CHAPTER 9

I had arrived on a spring-like night. When I left it was winter. A freezing rain was falling. Not a car moved on the street. The only sound was my footsteps.

I walked aimlessly, trying to shake the effects of Kennedy’s last remark, the knockout punch that had ended our battle. No use. I was dazed and shaken.

In my mind, I replayed the evening, trying to decide where and how I’d gone wrong, or whether I’d gone wrong at all. I knew I’d followed my conscience. And yet, in doing so, I’d jeopardized the most important project I’d ever worked on after all but wrapping it up.

When I looked at my watch, it was after 11. I was exhausted, and cold. The rain had turned to snow. The sensible thing to do was walk to the heart of Georgetown, find a taxi and return to my hotel. Instead, I turned in the direction of Maggie’s house.

She opened the door halfway and stared at me in silence. She was wearing a robe, and underneath it her nightgown. Her feet were bare. Seconds passed. Finally, she opened the door fully. I stood, anchored to the stoop. “Well, do you want me to freeze to death?” she said.

I stepped inside and cast off my coat. She led me to the living room. As we sat, I said, “I have several questions.”

“I had a feeling you might.”

“You knew where I went tonight?”

“Let’s say that I had an excellent idea, and by the look on your face I have a fair idea of what must have happened. He told you, right?”

“Among other things. How did you find out?”

“A hunch, and some reporting. If you weren’t allowed to tell me what you were doing here, that meant it had to be an extremely important project. The most important project, by far, would be Jack Kennedy’s memoir. Second, you manifested unusual interest in the man, starting with that evening I took you to Joe Kraft’s. When you reappeared in Washington after your first visit and told me about your idea for a book about the Kennedys and the press, I said to myself, wow, if Asher is working with Kennedy on his memoir and they don’t want it to be known, that would be a perfect cover. It would explain his visits to the house if anyone saw him going in and out of there. But my hunch didn’t make any sense if you hadn’t written books, and there was no public record that you had. So I called a friend in the publishing business, and asked if he’d heard of you. And he said, ‘Are you kidding? He’s the most sought-after ghostwriter in the business. Gets stuff out of people they wouldn’t even tell their psychiatrist. And even better, insists on working anonymously.’ So it all fit, but I still couldn’t be sure and, given the constraints you were under, I didn’t want to put you on the spot. At that point, the only way to confirm it was to ask Himself, which I did.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, four, five weeks ago.”

“So, since then, the two of you have been sharing a laugh behind my back.”

“No, Asher. We haven’t. There’s nothing funny about it.”

“Oh, I think there is. I demand an accounting of his private life from the former President of the United States, only to discover that I’ve been screwing his former mistress.”

“I wasn’t his mistress.”

“All right, girl friend.”

“Not even that.”

“What, then?”

“Just someone with whom he once had a brief but torrid affair.”

“Fair enough,” I nodded. “Next question. Our first night together, you attacked him for being promiscuous. Under the circumstances, I have to wonder why.”

Maggie smiled enigmatically. “Jealousy, my dear,” she said.

“But you’ve apparently maintained a close relationship with him.”

“He’s very good about that—kind, solicitous, helpful in any way he can be.”

“Personally? Professionally?”

“Both. With him they intersect.”

“Your columns about him didn’t bother him?”

“To the contrary, they amused him.”

“That surprises me. He’s always been so touchy about media criticism.”

She smiled, and a faraway look came into her eyes. “I never wrote anything in my columns that I wouldn’t say to his face—and probably already had. He knew exactly how I felt about him.”

“And how did you feel about him?”

“Probably not much different from any other woman he charmed into bed. Flattered. Somewhat smitten. But wary. A woman knows right away if a man has a feeling capacity, and Jack Kennedy didn’t have that. I doubt that he has the capacity to make a wife terribly happy in the conventional ways. I’m not talking about screwing. I’m talking about intimacy. He never showed the least inclination to be tender and caring.”

“Wait a minute. A moment ago you said he was kind, solicitous and helpful.”

“That’s got nothing to do with tenderness and caring, with being sensitive to the other person’s needs for warmth and sharing, with being able to open up yourself. Jack Kennedy would never do that—at least not with me, although for a while at least, we were as hot and heavy as it gets. To the contrary, he would shield and protect himself against any involvement. The moment it threatened, he’d pull away and be off in another direction. I know this is going to sound strange, but he didn’t really like to be touched. He liked to be aroused, all right, but when it was over, he didn’t stick around for the kissing and caressing. It wasn’t just that he had other things to do. He just didn’t like it. The prospect of intimacy spooked him.”

“Any idea why?”

“Lots of ideas why.”

“Go on.”

“Do you really want to do this now? You’re not looking your best.”

“Just give me the highlights.”

“All right,” Maggie said. “A father who treats his wife like dirt, which gives his young son the idea that men don’t have deep feelings about women. A father who brings his mistresses into the family home, which makes liaisons in the White House later on seem completely normal. A growing awareness that, as regards women, he can do anything he wants with impunity, because his father did and his mother never left him. Growing up so rich and powerful, in any case, that he became accustomed to having anything he wished, and took whatever he wanted.”

Maggie sighed. “I always had the feeling when I was with Jack that sex was just one item on a crowded agenda. You do it, and move to the next item. He wasn’t selfish, or thoughtless, just fast. There’s always been this sense of urgency about him, and not just about sex. I think he always felt that he wasn’t going to live very long—those childhood illnesses, remember—and that he had to grab what he could, while he could. But I think he would have been like that even if he hadn’t been sick. One of the reasons he screwed like a rabbit is that he led such a crowded life. All the Kennedys are like that. They all act as if they aren’t going to live until tomorrow, and they just pack so much into it, twice as many things as other human beings. On that kind of schedule, sex is something you catch on the fly, not to be confused with loving.”

She paused, perhaps to reflect on what she’d just said. “I suppose the bottom line in explaining the man is an old psychological maxim to the effect that exaggerated sexuality is a defense against intimacy. That really fits him.”

“That’s a description, not an explanation,” I said. “It’s like explaining the beginning of creation by saying that billions of years ago there was this giant explosion. What produced the elements that caused the explosion? What’s this guy afraid of?”

“I’m not sure he’s afraid of anything.”

“Then why won’t he let people get close?”

“Are you sure that’s still a valid question? He’s changed a lot since Dallas.”

I nodded. “Yes, I guess he has.”

“You haven’t told me what happened tonight.”

“I’d prefer not to do that just now.”

“Your parting wasn’t amicable.”

“I have a feeling John Kennedy and I have exchanged our last words.”

Maggie frowned. “You’re not going to finish the memoir?”

“Oh, I’ll finish, all right. But then it’ll be between him and his editor.”

Maggie’s frown deepened. “Do yourself a favor, Ash. Sleep on it. I think I know what’s bugging you. You feel that you’re on the wrong side of the story, a kind of super flak. But the truth is that most reporters would kill to be in your position. You’ve got the ear of the most important man of our century in a way no one else has ever had it, and you’re probably closer to the truth than any of us will ever get. If you’ve done your job well—and, knowing you, I can’t imagine you doing otherwise—you’ve made a real contribution to history. So don’t be in too great a hurry to throw what you’ve done away.”

“I’m not at all sure he’ll want to see me again.”

“Sure he will. Jack doesn’t stay angry.” She thought for a moment. “If you think he’s still sore, give him my love. He’ll get a laugh out of that.”

Staying with Maggie that night was unthinkable, as was staying in Washington any longer than I had to.

It was after midnight when I got back to the Hay-Adams. I tried to sleep, but couldn’t. So I packed my bag. I finally fell asleep sometime after two, but awakened at five.

At six, I made a reservation for a nine o’clock flight to San Francisco, then checked out and took a taxi to the Kennedy residence. When I walked into the study, the weak morning light had just begun to illuminate the garden, its thousands of spring buds subdued by the cold snap of the night before. I went to the coffee table and began to stuff my copies of the transcripts, along with my notes, into an overnight bag. Either I was so absorbed or so tired that I never heard the door open, so I had no idea how long Kennedy had been watching me.

“I figured you might be here,” he said.

I turned my head to look at him. His eyes were puffy, suggesting that he hadn’t slept well, either. He was wearing a heavy sweater and chinos, and loafers without socks. He waited for me to say something, and when I didn’t, added, “I’m sorry about last night.”

Again I said nothing.

“You were doing your job. You are very good at your job, Ash.”

“Yeah,” I said without turning around. “I’m the best fucking parasite around.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I said. “It’s true.”

At least 20 seconds passed before Kennedy said, “What time’s your flight?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“From Dulles?”

“Yes.”

“What about having some breakfast and taking a later flight?”

The invitation unraveled me. I closed my eyes and fought to control myself. “Thanks,” I managed finally, “but I really need to go.”

“I understand,” Kennedy said. He waited a moment, then added, “You look like you didn’t get much sleep.”

“Maggie and I had a lot to talk about.”

“I apologize for that, too. I had no call to say anything about Maggie.”

Finally, I turned to him. “It’s okay. Actually, it was helpful. You can’t write in another person’s voice unless you understand him. And the best way to understand him is to compare him to yourself.” I hesitated for a moment. “We’re all adulterers at heart, aren’t we? How many men would turn down a Marilyn Monroe? How many women would turn down a John Kennedy?” I struggled with the next thought. “There was a time, maybe seven, eight years into my marriage, when I wanted to fuck every good-looking woman in the world. It wasn’t something I could help. It was just something I felt. And I never did anything about it until Maggie. So by conventional standards I’ve been more moral than you, but which of us has been more honest? Is it more honest to lie to yourself? I don’t know the answer.”

“Come on,” Kennedy urged. “Let’s have some breakfast.”

“I don’t feel like eating.” I took a breath. “What I want to do is tell you what I didn’t want to know.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t. I want to.” For a moment, I faltered, trying to figure out how to begin. “The first day we met, you asked me how I got into ghostwriting. I told you it was an accident. Until last night, I’d made myself believe that. I don’t believe it any more. The truth is I copped out.”

I took a moment to deal with that admission. “Before the war, I’d been absolutely sure about what I wanted. I was going to be the world’s greatest reporter. After the war, it didn’t take me long to discover that great reporting can get you into big trouble. I’d had all the trouble I’d ever wanted in the war. That FBI report on me, the one that listed my combat citations, didn’t mention the fear I felt before every battle. I prayed that if the Germans overran our position I’d be killed, not captured. I didn’t know what they’d do to a Jewish POW, and I didn’t want to find out. The only thing that kept me going was that I was more afraid of disgracing myself than I was of getting captured.”

“Those were reasonable fears, Ash.”

“Most fears are reasonable. The test is how you handle them. Grace under pressure, right? I did okay in the war. I wasn’t so hot after that. I’d get calls at the Chronicle that bothered me more than they should have. Finally, a really tough call about a story on a drug dealer. Guy threatened to kill me. All that fear came flooding back. That day, when I wrote the follow-up, I really pushed myself not to pull any punches. But deep down I knew I’d softened it. And I also knew I wasn’t going to be the world’s greatest reporter.”

I took a deep breath. “I didn’t make a conscious decision to cop out. But when the offer to ghost that book came along, I grabbed it. I even conned myself into believing that I was doing it for my wife, so I could support the lifestyle she was used to. And when the book hit, it was very pleasant. Big money. Publisher fussing over me. Rubbing shoulders with the movers and shakers. Getting my ego fix. That’s some power trip, Jack, sitting in a room with a bigwig and telling him what he has to do to write a good book. It really shakes him up.”

“Tell me about it,” Kennedy said, his voice as dry as dust. “I still don’t see anything you need to hang your head about.”

“Until last night, I would have agreed with you.” I let out a long and audible sigh. “You were right, Jack. I am a parasite. I feed off risk-takers like you.”

“Most people can’t afford to take risks.”

“Most of us don’t have the guts. Life at the top’s too dangerous. Very good is good enough.” I’d never said anything like that before, not even to myself, and I was so stunned by the admission, as well as by the thought that was flowing from it, that I had to pause for a moment before expressing it. “I’m the best ghostwriter in the world, Jack. I get first crack at every major project. But I’m not the man I was going to be. I don’t put my voice out there. I don’t want the risk. What better way to avoid risk than to let other people do your talking for you?”

I could hear the bitterness in my voice. “Those books of my own I keep telling myself I’m going to write? Forget it. It’s too easy—and much safer—capitalizing on the celebrity of the John Kennedys. Which brings me to this assignment. Some part of me must have seen it as a chance to redeem myself. If I was going to ghostwrite the story of the century instead of writing it myself, I’d by God do it right. I’d blast that material out of you and get it into the book.” I shook my head, remembering. “Well, you’re the champ, Jack. The most reticent subject I’ve ever worked with. If you’d been a card player, you’d have held them close to your chest. Somehow I got you to show your cards, until only one was left. I had to make you show that card, because I knew that if you kept it hidden you’d be making a colossal error.”

He started to speak but I held up my hand. “You asked me last night why this book was so important to me. Do you really understand what you did to people? You made them believe they could change things, and a lot of them went out and did that. I’m trying to preserve that—not just for your sake but the country’s. The country’s? Hell, the world’s. We all need heroes, Jack. We can’t afford to lose a hero like John Kennedy.”

Silence. Finally: “What makes you so absolutely certain that a little gossip about my private life is going to be so damaging?”

I shook my head. “That’s the first dumb thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I never said I was Christ Risen.”

“You didn’t have to. Dallas was your Calvary.”

“Haven’t I done enough?”

“In a way, you’ve done too much. Eric Hoffer wrote that you don’t judge movements by their truth or their promise. What’s important is the kindling of ‘extravagant hope’ in the believer. You kindled extravagant hope, Jack. Do you want that flame to go out?”

“What would you have me do, for God’s sake?”

“Add a few paragraphs. Something that acknowledges the subject, and covers it in a human way. Everyone understands lapses and failures. What we don’t forgive is deceit. Say that Jackie was very young when you married, that there were many years between you. That you had concerns she didn’t have at the time. That marriage is like a treasure hunt. You don’t know what you’ve got until you look for it. That Dallas made you want to do that. People will understand that, Jack. They’ll relate to it.”

My next words came with difficulty. “I relate to it. I didn’t just have an affair with Maggie. I fell in love with her all over again. Maybe it’s because she and I both had the same dreams at Columbia, only she went out and lived them. The trench coat. The syndicated column. The clout. Who knows, maybe she changed the world a little. On the other hand, she never married. She never had kids. And she’s spent 5,000 nights alone. She told me she never married because the man she wanted to marry married someone else. I’m not sure I believe that, but I know she’d marry me now. And I know I’d marry her if I could. What I’ve got to find out now is if that happened because my wife disappointed me—or because I didn’t search for the treasure in my own home. Maybe I have a better wife than I know about.”

My eyes had been drifting as I spoke, but now I looked him square in the eye. “That’s what you discovered, isn’t it?”

For a moment Kennedy said nothing. Then he looked away. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“A few paragraphs, Jack. A page.”

Somehow, and I don’t remember how, we had both found our way onto the sofa, separated by a few feet. When Kennedy turned back to me, I had never seen his face more naked. “I can’t do it, Ash. I’ll have to take my chances, because there are things I just can’t do. Remember Nixon in the 1960 campaign? He’d throw his arms over his head, and make V’s with his fingers. Well, that was something I couldn’t do, even if it cost me the election.” Now Kennedy sighed, and looked away once more. “You said I kindled extravagant hope. Well, if that’s what I did—if that’s all I did—then I did my part. And it’s their job, the country’s job, to keep that fire burning. What I said at my inaugural—‘Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country’—that wasn’t rhetoric, Ash. I meant those words. I believed them. Can you imagine what a difference it would make if every man, woman and child went out their door tomorrow morning and picked up a single piece of trash and put it in a trashcan? All of a sudden they’d look around and say, goddamn, we can clean up this country. It’s belief in itself that moves a country. If belief in itself is what I gave the country, and the country gives it away because I horsed around, ah, God, what a waste.”

He turned his head once more and fixed his gaze on me.

“Now go home and write your book.”

“Your book,” I corrected.

“Our book.”

I was caught so unawares, and so moved by what he’d just said, that for a moment I couldn’t speak. “You could have made a good politician,” I managed at last.

Kennedy’s mouth opened in mock astonishment. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he said. “The man’s got a sense of humor.”