The Kennedy Curse

A twist on history

The Kennedy Curse

Everyone has heard the story of the curse. The one where every aristocrat sporting the dreadful last name Kennedy, meets a tragic end. Though no one knows exactly why, there have been some theories, that are nothing more than rumors, floating around. Some say along the line a voodoo queen cast a spell on the family after destroying sacred ground, while others think it was god punishing their wasteful habits. But, I don’t believe in magic, voodoo, or an angry supreme being, and I certainly don’t believe in curses. Although that’s not how the media portrays me. To the public eye, I’m an emotional train wreck searching for answers. But, I have come to terms with the fact that I’ll always be seen as a ditzy superstitious rich girl, it’s the price I have to pay to protect myself from those vultures. Because I know something that the press doesn’t, and they’ll have to pry it from my cold dead mouth.

I remember the first time saw him. I was a young journalist, covering the election of the Massachusetts state senator, when those handsome big emerald eyes met mine. When our palms touched during a handshake and he smiled with the whitest most perfect straight teeth I had ever seen, my heart melted. It was at that moment I knew, I was going to be the next Mrs. John Fitzgerald Kennedy. I made it my life goal to say my I do’s to that gorgeous man. I published many articles on him, had a thousand interviews, and covered his whole election. I put more effort into his news reports, than I did Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation, and Dwight D. Eisenhower’s inauguration. For a while, the Massachusetts senate election was plastered all over The Washington times, and I almost lost my job. But, all of my hard work paid off on September 12th, 1953, when we finally tied the knot at our fairytale wedding.

Our marriage was what every woman thrived for. We listened to one another, got along quite well, and most importantly we loved each other. The glamourous estate that we shared in Cape Cod, a generous gift from John’s father, was never absent of laughter. We had the perfect life. I used my husband’s connections as senator to land a job as editor for Vogue magazine. Though I worked there just for my passion for the fashion industry, because we were never in need of cash, considering the Kennedy family’s immense wealth, and my parents’ ties with the stock market. Actually, never once did I worry about money. As most people would put it, I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. My mother always told me, “You’re a Bouvier, that’s the greatest blessing anyone can get.” Well, I must be the luckiest woman alive, because I was the daughter of a famous wealthy stockbroker, and the wife of the most prominent Kennedy.

I must admit, our life wasn’t always happy. In fact, the year 1956 was like a dark cloud hanging over our heads. John discovered he had many untreatable spine injuries from his high school football days, and leg complications from his service in the Navy, that left him in excruciating pain. It hurt me dearly to see my love hobble around the house, wincing with every step he took. At one point, the pain got the best of him, and John considered resigning his position as Senator. I wouldn’t let that happen, so I pushed him to write a book about his daily struggle to show that he wasn’t giving up without a fight. Sadly, this was the same year I gave birth to my first daughter Arabella, who came into this world as a stillborn. We never got her baptized, or had a birth certificate created for that matter, for fear that the catholic church would discover that we had used birth control during the time she was conceived. After all, image is everything, and no one wants to see a week Senator, or an abomination to the Catholic religion.

1957 turned everything back around for us. My husband finished his book which caused his popularity to soar. We must of had 100 reporters a day at our doorstep, looking for him to speak about his ailments, and how he fought to overcome them. I didn’t mind, the flashing cameras or multiple questions they asked, because our achievements were being broadcasted across Rhode Island. That took attention away from John’s declining health, and kept our first child a secret. In July I found out I was 5 months pregnant, and not wanting a repeat of the year before, I searched out the best obstetrician of that time. He ensured that I had a healthy pregnancy, and in November Caroline was born. She was my pride and joy, and I always made sure my baby had the best of everything. Her beautiful blonde curls just made me want to scoop her up, and never let go. You could even say we were living like the royals, but I had never dreamed I would one day leave our mansion, and serve dinner to John in the oval office.

When my husband announced his candidacy for President, I think my heart skipped a beat. Not only was I highly regarded in Rhode Island, but now I would become the first lady of the United States. Campaigning was quite difficult with all of the traveling, especially with a 3 year old toddler in tow, but I was always at John’s side no matter where he went. That is until, I found out I was carrying our second child. My doctor demanded that I come home immediately, stating that I was high risk, and that the constant driving would harm me. I regret making the decision of going back to Cape Cod everyday, because that’s when the infidelity began to drive a wedge in my marriage, and my life sprung into a downward spiral.

After the election results were totalled, and it had been announced that John had won, I eagerly tried to catch the next flight to Washington D.C. However, my family and doctor wouldn’t allow me to. My due date was nearing, and they didn’t want to risk losing the baby. Two weeks later, my son John Jr was born. Due to my his complicated delivery, that caused me to lose mass amounts blood and left the baby with dangerously low oxygen levels, I was stuck at the hospital for another month healing. I specifically told the security guards not to let any reporters near my room, or the maternity ward if they could help it, but my son and I’s condition spread across the media like wildfire. It was extremely embarrassing to have everyone know that my body wasn’t fit for childbearing, but fortunately after I attended the inauguration, the nation soon forgot the hospital stay and became obsessed with my fashion sense. What can I say, I had to dress well being married to the 35th President of the United States of America.

I loved the thrill of being First Lady. I was escorted by two specially trained men everywhere I went, the poperazie were fighting to just get a glimpse at my outfits, no matter where I was people treated me with utmost respect, and I had the power to control a whole country. I enjoyed having tea with the queen as an equal instead of as a nagging journalist, and sitting in the East Room listening to famous artists perform a private concert like my personal favorite Simon and Garfunkel. Yet I wasn’t the only one flaunting an expensive way of life. Caroline and John Jr. had specially tailored clothes, played with custom made toys, went to the finest school in America, and had a kitchen full of chefs who were there to serve them whatever they desired. Even the most humble woman’s blood would rush, when NBC’s Roger Sharp would ask them, “How does it feel to wrap your arm around the most powerful man in America?” while sitting in the living room. I also adored the way the words, “My my Mr. President.” rolled seductively off my tongue as I whispered in my husband’s ear. I knew I was meant for living lavish, and I wouldn’t let a soul take it from me. Especially not that dirty Playboy bunny Marilyn Monroe.

In March of 1962, it was broadcasted publicly on Television that Marilyn and John were both guests in the same room at the Bing Crosby’s hotel in Palm Springs. I hadn’t known that my husband had even been in Florida, much less slept with an overrated w***e. I stood up from my chair, after telling the children to go play elsewhere, and demanded in tears to know what was going on. His infidelity was making me look like a woman who was incapable of holding together her marriage. At first, he tried to deny it, but the more the T.V. caster spoke, the more the truth unraveled. Eventually he admitted that he had met Marilyn during his campaign, but they hadn’t been together until July when I had to go home. John begged for forgiveness, and reluctantly I agreed to work through our problems. I told him to break off everything with his new found mistress, and he agreed to do so. I have to say, I was blighted with a soft spot for those green eyes, and if it were to continue through the news the image of an unfaithful husband would ruin his campaign for the next term.

Later on John sat in front of me, in the oval office, on the phone. I carefully watched him tell her that he could no longer see her, but to try and not make a big commotion over it. I could hear her disgusting voice on the other end pleading with him, it made my stomach turn with anger. He put the phone back on the hook, kissed me goodnight, and headed towards our bedroom. After making sure that he had rounded the corner in the hallway, I put the receiver to my ear and whispered to the operator, “Connect me with the Marilyn Monroe residence.” A voice that sounded as if it had been pumped full of air answered, “I see you couldn’t get enough Johnny.” My face twitched as my blood began to boil, but I tried to remain professional. “Am I speaking with Ms. Monroe?” my voice shook. I heard a slight giggle, “Oh I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else, yes I am the Ms. Monroe.” I took a deep breath trying keep myself under control, “I was certainly hoping so. I am First Lady Kennedy, the woman the President chose to take as his bride, and I’ve just learned that he ended the affair between you both that has been going on for quite some time. Now Ms. Monroe, I know your line of work is the industry of sexual pleasure, but I’m afraid my husband is no longer in need of your services. With that said, if I so much as hear that you went near him, I will make your life a living hell.” The line went dead, and I hung up the phone in triumph.

Two months later, my husband turned 45. I brushed off his affair as some form of midlife crisis. No word was heard from Marilyn, and I began not to worry about losing my position. After all, how could he want a used toy over an elegant lady? It wasn’t until his birthday galla, that I realized what low intelligence his former mistress harbored. She stepped up on stage in that tight low cut dress, looking like an escort the cat had drug in. She blew a kiss towards our table and spoke into the mic, “This one’s for you Johnny.” I gritted my teeth attempting to hold my tongue. Marilyn sang, “Happy Birthday Mr. President.” in a alluring tone that she probably used to lure married men into her trap. However, the ending of the song was what made her fate written in stone. She winked and whispered, “My my Mr. President.” with a sly smile on her face glaring at me with those devilish eyes. It took four long months to set up my scheme that would rid our family of Hugh Hefner's favorite bunny forever, but it was worth every bit of it. I hired one of her housekeepers for $50,000 to slip cyanide into her drink, then inject heroin into her arm so it would look as if it were an accidental overdose. When the headline ran across the screen that America’s sex icon had died, I smiled from ear to ear.

In 1963, I lost my newborn son Patrick to a lung disease. He had only lived for 2 days, and the doctors said there was nothing more they could do. “Coming from a Medical standpoint Mrs. Kennedy, we think that it’s best for your health, and that of any future child’s, that you stop naturally trying for more children. There are options of surrogacy, and adoption.” My obstetrician had said after telling us about the death of our son. That was the lowest moment in my life. Knowing that I would never be able to bear another baby of my own, broke my heart. I had always wanted a large family, but I wasn’t built to carry any children. During this time of my depression there would be periods where I’d lock myself in bathroom, crying my eyes out. Sometimes I’d be in there for hours, staring at those ugly green tiles, wondering what I could have done to deserve such scrutiny. Finally it hit me. I stood in front of the mirror, with mascara running down my face, when I uttered the words, “I killed her. I killed the dumb bunny.” I leaned in closer, and my breath fogged up the mirror as I laughed, “I murdered the stupid bunny! This is her revenge! I ended the playboy s**t, and she wants to end me! Ha not this time! I’ll win, I always win Mrs. Monroe!” A soft knock came upon the door. I quickly composed myself, before asking who was on the other side. “Ma’m it’s time to go. Mr. President requested that I come to let you know. Um, are you ok miss?” Our hired driver asked. I pressed my ear against the thick oak door biting my chipped thumb nail, “I’m alright. I’ll be out in just a second.” I quickly threw on some clothes, and grabbed a pair of glasses off of the dresser to conceal my utterly obvious hangover. I stepped outside onto the massive grand staircase holding John Jr.’s hand. Through my cat eye sunglasses I saw our driver whispering into one of the secret service men’s ear. “Mr. Greer, just because I have dark lenses on doesn’t mean I can’t see what’s right in front of me. I’d advise you to keep private thoughts to yourself.” I scoffed. He nodded, and opened the car door.

I glared at him through the rearview mirror. Though very seldom did he look up, I knew exactly what he was thinking. I could hear his thoughts from a mile away. Mr. Greer heard me in the bathroom, and the moment he could get a chance, that mouth would open up and I would be outed for going to the extreme to protect my family. I thought about how hard my husband had worked to obtain his current status, and I would be damned if I let some driver bring him down. He needed to be out of our site forever, and I knew just how to do it. The next month, I took a trip down to Louisiana, where my paid informer said that he had found an assassin willing to do the job. I was met with a bald middle aged man, who wore the thickest glasses I had ever seen. He didn’t appear capable of even hurting a fly, much less a grown human being. However, I was running out of options, it would only be a matter of time before the words “First Lady Kills Marilyn Monroe” would be plastered on every headline. So, I handed over the $80,000 and went about my business. It wouldn’t be for another month that I’d see his face again.

On November 22nd, 1963 I clutched John’s arm as we unboarded our private jet. Swarms of people stood behind metal gates, calling our names, and reaching out to touch us. Politely, I smiled and waved at everyone of them, but my thoughts were focused on the mess that William Greer was about to become. “Mr. President! Mr. President!” they shouted, holding up signs decorated obnoxiously with glitter. I scooted into the back of our blue convertible Lincoln continental, letting John in beside me. “To Dallas Mr. Greer.” I smiled. He tipped his hat as the car rolled forward, and the bodyguards stepped onto the sides. I interlaced my fingers with John’s, laying my head on his shoulder, as we made our way into a city bigger than its own capitol. Houston street was overflowing with excited fans, and colorful confetti spiraling from the rooftops. I casually waved, almost like a beauty queen, to everyone. A group of young boys rushed up to the car, lugging a huge bouquet of roses, “These are for you Mrs. Kennedy.” Graciously, I accepted the flowers after taking a huge whiff of the sweet aroma encased inside. Nellie Connally, the First Lady of Texas, turned around to face us, “Well Mr. President, you can’t say that Dallas doesn’t love you.” He shook his head, “No, you certainly can’t” BANG BANG BANG Gunshots rang through the air. Screams echoed off of the massive buildings, as masses of people scattered away from the motor brigade. Blood splattered on the white leather seats, and I thought it belonged to our driver, but the car was still moving. When I realized that William Greer was virtually unharmed, I suddenly felt what seemed like hot water on my lap. I looked down to see a warm gooey mess covering my pink pant suit. My entire body went numb. I reach over to grab John’s shoulder, but instead of a comforting hand, I was met with the sight of his head hanging over the seat. My heart sank to my stomach. I didn’t know what to do, except to stop the bleeding. Climbing on top of the trunk, picking up pieces of my beloved’s skull, tears began to roll down my face. Brain matter soaked my gloves turning them an ugly crimson color, but I was determined to put the chunks back inside. I held a giant bone shard over the gaping hole in his head, praying that it would somehow heal him. “John! You’re not leaving me! Stay with me! Please stay with me!” I screamed through sobs. I could hear gurgled breaths from Governor Connally, while his wife was out cold, but I still gripped onto my husband’s head for dear life. Sirens wailed in the distance of the speeding limousine, and they didn’t stop even after we arrived at the hospital. I rushed in beside of the men helping John onto a gurney. A doctor pushed me out of the way, but I jerked his arm back, “Here take this! Please he needs it!” I carefully handed him the skull shards, along with chunks of brain. With a shocked look, he thanked me before continuing through the E.R. doors.

Just a short 30 minutes later, my whole world was turned upside down. I had been through the loss of two children, experienced a ruthless divorce between my parents , and had fought of an excruciating illness that tried to claim my life but nothing could compare to the words that came out of the doctor’s mouth, “Ma’m we’ve done all we can.” Soon the whole nation knew that John F. Kennedy, America’s 35th President, had been shot dead. The day I lost John, was the day my ability to be human disappeared. I couldn’t smile, cry, or yell. I didn’t feel anything, it was as if I was detached from the rest of the world. John was the only person I’d ever truly loved. There was only one thing that could make me have any emotion, and that was the thought of the man with a lousy aim, who brutally murdered my husband, getting to waste valuable oxygen in his lungs. I watched the trial everyday, and cringed each time I saw his face. The small group of protesters, who marched outside the courthouse carrying signs that read, “Electric Chair? Not fair!”, didn’t make my misery any better either. Although, I have to admit, they were right. As much as I wanted to watch Lee Harvey Oswald fry like bacon in an iron skillet, he didn’t deserve to have 2,000 volts shoot through his veins. He deserved so much more. I wanted him to feel what John had felt when he missed that shot, I wanted him to moan in agony as his life faded before his eyes, and most importantly I wanted his wife to scream in tears as she holds what is left of her husband. And a man by the name of Jack Ruby was going to help me do just that.

I met Jack after I received his letter about how he was mortally outraged, and would do anything to solve this injustice. After inviting him over for some dinner, I offered $150,000 in cash to assassinate my husband’s murderer, but he declined. “I’m doing this for President Kennedy ma’m. I really admired him.” he said while handing the bag full of $100 bills back. On November 24th, just two short days after John’s death, I watched Lee Harvey Oswald have a bullet from a .38 revolver pumped into his stomach. They tried to save him, but I saw the look on his face, and knew he was on the brink of death. I never got to sincerely thank Jack Ruby for his service, because he was charged with murder, and passed away in his cell four years later. Sometimes when I’m praying, after talking to John and God, I always say that I hope Jack made it to heaven, because he earned it.

In 1964 my children, and I were forced to leave our magnificent home in the white house, so that Lyndon B. Johnson, and his wife Ladybird could move in. I remember the emptiness weighing down my heart as if it were an anvil, as I pulled John’s suits out of our family armoire. The white house staff laid each one out, they spread from the bedroom, all the way to the sitting room couches. “Mrs. Kennedy, your father in law has informed us that your estate in Cape Cod has been made available for you, but he says you have far too many things to fit in it again. He has requested that you consider possibly donating to a charity or museum.” my personal assistant said, trying to comfort me. I hadn’t come to the realization yet that we had gained so much furniture, clothing, and toys, that it would never be able to fit properly in even the huge 24,000 square foot mansion John and I used to share. Going through his belongings, and deciding which to donate, was like determining which memories I wanted to throw away. I tried to just downsize to the items he mostly used, but even then there was still too much. Ted Kennedy, my brother in law, and his wife Joan stopped by a few times to help with the process. Although I was forever grateful for Joan’s amazing ability to keep my emotions together, I began to notice Ted’s suspicious behavior. “You know, it’s so tragic what happened. He was a good man. But, there's something that’s been bugging me here lately. During the trial Lee told the officer’s that you paid him to assassinate one of your staff, and he missed the shot. Crazy right?” Ted propped his feet on the coffee table, after Joan left the room. I looked down at the hot tea steaming in my hand, “Yes, that is quiet crazy.” He raised his eyebrow, “They found $80,000 in his home. Now where would that man get that kind of money? Since the police aren’t going to bother looking into a solved case, I thought I bring the stack down to have it fingerprint tested.” I set the tea down as a smile spread across my face, “Well you do just that.”

On June 19th, 1964, a plane flying over Washington D.C. nosedived into an apple orchard killing two passengers, and a pilot. I stood in my living room, stretching the phone cord, as my mother in law sobbed through the receiver. Just then the television screen flashed, ‘Edward Ted Kennedy alive, but injured.’ Screams of rejoice rattled through the speaker. “He made it! He made it!” she laughed. My face went blank as I lit a cigarette, “What a miracle. Ted’s very lucky.” Through their excitement, the phone must have been accidentally hung up. I slammed the headset down. The news reporter continued to ramble off his injuries, and I mumbled to myself, “A punctured lung should teach the b*****d not to stick his nose in someone else’s business.” Little did his distraught mother know, I was the one who drugged his pilot, and I was hoping the crash would kill him to. But, I’ll take what I can get, you only have one attempt to murder someone.

Not a word was spoken about the money for awhile. It sat in the evidence room for four years collecting dust, and I thought that would be the last I ever heard about the $80,000. Well, until my dead husband’s little brother Robert F. Kennedy, used it as part of his campaign for California’s Senator. “As an honest man, I’ll make sure to find out what really happened to my beloved brother. I’ll give him peace, more than his burial at sea ever will!” Robert would say on T.V. quite often. I’d gotten away with everything to that point, I would be damned to let some man take away my grieving widowed First Lady title, and replace it with the label of murderer. On June 5th, 1968, an Islamic extremist by the name of Sirhan Sirhan secretly carried a .22 Caliber revolver under his jacket into the reception hall holding Robert’s victory speech. He fired three rounds, all of which hit California’s brand new Senator in the stomach. After Robert’s death 26 hours later, Sirhan Sirhan was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison, for a murder he was promised $80,000 to commit. Fortunately he didn’t know that that money was still rotting away in a Dallas police station, or I wouldn’t be a free woman today. It’s such a shame really. I was just starting to like Robert.

Now, you may be thinking, how have I not been caught up in a string of mysterious deaths? How did the ruthless woman protecting her image, become portrayed as an innocent bystander, tangled in a series of unfortunate events? I’ll tell you how. You see, I only learned from the best. Being apart of the Kennedy family lineage has taught me to keep control, to never show emotion, and above all how to keep a good secret. I was as in control as Rose Kennedy, when her eldest son’s plane went up in flames during War World II, after he threatened to expose his father’s dirty business tactics, and obliterate the family fortune. I was as emotionless as Joseph P. Kennedy Sr. when the first estate burned to the ground, after he raised his insurance policy, gaining 3 million dollars by committing insurance fraud. And I kept a good secret, like both of them combined, when they threw poor developmentally delayed Rosemary Kennedy in a Psych ward where two steel rods fried her brain to the point of mush, after her mental illness became a threat to tarnish the family name. They’re the professionals, an outsider would never have a clue what went on behind that rot iron K, plastered on the giant estate gates. In Fact, there are still people dedicated to finding the origins of the curse 55 years after it was brought to the public eye. But, they’ll never find a hexed ancient object, evidence of a destroyed sacred ground, or a reason why god would punish them. The so called detectives are missing a key point to their investigation, and it’s hiding in plain site. Because I, Jacqueline Bouvier Onassis Kennedy, am the Kennedy Curse.

Author's Note

Critique it as needed