The Kennedy Heirs: John, Caroline, and the New Generation Read online

  “My mother and I would take the boys to the park to get them out of Mrs. Kennedy’s hair,” recalled Fina Harvin, the daughter of Ethel’s governess, Ena Bernard; both lived at Hickory Hill. “People would come up to us and say, ‘My goodness. Who do all these wild kids belong to?’ My mother would say, ‘We don’t know. We have no idea. We just take care of them. Mind your own business. Go away.’ We could never say they were Kennedy children because we were just so afraid of people doing them harm.”

  Perhaps as a consequence of the way Ethel treated her sons, they would all grow up with blatantly sexist attitudes. Maybe it made sense. After all, they’d spent their youths living with an angry mother and feeling the brunt of her rage. Perhaps it’s not so surprising that the boys would grow up with conflicted feelings and a lack of respect for the opposite sex.

  Misogyny wasn’t unusual in the Kennedy family, even before the third generation. With the possible exception of Bobby, the Kennedy men of the second generation had cheated on their wives, as had the patriarch, Joseph Kennedy I. Their generation of women worried that this behavior would be passed on to their children. For instance, Jackie’s biggest problem with Ethel’s sons wasn’t their drug taking and rabble-rousing, as has been widely reported over the years. It was the way they mistreated the women in their lives. That just wasn’t the way she wanted to raise John. As a result, he really was different from his cousins when it came to the way he viewed the opposite sex.

  Joseph F. Gargan, the son of Rose Kennedy’s sister, had worked on JFK’s 1960 run and chaired RFK’s presidential campaign; he also worked for Ted and was one of those who dove into the lake looking for Mary Jo Kopechne’s body after the senator’s accident at Chappaquiddick. He once remembered, “Ethel’s sons Michael, Bobby, and Joe were with John at the Kennedy compound one afternoon for a barbecue while their girlfriends—whoever they were at the time, I can’t remember—were in the kitchen talking to Ethel. The women appeared to be intensely involved in their conversation with Ethel. ‘Looks like they’re brainstorming about something major,’ John said, bemused. ‘I can promise you it won’t be much of a storm,’ Joe said, chuckling. ‘In other words, don’t expect much rain from that bunch.’ His brothers thought the quip was hilarious; ‘That’s pretty good,’ said Bobby. ‘I’m gonna write that one down and use it later.’ John looked at the two of them and said, ‘Man. You guys disgust me.’ Another time, I remember their brother Michael was talking about Kathleen and, in trying to pay her a compliment, said, ‘Look, fact is, she’s as good as any female politician.’ Again, John couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Unbelievable,’ he muttered as he walked away. He wasn’t raised the same way as the others.”

  By 1994, more than twenty-five years had passed since Ethel Kennedy had become a widow. She was still considered a national treasure, a beloved figure from the so-called “Camelot” era. With philanthropy always foremost on her mind, “she became a force of nature in her own right,” said her daughter Courtney, “and was questioning authority and calling congressmen and governors and senators to say, why aren’t things being made better?” She also traveled the world on charitable missions. “Seeing our mother walk in his [Bobby’s] absence along that same path really impacted all of us,” her son Max said.

  One thing she didn’t do, though, was take a chance on another romantic relationship. “In many ways, the house was a shrine to RFK,” Noelle Bombardier, who was the estate manager of Hickory Hill, recalled. “You couldn’t walk into a room, even the bathrooms, without seeing his smiling, handsome face. The walls of Mrs. Kennedy’s bedroom and the tops of bureaus were also covered with framed photographs of him. It was important to her that every picture be in its rightful place. Each spring when we were getting ready to relocate to Hyannis Port for the season, it was my job to gather up all of the photographs and take them to the compound. I would then place the pictures in the exact spots in that bedroom as they had been in her McLean bedroom. She wanted both rooms to look exactly alike. I think it was a statement of control in her shifting world. However, it made me feel very sad. I would find myself sitting on the bed, trying to compose myself and not cry. The more I got to know and care about Mrs. Kennedy, the harder it was to accept that she was always in such sorrow, that she never reconciled her husband’s murder … that there was something broken on the inside.”

  “It’s been so many years, why didn’t you marry after Bobby?” the singer Andy Williams once asked her. He and Ethel dated in the 1970s and into the ’80s. When he would visit her at Hickory Hill, he would sleep in the same room with her, sometimes even in the same bed, yet they were never intimate. In a 2010 interview, he said he never tried to make a move on her, waiting for some sign before he’d ever take it upon himself. It never came. “Why, Ethel?” he finally asked her. “We could have something great here, you know?”

  “Oh, Andy, you know me,” she answered, embarrassed.

  When Andy prodded her, Ethel explained, “Being with Bobby and the kids was such a beautiful time in my life; when he was taken from me it almost killed me.” She didn’t think she would ever survive it, she said. “I loved him so much,” she recalled, “I never wanted to feel that kind of pain again. So,” she concluded sadly, “I guess, well … I guess I just stopped loving.”

  Dinner at Mrs. Kennedy’s

  “So, what’s she like?” Carolyn asked John in the company of his friend John Perry Barlow. “I don’t know,” John answered. “I mean, she’s just … Aunt Ethel.”

  Carolyn frowned and bit her lip. “What do I call her? ‘Aunt Ethel’?”

  John winced. “Um … no,” he said, winking at Barlow. “If I were you, I think I’d probably go with ‘Mrs. Kennedy.’”

  Later, Carolyn circled the day in her little red day planner. “Dinner at Mrs. Kennedy’s,” she then wrote in the calendar in perfect cursive penmanship.

  “I’m so excited about this thing,” she exclaimed to Stewart Price as the two walked to Bergdorf’s to purchase a silk scarf she’d seen earlier and felt would be perfect for the occasion. Stewart was surprised at Carolyn’s girlish enthusiasm. She was usually so collected, certainly not the kind of woman prone to giddiness. Today, though, she seemed like an excited schoolgirl who’d just learned that her folks planned a trip to Disneyland for her.

  According to pictures taken on the day, Carolyn looked to be maybe ten pounds heavier than she would in later photographs. Her hair was wilder, too, and seemed windblown, even indoors; it was streaked with highlights but much darker than her later trademark blond look. She was still gorgeously put together, in a slightly haphazard way: her white blouse was oversized with only the middle two buttons fastened, her worn jeans seemed somehow too short with shredded holes in the knees, but she definitely could pull it off. She had on leather sandals; her toenails were painted black. A large leather Kate Spade backpack was casually slung over one shoulder.

  Stewart asked Carolyn where “the big event” was being held. “The White House?” he asked, bemused. Carolyn frowned. “The White House?” she asked, surprised. “You think the Kennedys live in the White House?” He shrugged resignedly and said, “Of course not,” though he actually had no idea where they lived. Carolyn then excitedly explained that they “summered at the Kennedy compound in Hyannis.” She added that she’d been hearing about the place her entire life, reading about it in books and magazines, seeing footage of it in television documentaries. The dinner would be at Ethel Kennedy’s home, she said, and she also noted that when she told her parents about it they begged to come along. Both said they’d always wanted to meet Bobby Kennedy’s widow. Stewart was surprised. “Really?” he asked. He could certainly understand wanting to meet Jackie, but Ethel? “I’m not even sure I know what she looks like,” he noted.

  Carolyn stopped walking and turned to face her friend. “Get out,” she exclaimed in disbelief. She pushed him hard, almost knocking him off his feet. “It’s Ethel Kennedy,” she said. Then, checking herself, she giggled and covered
her face with her hands. “I’ve really gone off the deep end with this thing, haven’t I?” she asked.

  “I’ll say,” Stewart agreed.

  * * *

  CAROLYN BESSETTE DIDN’T meet “Mrs. Kennedy” during her first full day in Hyannis Port, which fell on the fourth of September. “Don’t worry. You’ll meet her soon enough,” John kept telling her. It wouldn’t be until that night, though, when she and John would join many of Ethel’s children and their spouses and some of their children for dinner in Ethel’s dining room at sundown.

  Carolyn would later recall that as everyone took his or her seat, she noticed that the Kennedys were smartly dressed. No T-shirts or swimsuits; everyone was in chic summer wear. There were a lot of them, too, and they all sort of resembled one another: each had an abundance of hair and polished teeth, all were slim and athletic-looking, the women were tanned, the men swarthy. The seat at the head of the table was noticeably vacant. Everyone chatted noisily. She would recall Joe Kennedy asking her, “First time at my mother’s table?” She would answer, “Yes. It is.” He shared a secret look with his brother Bobby and said, “Hmmm. Okay, well, good luck, then.”

  Five minutes or so later, there was a bit of a rustle as someone walked into the room. Everyone rose. Seeming taken aback by the sudden formality, Carolyn also quickly stood up, but she did so at an embarrassing beat behind the others.

  It was Ethel, sixty-six years old and instantly a real presence. Once she was properly seated, everyone also sat down and gazed at her with respect and admiration.

  Though she was a petite woman, Ethel always seemed to take up the whole room. Her face was etched with deep lines, especially around the eyes. She looked as if she’d lived a challenging life and had earned every one of the creases. Her hair was dyed blond and styled in a randomly short fashion; it appeared to be thinning, but somehow she didn’t seem like the kind of woman who would care. According to photos taken on the day, she was wearing white linen pants and a matching short-sleeved blouse; she had pearls around her neck and a fine emerald pin on her shoulder. She gazed around the table with brown eyes that seemed full of enormous power. Then she turned to her oldest son. “Joe?” He bowed his head, as did everyone else, and slowly intoned: “Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  After everyone made the sign of the cross, Ethel picked up a small bell and rang it. On command, three servants appeared. As Ethel looked on with approval, each member of her kitchen staff began serving helpings of the family’s favorite Cape Cod clam chowder out of antique tureens and into the guests’ bowls. That night, the meal consisted of cold roast tenderloin of beef with potato salad and asparagus along with cranberry-nut bread, a favorite of Ethel’s. There was also a copious supply of French fries. Carolyn would learn that there were almost always French fries at the dinner table. She was told that Ethel and Bobby had enjoyed them every evening during their honeymoon in Hawaii and, thusly, French fries were a staple of nearly every meal Ethel hosted during the summer months at the compound. The iced tea served that evening? Also a recipe she and Bobby had brought back from their honeymoon. For dessert: key lime pie, known to have been one of Rose Kennedy’s favorites, as well as Irish bread pudding. Ethel said that she had asked the chef to prepare a Grand Marnier soufflé but that somehow “the poor man totally botched it. It’s still in the kitchen if anyone wants a good laugh.” She said the chef was so upset about it, she poured a nice mug of Grand Marnier for him and one for herself and suggested they make the best of a bad situation and have a little taste. Then, apparently, they had another. Finally, she recalled, “He had to carry me out of the kitchen.” She was funny. One might not expect humor from her at first since she came across as imperious, but she really was quite charming.

  Ethel then led the conversation with questions about current events such as: “Now, Joe, do you think the evidence against O. J. Simpson is strong enough for a conviction?” or “Bobby, what do you make of Clinton wanting to ban federal assault weapons? Do you think it will have a real impact on crime?” and “John, how do you feel about a possible invasion of Haiti?” This was a tradition that had been handed down from Joe and Rose, both of whom had always stressed to their children a sense of engagement with world affairs. If one was seated at their table, he or she had better have a valid opinion or idea. It could get heated sometimes, too, the debates often becoming harsh. One had to know what he or she was talking about, or risk embarrassment because of their inability to argue or defend. Back in the old days, Joe actually used to give his kids complex research assignments before dinner and then quiz them over the meal. “Being American implies the obligation to both know and understand history,” Rose used to say. These days, the Kennedys were just expected to keep up on events on their own, that is, if they knew what was good for them.

  Eventually, Ethel looked down to the far end of the table and realized that John had brought a guest. When she asked him who the newcomer was, he introduced her as his new friend, Carolyn. Carolyn sputtered out something along the lines of “Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Kennedy.” Everyone stopped chattering as Ethel studied the guest for a moment. And then it happened. The question: “So, do you think a federal assault weapons ban will impact crime in our country, dear?” she asked. Carolyn looked stunned. “I … um … I … uh … I think it will?” she answered. It was more a query than an opinion; she was clearly out of her depth. Ethel peered at her, then glanced at John … and then back at Carolyn. “Indeed,” she said. “I’m sure you do, dear. But you may want to read up on it. It’s quite important.” Noticeably, John squeezed Carolyn’s hand. Meanwhile, she sank into her chair and flushed pink under Ethel’s fixed scrutiny.

  Apparently, according to the story handed down in the family by those who were present, things got even more tense when Ethel noticed that Carolyn was wearing a long silk scarf around her neck, which hung casually over her shoulders. The one she’d bought at Bergdorf’s for the occasion, it was bubblegum pink, a nice contrast to the mauve blouse she was wearing with a white silk skirt. If it was chic she was going after, it worked. However, Ethel couldn’t help but find it a little odd. She suggested that maybe it was too warm for such neckware and added that she was actually starting to feel flush just looking at her. Shifting in her seat, Carolyn smiled self-consciously, nodded, and took off the scarf.

  Later, Carolyn wanted to know why John hadn’t warned her that she needed to study for dinner at Ethel’s as if she were about to take a civics test. He laughed and said he didn’t want to worry her. He told her that, next time, he’d be sure to sit her closer to his aunt. Why? Because the closer you were seated to her, he explained, the easier the questions; they got more difficult as the conversation wore on and so therefore people at the farthest end of the table usually had it a lot tougher. However, he also told her not to worry too much about any of it; she’d actually done quite well. “Aunt Ethel loved you,” he said. Carolyn didn’t think so, though. She told John she thought the meal had been a real disaster.

  John was surprised by how undone Carolyn was by her first experience at Ethel’s table. Her unexpected, unequivocal nervousness couldn’t be overlooked. In the short time he’d known her, she had seemed so self-confident, a woman of the world even—and John had certainly known plenty of them. He found it interesting that one meal with his family could make her feel so insecure. In some ways, it was endearing and made her seem more vulnerable. “You never know a person until you know a person,” he later told Gustavo Parades. “No one’s what they seem to be, I guess.” Her insecurity was also just a tad concerning to John, though. After all, he knew his family. “We don’t do insecurity very well,” he said. “That’s definitely not on the Kennedy menu.”

  Understanding the Family

  On September 5, 1994, the Kennedys would celebrate Labor Day at the compound, just as they did every year. “We all get up ’round here early and have breakfast at my hou
se,” said Ethel Kennedy to Carolyn Bessette that morning as she stood at the sink and washed dishes. Of course, Ethel always had plenty of help, but still she sometimes liked to chip in a little when it came to running her kitchen. She was anything but handy, though, and she knew it. Once, she fried bananas in petroleum oil for dessert; it sounded like a good idea at the time. Back in 1958, the Home Fashion League of Washington had chosen her as the Outstanding Homemaker of the Year and awarded her with a silver bowl. Ethel thought it was hilarious; she had six kids at the time and her household was pure chaos. All these years later, she still had the bowl in the entryway and would use it to throw her keys into so she’d know where to find them.

  It was nine o’clock; Carolyn had slept in. “You missed breakfast, kiddo. Did you sign up?” Ethel asked her. “For what?” Carolyn wondered. Ethel pointed to a chalkboard on the wall that was neatly divided into two sections: “6:00 AM Breakfast” and “7:30 AM Breakfast.”

  “Ethel then told Carolyn that she was supposed to sign up for one of the two shifts the night before,” said Leah Mason, who had started out with Ethel as a kitchen worker but was lately working as one of her assistants. “It didn’t matter, though; the poor dear had missed both shifts,” she recalled. “Carolyn then looked at the sign-up sheet and saw John’s name on the seven-thirty roster; he’d signed up but neglected to do so for her. You could see that she was sort of crushed. I told her he probably figured she would sleep in. It was always better to not be on the list at all than to be on it and then not show up at the reserved time. ‘He sort of loses his mind when he’s here, doesn’t he?’ she asked me. I said yes, that was true.”