The Dark Side of Camelot Read online

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 d
own 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."