Excerpt from the cable talk show, Music City Tonight, on The Nashville Network, September 24th, 1995:
[Lorianne Crook] “And we’re back. Glen, talk to me about this big break that almost happened back in South Carolina.”
[Glen Campbell] “Sure. This would have been back in ’64 when I was touring as a session musician back in Los Angeles, doing the occasional gig filling in for someone. I did appearances on Shindig!”
[Lorianne] “Oh yeah! I remember that show! Loved it as a teenager!”
[Glen] “And Hollywood Jamboree. Anyway, someone at Capital Records gave me a call, and said that a fella by the name of Quinton Jones was putting together a television program. It was going to be a new kind of variety show.”
[Lorianne] “Quinton Jones! Wow!”
[Glen] “He was already kind of a big deal in music and in Hollywood. It’s hard to believe because he was so young, but he was, and still is, such an amazing force to be reckoned with. Anyway, I was asked to go meet with him down in South Carolina, in Charleston, where they were putting the final touches on this television pitch.”
[Lorianne] “What was the show going to be about?”
[Glen] “It was going to be called The Southerners. Mind you, this was 1964, right in the middle of the whole civil rights, uh, time, and there was a lot of folks who were trying to do something good, to make a positive image of the South when so much of what was coming out was bad and negative. So the governor at that time, a gentleman by the name of Mr. Ridge, he wanted there to be a television variety show that would highlight the talent and culture of the South.”
[Lorianne] “I see! Wow! So you were going to be on this show?”
[Glen] “I was supposed to be the host! (laughing) It was before my own show, of course, and even before Hee-Haw. I was supposed to co-host it with an African-American woman, the first time something like that was going to be on network television. She and I would sing, and we’d have comedy sketches kind of like the Smothers Brothers, and there would be a long story time, kind of a spoken word kind of thing like what Garrison Kiellor does on his radio show. In fact, his show, The Prairie Home Companion, is kind of what this show would have been, only on television.”
[Lorianne] “Okay! I see, so it would have featured country music artists such as yourself.”
[Glen] “Yes, and black singers and groups from around the South, and it would have been an amazing, revolutionary show. We filmed one pilot episode, before a live audience in a theater down there in Charleston, and it was a huge success. The crowd went crazy. My co-host was the amazing Dionne Warwick who was just beginning to explode at the time.”
[Lorianne] “Oh my! I love it! I love it! So what happened?”
[Glen] “The whole project was a complex arrangement between the city of Charleston, this new production company that Quinton was heading, and the state of South Carolina. The state was going to be a majority stakeholder in the production, financing the show and developing a sound stage and performance theater at an old abandoned site there in downtown Charleston. But the financing fell through, the state government was never able to get the money, and, well, we all moved on.”
Headline from the Charleston News & Courier, November 2, 1963: Funding bill for Ridge Fails in Senate
...among the items earmarked for Charleston in the funding bill was the renovation of the South Carolina State Arsenal on Marion Square into a performing arts center, as well as the creation of a joint state and city production company for the creation of the television program The Southerners. Governor Ridge’s spokesman said that the governor would renew efforts in the next fiscal cycle.
1963, Columbia
If given a week, Margot could schedule a month’s worth of events into the course of seven days and nights. Carter called it the “clown car calendar,” with her managing to inexplicably squeeze in yet another meeting, another luncheon, another speech during his stay, which she excitedly set about doing for Carter’s visit later that summer in New York City. Exclusive interviews with Esquire (“Can this golden boy bring prosperity and harmony to a region that has never known it?”) and the New York Post (“Unlike Wallace or Faubus, South Carolina has chosen in Ridge a different path, indeed a different party, investing its hopes in a young gentleman who grew up on Easy Street.”), a photo pictorial for Look magazine (Catching Up with Carter), a meeting with the editorial board of the New York Times and the Herald-Tribune, television guest appearances on The Jack Paar Program (“What’s a nice young man, doing in a place, like this?” “I’m wondering the same thing!”) and with the new host of The Tonight Show, Johnny Carson (“I understand that you’ve got a French car back home. A Citronne, Citron, Citro —”, “Citroën.” “Easy for you to say.”), lunches with Vogue’s Diana Vreeland (Margot’s new boss) and Happy Rockefeller, cocktails at Hope Iselin’s with Governor Rockefeller and Representative Lindsay, dinner at William F. Buckley’s townhouse, and speeches given at the Cooper-Union (the Dum Spiro, Spero speech) as well as to the New York Newspaper Reporters Association (dubbed his Pericles speech).
By the time Carter returned home to Galanos exhausted, both mentally and physically, he was also depressed. The end of July brought with it the end of Gabriel’s internship, he would be returning to Charleston after a couple of weeks of vacation to resume his studies as a senior at the military college. The week in Manhattan, as charged with activity as it was, only made Gabriel’s absence all the more noticeable. He missed seeing him each morning, with his subtle grin as Carter walked past him into his office. He missed hearing the laughter of Agnes and Loretta, the secretaries who sat at their desks behind Gabriel, after Gabriel had teased them about something.
Over the course of the past few weeks Carter had learned bits and pieces about Gabriel. Like a beachcomber walking the beach comes across a beautiful shell or polished sea rock, Carter gathered them to add to his mental collection. He heard how he always came to work with a book to read during his lunch break, how he enjoyed riding his bike by himself on his days off, or sometimes went running to burn off energy. He was always moving in the office, like a hummingbird flitting from flower to flower, jumping up to open the door for one of the ladies, bouncing his leg nervously under the desk, twirling a pencil or pen in his fingers, walking files over to Darren or back to the filing cabinets. But most of all, Carter missed those eyes which seemed to speak a private language just between the two of them. A look that said I was dreaming about you last night again. A glance that whispered I wish I could touch you, smell you, taste you. A regard that meant This is for you, and only you.
When he arrived to the office on Tuesday following the long week in New York City, he tried to be cheerful. Agnes was sitting at Gabriel’s desk, answering the phone, and he greeted her with his customary “good morning,” even if it sounded flat and phony to his ears. The previous week Darren had taken off as a vacation, and once Carter was settled behind his desk, Darren came in and made small talk about bass fishing at his grandparents’ lake house at Lake Marion. Carter listened half-heartedly, but if ever there was a topic that interested him less, it was Darren’s detailed recounting of the kind of bait they used on their third day. Sensing that Carter was feigning following along, he mercifully wrapped up his story and asked how Manhattan went.
“Rockefeller definitely wants me as his vice-president, if he somehow pulls the rabbit from the hat and wins the nomination,” Carter said after giving him a lengthy recap while the two of them had their coffees. “He wants to break Goldwater’s hold on the Republican delegations across the South, which is a good strategy admittedly, but quite frankly, distracts me from pushing my own agenda here in the General Assembly. It’s like chasing marbles getting each of these representatives locked into a yay or nay.”
Carter pulled out the last whip count that had been done in early July. They had made some progress in the House, and felt confident that The Good Life series of bills in each of the House committees would at least be voted out onto the floor for an eventual up or down vote, but the conservative State Senate was a much more difficult terrain with less than a handful of allies available. The battle for votes was going to come down to good old politicking, hand-to-hand combat in the trenches of the House, and then the Senate. Carter had been readying himself for this challenge with his wall maps of the state districts, each color-coded, with accompanying files on the representative or senator, that he kept at the Governor’s Mansion in one of the bedrooms. It was time to translate that research into a strategy.
He told Darren that he wanted to have all of those boxes of files brought to the State House and set up in Darren’s office as a war room. Their singular focus for the fall was going to be advancing his agenda, vote by vote.
“Who is our expert on the rules of procedure and parliamentary order?” Carter asked.
“Taylor, the Chief Justice, was the former Speaker of the House before Blatt, and his old right hand man is an ally of ours. A man named Yarborough.”
“See if he’s available. I’d like to meet him and have him help us work out our strategy. If he lives in the Columbia area, even better. Otherwise we’ll pay for him to come in once a week.”
“Confidentiality agreement?”
“No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Carter said. “I trust Taylor. I’ll set up a lunch with him in the next week and talk to him, find out what he thinks.”
After Darren left his office, he noticed a little envelope on the top of his in-box. It was in Gabriel’s handwriting, addressed to Governor Ridge.
A dog given a still juicy bone dripping with fat and morsels of tender beef would know the anticipation Carter felt when he held the envelope in his hands. He grabbed his letter opener and slid open the top, gently pulling out the handwritten note.
Dear Governor,
These past two months have been the best of my life. I came to the Citadel to become a man, with the idea that somehow being in the company of other cadets and the traditions of the school would transform me into someone different. Someone who would inspire pride and respect from others. I saw in you and this program the possibility of continuing that journey.
Working next to you, however, I now realize that I am already the man I want to become. You have inspired me, and instilled a deep sense of pride for my work. You are an incredible figure, Governor Ridge, and I look forward to returning after this next semester, working even closer together.
If you need anything from me in the coming weeks and months, please don’t hesitate in contacting me. I am at your disposal.
Faithfully yours,
Cadet Gabriel Sawyers
Carter reread it twice, trying to discern if there was a hidden message, something implied in his choice of words. If those tender eyes had subconsciously guided his hand with the pen to tell Carter that there was a lustful passion boiling in him. He hesitated as to what to do. His immediate impulse was to write back to Gabriel, to let him know how much he appreciated his letter, and to wish him well with his studies at the Citadel. But such a response seemed disingenuous and he was certain that Gabriel would be disappointed with such a perfunctory note, something that Carter had written to innumerable people who had crossed paths with him in the past few years. No, this didn’t call for the typical constituent letter; he merited something more intimate. A gift? Something to show how much he meant to him? But what, without embarrassing the cadet, certainly if his fellow cadets were to find out. His mind wandered through the various glints of knowledge he had guarded to himself about Gabriel. He liked to read at lunch, he remembered. Suddenly it dawned on him what to send.
Carter found it difficult in the days and weeks that followed to keep up his morale. A new cadet began his internship in the Governor’s Office, someone who was perfectly fine, but it wasn’t Gabriel, and Carter’s arrival each morning to work lacked the expectation of being greeted with those eyes and that smile. Yet, it helped him to focus on the work ahead. The political battle seemed insurmountable, and while the national response to his recent foray to New York City was overwhelmingly positive, it offered no relief to him in a meeting with a state representative from Manning who had never even heard of Esquire magazine. Wrangling the support of the vast number of conservative, and at times overtly racist, legislators required knowing which buttons to push for each individual representative. Sometimes it was finding a common ground, a personal touch about a shared experience.
With the representative from Manning, who was one of two wavering votes on the House budget committee and a thirty-year veteran of the legislature, Carter and he reminisced about the 1952 Democratic National Convention in Chicago. Over lunch at the Columbia Country Club, they had a private one-on-one meeting, and in the end, they left with a cordial handshake and the “yay” vote gained. But in a subsequent meeting with his other uncertain committee colleague, Carter left disappointed. The representative had too many concerns and hoops in place for Carter to have to jump through and address to gain his unqualified support, even after sweetening the deal with a new fleet of school buses for his rural district in Berkeley County.
Then in mid-September a minor miracle happened. On a Wednesday night, a storm system passed through the central part of the state. Carter had woken during the thunderstorm, and had fallen back asleep listening to the rain and rumbles as it moved on to neighboring counties. The next morning he learned it had in fact been so severe that it had contained three separate tornadoes, one of which had destroyed a good part of the town of Barnwell. The home of Speaker Blatt had been spared but much of his district was strewn with the aftermath. Fortunately no lives were lost, but the damage was considerable, and all day Thursday Carter received reports as to the estimated dollar damage, which kept rising and rising with each subsequent dispatch. He called both Speaker Blatt and his counterpart in the Senate, Senator Thompkins, to offer his sympathy for the citizens of their shared district.
On Friday, Speaker Blatt stopped by Carter’s office. The total bill from the tornadoes was in excess of three million dollars, with the local high school completely demolished. The two of them commiserated about what a terrible loss it was, and how fortunately nobody was killed, but this was quite an expensive emergency, and yes, in fact, now was not the time to play politics but yet here we were, two politicians with different needs, if you help me I could certainly help you. An hour later Blatt left the Governor’s Office with the assurance that the emergency decree would be signed that afternoon, and that he would make sure that Carter’s budget passed in committee to come to the floor for a full vote.
But with Thompkins no leverage was gained. He had let Blatt do the dirty work of negotiating, extracting the maximum out of Carter that was possible for the barest minimum in return, that one final undecided vote in the committee.
The following week Carter received a letter postmarked from Charleston. It was marked personal, and he recognized the handwriting. It was Gabriel’s.
Dear Governor Ridge,
I have never received a parcel before while a student here at the Citadel, so you can imagine my surprise when I returned to
barracks yesterday to find a package waiting for me. Your very generous gift of The Iliad is touching, and I will treasure it always. When I read your inscription in the front cover, I was doubly moved. Thank-you so much for thinking of me as someone worthy of being Patroclus to your Achilles.
I hesitate in writing further, for fear that I might scribble something imprudent. Know that you are in my thoughts often.
Yours truly,
Cadet Gabriel Sawyers
Carter smiled.
The end of September brought with it the House budget committee voting out his budget, with two votes to spare. Darren had managed to horse-trade with a freshman representative from Greenville (it only cost us a visit to his district next election cycle!), and while the victory was predicted it had been by no means assured. The two of them celebrated that evening with a tumbler glass of Dewar’s and ice from Carter’s liquor cabinet.
“If we get this passed in the House, I’ll spring for some really good scotch shipped in directly from Scotland,” Carter said.
“Well we have some momentum now, and the press will help beat the drum as well now that we are moving forward. With the budget passing, we have some leverage in the full House with Blatt,” Darren said, after taking a long sip.
“Don’t be too sure. Blatt is still completely against the whole concept of a centralized vision for the state. It would cede his control of the individual member’s needs, and effectively end the Barnwell Ring. He’s going to try to break apart bit by bit this budget through the amendment process, and that’s why we need Yarborough’s help in coming up with parliamentary maneuvers to forestall him.”
That evening Shelby drove him home, pulling up to Carter’s front door at Galanos a little after 7:30. “See you tomorrow, sir,” he said as Carter waved him goodbye. Carter could smell the dinner his housekeeper left for him on his kitchen counter, one of his favorites, fried catfish with fresh vegetables and corn bread. He washed up and sat at his breakfast table, turning on the television. The realization that he was alone, having dinner in solitude as usual, depressed him. He knew that he was always welcome next door with his brother Carlton and his family, but what he really wanted was someone to love, to sit with and talk about the day, to laugh and enjoy each other’s company. He thought of Gabriel. He knew that he had a sense of humor, but what kind? Was he a jokester, or was his humor more intellectual and subtle?
After he washed his dishes, he went upstairs to his bedroom and turned on his hi-fi stereo. Presenting Dionne Warwick was soon spinning, and he looked out at the pool below him, a pale turquoise luster, as ‘Don’t Make Me Over’ played. He loved this new singer’s raw passion, her range and emotion bordering between anger and love, and he began singing along, turning up the volume to drown out his own voice. He knew the words by heart now, Dionne Warwick’s debut album was the first in his stack, and as her background singers accompanied her with the studio orchestra, he joined in, singing across the miles to Gabriel.
He sat at his desk, pulled out a sheet of personal stationery, and began writing, pouring out his heart, telling Gabriel how he thought of him everyday, how he missed seeing his smile, that gap between his teeth, his eyes. He told him how he wished he could have a moment together, just the two of them, to talk about everything and nothing, as equals. How would he cope, he asked, waiting to see him again next spring. He wrote that as ridiculous as it seemed, Gabriel had found a place in his heart, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He wrote it all down, and once it was on the paper in black and white, he reread it.
Then he tore it into pieces and threw it away.
Frustration followed him that autumn, it was a constant companion as he sat listening to Darren lead the legislative strategy sessions with his Senate and House liaisons; it nagged at him when he talked on the phone with Margot each Monday as he politely listened to her follow-up suggestions from the summer Manhattan trip; it hung onto him when he met with Bradford at their first Wednesday of the month luncheons at Smokin’ Joes, with other members of the local NAACP leadership, to discuss the snail’s pace it seemed the fight for civil rights was taking across the state and throughout the South; but mostly it clung to him whenever he thought of Gabriel. He hated this hold that Gabriel had on him, and yet as much as he tried, he couldn’t shake it.
He found himself verbally snapping at the slightest setback. When Darren told him about two defections from the yay back to the undecided column for the impending House budget vote, Carter flung his file folder against the wall.
“Goddamnit! What do these assholes want now?”
Darren sat in silence for a moment.
“I’m sorry for that,” Carter said finally. “It’s not you. It’s me. I’m just...”
He looked back down at his desk.
“I know. It’s incredibly frustrating,” Darren said.
“I don’t have any magical potion or game-changer to get us over the hump on this,” Carter said, rubbing his scalp and temples. “If only there were another tornado.”
Darren laughed.
“We still have a week.”
“It’s like doing a crossword puzzle, only the clues keep changing,” Carter said, getting up from his chair. “What do these two gentlemen want? What could have possibly changed in the last twenty-four hours?”
“Blatt got to them both, apparently twisted their arms to keep them in the fold.”
“Pull their files for me, would you please? Let’s see if there is something there that we can use.”
The weather finally changed in mid-October, the Indian summer gave way to cool days with the occasional rain shower. Carter needed a distraction, a momentary escape from the constant stress of pushing the Sisyphean stone that was the House budget bill. He called his brother Carlton one Thursday afternoon.
“Do you have any plans this Saturday?” he asked.
“Nothing really, why do you ask?” Carlton said.
“You want to come with me to the Citadel football game?”
“Sure! Who are they playing?”
“Arkansas State.”
The idea brightened his day, and as he returned the phone receiver, he got up and walked over to Darren’s office, asking him to coordinate with the Citadel commandant for a couple of tickets for him and his brother. Saturday morning Carter drove the Citroën down to Charleston, stopping along the way for breakfast in Leesburg. He rarely drove anymore, and being behind the wheel of the self-leveling suspension sedan gave him pleasure as he and Carlton chatted and listened to the pre-game sports radio broadcasts. It had rained as they drove through West Ashley, but the sun broke through once they crossed the Ashley River and made the final stretch into Charleston.
As Carter turned into the parking lot of Hagood Stadium, driving slowly on the still sodden grass and contoured path, the fellow attendees noticed his now recognizable car and the familiar figure driving it. People began clapping, some took out their cameras to get a photo. He found a spot near the entrance, guided by a police officer who shook his hand as he stepped out of the car. A small but growing throng of well-wishers descended on him, and he asked the officer if he could direct him to General Clark, the Citadel president.
“It gets old really quickly,” Carter said to Carlton as dozens of people started crowding around him, reaching out to shake his hand, cheering over the din of the tailgating festivities in the parking lot.
They walked about thirty yards in the direction indicated by the officer and found a large table spread out behind a new Jeep Wagoneer with a large Citadel banner flying high on a makeshift flagpole. He recognized General Clark and waved as he came up.
“General, thank-you so much for your hospitality today,” Carter said, shaking his hand.
“Governor, you remember my wife, Maurine,” Clark said.
“Ma’am, you look lovely as ever,” Carter said.
“Now Governor, you are just as charming as ever, may I offer you some iced tea? Or coffee, we have some brewed coffee here as well. Help yourself to whatever you like,” she said.
After introducing Carlton and making small talk, Carter asked Clark how the cadets at the college were receiving the Governor’s Leadership Internship program.
“After the Summerall Guards, it is probably our most sought after elite program, it’s a great success,” Clark said.
Carter agreed that from his perspective it was providing beneficial training for the participants in real-life executive functions.
“How is my legislative program being viewed by you and your peers here in Charleston?”
“The Good Life agenda? Well, sir, I try to stay out of politics. I have a full plate running this school.”
“I understand general, but as a dispassionate observer, would you say I am making progress?”
“Sir, I think you can be proud of the changes you are bringing to South Carolina.”
Carter nodded.
“Let me introduce you to some of my colleagues here at the Citadel,” Clark said, motioning towards a group of uniformed men and their wives hovering at the other end of the table full of sandwiches, fried chicken, and potato salad.
Soon the crowd began entering the stadium, and Carter along with Carlton walked in with General Clark and his wife. They glad-handed and stopped every couple of steps as they made their way to their seats midfield, ten rows up.
“The best seats in the house,” Clark said as they sat.
Carter put on his sunglasses as the sun had now completely chased away the clouds, and the cool October wind coming in off the ocean kissed his face. He scanned the crowds, the sea of identical-looking cadets in their grey and black uniforms was everywhere before him, many stealing glances and looking up at the governor and college president. With the football team performing drills on the field, the team band started playing to get the twenty thousand fans excited.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Citadel’s Hagood Stadium,” the baritone voice boomed over the PA system. “And extend a warm Bulldog welcome to our distinguished guest, Governor Carter Ridge!”
With that the band struck up a fast-paced rendition of ‘Dixie,’ and Carter stood and waved as the crowd clapped and cheered. If Gabriel was in the crush of cadets below and around him, he knew now that so was Carter.
He settled back into his seat, and Carlton leaned in and whispered, “I know how much you just love that song.”
Carter laughed.
General Clark passed over a flask to him, “In case you get a bit of a chill.”
“Ah, well, Carlton, show him.” and Carlton pulled out a similar flask from his jacket pocket and passed it to the general.
“Twelve-year aged blended scotch,” Carlton said as he watched the general take a swig.
“Gentlemen, we’re going to have a great game, regardless of who wins,” Clark said.
At halftime Carter rose to use the restroom. Before he could begin descending the stairs, however, a rush of cadets swarmed him, reaching out to shake his hand. He tried his best to touch and greet all of them, but nature was calling, and he begged their patience as he finally broke free and found the line to the men’s room. Carter made polite conversation with the older gentleman in line before him when out of the corner of his eye he saw Gabriel.
He was standing twenty feet away, waiting by himself, and when he saw that Carter had seen him, he broke into a wide grin. Carter motioned for him to come over and stand in line with him.
“Cadet Sawyers!” Carter said.
“Governor Ridge, sir, what an unexpected surprise having you here today!”
Carter, grinning and flushed with excitement, gazed at him. He stood there, looking him over, not saying a word, and as the line moved forward a pace, Carter reflexively put his hand on the back of Gabriel to coax him along. He left his hand in place.
“How are you doing? Your classes are going well, I hope?”
“Fine, yes. I want to thank-you again for the book,” Gabriel said.
He smiled, and Carter said, in a slightly lower voice, “You’re enjoying the book?”
“I am.”
“Hmmm. I’m glad.”
He gently rubbed a circle on Gabriel’s lower back, and they took another step towards the restroom. He could feel himself stiffening, and wondered how he was going to be able to relieve himself.
In the throng of fans mingling at the concession stand and standing in line for the public toilets, Carter knew that many eyes were upon him, and he tried to maintain as innocent a conversation as possible with Gabriel while they inched closer to the door.
“How are you liking the game?” Gabriel asked.
“To be honest,” Carter whispered, and then paused. “I came here for you. I wanted to see you, even if just for a moment.”
He realized that the playing field was forever changed at that moment, and that he had either irrevocably ruined whatever it was that they had, or had broken into a new, bountiful frontier of possibilities. He swallowed and glanced over at the crowds milling around, then looked back at Gabriel. He was grinning.
“This is the best day of my life,” he said finally.
Carter smiled back.
The bathroom door opened and he entered. A long urinal with a dozen men pissing was followed by three toilet stalls. Instead of standing in the midst of strangers pulling out his erect penis to pee, Carter opted to wait for one of the stalls to become available. He managed somehow, and after washing his hands, rejoined Gabriel out in the belly of the stadium.
“Would you like a hot dog or beer?” Carter asked.
Gabriel laughed.
“You’re offering? Sure, I’ll take a hot dog,” he said, with the possibility of a double entendre teasing Carter.
They walked over to the concession stand, where people began asking to have their photo taken with him, shaking his hand, and staring and pointing in general. Carter glanced over at Gabriel who was standing just a couple of steps away, with a look of help me out here to which he shrugged saying, “Sorry, Governor, but I’m off the clock!”
Carter let out a teasing groan and shook his head.
He came back with two hot dogs, each dressed with relish, mustard, and onions.
“Here you go,” Carter said. “Which one do you want?”
“The bigger one, obviously.”
Carter and he laughed together.
“Oh boy, you’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” Carter said before he bit into the dog.
Gabriel smiled, wiping the mustard from his own lips, and said, “Only if you want it.”
“Oh, I want it.”
They ate the rest of their hot dogs while walking back towards the entrance to the stands. As they came out into the open air, Carter turned to him for a quick second, and said, “Well, I guess this is where the fairy tale ends for now.”
“May I write you?” Gabriel asked.
“Absolutely. But send it to Galanos, in Aiken.”
Gabriel nodded, and then said a bit louder, “Thank-you for the hot dog, sir.”
“It was my pleasure, Cadet Sawyers.”
The band was playing the Citadel fight song, and the crowd clapped in rhythm as Carter made his way back up to his seat. Carlton edged back over, having been chatting with the general and his wife.
“I probably should have had a cadet escort you down there to avoid the crowd,” Clark said.
“Actually, one of your cadets, my former intern, found me and helped me out.”
“Excellent,” Clark replied.
Carter put his sunglasses back on and basked in the warm light. He felt renewed, and despite the Citadel’s loss to Arkansas State, Carter told Carlton on the drive back home that it was exactly what he needed.