Free If Kennedy Lived: The First and Second Terms of President John F. Kennedy: AnAlternate History by Jeff Greenfield

States!”
    He walked into the House chamber behind doorkeeper William “Fishbait” Miller, flanked by the ceremonial welcoming committee of congressional leaders—Mansfield, Dirksen, Albert, Halleck, and with them the junior senator from the state of Massachusetts, Edward Moore Kennedy—and at the moment Fishbait spoke the last words of his incantation, the chamber exploded into cheers that seemed to shake the galleries. Never in the history of Congress had they welcomed into their hall a president who had narrowly escaped assassination; all of them knew what this moment would mean to the country, which was why, for the first time, they had moved the State of the Union speech from midday to prime time. When the President walked in, still a little careful with his tread, their relief—their
exultation
—was overwhelming. They were all on their feet, of course, but that was protocol; when the President walked in, you stood. But the force of the clapping, the stomping of feet—this was something unseen and unheard before. There was Arizona’s Barry Goldwater, the man most likely to run againsthim next fall (and who shared with Kennedy a mutual affection): the tears were streaming down his cheeks, and he was shouting, “Jack! Jack! Jack!” There was Georgia’s Richard Russell, the ardent segregationist whose mastery of Senate rules had tied the administration in knots on vote after vote, and the usually stoic Russell was trembling with emotion.
    In the front row where the cabinet sat, the Attorney General of the United States stood, his hands clapping softly, his face almost expressionless. But then Jack walked by, on his way to the rostrum, and Bobby took his hand and gave a small nod of his head. Up in the First Lady’s box, Jacqueline Kennedy was standing, applauding, clad in a new black double-breasted mink coat over a gray Alaskine silk-and-wool day suit designed by Oleg Cassini; next to her was Caroline. There were others in the box, but none of the reporters recognized the faces; they were not the usual family friends and political allies who had claim to the prized seats.
    “Members of the Congress,” Speaker McCormack intoned, “I have the high honor, and the distinct,
joyful
privilege, of introducing the President of the United States.” And the chamber rocked with cheers and applause again; reporters noted the break with tradition in McCormack’s introduction—“joyful” was not part of the litany—and it came from a fellow Massachusetts politician whose nephew had lost a nasty Senate primary a year earlier to the President’s youngest brother, Ted. None of that mattered, at least for now, and it was a long time before the cheers finally died down.
    “Mr. Speaker,” Kennedy began, “it was our great wartime friend and ally Winston Churchill who once observed, ‘There is nothing as exhilarating in life as to be shot at without result.’ While I cannot claim to have enjoyed that precise experience, I can embrace his sentiment. As I did once before, twenty years ago, from the other side of the world, I have returned home . . . to the welcome ofcolleagues, friends . . . yes, and adversaries . . . and most of all to my family.” The audience stood and cheered, as they would two dozen times before his speech was done.
    “Let me say at the outset that I would not be standing here today were it not for the physicians, surgeons, nurses, and staff of Parkland Memorial Hospital. I have invited some of them here this evening, so that I might acknowledge them publicly.” And five men and women seated in the box section reserved for the First Lady and her guests stood and waved. (It was the first time a president had singled out members of the audience for recognition. In years to come, Kennedy and his successors would continue what became a tradition; the guests, often used to make a political point about an issue or a program, would become known as “Parklanders.”)
    As the President spoke,