What Remains

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Copyright © 2005 by Carole Radziwill

This is a work of nonfiction. However, some names and other details have been changed.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-8182-9
ISBN-10: 0-7432-8182-9

A Few Figs from Thistles: Poems and Sonnets,
“Sonnet IV,” from
The Selected Poetry of
Edna St. Vincent Millay
by Edna St. Vincent Millay, published by The Modern Library.

“The Second Coming,” reprinted with the permission of Scribner, an imprint of Simon & Schuster Adult Publishing Group, from
The Collected Works of W.B. Yeats,
Volume I: The Poems, Revised
, edited by Richard J. Finneran. Copyright © 1924 by The Macmillan Company; copyright renewed © 1952 by Bertha Georgie Yeats.

“Perfection Wasted,” from
Collected Poems 1953–1993
by John Updike, copyright © 1993 by John Updike. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.

The Teddy Bears Picnic,
by John W. Bratton and Jimmy Kennedy © 1947 (Renewed)

WB Music Corp. (ASCAP) and EMI Music Publishing Ltd. (PRS) All Rights Administered by Alfred Publishing Co., Inc. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

Carole and Anthony’s wedding photographs taken by Eric Weiss. Photograph courtesy of Eric Weiss.

All other photographs courtesy of the author.

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Friday, July 16, 1999

Three weeks before my husband died a young couple smashed their plane into the Atlantic Ocean, off the Massachusetts shoreline, well after the mid-July sun had set. It was reported in the news as 9:41, but I knew the general time, because I had spoken to the woman less than an hour before. The pilot was my husband’s cousin, John Kennedy. His wife, Carolyn Bessette, was my closest friend. She was sitting behind him next to the only other passenger, her sister, Lauren. A still, hot summer day had melted into a warm and sticky night. A quiet night, unremarkable except for the fog, which rolls in and out of New England like a deep sigh.

While we were still making plans, before they took off from Caldwell, New Jersey, she called me from the plane.

“We’ll fly to the Vineyard tomorrow, after the wedding. We can be there before dinner.”

It was a short conversation, because I was going to see her the next day. I was staying in her house, their house, on Martha’s Vineyard, with my husband, and they were taking a simple trip. One they’d made many other weekends, from a small airport in New Jersey to the islands off Massachusetts—a well-worn ninety-minute path up the coastline.

I hung up the phone and opened the book I was reading and an hour later she was dead. Afterward I tried to find something to explain what had happened—was it cloudy, were the stars out? But the night was ordinary. It usually is, I think, when your life changes. Most people aren’t doing anything special when the carefully placed pieces of their life break apart.

They flew a lot that summer, from the city to the Vineyard, and we called each other every day if we weren’t together.

“We’re getting a late start. I’ll call you in the morning.”

It takes seconds to plunge into an irrevocable spin in a small plane—into what the Federal Aviation Administration calls a
graveyard spiral.
According to the accident report, the plane broke the surface of the ocean three minutes after the pilot sensed a problem. At 9:38, he made a curious turn. One hundred and eighty seconds later, the last thirty of them aimed directly at the water, their stories ended abruptly.

I wonder if he felt the awkward motions of the plane in those minutes, the changes in speed or direction. It’s likely he did not. If you close your eyes in an airplane, you don’t feel up or down. You don’t feel yourself tilting right or left. You don’t feel anything, really, and your senses tell you it doesn’t matter. Clouds were hiding the familiar strings of lights that paint the coastline. He might as well have been flying with his eyes closed.

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

My husband, Anthony, was dying and we were all trying to pretend that he wasn’t, that everything was fine.

“I can’t hear you, Lamb. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

The accident report shows the pilot made a turn after passing Point Judith, Rhode Island—he turned east, away from the coast, away from where he was going. And then another turn, and then another. It was puzzling to everyone, including the investigators, and after months of plotting radar signals, studying twisted pieces of wreckage, constructing maps and charts, and speculating about state of mind, they confirmed what they had suspected—the pilot was disoriented. He may have turned, some suggested, hoping to spot something familiar. A landmark like the lighthouse at the tip of Gay Head, blinking a steady twenty-mile stream of light, muffled that night by thick, black air. He might have scanned the dark sky for Noman’s Land—the empty island you can see clearly in daylight from the beachfront of their Martha’s Vineyard home.

Perhaps he felt a slight tilt of the plane, but it was more likely that the instrument panel caught his attention, his compass shifting slowly. He may have tried to correct it, turning the rudder slightly—or adding pressure to the controls. But when it doesn’t
feel
like you’re turning, it feels wrong to correct it. He wouldn’t have corrected it enough. He wouldn’t have corrected it at all. He would have followed what his senses were telling him to do—an overwhelming feeling of what he should do—and it would be exactly the wrong thing.

It’s possible that nothing felt unusual in the plane as his altimeter began to unwind, marking a perplexing descent. Slowly at first, then at a sickening rate. It is likely he was watching this helplessly. His senses, of no use to him, telling him to ignore, even then, irrefutable evidence. The handful of controls all showing deadly readings. She may not have noticed any of this. She wouldn’t have seen the airspeed on the control panel, pegged in the red, reflecting the quickening pace of the ocean rushing up to them.

We were staying in their house because Anthony wanted to be on the Vineyard that summer, and I went along with it. In June when we arrived I gave the ambulance drivers a paper with directions to the house, and they taped it to the dashboard. “It’s the chance of a lifetime,” Anthony had said to me in a restaurant in New York before we left. “I don’t know why you can’t see that. We have the summer off, we can spend the days on the beach, have margaritas at sunset.”

There were sunsets that summer, and when I noticed them I was grateful. But he was dying. It was likely, but unmentionable, that he wouldn’t be going back to the city, and for everyone but Anthony it was hard to think of margaritas. It irritated him when I didn’t play along.

One hundred and eighty seconds. John might have felt annoyance, perhaps, before panic. Frustration, and then fear. His pulse accelerating as one replaced the other. The water would be as black as the sky—like concrete, at their rate of descent. It is possible that he thought for the entire three minutes that they were going to crash, probable that he thought it for thirty seconds.

It was a new plane and I wasn’t familiar with it. It bothered me that I didn’t know where she was sitting. The accident report recorded passengers in the
aft-facing seats,
but I couldn’t picture her there. When I rode along, we settled down on the back seat and read magazines under the small light. If there were other passengers she sat up in the front. One weekend a year before, there were five of us going to the Vineyard. Carolyn was sitting next to John and her door popped open over the ocean. She stretched her arm into the clouds to grab the handle and clicked it shut. It was quick and smooth and insignificant to her.