Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir (56 page)

There were times when I wondered if I myself could go on. It was just so damn painful.

After the holidays, we returned to Washington. Mrs. Kennedy had bought a house across the street from the Harriman’s, at 3017 N Street—a large brick colonial that had lots of room and two beautiful magnolia trees out front. We moved in and at first, it seemed perfect. The private backyard was paved with a big tree in the center, and John would ride his little tricycle around and around. But almost immediately, the crowds started to come. People would stand on the sidewalk with cameras, trying to peer in the windows, and as soon as we walked out the front door, they’d snap photos, one right after the other. It really got bad when a tour company started bringing buses by the house. The buses would squeeze down the narrow street and stop, allowing the people to get out and take pictures. We tried to have the operation ceased, but the city allowed the buses to carry on.

Mrs. Kennedy and the children started spending more and more time away from Washington. They went skiing in Stowe, Vermont, she took a trip to Antigua, and a lot of trips to New York City, where we stayed at the Carlyle Hotel.

We were all trying to keep busy, planning the next trip, making arrangements. But everywhere we turned, there was something to remind us of what had happened. You couldn’t look at a newspaper, you couldn’t watch television. The Warren Commission was investigating the assassination, and both Paul and I were required to write sworn statements and memorandums about what had happened. I was called to testify, at length. We were forced to relive those six seconds in Dallas over and over and over.

But by far the most difficult thing to deal with was what was right there in front of us every day. Being with Mrs. Kennedy and John and Caroline, seeing their sadness, the hollowness in their eyes, and feeling that we were the cause of their anguish. When Mrs. Kennedy had asked me,
What’s going to happen to you now, Mr. Hill?
I had told her,
I’ll be okay.
But as the time went on, I wondered if any of us would ever be okay.

On June 12, 1964, Paul handed in his resignation. He had given himself six months to see if he would feel better. But nothing got better. It got worse and worse. It was just too damn painful.

I was disappointed that he was leaving, but I understood. I understood completely.

That summer, the summer of 1964, Mrs. Kennedy decided to move to New York City. There, among the crowds, she thought perhaps she and her children might be able to somehow blend in, and have some privacy. All she ever wanted was a little privacy.

I took her house hunting, and she finally settled on a large apartment across from Central Park at 1040 Fifth Avenue. It was close to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, just a few blocks from Stephen and Jean Kennedy Smith’s place, and within walking distance of the Carlyle Hotel. She knew the neighborhood well, and it was exactly what she wanted. While the apartment was being furnished and decorated, I lived at the Carlyle, in a small room on the same floor as Mrs. Kennedy’s suite, and stayed there for a few months after she moved in to the apartment.

Mrs. Kennedy had an office on Park Avenue, and Nancy Tuckerman had stayed on as her assistant. She was working on plans for the Kennedy Library, and continued to answer the thousands of letters that continued to pour in.

It was coming up on a year since the assassination, and both of us realized it was time to move on. On my last day in New York, she threw a surprise farewell party for me in her office. There weren’t many people there—just her small
staff, and the other agents. They tried to make it upbeat and we shared memories of the fun times we had had together. Mrs. Kennedy brought out a large cardboard poster that they had all signed. The poster had a cutout picture of an anonymous Secret Service agent, complete with sunglasses. Above the agent, in big letters it said:
MUDDY GAP WYOMING WELCOMES ITS NEWEST CITIZEN
. Not knowing what my next assignment was, it was a joke insinuating I was being sent to some remote town out in the middle of nowhere. We all laughed—it was typical of Mrs. Kennedy’s humor.

Then she handed me a black three-ring binder filled with photos that chronicled our four years together. The title page said:
THE TRAVELS OF CLINTON J. HILL
.

Under each photo were typewritten captions like:
GREECE: At first he stayed unobtrusively in the background (only recognized by his dark glasses).
There were photos of me carrying her bags in various places and the caption read:
ANY PLACE: Our able agents are always eager to serve.
There was the photo in the rowboat near Paestum, Italy, in which I’m screaming at the top of my lungs and she was laughing like crazy:
ITALY—Musical accompaniment to the pull of the oars.
There were pictures from Ravello—the ones the press had taken of her in her bathing suit, and swimming, and one in which she’s on a sailboat giving me instructions. Morocco—a photo of us walking and laughing, on which she had handwritten:
Mr. Hill—Are you happy in your work?—JBK.

It was priceless.

We had been through so much together, Mrs. Kennedy and me. More than anyone can imagine.

More than anyone can ever know.

M
AY
1994

She is one of the most iconic and recognizable women in the world. Elegant, dignified, the epitome of class, a lady in every sense of the word. Now Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis lay dying of cancer, in the New York City apartment she had called home for thirty years, and I couldn’t control my tears.

I knew she was ill, of course. I had read in the
Washington Post
in February that she had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and was undergoing treatment. The reports had been convincing that the disease was in its early stages and treatable. For the briefest of moments, I had thought about calling her. But when I rehearsed in my mind what I might say, I couldn’t seem to find the right words. We had been to hell and back, Mrs. Kennedy and me, and while we had both gone on with our lives—if you could call it that—I knew that the mere sound of my voice would take her back to that one day that changed everything, and the sound of her voice would do the same to me. It was just too damn painful. I couldn’t bring myself to dial the number.

I hadn’t heard much about her condition again in the media, but I found myself thinking of her more frequently, and wondering how she was doing.

A few days earlier, I had received a call from Dave Carpenter, the Secret Service Special Agent in Charge of presidential protection.

“Mr. Hill,” he said, “President Clinton and I were talking about the Kennedy administration, and your name came up. We were talking about the terrible tragedies the family has endured, and now, the sad news that Mrs. Kennedy is so terribly ill.”

“Yes,” I answered. “I was aware that she is undergoing treatment for cancer.”

“Well, we were talking about how much she meant to the people of the United States—and the entire world—and the president asked me if I knew whatever happened to the agent who had been with Mrs. Kennedy. I told him that you had retired, and you still lived in Northern Virginia. He then asked me if I could arrange for him to meet you. Would you be agreeable to that?”

I was completely taken by surprise. I couldn’t understand why President Clinton would want to meet me, but I knew from past experience, when the President of the United States wants to meet you, you go. Most people never have that opportunity.

“Of course,” I said. “I’d be delighted to meet the president. Just tell me when and where.”

The appointment was arranged for Thursday, May 19, at the White House, in the Oval Office.

Ever since I retired from the Secret Service in 1975, there wasn’t much that got me excited about getting up each day, but I have to admit, having the president ask to meet me was a pretty big deal. This morning, I woke up at 5:00
A.M.
, as I always do, but today was different. Today I had something to look forward to.

After showering and shaving, I dressed in my best dark blue suit, with a starched white shirt and a burgundy tie, and made sure I left the house with plenty of time to get into the District. From the moment I backed out of my driveway in Alexandria, Virginia, it was almost as if the car were on autopilot, straight to the White House. The instant I turned onto West Executive Avenue and pulled up to the guard gate, a feeling of pride and fond memories swept over me in a sudden wave.

Dave Carpenter met me and escorted me through the west entrance. We passed the uniformed security post, still in the same place on the ground floor of the West Wing as it had been all those years ago, past the hallway leading to the staff mess and the Situation Room. Past the room where barber Steve Martini at one time cut my hair every two weeks, past W-16, the Secret Service ready room, up the steps to the Cabinet Room and down the hall to the Roosevelt Room to await the appointed time.

Soon the door opened and we were escorted across the hall and into the Oval Office.

President Clinton strode toward me as Agent Carpenter said, “Mr. President, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Clint Hill.”

Smiling genuinely, President Clinton reached out his hand.

“Mr. Hill, it is an honor to meet you. Welcome back to the White House.”

An honor? To meet
me
?

As I shook his hand, I said, “Mr. President, trust me, the honor is all mine.”

He was extremely gracious and made me feel as if I were the most important person on his agenda that day.

“Mr. Hill,” President Clinton said, “we have learned that Mrs. Onassis’s condition is extremely critical and deteriorating. I wanted to personally thank you for your service to her and for your distinguished career with the Secret Service.”

We talked briefly about Mrs. “Onassis”—I still can’t bear to call her that—to me she will forever be Mrs. Kennedy. We discussed her terrible disease, the various tragedies she had endured, and what a great lady she was.

As I looked around the room, I realized the desk being used was the same one young John Jr. had been photographed peering out from those many years ago. Memories of times past came flooding back through my mind. Both good and bad. How I met Mrs. Kennedy back in 1960 shortly after the election. Going through the last stages of her pregnancy before John was born. That joyous event. Her first visit to the White House as a future first lady. Time spent in Palm Beach before the Inauguration. The adjustment to White House life. The first trips to Glen Ora in Middleburg—the estate she rented to get away from the confines of the White House. Summers in Hyannis Port and cruises on various yachts in the Mediterranean. Christmases and Easters in Palm Beach. Adventurous visits to New York City and the wonderful experience of staying at the Carlyle Hotel. The trips to India, Pakistan, Italy, Greece, Morocco, Paris, London, San Juan, Mexico City, Bogota, and Caracas. Such wonderful, memorable times. Yes, the sad and tragic times, too. The joyous birth and then tragic death of Patrick Bouvier Kennedy. The horrible memory of that dreadful day in Dallas as the president was assassinated in her presence. The grief and sorrow that followed as I struggled with my own emotions and tried my best to provide strength and support to her, Caroline, and John. The going-away party she and her staff arranged for me. The memories came flooding back like a fast-moving motion picture swirling inside my head as I stood there with President Clinton in the Oval Office.