Robert Kennedy returned from work, entered the front door of his large white house, Hickory Hill, kicked off his shoes, removed his suit coat, loosened his tie, walked over the black and white tiles of the hallway floor, past the enormous black Newfoundland named Brumus, five children, the governess, a nurse, three maids, past the open doors leading to the rooms all painted in bright reds and greens, unbuttoned his shirt, tousled his hair, walked out the back door past the iguana and the sea turtle, removed his shirt, his belt, his pants, headed towards the swimming pool where a young sea lion sat poolside, and he (in just shorts and socks) and the sea lion dove into the cool water. Kennedy opened his eyes under water; he saw the animal beside him. He lifted his head above the surface of the water. “The weather is good today, Sandy,” he said and flipped to float on his back. “Really nice. There’s fresh sardines in the barn; let’s go.”

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