As Senator, he rarely put in the twelve-to-fourteen-hour days that he was known for when he was Attorney General. So he would often leave the office at six or a little later, and if he saw me, he would invariably ask if I wanted a ride home. I suppose you can guess what my answer was. The Senator's car at that time was a convertible. I'm not sure what make it was—something American, perhaps a Ford—but nothing fancy. His driver, Jim Boyd, would always be parked right outside the front door of the building on Constitution Avenue, and in the warmer months he would have the top down.
It was a beautiful, warm evening in Washington, probably around six-thirty at night—the time of evening when the light is just beginning to fade. We had laughed and talked all the way from the Capitol. The Senator had swung his body around so that his back was up against the passenger door, one knee up on the seat, and he had turned his head to look at us.
In my mind's eye, I can still picture him-that shaggy hair of his tousled by the wind. It kept falling into his face, his fingers continually brushing it back out of his eyes. But then, as soon as we approached the White House, his body tensed a little—it was palpable and he immediately faced forward again, as if he wanted to be alone with his thoughts.
As we drove past the South Portico, I remember that he didn't move an inch—he was like a stone statue. He just stared straight ahead. The car suddenly became quiet, and nobody said a word. I could only imagine what he was thinking in those moments. Provi, too. Both of them had spent so much time inside that house; they had left so much love there. Jim—sensing his boss's discomfort—accelerated, and a few moments later the White House was out of view. In a complete transformation, the Senator turned toward us again and was back to joking around, just like before.
And then, when it came time for me to get out, Jim would bring the car to a stop at the curb—most often he would let me out on Pennsylvania Avenue either at 19th Street when I was still in the dormitory or at 21st Street the following year when I was living in the apartment. Once, though, he actually drove me all the way to the corner of 19th and F Streets, where my dorm was located. After Jim stopped the car, RFK would open the door and climb from the front seat onto the sidewalk so that I could get out. And then...I have to admit that even after all these years I'm reluctant to share this next bit. But here it goes.
The Senator stood next to the car on the sidewalk as I climbed out, and he started to say goodbye. And this was how I responded-from that very first lift home and every time thereafter. I looked him directly in the eyes, and then, with a coy smile, I said, "Aren't you going to kiss me good-bye?"
That first time I said it, he looked a little startled. But good sport that he was, he simply chuckled, leaned in, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Picture it.
Here was one of the most well-known politicians in the world standing there in full view on Pennsylvania Avenue kissing this young blonde on the cheek. And the one time that he dropped me off at the dorm, he kissed me there, too. I have no idea how many people actually witnessed our goodbyes, but I'm sure that if they did, it came as something of a shock. After that first time, I didn't have to say anything, but I usually did. Other times, I would just tap my index finger against my cheek and he would kiss me there. It became a routine. But for me, it never felt routine. I can't deny it—it was exciting.
Now, I have no defense for my behavior. That was simply the way I rolled in those days...and, to be honest, I'm not that different now. But, in the Senator's defense, I can only say that I believe he understood that this was not Donna trying to seduce him, but rather Donna being her usual outrageous self. It was more like me daring him to do it in public, and I don't think he was one to back down from a dare. I assumed that he didn't mind, since he continued to offer me rides home. But he had a certain playful, childlike quality that seemed to show itself whenever I was around him. On more than one occasion, he would stick his tongue out at me, and I would do the same to him. We were like a couple of kids.
While Gore Vidal would talk about "Bobby's Holden Caulfield contempt for the adults," I always saw it simply as his way of unleashing what Jung would call his "inner child." After everything that the Senator had been through, I figured he deserved a little silliness every now and then. And, of course, silliness was my specialty.
First Great Sorrow: My Years with Robert F. Kennedy by Donna Chaffee
