young people have a special responsibility to carry on the fight.”
Jackie was delighted with Bobby’s noble message. She had attended the Democratic Party’s national convention that past summer in Atlantic City, and was thrilled when the crowd gave Bobby a twenty-three-minute standing ovation. His emotional reception was interpreted as a humiliation of President Johnson. Everyone in the convention hall was aware that war had broken out between Bobby and Johnson. Bobby was eager to score a landslide victory in the 1964 New York Senate race so that he could challenge Johnson for the presidential nomination in 1968.
As the art director of Camelot, Jackie played an important role in Bobby’s political plans. She had recently learned that, despite her efforts to stop him, Jim Bishop intended to publish a book called
The Day Kennedy Was
Shot
. She wrote Bishop, appealing to him to abandon the project.
As you know—it was my fear as long ago as December—that all sorts of different and never ending, conflicting, and sometimes sensational things would be written about President Kennedy’s death.
So I hired William Manchester—to protect President Kennedy and the truth. He was to interrogate everyone who had any connection with those days—and if I decide the book should never be published—then Mr. Manchester will be reimbursed for his time.
Bobby objected to Jackie’s use of the words “hired” and “reimbursed,” and so she sent a second letter to Bishop.
I chose Mr. Manchester because I respect his ability and because I believe him capable of detachment and historical accuracy…. I exercise no surveillance over what he is doing, and I do not plan to. He will present his finished manuscript and it will be published with no censorship from myself or from anyone else…. I have no wish to decide who writes history.
That, of course, was untrue. Jackie had called in Manchester for the express purpose of stopping Jim Bishop. As always, she was trying to be the puppeteer who controlled the strings of history. She envisioned Manchester’s book not only as a beautiful and brave account that reflected her version of her husband’s murder, but as one that would also serve as a manifesto for Bobby’s long march to the White House.
“You must win,” Jackie told Bobby of the Senate campaign. “You
will
win.”
One way of assuring an impressive victory was for Jackie to campaign by his side.
“You could do it with dignity,” Bobby told her. “An appearance here, a few TV spots there.”
But Jackie, who occasionally showed up for private fund-raisers for Bobby, had other ideas.
“What if I attend some of your rallies in disguise?” she asked. “You know, wearing a wig or a turban or something? I could lend moral support.”
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Bobby said. “What about the children? Can I use Caroline and John?”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“This campaigning is a lot tougher than I expected,” Bobby said. “All that smiling …”
“You could turn on a very low-level smile,” Jackie said. “It’s the really broad smiles that wear you out. A gentle little smile would wear better.”
LESSONS IN SELF-IMPROVEMENT
A smiling Oliver Smith was waiting for Jackie when she arrived by limousine at his yellow town house on Willow Street in Brooklyn Heights. It was the dead of winter in 1965, and Jackie was wearing a tailored wool coat that looked like it came from Halston. She stepped past the ornately carved black door that Oliver Smith held open for her, and entered his house.
“Welcome to the house that Sam Goldwyn built,” Oliver Smith said, helping her off with the coat. “I bought this place with the earnings from my first Hollywood film,
Band Wagon.”
Oliver Smith was a theatrical designer, and everything about him was theatrical in an understated sort of way. A tall, lanky figure with closely cropped hair, he was dressed in a custom-made double-breasted
Jackie was delighted with Bobby’s noble message. She had attended the Democratic Party’s national convention that past summer in Atlantic City, and was thrilled when the crowd gave Bobby a twenty-three-minute standing ovation. His emotional reception was interpreted as a humiliation of President Johnson. Everyone in the convention hall was aware that war had broken out between Bobby and Johnson. Bobby was eager to score a landslide victory in the 1964 New York Senate race so that he could challenge Johnson for the presidential nomination in 1968.
As the art director of Camelot, Jackie played an important role in Bobby’s political plans. She had recently learned that, despite her efforts to stop him, Jim Bishop intended to publish a book called
The Day Kennedy Was
Shot
. She wrote Bishop, appealing to him to abandon the project.
As you know—it was my fear as long ago as December—that all sorts of different and never ending, conflicting, and sometimes sensational things would be written about President Kennedy’s death.
So I hired William Manchester—to protect President Kennedy and the truth. He was to interrogate everyone who had any connection with those days—and if I decide the book should never be published—then Mr. Manchester will be reimbursed for his time.
Bobby objected to Jackie’s use of the words “hired” and “reimbursed,” and so she sent a second letter to Bishop.
I chose Mr. Manchester because I respect his ability and because I believe him capable of detachment and historical accuracy…. I exercise no surveillance over what he is doing, and I do not plan to. He will present his finished manuscript and it will be published with no censorship from myself or from anyone else…. I have no wish to decide who writes history.
That, of course, was untrue. Jackie had called in Manchester for the express purpose of stopping Jim Bishop. As always, she was trying to be the puppeteer who controlled the strings of history. She envisioned Manchester’s book not only as a beautiful and brave account that reflected her version of her husband’s murder, but as one that would also serve as a manifesto for Bobby’s long march to the White House.
“You must win,” Jackie told Bobby of the Senate campaign. “You
will
win.”
One way of assuring an impressive victory was for Jackie to campaign by his side.
“You could do it with dignity,” Bobby told her. “An appearance here, a few TV spots there.”
But Jackie, who occasionally showed up for private fund-raisers for Bobby, had other ideas.
“What if I attend some of your rallies in disguise?” she asked. “You know, wearing a wig or a turban or something? I could lend moral support.”
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Bobby said. “What about the children? Can I use Caroline and John?”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“This campaigning is a lot tougher than I expected,” Bobby said. “All that smiling …”
“You could turn on a very low-level smile,” Jackie said. “It’s the really broad smiles that wear you out. A gentle little smile would wear better.”
LESSONS IN SELF-IMPROVEMENT
A smiling Oliver Smith was waiting for Jackie when she arrived by limousine at his yellow town house on Willow Street in Brooklyn Heights. It was the dead of winter in 1965, and Jackie was wearing a tailored wool coat that looked like it came from Halston. She stepped past the ornately carved black door that Oliver Smith held open for her, and entered his house.
“Welcome to the house that Sam Goldwyn built,” Oliver Smith said, helping her off with the coat. “I bought this place with the earnings from my first Hollywood film,
Band Wagon.”
Oliver Smith was a theatrical designer, and everything about him was theatrical in an understated sort of way. A tall, lanky figure with closely cropped hair, he was dressed in a custom-made double-breasted
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