The Kennedy Men_ 1901-1963 - Laurence Leamer [346]
Joe was long asleep when the first headlights appeared out of the haze, the procession of black vehicles making its way to the door. A light went on in the limousine, and Kennedy stepped out into the rain wearing a felt hat and overcoat. Saunders grabbed the luggage and followed. “Send in the broads,” he thought he heard someone say, but did not turn back to look.
Kennedy walked into the guest bedroom on the ground floor, followed by Lem Billings, who bounced up and down on the bed, making excitable sounds. The chauffeur couldn’t understand, but this was the kind of moment for which good old Lem lived. Kennedy’s friends calibrated their time with him as if it were a precious elixir that could be bottled and sold. They cut their personalities to fit the role that he preferred. Lem had seen how the president-elect treated subordinates, and he was not going to accept anything so menial and time-consuming as a mere position, even as assistant secretary of Commerce. He much preferred the proud title that he had given himself of “first friend,” the perpetual guest who showed up each Friday, to Jackie’s dismay, to provide endless amusement. On weekends Lem happily donned a jester’s robes and spoke the fool’s lines rather than attempting one of life’s major roles. He was amenable, genial, charming, witty—whatever cartwheels of personality amused his friend. He was not a true court jester, though, who in rhyme and song and wit utters hard truths that none of the king’s men dare speak.
Lem disliked Red Fay, the new undersecretary of the navy, as much as Red disdained Lem. Red did his own routine of buffoonery, attempting to shove Lem to stage rear with a little reminiscing here, some posturing for the camera there. His wit, like Lem’s, had been honed so as never to risk pricking Kennedy’s skin.
“Frank!” the president exclaimed enthusiastically. “How about a glass of milk!” Allergies be damned. “And don’t mind Lem; he thinks he’s still in prep school.”
“Yeah, well, who’s asking for milk,” Lem quipped.
Jack took off his clothes and walked out into the kitchen in his shorts. “It’s good to be home, Frank,” the president said as he stood there chugging down the milk and rubbing his bad back. Frank did not want to stare, but he was startled when he saw Kennedy’s surgery scars.
The next day the president was supposed to go on a cruise on the Marlin and enjoy some fine New England lobsters, but the day was so blustery that he spent much of the time reading, sitting on the front lawn wrapped in a Notre Dame blanket. His back was still bothering him, and Dr. Travell hovered nearby; her patient was hobbling around much of the time on crutches.
As the president prepared for the summit with Khrushchev, he was inundated with memos, briefing books, letters, and advice from all quarters. Unlike much of the intelligence he had been given on Cuba, this material was sophisticated and realistic, stripped of ideological cliché, flattery, and bombast. Washington’s five-year “National Intelligence Estimate” of the Soviet Union did not present an image of an irrational, expansive, chance-taking Russia, but described a country acting with “opportunism, but also by what they consider to be a due measure of caution.” Khrushchev seemingly could afford to wait. In January, the Soviet leader had given an address to the meeting of world Communist leaders in which he said, “To win time in the economic contest with capitalism is now the main thing.” The Soviet economy was growing at an extraordinary 8.6 percent a year. The Soviets were investing one-third of their gross national product back into the economy, as opposed to only 20 percent in the United States. Although the Soviet economy was less than half that of America, it was growing twice as fast. The experts believed that the Soviet military was already roughly on a par with the West. Politically, throughout the developing world, many of the most intelligent and idealistic young leaders looked toward socialism as their model and linked the