You catch most of the smiles he gives you. Not all of them. Sometimes, it's when you're not paying attention to Bobby at all—the kids climbing onto you, the grass softly staining your clothes.

He's got Kerry and Courtney, both of them still young. Bobby's arms protectively hold Kerry, wrapping around his daughter safely.

When he watches you tumble with the children—half of them talking to you at once, a symphony of inseparable noise—his lips curl up.

He adores you. He adores the children. He adores seeing you with them, mother of a growing brood. If Bobby's lucky (and he always is), there'll be another one before the year's over.

When you give the kids your coat one cold night, "we'll be home soon, alright, sweetheart?", Bobby doesn't hesitate to take his jacket off. He shrugs it off without any ounce of grief for his own chill. Not that he feels it so intensely, what with the hair across his arms, hiding scratches you left last night.

"Oh, Bob, I'll be fine—"

Bobby won't let you be just fine. He wants you warm, and comfortable. He wants you pampered, though that's evident in the way he looks at you. Adoration—pure, syrupy.

"Well, I'll be finer."

It's only slightly childish. Because it's Bobby, it's boyishly sweet instead.

He presses a gentle kiss to your temple when you finally let him drape the tailored fabric over you. He can feel that familiar, warm contentment in his stomach. Pleased that you're warm and happy.

He helps you put the kids to bed. They're all exhausted from their day out, significantly easing the task. While you do a little more, that's because Bobby's setting up the bed for you. He's fixing your pillows, he's laying the nightwear on your side.

Bobby makes sure that when you walk free from the children, you don't lift a finger. His face is ever slightly embarrassed about the effort clearly shown, but he doesn't shy away from affection.

"Bobby, did you…?"

"The bath is running." He kisses your temple like before, except slower. Bobby's words are honey, and his hand lingers against your hair.

Seeking the physical reminder of love. Of who he loved, who loved him.

"The water should be warm by now." Bobby softly adds, worn eyes looking at you, only you.

There's even a glass near your side of the bed, ice floating at the top. When had Bobby gone downstairs without you noticing?

"Oh, Bobby… Bobby, this is so sweet of you."

His lips twitch.

They curl up again.

Your heart melts.

He leans back into you, burrowing his smile into your hair. Strong arms wrap utterly carefully around you, forearm fuzz causing your skin to delightfully prickle.

"Be careful, you'll be called sweet before you're ever called mean again."

(His brother's protector.)

"I think I prefer sweet," he hums into your frame, eyes shutting. He's tired, he's bone-tired. But he wants to make sure you're taken care of.

You almost stay in Bobby's arms. The bath pales in comparison to your husband. To disregard his hard work, however, is not what you do. You want to appreciate him, his love in full effect all around you. His heartbeat is slowing to a calmer pace against you, his shoulders slumping to a slope.

"Thank you, Bobby…"

You turn, shifting to kiss him on the cheek, then the lips. Just like that, Bobby is nothing but yours.

. #

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.

When we arrived, I immediately spotted Jerry Bruno, who was working as one of RFK's advance men. He was in the gym making sure that everything was set up properly. I hadn't seen Jerry in many months, but thankfully he recognized me and we chatted for a while.

I asked him what route the Senator would be taking to get to the podium, since I wanted to find seats for us where he would be sure to pass by. Jerry indicated that he would be entering from the back and coming down the center aisle to the front of the gym. Fortu-nately, we were able to grab a couple of seats right on the aisle about ten rows back from the podium.

When the Senator finally arrived, most everyone in the place jumped to their feet, and as he came down the aisle, he was shaking hands with many of the people along the way. As he got to where I was standing, he suddenly stopped in his tracks. Smiling, he reached out his hand to me, and then, to my surprise (and delight), he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. It was one of the first times that I didn't have to ask him for a kiss.

"What are you doing here, Donna?" Laughing, I answered, "I came to see you, of course! I wouldn't miss it for any-thing!"

He squeezed my hand and looked me straight in the eyes. He seemed sad somehow, but that didn't make sense to me. He said, "Thanks for being here," squeezed my hand again, and then moved on.

I later learned that one of the most unpleasant confrontations of the entire Presidential campaign had happened just moments before. As he walked down the aisle shaking hands, a student apparently spat in the Senator's face and screamed, "Fascist pig!" At the time, I had no idea what had just happened. So when he kissed me, I was surprised-it wasn't something he would normally do in public (at least, not without my encouragement). But when I found out about the incident just moments before, it made more sense. I figured that at that point, he was probably just relieved to see a familiar face in the audience. According to Arthur Schlesinger, the Senator later recounted the spitting incident to a friend with "hurt disbelief." So, I was glad that I could provide some brief comfort to him after that dreadful encounter.

We Band of Brothers by Edwin Guthman