Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens
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on the right by the Stars and Stripes of the Union and on the left by the flag of his home state of Massachusetts, two massive black and white photographs hanging on the wall behind and dominating the room.
‘Why the Kennedy photos as backdrop?’ the NBC reporter asked the Donaghue press secretary. ‘Why John and Robert?’
‘Because they also declared in this room,’ she told him.
The floor was packed with supporters, already excited and some singing. Most such crowds were the same, the CBS reporter knew: young and preppy, a blaze of hats and banners. Not this one, though; this one was different. Young and old, a range of ages, creeds and colours. As if they not only stood for what the country had struggled for in the past, but also represented the dream it still clung to for the future. Blue-collar and white-collar, men and women, youthful students and gnarled veterans. Three of them in the second row talking about a Swift boat in ’Nam and laughing about the way The Old Man had bellowed into a bullhorn for the boats they knew didn’t exist to follow him in.
The woman in the front row was young, the radiance of youth on her face, her blond hair falling on to her shoulders and her child in her arms. The man next to her was in the dress blues of the Marine Corps, the eagle, globe and anchor on the collar, the sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeves, and the medal ribbons across his left breast, the top row the most important and the ribbon on the wearer’s right of the top row the most important of all. The ribbon next to it was the Silver Star, after that the Bronze Star, three stars on it indicating it had been won three more times and the ‘V’ indicating they had been won for heroism in battle. The service ribbons at the bottom, the Vietnam service ribbon in the middle.
‘Mind if I take a close-up of the decorations?’ one of the cameramen asked.
‘No problem,’ the marine told him.
‘What was that all about?’ the reporter asked as he and the cameraman moved on.
‘You see what he was wearing?’ The response was tight, almost angry. ‘Top right, next to the Silver Star. The Congressional Medal of Honor.’
The highest award for valour the nation could bestow.
‘Mommy,’ the reporter heard the voice of the girl in the arms of the young woman next to the marine. ‘Why has that man only got one arm?’
It was eleven-twenty, the morning bright and the silver of the 737 gleaming against the faultless blue of the sky. Ten minutes to landing, the pilot informed his passengers. In the second row from the front Donaghue checked the speech for the last time and whispered the words of the first quote. Perhaps to Pearson, perhaps to himself.
Some men see things as they are and say why;
I dream things that never were and say why not.
The boy was ten years old, seated with his mother towards the rear.
‘You think he’ll mind?’
Of course he’ll mind, the woman knew she should say. He’s busy, too many things on his mind, especially today. ‘Ask him,’ she said instead.
‘Come with me.’
‘Go by yourself.’
The boy gripped the Polaroid camera and made his way down the aisle, the nerves consuming him. Halfway along he hesitated and looked back, saw the way his mother nodded for him to go on.
‘Excuse me.’ He stopped by the two men seated on the left and realized he had forgotten to say sir. ‘Would you mind if I took your photograph?’
Donaghue smiled at the boy and turned to Pearson.
‘I think we can go better than that, don’t you, Ed?’
‘Sure we can.’
Fifteen rows back the woman watched as Pearson stood, took the camera from her son, sat him by Donaghue, and took a photograph of the two of them together. The boy watched as the print rolled out and the image rose on the slippery grey of the plastic.
‘What’s your name?’ Donaghue asked him.
‘Dan.’
‘Dan who?’
‘Dan Zupolski.’
The print was dry. Donaghue took a pen from his pocket and signed it.
To Dan Zupolski, from his friend, Senator Jack Donaghue.
It was eleven twenty-five.
In the Caucus Room the doors opened and the supporters turned, suddenly expectant, the television crews cursing that they had not been forewarned. Catherine Donaghue walked in and stood on the platform. Mid-forties and slim; the blond of her hair and the steel and the sun in her eyes.
‘Sorry to give you a heart attack, boys.’ She knew what the crews had thought and smiled at them, acknowledged the way they laughed back.
He’d seen it all before, the NBC correspondent thought. Except not like this, not like today. He wouldn’t admit it, of course, but one hell of a day to be the front man, one hell of a thing to tell the grandkids.
One hell of a smile, the CBS man whispered to no one in particular. One hell of a First Lady.
Cath Donaghue looked round the crowd. ‘I thought you’d like to know. We’ve just heard from the airport. Jack’s plane is five minutes out; he’ll be landing on time at eleven-thirty, be here at twelve.’
There was a roar. She held up her hands to still it.
If this was the prelim, Christ knows what the main event is going to be like, the CNN reporter thought. Give me some cut-aways now, he told his cameraman. Couple of veterans, couple of kids.
‘How’s it looking?’ He heard the voice of his producer down the line.
‘Looking good.’
Looking fantastic, he meant.
‘What time’s he due?’
‘Twelve noon, everything on schedule. Why?’
‘We’re going live on it.’ CNN network, CNN global. ‘Coming to you at eleven fifty-five.’
The applause quietened, the supporters waiting. Cath Donaghue looked up and smiled again.
‘Before Jack arrives, I just wanted to thank you all for coming today.’ As if the honour was hers and Jack’s; as if, by being present at that place on that day, it was those in front of her who were doing the Donaghues a favour.
She looked around them again and smiled again. Take care of him, Dave, she prayed; make sure he gets here, please God don’t let me down.
‘It’s a great place to be, a great day to be here. Thank you all.’
Even after she had left, even after she was back in Room 394, the cheers were echoing round the Caucus Room and the applause was ringing down the white marble of the corridors.
It was eleven twenty-eight.
The 737 banked over the Potomac and began its run-in, the wing lights blinking against the silver and the silver brilliant against the morning sky.
Jordan glanced at Donaghue and realized he was looking at the White House.
‘Ready, Jack?’
What are you thinking? he almost asked.
I’m thinking about something Haslam said, Donaghue would not have told him. I’m thinking about a conversation Haslam and I agreed never took place.
‘As I’ll ever be.’
The 737 bumped gently on the runway, the reverse thrust thundering, then taxied to the terminal. The flight-deck door opened and the pilot and copilot stepped out and stood with the cabin crew at the front of the plane. The fuselage door to the terminal opened. In the passenger bridge on the other side Jordan saw the line of officials.
‘Okay,