometimes.

You were in Hyannis Port all the summer of '60, during the special session.

That's right.

And then, of course, you were there all autumn.

Let's see, I did a lot of things in the spring in Georgetown, and then I went to New York for that ticker-tape parade. The first debate I saw in my house in Hyannis and had people down from Boston. The second one—whichever one was in New York, I was there for. And the third one I was in Washington for—the third or the fourth.

Do you remember how he felt when the whole question of debates came up?

Oh, well, I remember the one in New York, which was the one I was with him for—how he just had piles of briefing books and he had sort of a busy day, but then he'd sit in a room for two or three hours and he had about five people there giving him every conceivable awful question you could think of. I mean, he really prepared for it—like sort of an exam. And, you know, was so confident—no, not so confident—but you know, he wasn't moaning or groaning or worried or anything. And then when he called me up at the one in Washington the minute it was over, that was—I guess maybe it was the second one in Washington—because he said on the phone they had the temperature here down to thirty degrees below zero, or something, because I guess Nixon had perspired in the first one—sort of laughing. But he really was quite confident.

What did you think during the first debate?

Oh, well, I thought what everyone else did. I just couldn't believe it. You know, it was so obvious. It was just so clear. That really changed everything. Jack always told me the thing that changed his '52 campaign—this was before we were married—was his appearance on Meet the Press with Lodge.²⁷ He said that that was the hump and then everything started to go his way. Well, that first debate was—I always thought it—but I was so glad that it was just so obvious. Because you could just see he'd won it, and hear it in the street and everywhere.

SENATOR KENNEDY IN THE FIRST DEBATE AGAINST VICE PRESIDENT RICHARD NIXON, SEPTEMBER 26, 1960
AP/John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston

Was there any talk before that about the—I mean, the President obviously thought that the debate would be a great opportunity, if he could get it, but didn't suppose that Nixon would go along. Do you remember any of that?

Not really. I remember sort of talk on and off all spring about the debates. No, I don't know what made Nixon finally decide to—

This was his great miscalculation. And I think he did it because he'd been a champion debater at Whittier College and thought that he could win. I'm sure there was no—I think he thought that this would make the experience for him, if he would get up there with this young kid.

But I remember the talk in evenings of which debate would be—wasn't one foreign policy, one domestic?—I remember all those evenings when they were hashing out—a lot of people would come and they'd decide how the debates would be made up. But I don't really remember the leading-up-to-it part.

I know you weren't, because of John, weren't around, along, all the time on the campaign. Do you have any impression on whom the President relied particularly in campaign strategy and the like?

Well, himself really. Because whenever he was home you'd hear him calling and I mean, he'd be telling people what to do. I suppose he did rely on Bobby—didn't he?—most of all. Bobby—

And he always checked his judgment with Bobby. Didn't always take it, as in the case of Lyndon Johnson, but I think he always wanted to see what Bobby reacted—how Bobby would react.

Then his father was always—you know, I was so glad Mr. Kennedy had a chance to do something. But he would be taking Billy Green to Pavillon or something—or maybe that was all before.²⁸ But he'd talk to his father too, but more to hear what his father reported. You know, all those old men—

John Bailey, did he matter?²⁹

Oh, yeah, well, John Bailey—I don't really know—

He was the chairman of the committee—

Yeah. We always loved John Bailey. That's the first place we ever went when we were married, and Jack made a speech in Connecticut. But no, I don't think he was calling up John Bailey for advice.

As far as whatever I saw, it seemed to me he was really running the whole show himself.

Yeah. And then he'd say, and Bobby would say, and everyone—you know, "Nobody must ever get mad at the candidate." So that's where Bobby was sort of the buffer. And everyone who had a fight or then somebody hated Ted Sorensen in some state, and somebody else—there'd be two chairmen and which one would be the one. All those things Bobby would have to do, so that those people wouldn't get mad at Jack. You know, which Bobby gladly did. That's another reason—he got the sort of image of being someone people disliked, but he had to be so tough for Jack. And Bobby said that to me the other day—you know, it's so nice to have someone for you who can fight your fight—I mean, be the one that people get mad at—not at you. Just the way Frank Morrissey used to tell me that the candidate could never be the one to leave the room, so Frank Morrissey would have to haul him out. And he'd always be protesting, "No, Frank, I don't want to go yet." [Schlesinger laughs] But you always had people to protect you and do that for you.

Tell me, tell us, about the last day before the election.

Well, everybody was at the Cape. Oh, no—

You went to Boston—

Yeah, we woke up in Boston so we must have slept there the night before.

There was a big rally at the Boston Garden the night before. I think you were there, weren't you?

No, I wasn't. I was at the Cape, so I must have gotten up very early and been driven to 122 Bowdoin Street³⁰ and from there we went to the voting place. Then we flew down to the Cape in the Caroline,³¹ and then that long day started. I remember we had fish chowder. You could still sit outside. And it's so funny, talking about the longest day, who should come running out from the garage in sort of a servant's part but Cornelius Ryan, who had written The Longest Day, with a print of a picture.³² We both said, "What are you doing here?" We didn't really know him—he introduced himself. So then Jack started questioning him all about The Longest Day and the this and the that part of it. And you should ask Ryan about that—and I guess he'd gotten in it through Pierre.³³ Then you'd take walks and you'd go over to his father's house, to Bobby's house.

What kind of a day was it?

It was a cold, fall Cape day—very clear. But I know we lay out on the porch with blankets on us, sort of in the afternoon in the sun. Then he'd go over—Bobby's house had been turned into just a, you know, command post—I mean, radios, telephones, boards, workers. But Jack kind of stayed away from that. And then dinner—

How did he seem—

Sort of restless, but quiet. He'd go over there, then he'd try to take a nap.

He wouldn't speculate about things anymore—

Oh, no, he wouldn't talk about it. I mean, it was—you had what he loves—his fish chowder—and then he was picking Cornelius Ryan's brains about The Longest Day. That poor man was so amazed. Then we'd take a little walk because you knew that the really bad part wasn't going to get until night. And then—I forget which house we had dinner at, but afterwards we were all watching it in our house. I remember Connecticut came charging in. And I said to Jack, "Oh, you know, now you're President now," and he said, "No, no" very quietly. So I watched until, I guess, about 11:30 or twelve and then everyone knew that it would be an all-night thing. So then I was sent up to bed. And all the—it was so sweet—Jack came up and sort of kissed me goodnight—and then all the Kennedy girls came up, and one by one we just sort of hugged each other, and they were all going to wait up all night. And Jack slept in the next room that night. So when I woke up in the morning, I went flying into his room to see—just to hear the good news—to hear that he'd heard sometime while he'd been awake—and no, there wasn't anything.

He had gone to bed, eventually.

Yes, he went to bed I think about four or something, and this was about a quarter of nine or eight thirty.

Was he still sleeping when you came in?

Yes. [laughs]

You woke him up?

Sprang him—and there was nothing, so then I woke the poor man up. Then you'd get up and then everybody walked around—you've seen those pictures—in raincoats. Up and down. Then the press people were sort of gathering and I guess it was about noon or one o'clock that the word finally came.

Nixon finally conceded then.

PRESIDENT-ELECT JOHN F. KENNEDY (CARRYING CAROLINE) AND THE FIRST LADY-TO-BE, HYANNIS PORT, THE MORNING AFTER THE 1960 ELECTION
Bob Sandberg, Look magazine/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

And then—oh, then I had to see the press in Ethel's house—all those women saying, "What kind of First Lady will you be?" Those horrible women. And then we all had our pictures taken together in the big house. Then we were all going to go down to the Armory and Mr. Kennedy didn't want to come. So sweet, he always tried to stay in the background. I remember just grabbing him and saying, "You have to come now." He was so sweet. And we all went down to the Armory.

[John Kennedy, Jr., enters the room.]

John, can you talk? Hold it a little farther away from there—like that. John, you went to the airport today.

JOHN: Yeah.

Did you like it?

JOHN: Yes.

John, what happened to your father?

JOHN: Well, he's gone to Heaven.

He's gone to Heaven?

JOHN: Yeah.

Do you remember him?

JOHN: Yeah.

What do you remember?

JOHN: [mischievously] I don't remember any-thing!

You don't remember anything? Remember when you used to come and run into his office?

JOHN: Yeah.

And he'd play with you?

JOHN: Yeah. Can you put John on?³⁴

O.K., we'll put John on.

[John leaves the room.]

PRESIDENT KENNEDY AND JOHN IN THE WEST WING COLONNADE
Cecil Stoughton, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

Do you remember when the President knew he was going to be President? Did he say anything or did he just sort of take it in his stride?

Well, I think we were all out somewhere and someone yelled, "Nixon's conceded!" I think by then you sort of knew, by the votes, that it was bound—it was just sort of waiting for Nixon to concede, wasn't it?

Yes.

So, well, when it came, what could you do? I mean, you know, we hugged each other.

Would you say he was a religious man?

Oh, yes. Well, I mean, he never missed church one Sunday that we were married or all that—but you could see partly—I often used to think whether it was superstition or not—I mean he wasn't quite sure, but if it was that way, he wanted to have that on his side.

Pascal's wager.³⁵

But I remember once he said to me something Somerset Maugham said: "Suffering doesn't ennoble, it embitters." So I don't know whether—he ever—must have had a few talks with God—I don't know if he did—just thinking, "Why does all this have to happen to me?" But he never said that. I think you couldn't be brought up the way he was without just thinking—

Well, obviously he accepted the religious sort of structure of existence and belief in a God and he believed that—he liked his children to be raised as good Catholics, and believed in Sunday Mass, and so on.

I mean, I know he wasn't an atheist or an agnostic or anything. No, he did believe in God but he didn't—You know, like all of us, you don't really start to think about those things until something terrible happens to you. And, you know, I think God's unjust now and I think he must have thought that along— He used to say his prayers—really—

He'd say prayers every night?

Yeah, but he'd do it so quickly it was really a little ritualistic thing. He'd come in and kneel on the edge of the bed—kneel on top of the bed and say them, you know. Take about three seconds—cross himself. That was—I don't remember him doing that in the White House. But, you know, it was obviously—it was just like a little childish mannerism, I suppose like brushing your teeth or something. It's just a habit. But I thought that was so sweet. It used to amuse me so—standing there.

Did he ever have any close friends in the clergy?

Not really his friends. I know Bishop Hannan he saw, but I guess that was more because of politics and everything down here—that's the one he always liked the most. Oh, and then Father Cavanaugh was a great friend of his father's and, you know, was a rather liberal priest.³⁶ He liked him.

Bishop Wright in Worcester?

Oh, yes, he liked him very much. And of course, he loved Cardinal Spellman³⁷ after—

He really liked—I didn't—really?

In the beginning when we got married, I know they were having a big fight, but by the time he was President he liked him.

Did he?

What Cardinal Spellman did—you know, he was just so for Jack, and then he made all those speeches about—he really changed. Because he'd been such a conservative churchman. Kenny O'Donnell told me that Cardinal Cushing³⁸ used to make speeches—"Any boy who doesn't go to a Catholic college . . . " and point his finger at Kenny, who was in his parish, because Kenny went to Harvard. Then Cardinal Cushing changed and when all those—

Oh, you mean Cush—I thought you were talking about Spellman—

Oh, did I say Spellman?

Yes.

Oh, my goodness!

That's why I was surprised.

[laughs] Oh, no, I meant Cushing—I couldn't have said Spellman. Oh, no.

Well, of course he changed. Absolutely.

Yeah, and he said all the things—the right things—what a Catholic should be saying. And he did not like Cardinal Spellman.

No, that was my impression because I significantly recall hearing him on Cardinal Spellman. No, Cushing was very loyal. Cushing has a sort of exuberance of temperament, doesn't he?

Yeah, and he's very funny—I mean, he's sort of Last Hurrah-ish and the crusty way he speaks. So I'd say he was devoted to Cushing and Cushing to him.

But this came on along later, didn't it, because as you say at the beginning Cushing was not that way. Remember Monsignor Lally of the Boston Pilot? Was he ever—?

I don't remember him—or even his name.

And what about Spellman?

Oh, Mr. Kennedy—why didn't he like Spellman? Didn't he have Nixon to the Al Smith dinner? You know, he so obviously was against Jack. How could you like him? And his little mincing ways. You know, he really was trying to just slit Jack's throat all the time and wouldn't be a help. Wasn't the Puerto Rican bishops or something—³⁹

Yes.

Put out a big—Cushing would make the right statement and answer to that, but Spellman never would. So many of the Catholics were so to the right—to the right of Goldwater. Spellman was one of them. And now he's left in the backwash—in the new wave of the Church.⁴⁰ I'm so pleased!

Such a shame that the President and Pope John never met.

I know.

What happened at confessional?

Oh, well, when Jack would go to confession, there'd be long lines at Christmas and Easter, and he'd have a Secret Service man go stand in line for him. You'd have to stand about an hour, then he'd come over and just slip in the line, so nobody really knew who he was. The priest never knew. That was in Florida, at Christmas and Easter. It would be at a little church in West Palm Beach—not the church that we usually went to on Sundays. So he went to confession—you know, like anyone would.

It's amazing how it was done without—

Once he told me, as a joke, that sometimes priests would make you go to confession right before a communion breakfast, and he'd always say, "I forgot my noon prayers," and "I missed Mass on Wednesday," as his sins because—you wouldn't want some men in front of the whole room. But, I mean, he was so funny about it. But he really cared. He always did that. Again, was it superstition, or training, or what? I mean, lots of times I wouldn't go.

It always seemed to me that Bobby was more religious than the President.

Oh yes. Much. I mean, you know, go to things like First Friday, or Ethel would.⁴¹