Читать книгу The Dark Side of Camelot - Seymour Hersh - Страница 6

Jack Kennedy was a dazzling figure as an adult, with stunning good looks, an inquisitive mind, and a biting sense of humor that was often self-mocking. He throve on adoration and surrounded himself with starstruck friends and colleagues. Women swooned. Men stood in awe of his easy success with women, and were grateful for his attentions to them. Today, more than thirty years after his death, Kennedy’s close friends remain enraptured. When JFK appeared at a party, Charles Spalding told me, “the temperature went up a hundred and fifty degrees.”

His close friends knew that their joyful friend was invariably in acute pain, with chronic back problems. That, too, became a source of admiration. “He never talked about it,” Jewel Reed, the former wife of James Reed, who served in the navy with Kennedy during World War II, said in an interview for this book. “He never complained, and that was one of the nice things about Jack.”

Kennedy kept his pain to himself all of his life.

The most important fact of Kennedy’s early years was his health. He suffered from a severe case of Addison’s disease, an often-fatal disorder of the adrenal glands that eventually leaves the immune system unable to fight off ordinary infection. No successful cortisone treatment for the disease was available until the end of World War II. A gravely ill Kennedy, wracked by Addison’s (it was undiagnosed until 1947), often seemed on the edge of death; he was stricken with fevers as high as 106 degrees and was given last rites four times. As a young adult he also suffered from acute back pain, the result of a college football injury that was aggravated by his World War II combat duty aboard PT-109 in the South Pacific. Unsuccessful back surgery in 1944 and 1954 was complicated by the Addison’s, which severely diminished his ability to heal and increased the overall risk of the procedures.

Kennedy and his family covered up the gravity of his illnesses throughout his life—and throughout his political career. Bobby Kennedy, two weeks after his brother’s assassination, ordered that all White House files dealing with his brother’s health “should be regarded as a privileged communication,” never to be made public. Over the years, nonetheless, biographies and memoirs have revealed the extent of young Jack Kennedy’s suffering. What has been less clear is the extent of the impact his early childhood illnesses had on his character, and how they shaped his attitudes as an adult and as the nation’s thirty-fifth president.

Kennedy’s fight for life began at birth. He had difficulty feeding as an infant and was often sick. At age two he was hospitalized with scarlet fever and, having survived that, was sent away to recuperate for three months at a sanatorium in Maine. It was there that Jack, torn from his parents and left in the care of strangers, demonstrated the first signs of what would be a lifelong ability to attract attention by charming others. He so captivated his nurse that it was reported that she begged to be allowed to stay with him. Poor health plagued Jack throughout his school years. At age four, he was able to attend nursery school for only ten weeks out of a thirty-week term. At a religious school in Connecticut when he was thirteen, he began losing weight and was diagnosed with appendicitis. The emergency operation—a family surgeon was flown in for the procedure—almost killed him; he never returned to the school. Serious illness continued to afflict Kennedy at prep school at Choate, and local physicians were unable to treat his chronic stomach distress and his “flu-like symptoms.” He was diagnosed as suffering from, among other ailments, leukemia and hepatitis—afflictions that would magically clear up just as his doctors, and his family, were despairing. Once again, he made up for his sickliness with charm, good humor, and a winning zest for life that kept him beloved by his peers, as it would throughout his life.

His loyal friend K. LeMoyne Billings, who was a classmate at Choate, waited years before revealing how much Kennedy had suffered. “Jack never wanted us to talk about this,” Billings said in an oral history for the John F. Kennedy Library in Boston, “but now that Bobby has gone and Jack is gone, I think it really should be told … Jack Kennedy all during his life had few days when he wasn’t in pain or sick in some way.” Billings added that he seldom heard Kennedy complain. Another old friend, Henry James, who met Jack at Stanford University in 1940, eventually came to understand, he told a biographer, that Kennedy was not merely reluctant to complain about pain and his health but was psychologically unable to do so. “He was heartily ashamed” of his illnesses, James said. “They were a mark of effeminacy, of weakness, which he wouldn’t acknowledge. I think all that macho stuff was compensation—all that chasing after women—compensation for something that he hadn’t got.” Kennedy was fanatic about maintaining a deep suntan—he would remain heavily tanned all of his adult life—and he once explained, James said, that “it gives me confidence.… It makes me feel strong, healthy, attractive.” A deep bronzing of the skin when exposed to sunlight was, in fact, one of the symptoms of Addison’s disease.

Kennedy had few options other than being strong and attractive; his father saw to that. Joseph Kennedy viewed his son’s illness as a rite of passage. “I see him on TV, in rain and cold, bareheaded,” Kennedy told the writer William Manchester in 1961, “and I don’t worry. I know nothing can happen to him. I tell you, something’s watching out for him. I’ve stood by his deathbed four times. Each time I said good-bye to him, and he always came back.… You can’t put your finger on it, but there’s that difference. When you’ve been through something like that back, and the Pacific, what can hurt you? Who’s going to scare you?”

Jack was always striving to be strong for his father; to finish first, to shape his life in ways that would please Joe. Jack’s elder brother, Joseph Jr., always in flourishing health, had been his father’s favorite, the son destined for a successful political career in Washington. With Joe Jr.’s death in 1944 as a naval aviator, Jack became the focus of Joe Kennedy’s aspirations. In Jack’s eyes, his father could do little wrong. Many of Jack’s friends thought otherwise, but learned to say nothing. “Jack was sick all the time,” Charles Spalding told me in 1997, “and the old man could be an asshole around his kids.” During a visit to the Kennedy home in Palm Beach, Florida, in the late 1940s, Spalding said, he and his wife, Betty, were preparing to go to a movie with Jack and his date, Charlotte MacDonald. Spalding went upstairs with Jack and Charlotte to say good night to Joe, who was shaving. The father turned to Charlotte and said scathingly, “Why don’t you get a live one?” Spalding was appalled by the gratuitous comment about his best friend’s chronic poor health and couldn’t resist making a disparaging remark about Joe Kennedy to Jack. The son’s defense of his father was instinctive: “Everybody wants to knock his jock off, but he made the whole thing possible.”

Charles Bartlett, another old friend, saw both Joe Kennedy’s toughness and his importance to his son. Bartlett, who became friends with Jack in Palm Beach after the war, declared that Joe Kennedy “was in it all the way. I don’t think there was ever a moment that he didn’t spend worrying how to push Jack’s cause,” especially as his son sought the presidency in 1960.

“He pushed them all,” Bartlett, who later became the Washington bureau chief of the Chattanooga Times, told me in an interview for this book. “He pushed Bobby into the Justice Department, and he made Jack do things that Jack would probably rather not have done. He was very strong; he’d done things for the kids and wanted them to do some things for him. He didn’t bend. Joe was tough.” And yet, Bartlett added, “I just found that, in so many things, his judgment down the road was really enormous. You had to admire him.”

Jewel Reed vividly recalled her first visit to a family gathering at Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, and the intense energy Joe Kennedy focused on his children. “The table was dynamic, and Mr. Kennedy was checking up on everybody about whether they had come in first or second or third in tennis or yachting or whatever,” she said in an interview for this book. “And he wanted them to be number one. That stuck with me a long time. I remembered how intensely he had focused on their winning.”

There was a high cost, Reed added. “His values that he imposed upon his children were difficult. His buying things. I hate to use the word bribery, but there was bribery in his agenda often.” During Jack Kennedy’s first Senate campaign, in 1952, Reed said, when he stunned the experts by defeating Republican Henry Cabot Lodge, Jr., “the billboards in Massachusetts came to about a quarter of a million dollars. That was a long, long time ago, and a quarter of a million was an awful lot of money.” Reed also said that Joe Kennedy purchased thousands of copies of Profiles in Courage, Jack’s Pulitzer Prize-winning bestseller, published in 1956, “to keep it on top of the bestseller list. I don’t know what he did with all those books. That was bribery in a way. He was pushing, and if it cost money, he paid it. I’m sure that the children couldn’t have felt comfortable about that.”

The point, Reed added, was that Joe Kennedy “loved his family. It was very evident, and I remember Teddy [Edward M. Kennedy, Joe’s youngest child] paying tribute to his father in saying that he was always there when they needed him. And that’s saying a lot.”

It was different with Rose Kennedy. As Jack’s friends knew, he was full of misgivings about his mother. Kennedy once said to his aide Kenny O’Donnell that he could not recall his mother ever telling him, “I love you.” Charles Spalding got a firsthand glimpse of a rare flash of Jack’s hostility toward his mother. “I remember being down in Palm Beach and she [Rose Kennedy] came by in the middle of lunch and said to Jack, ‘Oh, baby, I just hate the idea of your having to go back [to Washington].’ Jack just blurted out, ‘If you hadn’t pushed me to be a success, I could stay here.’”

In an interview in 1990 with British biographer Nigel Hamilton, author of JFK: Reckless Youth, a definitive account of Kennedy’s early years, Spalding speculated that Jack’s craving for women and his compulsive need to shower, as often as five times a day, were linked to a lack of mothering. Kennedy, Spalding said, “hated physical touching—people taking physical liberties with him—which I assume must go back to his mother and the fact that she was so cold, so distant from the whole thing … I doubt if she ever rumpled the kid’s hair in his whole life.… It just didn’t exist: the business of letting your son know you’re close, that she’s there. She wasn’t.”

“What is touch?” Spalding added. “It must come from some deeper maternal security—arms, warmth, kisses, hugs.… Maybe sex is the closest prize there is, that holds the whole thing together. I mean if you have sex with anybody you care about at all, you feel you’ve been touched.…”

In an extraordinary series of interviews, one of Jack Kennedy’s lovers has candidly described his strengths and weaknesses as she saw them during a bittersweet relationship that spanned four years during which he campaigned for and won the presidency. The woman, who subsequently married and had a successful career, agreed to share her insights only upon a promise of anonymity. She had met Kennedy, then a U.S. senator, at a fund-raising dinner in Boston in the late 1950s; she was nineteen years old, a student at Radcliffe, and he began flirting with her.

“It was glamorous,” she recalled. “It was supposed to be terrific. It was supposed to be just what anybody would want, what any woman would want. During that early time there would be looking at me. There would be nodding at me. There would be leaning across the table to say something just to me. There would be those signs of special attention. Yes, in public. And of course that was very flattering. I thought, ‘Oh, gosh. I really must be quite something.’”

The affair deepened. She fell totally in love with the handsome Kennedy and spent hours, after making love with him, at dinner or in long conversations in bed. “I was absolutely thrilled to the gills,” she told me. “Here I was, twenty years old, having dinner in the White House, the Abraham Lincoln bedroom. It seemed very amazing. There was a time when he needed to make a statement about a certain thing that happened in the world. And [he] went off and came back half an hour later and was really thrilled with the fact that he had come up with six declarative sentences that just laid it out.” Their relationship, the woman said, “was supposed to be secret, and so I just went along and didn’t talk about it.” As for Kennedy’s seemingly ideal marriage to Jackie, she said, “I did not have the foggiest idea of any consciousness of solidarity with other women. It just did not flicker. I cannot tell you how unevolved as a woman I was, and how it was assumed that women compete with each other for the best men. I just went right along with that. Somehow it didn’t register with me at any deep level that what I was doing was absolutely immoral, absolutely atrocious behavior.”

Kennedy, while attentive and engaging, rarely talked about his childhood in their time together, the woman told me. But she now understands that his ability to compartmentalize his life, to take the enormous risk—while seeking and occupying the presidency—of being so publicly married and so privately a womanizer, stemmed from his experiences as a child. He was “a boy who was sick frequently, who was frail, in a family where there was a tremendous premium on aggressive, competitive, succeeding, energizing activity. In the class that John Kennedy came from, there’s a tremendous emphasis on appearance and how does it look? Well, it’s not supposed to look like it’s painful. It’s not supposed to look like you feel like you don’t know something or that you don’t understand what’s going on in your family or in the world. There’s a tremendous premium on being smooth and in charge and in control—you aren’t sweaty and nervous. You just sail effortlessly through the trials and tribulations that bring down other people, but not you.”

The inevitable result, she explained, was that there were many times when Jack felt the pain of being excluded. “If you are a sickly child who spends a good deal of time in your bed at a young age in a house full of a lot of children, all of whom are in school or playing games or doing whatever they’re doing, you could feel left out. It didn’t sound like everybody then [in his family] took turns to come and sit with him and chat with him and draw pictures with him.” Kennedy could have responded to the experience, the woman told me, by learning to “identify with others in the same situation. Or you can say ‘I’m never going to have that feeling again.’” Kennedy chose to shut out the pain. “It was something he did not reflect [on] and didn’t want to think about much and hoped would never happen and went out of his way to make sure it”—thinking about his childhood emotions—“didn’t happen.”

Kennedy spoke to the woman only once, she recalled, about being a trustworthy parent. If his daughter, Caroline, who was born in 1957, ever got into any kind of trouble, “he hoped that she would come to him and not feel that she had to hide it from him. His father had always wanted him to have that feeling about him, and that was a really important thing.” The woman came to understand that Kennedy’s relationship with his father was “the most vibrant relationship he’d ever had—love, fear, palpitations, trying to please him.” Asked whether Kennedy felt he could turn to his mother for help, she answered, “I do not know. I never heard him speak about his mother. Never.”

Jack Kennedy’s delight in his children, and in all children, was profound, and recognized as such by staff aides who knew nothing of his early life. Marcus Raskin, who worked on nuclear disarmament issues for the National Security Council, recalled in an interview for this book that he and his colleagues would ask, in moments of international crisis, “Where are the children?” If Caroline and her younger brother, John, “were in Washington, then there wouldn’t be a war. If the children were away, then you weren’t sure.” The question was not facetious, Raskin insisted. Jerome B. Wiesner, the president’s science adviser, told McGeorge Bundy’s national security staff, Raskin said, “to watch where the kids are. If they’re here [in Washington], then there’s going to be no war this week. If the kids aren’t here, then we’ve got to be careful.” Wiesner’s remark was obviously tongue-in-cheek, Raskin said, but “many things are said ha-ha that have a grain of truth to them.” He and his colleagues, Raskin said, looked in moments of crisis “for some sort of human affect to understand the momentous questions that they were dealing with.”

If the president’s national security advisers understood his love for children, so did the Secret Service. Larry Newman was one of the White House agents assigned to Kennedy on the evening in August 1963 when the president made a visit to his youngest child, Patrick, born prematurely and hospitalized with a lung ailment, who was fighting for his life in Children’s Hospital in Boston. Newman, who was in the elevator with the president and Patrick’s doctor, listened as Kennedy was told that his newborn son was unlikely to survive. The elevator stopped at the fifth floor, where the pediatric intensive care unit was. The floor had been cleared of all visitors for the presidential visit. The hallway was dark; the patient rooms were illuminated by night-lights. Newman recalled in an interview for this book that while walking with the president to intensive care, “we passed a room where there were two delightful-looking little girls who were sitting up in bed. They were probably about three or four years old, and they were talking and laughing together. The only problem—one girl was bandaged up to her chin. She had severe burns. And the other had burns down her arms and huge pods [of bandages] on the end of her hands. President Kennedy stopped and just looked at these two little girls. He asked the doctor, ‘What’s wrong with them?’ And the doctor explained that one girl may lose the use of her hands. The president stood there. His son was down at the end of the hall in grave to critical condition. We just stood there with him; it was just a small party in the dark. He started feeling in his pockets—it was always a sign he wanted a pen. Someone gave him a pen. He said, ‘I’d like to write a note to the children.’ And nobody had any paper for the thirty-fifth president of the United States to write a note on. So the nurse scurries to the station and gets the name of the children and their family and Kennedy writes a note to each child. There was no fanfare, no photo-op. There was nothing. The nurse took the notes and said she would see that the family got it. And then we proceeded down the hall to see his son, who of course died the next day. It was something he didn’t need to do, but he always seemed to come out of his reserved and Bostonish [ways] with children.

“Nothing was ever said about it. There was no press release or anything. He just went on to do what he had to do—to see his son. This was part of the dichotomy of the man—the rough-cut diamond. You could see so many qualities he had that just glowed; you couldn’t see why he wanted to follow other roads that were so destructive. It was truly painful.”

The women who knew Jack Kennedy, whether they were his lovers or not, invariably spoke, in interviews for this book, about his overwhelming attractiveness. The writer Gloria Emerson was an aspiring journalist when she was first introduced to Kennedy in the 1950s at a cocktail party. “I was almost hypnotized by the sight of this man,” she told me in a 1997 interview. “He was such a stunning figure. He didn’t have to lift a finger to attract women; they were drawn to him in the battalions, by the brigades. And the interesting thing was he didn’t care if you made an effort to make him interested in you. He was perfectly cordial—but come and go, it didn’t really matter to him.”

Kennedy, Emerson added, “always seemed to be surrounded by men. And they were always talking about strategy or the moves of other people. And it was rather mysterious and exciting. You, of course, as a young girl were of no importance whatsoever. Jack always called you kid, because he couldn’t remember women’s names. It wasn’t just the looks—it was the sense of mockery and that kind of fierce intelligence. He didn’t like people who babbled. He was very impatient and often very tense. I didn’t realize it then, but I think he must have been in pain a great deal of the time. Not just the stooped shoulders, but the shifting in chairs.”

Emerson was dating one of Kennedy’s classmates from Harvard when she and Jack first met. It was before his marriage to Jacqueline Bouvier. At the inevitable round of weekend parties, she said, “he was totally unselfconscious. He walked around half-naked, with just a towel wrapped around him—all bone, all rib, all shank. You have to have tremendous self-assurance to do that. I’ve never met anyone like that again. It was the audaciousness, the intensity, the impatience, even the brusqueness. Here was a man who wasn’t going to wait; he was going to get what he wanted. He was going to go from the House to the Senate to the White House. And it was quite thrilling.”

Another part of his charm, said Emerson, was young Jack Kennedy’s total indifference “to his own beauty. He didn’t care if a woman said yes or a woman said no. There would be another one. He was so absentminded about the women he was having affairs with. Once I had a roommate in New York and we were both very young. She was having a very pleasant affair with Jack and not taking it too seriously, which seemed very wise to me. But he could never remember her name. ‘Hello, kid. How are you?’ And he couldn’t figure out how to get in touch with her, so he had to call up the doorman of the building and describe the woman, so the doorman could identify her.”

Kennedy’s longtime secret lover described, with some pain, the night before the inauguration in January 1961, when she slept with the president-elect in the Georgetown home he shared with his wife and two children. Her father, a prominent businessman, was then being considered for a high-level post in the new administration. “He [Kennedy] was getting dressed, in white tie, and he looked at me,” the woman said, and he asked, “by any chance,” whether she was related to the potential nominee. She and Kennedy had been lovers for two years by then, the woman said, and he did not know who she was.

Looking back at it, the woman added, she realized that her relationship with Kennedy was based solely on his need for “conquest.” “I was somebody who happened to cross his radar screen, and so he said, ‘Well, you. I’ll take you.’ Charge and send. I was young. I was pretty. I could talk along. I was just thrilled and said, ‘Oh, wow, gosh. Here’s this handsome older man. Here’s this person, he’s interested in me.’ But in retrospect it’s really sad. I was just another girl. There was a compartment for girls, and once you were in the sex compartment, you weren’t a person anymore. I got declassed and depersonalized” by sleeping with Kennedy.

“He did not talk about his marriage to me,” the woman added. “How do you settle within yourself a pattern of behavior that is a betrayal of someone else’s trust? There are ‘arrangements’ and there’s a whole rhetoric and a whole kind of nonsense that people talk, but the basic act is betrayal. It’s hard to be a person who is trustworthy, when in your own family you are not. I think that somehow between his money, his position, his charm, his whatever, he was caught up in feeling that he was buffered. That people would take care of it. There is that feeling that you are not accountable; that the laws of the world do not apply to you. Laws had never been applied to his father and to him.” Aiding in this was the fact that, “among other things, reporters also wanted to be his friends, wanted to have relationships with him, wanted to spend time with him. I don’t know whether they did male bonding things about women, but the fact is a lot of reporters were very keen to spend time with him. And I think that he assumed they would not turn him in. And they didn’t.”

The woman came to understand that Kennedy’s most significant attachments were not to women but to men. Jack Kennedy was a man’s man. Men adored him, just as he adored his ever-demanding father. “He preferred the company of men,” Gloria Emerson recalled. “They admired him and they wanted to be like him. And they wanted, as did women, to win his favor, but even more important, they seemed to love him. People wanted to please Jack.” Schoolmates, navy buddies, political operatives, and those colleagues in the House and Senate with whom he chased women—all were attracted to Kennedy when they first met him, and had been ever since he was a gangly teenager. Charles Spalding vividly remembered his first glimpse of Kennedy at Hyannis Port in the early 1940s. Spalding, a navy aviator, had just published a bestselling memoir on flying entitled Love at First Flight. Kennedy, also in the navy, was lying down with no clothes on, except for a swimsuit casually draped across his loins. “He liked the fact that I’d written a book that had just come out,” Spalding said. Kennedy’s undergraduate thesis at Harvard, Why England Slept, had been published a few years earlier, and Spalding politely asked how it was going. “Going like hotcakes,” replied Kennedy. “Dad’s seeing to that.”

“I never met anybody who felt that the minute was as important as it was [for him],” said Spalding. “He had to live for today. There was this inner pulse, and he could find it anywhere he went.” Kennedy made things happen. “He was fun,” newspaper editor Benjamin Bradlee recalled in an interview. “That’s what you forget. He was fun to be with. He had a great sense of humor and surrounded himself with people with humor. He teased. He liked to be teased. I enjoyed being with him.” But he made people feel that others had to live by his priorities. “He would ask you to go with him someplace a lot of times when it was inconvenient for you,” George Smathers, a contemporary of Kennedy’s in the Senate, told me. “He would say, ‘Come on, go. Come on, go.’ And he and I made several trips together. He was very wonderful, friendly and loyal.”

Kennedy’s impulsiveness was irresistible. Hugh Sidey, the White House correspondent for Time magazine, who drew close to Kennedy, had an Oval Office interview scheduled for what, he concluded, was the wrong time. When he walked in, the president was in a snit over a minor foreign policy dispute, Sidey recalled in an interview, “looking down at his desk and barking orders. And he looked up at me and says, ‘Come on, Sidey. Let’s go swimming.’ I said, ‘Mr. President, that’s the one piece of equipment I have never thought to bring when I come over for an interview.’ He said, ‘Oh, in this pool you don’t need a suit.’” Once at the pool, Sidey said, “I’m confronted with this problem of who removes his trousers first—the president or the guest?” Sidey laughed at the recollection. “Kennedy beat me. Obviously a man of practice. And we dove in.”

Sidey got his clearest insight into Kennedy, he told me, when, while doing an article on the president’s reading habits for Life magazine, he asked him to list his ten favorite books. “Without hesitating he said, ‘Melbourne,’” referring to the much-acclaimed 1939 biography of Lord Melbourne, Queen Victoria’s prime minister and political adviser. Sidey immediately read the book. “It was the story,” he said, “about the young aristocracy of Britain … who gave their lives in military campaigns, who held the ideal of empire and national honor above all else. But on the weekends, when they went to their country estates, it was broken-field running through the bedrooms. I mean they swapped wives, they slept with others. But the code of that period was nobody talked about it. And you didn’t get divorced; otherwise, you were disgraced.

“I saw Kennedy,” Sidey added, “and I said, ‘Listen, now I know you better than anything. [Melbourne] tells me more about you than anything else.’ He just laughed and said, ‘Well, I’m fascinated with it. It was an interesting period in history.’” From then on, Sidey said, he and the president had a shared secret.

Kennedy was particularly energized by the West Coast. Joe Naar, an aspiring television producer, was a friend of the actor Peter Lawford, the president’s brother-in-law, and spent weekends at the Lawfords’ Santa Monica home, which was always crowded with show business celebrities. Naar remains enthralled today when he recalls Kennedy’s vibrance and energy in their chance meetings over lunch in Santa Monica. “He would come in and sit down and go around the room,” Naar recalled in an interview. “He knew everyone’s business. He made you feel like he cared about you and about what you were doing with your life. I was like nobody—the least important person there. He knew I was trying to develop television series and he’d say, ‘I’ve got an idea for a series I want to talk to you about.’ He did that with everyone at the table, some significant and some more like me. He was just the best.” Kennedy also had an unerring ability to put others at ease. Naar’s home burned down in 1961 and the president sent a photograph of Smokey the Bear with a note wondering where the bear had been during the fire. There was a Los Angeles reception soon after, and Naar’s wife was going to meet Kennedy for the first time. She was nervous about it and practiced shaking his hand and thanking him for the photograph. When the moment came, Naar recalled, his wife instead blurted, “Thank you, Mr. Picture.” She was mortified, but Kennedy “just threw his arms all over her and hugged her and laughed. He knew what happened,” Naar told me. “And I can’t forget that.”

Kennedy’s sense of his own importance and his hold over his friends distressed some of their wives, who saw Jack in a far more ambivalent light than did their husbands. Charles Spalding’s former wife, Betty, had met the Kennedys in the mid-1930s on Cape Cod and was especially friendly with Eunice, their third-eldest daughter. Her husband, she said, served one essential function for Jack Kennedy after his high-society wedding to Jacqueline Bouvier, as did all his male friends: escorting women in public who were really meant for Jack. “He bearded for him. That’s what they were doing—even Bobby—cleaning up after or bearding for him.” Like her husband, Betty Spalding found Jack Kennedy “charming and great fun to be with.” But, she added, “you didn’t know whether you were being manipulated.”

Jewel Reed said that she eventually became very disturbed by Kennedy’s “tremendous power over men—more than over women. Jack was more comfortable with men than with women. He didn’t have any value for women, except for a particular purpose.” Reed told me that Kennedy would often ask her husband to join him for a night of “male prowling,” and leave her at home. Kennedy couldn’t understand when his buddy Jim occasionally chose, at his wife’s insistence, not to go. The Reeds’ marriage, as did the Spaldings’, broke up during Kennedy’s days in the White House.

Gloria Emerson came to understand that the wives of Jack’s friends “didn’t like Jack at all because he had such a claim over their husbands.” The women were “completely left out,” Emerson said, “just put aside. It was another cultural climate. And I think they were jealous of JFK, because he could induce people to do things for him, and he was a great actor. He could make them believe that he really needed them to do these things for him—and why not? That’s part of the role of a skillful politician.”

Jack Kennedy’s attitude toward marriage followed the pattern his father set: he and his sons were to get married, stay married, have lots of children, and sleep with any woman they could. Rose Kennedy embraced the Catholic church and ignored what was going on, with her sons as well as her husband, while the Kennedy daughters spent their lives embracing the infidelities of the men in their family, often helping to make it easier for their brothers to cheat on their wives.

Sometimes the daughters would do the same for their dad. The novelist Dominick Dunne, who was working in Hollywood as a television producer for a weekly dramatic series in the 1950s, recalled in an interview for this book that Patricia Lawford, Joe Kennedy’s daughter, who was then married to actor Peter Lawford, routinely telephoned Dunne’s wife when her father was in town to ask, “Who’s on the show?” Lawford was told the names and telephone numbers of the female stars, Dunne said, and then relayed the information to the always eager Joe.^*

The man most important to Kennedy, other than his father, was his brother Bobby; yet there were a few times early in the 1950s, Emerson said, when Jack hoodwinked even him. “Jack was having a liaison with one of my roommates in a hotel room and Bobby was at the door suddenly. And he made the woman stand in a closet while he talked to Bobby,” Emerson remembered. “So there were some times he probably concealed, but less and less as time went by. The Kennedys have always felt themselves under siege and were distrustful of the outside world. And that’s why so many men wanted JFK to believe that they could be trusted—it was a test they had to pass.”

Hugh Sidey described the brothers’ relationship as one of “almost total communication. It was almost osmosis. Almost every time I was in talking to Jack the phone would ring, once or twice, it would be Bobby. Muffled conversations back and forth about whatever it was. I don’t think there were secrets of any significance they kept from each other.”

Richard N. Goodwin, who wrote speeches for Kennedy during the 1960 campaign and accompanied him to the White House, described Robert Kennedy as “completely his brother’s man. He was a guy whose basic purpose in life was to advance and protect the career of John Kennedy.” In an interview for this book in 1997, Goodwin recalled one meeting between the president and a group of southern senators on the White House balcony. One of the senators “leaned forward and said, ‘Well, Mr. President, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to attack you on civil rights.’ And Kennedy says, ‘Can’t you attack Bobby instead?’ Bobby played that role,” Goodwin explained. The younger Kennedy “was always reflecting his brother’s feelings.” Goodwin was also present at a White House meeting after the Bay of Pigs when Bobby tore into a senior State Department official who, after the fact, had told a reporter that he was opposed to the invasion. “I watched Bobby just lash into him,” Goodwin recalled. “‘You can’t undermine my brother.’ And John Kennedy just sat there quietly, never said a word throughout. But I have no doubt that Bobby was reflecting conversations that the two of them had.”

Jewel Reed, whose husband had also commanded PT boats in the South Pacific, thought that Bobby was put at a disadvantage by his older sibling. “All Bobby wanted to do was to please his brother,” Mrs. Reed said. “I felt Jack was more ruthless than Bobby.”

After the 1960 election, Kennedy put his longtime lover, who came from a wealthy and socially prominent family, into a make-work White House job dealing with international affairs. She watched from the inside and grew extremely skeptical of the men around the president. “He was not surrounded by peers,” she told me. “He was surrounded by intellectual associates, by show business cronies, by family, by old-time family retainers, by a lot of people who were acquaintances but were not friends of his heart.” The woman recalled a private dinner in the White House with the president and one of his very old friends. “And basically what [the friend] wanted was some help in getting a discount on furniture at the Merchandise Mart,” the huge Chicago wholesale furniture hub that was owned by the Kennedy family. “I was amazed. I mean, I was just staggered. It wasn’t about being a friend. It wasn’t about closeness.”

Kennedy’s male friends, she said, like many of his women friends, were attracted by his glamour. “Everyone kept stroking,” she said. “‘You’re fine, it’s great, everything is going well.’ Real friends,” she said, “wade in with you and say, ‘Boy, this is difficult. This is painful.’ I believe he was abandoned at some deep level by the people who thought they were trying to help by keeping things smooth, by saying it’ll all be okay. ‘How can I serve to make your life smoother?’”

Once in the White House, she said, aides such as McGeorge Bundy, the national security adviser, and Robert McNamara, the secretary of defense, “picked up from [Kennedy] not a sense of being Harvard eggheads and smart people, but a sense of being tough. There was part of Jack that rejoiced in knowing what you had to know, doing what had to be done,” she said. “Bundy didn’t know from dirty hands or what Jack knew from street fighting. These men were merely picking up the worst aspects of Jack; they felt they had to be more tough, more Catholic than the Pope.”

All of Kennedy’s aides wanted his acceptance, she said. “In some way I think he must have gotten the least [out] of all the brain power around, because of people’s competition—‘How can we get more of Daddy? How can we get more of his attention? How can we get more of his approval?’ A lot of really radical thinking just went right out the window” on the part of the men who were supposedly giving the president their best advice. Men such as Bundy, McNamara, and Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr., the Harvard historian who was a special adviser, “could have stretched their minds more if they hadn’t gotten so tangled up in competing for his favor and his time. They wanted to hang out [with Kennedy], as well as to think about public policy. You wanted to be included at dinner, in rides on the boat, in going to movies.”

Gloria Emerson saw the same behavior. The men working for him in the White House, she told me, “loved him too much. They wanted to please more than they wanted to enlighten, and that’s very dangerous, isn’t it? Everyone wanted to see him smile.”

Kennedy, with his glamour and quickness, seemed especially to bring out the insecurity of intellectuals. And no one was more eager to please than Ted Sorensen, Jack Kennedy’s closest aide in the Senate and the White House. Ralph A. Dungan joined the Senate staff as a labor expert in the mid-1950s and was immediately put off by Sorensen, who was his office mate. “He was not the warmest human being that ever walked down the pike,” Dungan told the Kennedy Library in a 1967 oral history. “The one thing that bothered me the most was an incident that was very, very telling. The senator came roaring into that back office, yelling like hell about something, … directing his fire at me. And I didn’t say anything. I hadn’t touched the damned issue. It was Sorensen who had worked on it. He just sat right there and let me take the whole heat without ever saying, ‘It wasn’t him, it was me.’ And I figured at that point whatever happened along the line, if it in any way impaired his relationship with the principal, Sorensen would pitch anybody over.”

Kennedy’s friends lived in terror of his boredom. “We relaxed him.” That’s what Ben Bradlee believed. “We made him laugh. We talked mostly about people and what was going on … [Kennedy] loved gossip about what people are up to and what they’re thinking about.” You had to keep him interested, Bradlee said, but “if he were bored five minutes he’d get up and leave. He wasn’t going to suffer that. I mean, when he was through he was through. He got up and left.” Many others, even those considered to be old friends, had a sense that they, too, were disposable. Charles Bartlett, the journalist, was famed for having introduced Jack to Jackie at a dinner party; Bartlett profited, socially and professionally, from his closeness. But it came at a cost. “He was very spoiled,” Bartlett told me. “One thing you couldn’t do with Jack was bore him. It was one of his least attractive characteristics—how quickly he could turn off.”

Gloria Emerson said that she thought Jack Kennedy became bored “when people talked too much—when they made their case at too great length. He liked movement and results. He had no sort of small talk. He wanted to talk strategy, politics, so one was totally excluded. Things had to have a point for him, and parties were a waste of time unless there was a political advantage to be gained.”

Kennedy’s lover experienced the same sense of impatience and the same anxiety about cutting through it. “It wasn’t just the women going ga-ga,” she said. “It’s everybody trying to be good enough, smart enough, witty enough. I was trying to knock him out—to be terrific. It’s much more criminal in the case of Bundy and McNamara.”

Adding to her anxiety, she said, was Kennedy’s constant “restlessness, a sense that there was something he wanted but it wasn’t quite there. The tapping of the teeth, the tapping of the foot, the drumming of the fingers. A sense that it was hard work. You had to really work to keep his attention unless … he had something that he wanted from you. And then, boy, you were the object of extremely focused attention.”

Her lover’s goal, she said, was to fill his life “with adrenaline. ‘What are we going to do that’s exciting?’ What will he do that will keep his attention from being pulled into darker events or darker feelings? When you want excitement, when you want to be occupied and pulled out of yourself, you’re saying in some way that you don’t have to mull over things that are painful, things that could be very uncomfortable. He was caught in a bind, and the people around him were caught. It was as if he was struggling to come out, but he struggled with people who were in the same dynamic as he was.”

Kennedy ignored any problems in their relationship. When he could not perform sexually, it was simply not discussed, she said. “It was dealing with imperfection by just closing it down. ‘Let’s not think about this anymore.’ But it was clear that he was thinking about it. What do you do? What do you say? I had no idea. Somehow I wasn’t doing it right. I was sexually inexperienced, so I thought it was something I was doing or not doing. I didn’t know what was going on.”

Kennedy understood the extent of his power over men, and he used it. In the late 1950s, Jerry Bruno, who came from Wisconsin, was working in Washington for Senator William Proxmire, the Wisconsin Democrat. Bruno and Kennedy began a conversation in the underground shuttle linking the Senate office buildings to the Capitol. Kennedy invited him to come around his office for a chat. Bruno knew that Kennedy was going to run for president in 1960 and that Wisconsin would be a key primary election state. “I go there and Kennedy stands me up,” Bruno said in a 1995 interview for this book. “I wait one and a half hours and then Evelyn [Lincoln, Kennedy’s secretary] says he wants to see you at his home tomorrow morning at eight o’clock for breakfast. I go there, ring the bell, and the butler comes and puts me in the patio. I sit there and the butler gives me a newspaper.” After a half hour, Kennedy came downstairs, sat at another table on the patio, ate breakfast, and read the newspaper. Caroline, his daughter, climbed on his knee for a moment to get a ride. “He knew I was there, but he didn’t say anything,” Bruno told me. Bruno continued to wait. Asked why he did so, Bruno explained, “Hey, listen, I’m a factory worker who only went to the ninth grade.” He knew his place.

Finally, Kennedy turned to him, Bruno said, and “begins asking me a lot of questions about Wisconsin. He asks me to be his executive director for his campaign in Wisconsin. Later it dawned on me that he didn’t know anything about me, but I had the identity of [having worked for] Bill Proxmire.” Bruno took the job and, after the election, became a political advance man in the White House. He remains loyal to this day.

Kennedy’s treatment of Bruno was that of a master to a servant, just as his father, Joe, would have dealt with the hired help. Kennedy’s former lover talked at length in our interviews about what she termed his “tremendous acceptance of inequality.” Kennedy did articulate the view that “things should be better, yes.” He also “could do acts of personal kindness, yes.” But, she said, deeply ingrained in him was “the acceptance of inequality at every level—that women were not equal with men, that African Americans were not equal with white people, that Jews were not equal to gentiles. That was absolutely acceptable, and that doesn’t mean he was a horrible racist, anti-Semitic, classist, sexist person. He was a person of his time. And that involved a lot of limitations.”

When discussing the poor, the blacks, the Jews, “he used to say, ‘Poor bastards.’ That was it. There were a lot of poor bastards in this world. There were people who either didn’t get jobs they wanted or they didn’t get programs they wanted. That phrase covered so many times when he would have turned someone down for a job, or would have turned down some legislation that was being pressed on him. You know, ‘Poor bastard, they’re going to feel terrible.’” Kennedy seemed to believe that “people who are different have different responses. The pain of poor people is different from ‘our’ pain.”

Kennedy was aware of the disconnect. While interviewing candidate Kennedy for a Time magazine cover story in the late 1950s, Hugh Sidey suddenly asked if he had any memory of the Depression. Sidey had grown up in rural Iowa and vividly recalled the harshness of those days. “Kennedy had his feet on the desk, and he looked across at me and he said,” Sidey said in a 1997 interview for this book, “‘I have no memory of the Depression. We lived better than ever. We had bigger houses, more servants. I learned about the Depression at Harvard—from reading.’” Jack Kennedy, Sidey told me, with some consternation, “just hadn’t encountered breadlines or bums that used to come to our doors and ask for handouts. He was the ambassador’s son, and that was a very elegant existence. He was never in contact with the reality of the Depression.”

Kennedy’s former lover believed that it would have been difficult for Kennedy, given his comfortable family circumstances and the belief in his own destiny, to understand the aspirations of the people in Cuba and South Vietnam, the nations that became the object of presidential obsession, anger, and frustration. Kennedy, the woman said, “did a wonderful thing in trying to bring people into a sense of participation. But I feel most of it was on the basis of being special, and surrounding himself with the best and the brightest—with people whose accomplishments were their badge of worth.” Thus, when “things got really troublesome,” she said, the president and his immediate aides “reinforced each other’s isolation. Those people, in their specialness, got separated from reality. It was as if Bundy, McNamara—all of these extraordinary men—in rising and shining, had cut off their ability to feel their own pain. I never did experience John Kennedy in a moment of reflection or pain or sadness,” she told me.

The affair came to an end in late 1962, the woman said, but not before she learned of Kennedy’s extensive womanizing. She was “crushed” by the news. “I thought, ‘Gee, maybe I’m really special.’ But no, I was one of many, many people. That was helpful in the long run, because I decided to leave Washington, and it was time to go.”

The end was unsentimental. “It was very painful to be with someone who was everything and I was nothing,” the woman said. “It was painful to have it called love. It was painful to be chosen and to have someone be interested in me for my class, my speech, my looks, my whatever—but not my heart.” She was abroad, sitting by herself in a European café, when she learned of Kennedy’s assassination. “It was sort of symbolic in the sense that I was alone with it,” she said. “I’d been alone with myself during that relationship and I was alone” at Kennedy’s death. “I read newspapers. I read magazines. I read every single thing I could read. I did not cry.”

“What’s the moral of the story?” Kennedy’s former lover rhetorically asked during one interview. “That this grand man, this man of energy and intelligence and glamour and power, was to a certain extent dehumanized by the privileges that made him who and what he was. He allowed us to think that there are people who have it all. And that’s a very dangerous illusion, because at some point they know they don’t. Mythologizing this man did not help him and did not help us, because it allowed us to not take responsibility for our participation in the public life. We say, ‘Oh well, let this wonderful leader do it.’ But that is not inviting us to think.”

The Kennedys’ belief that they were extraordinary people who could make their own rules began long before Jack was born. It started with his grandfather.

^* No outsider can fully comprehend the dynamics of another family’s life, but outsiders were often shocked by what they encountered in the Kennedy household. In 1957 Lyndon Johnson, the Senate majority leader, was asked to make a speech in Palm Beach. It seemed only natural when Rose Kennedy telephoned and invited him to come to the family’s beachfront home for lunch. Johnson, recovering from a serious heart attack, was accompanied on the trip by Lady Bird, his wife; Bobby Baker, his aide and confidant; and Senator George Smathers, of Florida. “So we went over for lunch,” Baker recalled in an interview for this book. Rose Kennedy, gracious and charming, was alone. Suddenly, Baker said, “Old Man Joe comes in with a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old girl. Doesn’t say boo. Walks right in and goes upstairs” and engages in what, clearly and noisily, is sexual intercourse. “Here you have the majority leader of the Senate and he and Jack had a great relationship,” Baker told me. “I thought it was the rudest thing I’ve ever seen.” The lunch went on as if nothing had happened. Baker learned later, he said, that the young woman was Joe Kennedy’s caddy from the French Riviera, where the Kennedys maintained a vacation home.