Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

EPILOGUE

MAY 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.

Having served five presidents, I knew how valuable the president’s time was, and after about ten minutes, I could tell he was leading the conversation to a close.

We shook hands, and again the president thanked me for my service and reiterated what an honor it was to meet me. Agent Carpenter escorted me back to my car, and I drove home.

All afternoon and into the evening, I couldn’t get the memories out of my mind. I went into the dark basement of my home where I’ve kept my emotions buried for all these years, and flipped on the old television that sits next to my desk. It wasn’t all that long ago that I’d have sat here all alone on the tattered sofa with a bottle of scotch and a carton of cigarettes, trying to forget the painful past. So many years wasted. Now I just sit here, alone with my memories, thinking about Mrs. Kennedy, and wishing I could speak to her again, wishing I could hear her say, one more time, “Oh, Mr. Hill . . .”

I knew I should just go to bed, but I had become a man with a routine. I always watched Nightline before calling it a night. Promptly at 11:35 P.M. Ted Koppel appeared on the screen and made the announcement I was dreading: Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis died only a few moments ago, this evening at 10:15 Eastern time at the age of sixty-four.

I COULDN’T BELIEVE she was gone. I always expected I’d be dead long before her. God knows I should have been. I never imagined what it would feel like to no longer have her in the world. Hardly a week has gone by without a photo of her in some magazine, some tabloid—the kinds she always used to have me buy so she could see what was being said about her. And every time I saw a paparazzi-snapped picture, I knew exactly what she was thinking in every shot. I could see it in her eyes. There were no secrets from me in those eyes.

We had gone through so much together, Mrs. Kennedy and me.

I sat there, staring at the television set, the images of her playing over and over, my memories right there on the screen. I was overcome with a deep sense of loss. The tears streamed down my face, and I was not ashamed.