A series of letters exchanged between Carter Ridge and conservative publisher, William F. Buckley, from the Buckley archive at Yale University:
May 2nd, 1964
Stamford, CT
Dear Carter,
Pat and I wish to thank-you once again for your hospitality in hosting us at Galanos in Aiken. We would like to return the favor to you & Margot next time you are in Manhattan, which judging from your busy campaign schedule may be later rather than sooner. Our next visit to Camden won’t be until this autumn.
Discussed over cocktails this past weekend with Senator Goldwater the present electoral contest, and now that he has Senator Thurmond’s endorsement, would be happy to facilitate a meeting between you and Senator Goldwater whenever it is mutually beneficial to you both. Might I suggest a stopover in Washington en route to NYC?
Faithfully yours,
WFB,jr
May 11, 1964
Aiken, South Carolina
Dear Bill,
I treasured our discussions and laughter during our after dinner cocktails this past visit of yours last month. If you can assure me that your liquor cabinet has an equally superb 12-year-old scotch as mine, I will gladly bore you with my presence next time in NYC. I believe our mutual friend, Hope Iselin, wants to host a reception for me in June at her townhouse in Manhattan, so I will have my people get with your people, etc...
Give Pat my love, and Margot sends her best as well.
Cheers,
Carter
November 1963, Columbia
The lead-up to the vote in the State Senate on The Good Life program had none of the feverish excitement that the House had a fortnight earlier. To show his resolve in the face of certain defeat, Carter made the walk up the grand stairwell to the Senate chamber to wait for the results. Darren joined him, but they stood in silence as they heard the final bell for the vote. A few moments later, the cadet who was their Senate liaison came out with a dejected look on his face.
“Fifteen to thirty-one, sir,” the cadet said.
Darren squeezed Carter’s shoulder, and as they were turning to head back down to the lobby and the Governor’s office, Senator Thompkins came out of the Senate chamber.
“Governor,” Thompkins said. “You put up a valiant fight, sir.”
Carter turned to acknowledge him, and said, “Thank-you, senator.” He shook his hand, and then added, “We still have a budget bill to pass, senator. I look forward to working together to find common ground.”
Thompkins smiled, and said, “Maybe it won’t be The Good Life, but perhaps we can make it A Slightly Better Life.”
Carter forced a smile, and said, “Yes, Senator. Well, we’ll see what we can do to bridge the gaps between the House version and the Senate. I’ll continue down my path of ideals, as you called it.”
Thompkins nodded, and began to turn away to head back into the Senate chamber. He said in parting, “That and a nickel will buy you a cup of coffee, governor. Have a good day.”
As Carter and Darren walked back down the stairwell, a photographer from one of the newspapers flashed a photo. “Do you have a comment, sir, on the Senate vote? Isn’t this a repudiation of your entire program?” a reporter accompanying the photographer asked.
Darren said, “We’ll be making a statement later this afternoon, thank-you.”
Back in his office, Carter asked Darren to draft a communiqué, and then closed the door for some privacy. He suddenly realized that he had a strange tranquility, as if a horrible storm had just passed, and everything was now calm. What caused this peaceful awareness he wasn’t sure, but he had a suspicion. For the moment, this inextricable escalator that he had been on, beginning with his marriage to Margot in preparation for his political career, was stalled. He had succeeded in ushering in the beginning, even if fragile and tentative, of some racial equanimity through the deliberative caucus earlier in the year, but the vast restructuring of the state under The Good Life legislative agenda was now dead. Maybe some bits and pieces of it could be knitted together into a compromise between the House and the Senate, but it would be a bastard child, not his own.
The finality of this battle had at last hit him, and it felt strangely liberating.
The path of ideals, was how Thompkins had derided his journey. But just what were the ideals he was still in pursuit of? What did he hope to achieve in his life, if this was the end of his political life in South Carolina. He could already predict the headline in the conservative The State newspaper. “The Good Life RIP: Jan. 15 - Nov. 1 1963.”
He turned and saw the reports on the side table next to his desk, and got up to look for one in particular he remembered. Shuffling through the stack, he then pulled one file out and brought it back to his desk and began re-reading it. After making some notes on a memo pad, he went over and opened the door to his office. He saw Darren dictating a draft of the governor’s statement to the press with one of the secretaries and caught his attention.
“When you have a moment, Darren.” Carter said.
A few moments later, Darren came in and read the draft, and after some minor changes were noted, Carter said, “I’m going to head down to Charleston for a couple of days.”
Darren asked, “When?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll be down there at least through the weekend. I want to see if you can arrange a working meeting with Mr. Quinton Jones. I went through the report the team put together on The Southerners television show project, and I saw that they’re going to be filming the pilot for it on Saturday night. I’d like to see if we could figure out a way to get funding for the project included in a separate budget line, instead of as part of The Good Life basket.”
Darren started making notes on the back of the draft statement, writing while standing at the side table where the reports were. “Do you want me to come along?”
“No, that’s not necessary,” Carter said. “But if you could hold down the fort tomorrow, and have one of the girls reserve a room for me at one of the hotels on the list.”
“Sure, sir, no problem,” Darren said. “Do you want me to have anyone else contacted for your visit down there?”
Carter hesitated, and rubbed his chin for a moment. He looked over at Darren, who was waiting to make additional notes.
“Honestly, Darren, I think I’d like to see cadet Sawyers while I’m there, if he can have some leave tomorrow night or on Saturday. Could you contact Commandant Clark at the Citadel to let him know?”
Darren jotted it down without any hint of disapproval.
“Yes, sir. If there’s nothing else, I’ll have Agnes work on the revised statement, and then set you up for your weekend,” he said, and then before leaving the office, added, “A visit to Charleston will do you good, to get away for a nice weekend to clear the mind after all of this.”
“Thanks, Darren,” Carter said. “I agree.”
Carter walked into the lobby of the Francis Marion hotel late on Friday morning. The receptionist at the check-in counter glanced at him and, realizing who he was, stood straighter and tightened his necktie. He smiled and said, “Governor Ridge, we’ve been expecting you. Welcome to the Francis Marion and to Charleston, sir.”
“Thank-you, that’s kind of you,” Carter said. “Do you have any messages for me?”
The receptionist looked behind him in a cubbyhole and pulled out a folder with several pages of messages marked “Governor Ridge.” He handed them to Carter, and said, “I believe your room is ready, and whenever you would like us to bring your suitcase up please let me know. I’m Bernie, and just call reception from your room phone and I’m at your service.”
“Actually, I’d love to grab a cup of coffee and read through my messages if that’s all right?”
Bernie escorted Carter through the lobby to the hotel bar where Carter found a corner table. He scanned the messages, and the third one from the top was what he was searching for.
Available after 4 pm Friday. Cadet Sawyers.
A black waitress arrived with his coffee, and Carter thanked her. She hovered for a moment, and then before returning to her station behind the bar, said, “Thank-you, Governor Ridge.” Her lips were pressed in a strong, proud smile, and he nodded, returning her gaze.
He returned to his reverie as he sipped his coffee and gazed out of the window onto King Street. Across the street was a large public square with a park in the middle. Adjacent on the far end of the square was the old arsenal building which, had his budget been passed in the state Senate, would have been renovated into a modern television and film studio anchoring the production of projects in joint collaboration with the networks and Hollywood. Instead, it would continue to deteriorate, like so much of this city, like so much of this state.
The filming of the pilot for The Southerners was to take place farther downtown, at the old Dock Street Theatre. The budget for the project had been cobbled together from a mix of funding from the Governor’s office, as well as a separate trust he had personally created to finance the work. The last report he had received, and reread the day before, indicated that the producer, Quinton Jones, was in the process of selling the rights for a full season to the CBS television network. One of the messages in his folder from the front desk was from Mr. Jones, offering to meet for a late lunch near the theatre.
Carter left a dollar tip for the waitress, then got back into his Citroën and drove over to Church Street where he parked in the shade of St. Philip’s Church. The midday breeze was still cool, and as he walked the half block down the cobblestoned street he drank in the fresh sea air. Spanish moss hung daintily from a sturdy magnolia opposite the church, dancing like a ghost from another time, listening to its own tune.
As he approached the theatre, a buzz of activity blocked the sidewalk in front with the unloading of a large television film trailer by production assistants. He saw Quinton supervising the work and waved as he crossed the street over to him.
“Quinton, so glad you could make some time to meet with me at the last minute,” Carter said as he shook his hand.
“Well, Governor, since you’re the one paying the bills it’s the least I could do,” he said, smiling.
After ensuring that the cameras and associated cabling were all safely unloaded and in place, he gave Carter a brief tour of the facility. Quinton explained that the filming for the production was going to be before a live audience the next evening, and later that afternoon following lunch there was going to be a full walk-through with the musicians, performers, and theatre production technical staff. Around the corner on Queen Street several trailers were parked, and Quinton walked over to the first one and knocked on the door. Carter could hear soft guitar strumming from inside.
“Glen, it’s Quinton, you’re decent?” he said jokingly.
The door opened and inside stood a tall young man with long hair wearing a leather jacket with fringe on the sleeves, holding a guitar.
“Hi, there, I’m Glen Campbell,” he said to Carter, motioning for them to come inside his trailer.
“Oh, thank-you, but I didn’t want to impose. I’m Carter Ridge, Glen, nice to meet you,” Carter said, reaching up to shake his hand.
“Governor Ridge is the one who’s bankrolling this little show, Glen,” Quinton said. “I just wanted to introduce you before tomorrow night. Make-up will be by at 2:00 sharp, okay?”
“Yes, sir!” Glen said. Then turning to Carter added, “Well, I hope you enjoy the show, we had a lot of fun putting it all together.”
“Do you know if Dionne is in yet?” Quinton asked Glen. “She was going to step out for lunch.”
“I haven’t seen her since voice check this morning, sorry,” Glen said.
“Okay, well, I’m going to grab a bite with the governor,” Quinton said as they walked away.
They strolled along Queen Street towards Meeting Street where Carter knew of a restaurant he liked. They both wore sunglasses, and Carter looked at the stylish young Quinton and said, “You know, I don’t think I told you when we met last time up in New York the reason why I chose you to put this project together.”
Quinton turned to him and said, “I wondered why at first, too. I’ve never put together a television show before.”
“I’m a big jazz music fan, as well as R & B. I realized that all of these albums I was buying the past couple of years had you as either the musical director or the producer,” Carter said. “Plus, I really wanted this show to highlight the possibilities of a fully integrated future, and so I wanted a Negro to be in charge, to assure its success.”
“Well, thanks, Governor,” Quinton said.
“Call me Carter, if you don’t mind,” Carter said.
They continued along the sidewalk, two men of different races, but with a common love for music, and occasionally passersby would look at them, askance, or out of curiosity. The visible signs of segregation might have been removed recently from public sight, but the invisible vestiges remained stained on the human condition. Their walk together was a small political act, a victory, in contrast to the defeat he had suffered the day earlier. But for Carter, the failure he had faced in the Senate paled as Quinton told him about all that he had planned for the show. Quinton sang an improvised version of the theme song he had written for the show, with the both of them laughing together as he finished.
“Oh, trust me, it sounds a lot better with the full orchestra playing it,” Quinton said.
“I can’t wait to see the finished product tomorrow, I’m very excited,” Carter assured him.
While the excitement that Carter felt was genuine, it was several orders of magnitude less than what he felt when he thought of what awaited him after 4:00, of seeing Gabriel in the flesh and not just in his daydreams. Quinton and Carter enjoyed a long lunch, exchanging stories about their travels in Europe and South America, their favorite Dizzy Gillespie tracks, and about racism in the United States.
“You know, Carter, everybody has to have somebody who they’re gonna hate, to scapegoat for their troubles. It’s hard to believe that even in Europe, that bastion of civilization, that they all have their petty prejudices against each other. It’s just human nature, I guess.”
Carter nodded, and then said leaning in, “I have a confession to make. Even I have my prejudices.”
“Oh?” Quinton said with a twinkle in his eye. “I do, too.”
Carter laughed, and then leaned back in to let him in on his secret, “I can’t stand the Southern Democrats.”
Quinton stared at him with a blank expression, and deadpanned, “I thought you were going to say the Irish.”
They both laughed.
“No, I have Irish Celtic blood somewhere on my mother’s side, so that would amount to self-hatred I suppose,” Carter said.
“I have a bit of blood from everywhere,” Quinton added, “But self-hatred is something that I wouldn’t expect from you.”
“Don’t underestimate its strength, the pressure that society puts on all of us to be someone that we aren’t, that we don’t want to be,” Carter said almost more to himself than to Quinton. He took a sip of his iced tea, and gazed around at the other patrons of the restaurant. Quinton was the only black customer, but the entire staff was black except for the maître d’. He looked at Quinton for a second, about to say something, and then hesitated.
“Go ahead, Carter,” Quinton laughed. “I’m not going to judge.”
Carter cleared his throat and said in a lowered voice, “Is it strange for you to be here in the South, to be the only Negro customer in a room full of whites?”
Before Quinton could respond, Carter interrupted and said, “I guess that’s a stupid question. You’ve been all over the world, and I’m sure you have been the only Negro in an office, or a café, or on a flight. I was just lost in my thoughts for a moment about how it is to be different from everyone else.”
Quinton didn’t say anything, but examined Carter for a moment. He looked out of the window, and then said, “You know, we’re all different in our own way. But we’re all the same, too. We all have our needs, and our wants. So don’t overthink it, man. You can’t let others tell you who you are. You got to tell them who you are.”
Carter sat quietly, thinking. When he’d played water polo under Coach Garrett, he had given his all and won. The same when he had run for office. Maybe he needed to push himself to the limit in his personal life as well, and make an effort to win at love. He glanced at his watch.
“It’s almost two o’clock, Quinton,” he said. “I don’t want to keep you any longer.”
As they walked back the short distance to the theatre, Carter made a final request. “I know that you reserved a box seat for me and my guest. Would you mind setting aside two more tickets in advance for me, wherever. I would like to leave it as a tip for my waitress back at the hotel.”
He made a few quick calls back to Columbia to follow up on messages Darren had left, and after entrusting the two tickets with the front desk for “that charming Negro waitress who helped me this morning,” Carter got back into his car and headed to the other side of the peninsula towards the Ashley River where the Citadel awaited him. The sun was already low in the sky, and flecks of sunlight brushed him as he passed beneath the palmetto trees and live oaks that bordered Calhoun Street. He had taken a bath, changed clothes back in the hotel, choosing a grey suit that he thought he looked particularly good in. He felt fresh, clean, and free like never before. Turning onto Ashley, as he approached the campus he saw cadets in formation in one of the fields, practicing marching in unison. A military snare drum echoed as a cadet major barked out instructions. He slowed down as he approached the campus and felt the tinge of scores of cadet eyes watch his dark blue French sedan furtively.
After a short walk to the commandant’s office he greeted President Clark, and sat patiently for Cadet Sawyers to appear. Carter felt as if he were waiting in the living room for his prom date to come down the stairway, and had to make small talk with her father. Before he embarrassed himself with an explanation as to why and he and Cadet Sawyers were leaving for an early evening off campus, there was a crisp rap on the door.
“Sir, Cadet Sawyers, sir,” Gabriel said stoically to President Clark, snapping to attention.
Clark gave him a salute and told him to be at ease, then said, “Cadet, Governor Ridge and I were just discussing the Leadership Program. I know that you excelled there this past spring and summer.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Gabriel replied.
A frisson of anticipation to break free from this rigid military atmosphere shivered through Carter, and he said, “Well, Commandant, I will take good care of Cadet Sawyers. While I have your attention, I’m going to need to have him join me tomorrow night as well. He was instrumental in putting together the logistics for The Southerners, the television show we are filming in town tomorrow.” He extended his hand in a parting gesture, and to finally leave the austere office.
“Governor, it was my pleasure, happy to accommodate,” Clark replied.
Carter stifled a grin as he and Gabriel stepped outside into the cool late afternoon air. The echo of their footsteps on the parade courtyard rebounded in tandem, and neither said anything until they were both in the Citroën, and the doors were closed.
“Well, that wasn’t too awkward, I hope,” Carter said, turning to Gabriel.
When he saw Gabriel gazing back at him with his green eyes, his chest heaved and he said softly, “Oh, I can’t believe you’re here with me.”
Gabriel brushed his hand onto Carter’s lap, touching his leg and said, “Let’s go.”
The Citroën skidded as Carter threw the car into a quick reverse and pulled out of the dirt parking lot, headed back towards town. Gabriel’s hand rested on Carter’s thigh, a gentle caress one moment, and then tightening into a harder grip as they turned a corner and picked up speed again. Instead of returning to downtown, Carter headed to the opposite side of the wide Ashley River, to James Island.
Neither said anything for the first few minutes, just the physical presence of the one with the other fed enough of their mutual latent hunger. Once Carter turned towards Folly Beach, he touched the back of Gabriel’s neck, stroking his head.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Gabriel turned and looked at him and smiled.
“Yeah,” he said, “I’m great. I feel like I’m in a dream and I don’t want to wake up.”
“Me, too,” Carter said. “You’re all I’ve been thinking about for the past, well, since I last saw you at the football game.”
“I thought it was just me,” Gabriel said. “I wrote you at least five letters, but didn’t send them because I was afraid. I don’t know what I was afraid of, maybe part of it is because I’ve never done this before with anyone. I don’t even know what I’m doing with you. I ask myself, ‘what does he see in me?’ and I worry that I would complicate your life.”
The country road was empty of traffic, with nobody headed to the beach in early November despite it being a weekend. As they pulled into the tiny beach community, Carter slowed down and said, “You are not a complication, Gabriel. You are far from it.”
He saw a beachfront seafood restaurant that was still open, and pulled into the parking lot. It was too early for dinner, and the lot was empty except for a couple of cars parked near the employee entrance. Carter parked opposite on the far side, next to the long pier and the access to the beach below. Before they got out of the car, Carter leaned over, and turning Gabriel’s head towards him, kissed him gently on the lips. Gabriel received it eagerly, and reciprocated with his tongue slowly entering Carter’s mouth, and his hand reaching deeper into Carter’s lap, gliding against the stiffness in his pants. The shadows fell long across the lot, shielding them but they were both aware that it was far too risky to continue. Gabriel pulled away.
“I have wanted that since I first saw you in the Governor’s office,” he said, his slight gap teeth gleaming in his smile.
Carter looked at his face, radiating joy, and felt a wave of protective devotion from Gabriel. He brushed his hand against Gabriel’s cheek, cupping his chin, and said, “Come on, let’s take a walk on the beach.”
They got out of the car, and walked down the several wooden steps from the parking lot to a path through the sea grass until they came upon the expanse of sand stretching in each direction, bounded by the steady crashing of the waves forty yards away. Sea gulls flew, catching the wind current above and gliding effortlessly in search of their next nibble. The beach was abandoned, there was only a family in the distance. Compacted almost like cement, the sand made their walk easy, except for the temptation for Carter to reach for Gabriel. Despite the caution they took, they kept close enough for their shoulders to occasionally touch.
“Tell me about yourself, Gabriel. I want to know everything about you,” Carter said.
They continued rambling along the white beach, with Gabriel telling him about his youth, growing up in a middle-class family in Spartanburg, the oldest of two brothers. His parents were affectionate to each other and to him and his brother, and while he had never experimented with a guy before, he had with a girl while in high school.
“We didn’t get very far, and I was pretty drunk,” he said.
“Did you want to with her?” Carter asked.
“Not really,” he said after reflecting for a moment, “I guess I just wanted to put the rumors to rest, to be able to brag about it.” He turned to Carter and said, “That sounds awful, doesn’t it?”
Carter laughed, and said, “Not at all. I think you and I both have had that same impulse to just to want to be with a girl and be done with it. To move on, for oneself, and for others.”
Gabriel nodded, and then asked, “What about you and Margot?”
“Ah, Margot,” Carter said. He rubbed his hand through his hair reflexively. They took a few more steps before he responded, “Margot and I are married, but in name only. She knows about me, and that’s why we’ve never consummated the relationship.”
“So,” Gabriel said.
“So, she has boyfriends on the side, certainly back in New York City, but most likely down here as well.”
“What about you?” he asked, turning to look at Carter. The sun had just set behind the sea grass and palmetto trees, and he no longer needed to squint. Carter gazed at his green eyes, innocent and inquisitive.
“I don’t have any boyfriends,” Carter said. “But I would like one,” he said. He turned to glance back at him with a smile.
“You’ve never had sex before?” Gabriel asked.
Carter grimaced, and said, “Yes, I have, but I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve messed around when I’ve traveled in Europe and South America, for example.” He didn’t want to talk about the several times he had cruised for sex in Columbia, or gone to the nondescript bar those nights when he felt lonely, desperate for the touch of another man, for the tenderness of a kiss, and the release of adrenaline in pursuit of pleasure. There was no point in describing his former life. Everything in the past had been prelude to this moment. It had all been practice for this walk on the beach with Gabriel.
Gabriel didn’t say anything. After an awkward minute of silence, Carter asked, “Does that bother you?”
He shook his head and said, “No, actually I was just wondering what those other men were like, how they compared to me.” He sighed and then turned to the ocean, watching the waves churn.
“I have nothing to offer you, Carter. I’m just a cadet, and when I finish my degree this spring, I’ll still be just this former student who —”
“— Loves to read the classics, has an amazing sense of humor, who has a good heart, and is incredibly handsome,” Carter said. “Gabriel, you’re perfect. Don’t worry.”
“But I do worry,” Gabriel interrupted. “I worry all of the time. Not that we get found out, which I guess I do worry about as well, but that I have nothing to offer you. Not only that, but our being together would jeopardize your entire future, your reputation.”
Carter put his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, to reassure him. When Gabriel turned back to him from having stared at the ocean, he had tears in his eyes.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said to Carter.
“You won’t, don’t worry.”
Gabriel sniffled quickly, and pulled out a handkerchief from his grey cadet’s uniform. He wiped his eyes, and then changing the subject, said, “I’m kind of hungry. Do you want to go back to that restaurant?”
Carter laughed and said, “Absolutely.”
They turned around and headed back from where they came, back towards the pier in the distance. A few more people were now on the beach, locals most likely whose beach homes abutted the ocean. These were “his people” he recalled, the residents of James Island, Folly Beach, and Charleston had voted overwhelmingly for him in the election, in some precincts giving him over eighty percent of the vote. He kept his sunglasses on as a reflex, to be incognito for as long as possible. The two of them continued their talk, learning about their childhoods and the stories that they had never told anyone else, revealing who they were at their core.
When they reached the beachfront restaurant through the main door, a friendly wind chime welcomed them as they entered, but also reminded them to reassert their public masks. Gabriel stood more rigidly, a step behind Carter who asked for a table for two, secluded from the public. The hostess didn’t recognize him at first, but once he asked for a table, beamed immediately and said, “Why yes, of course, Governor. It’s my pleasure.”
The rest of the early evening was spent sharing the Fisherman’s platter for two, and they each drank a bottle of ice-cold Pabst with the meal. Once night came, and the waitress had cleared their plates, Carter knew he needed to head back to reality. But it was a new reality they had created that night over fried shrimp, oysters, and sautéed scallops. When they left the back dining room for the main room in the restaurant, the gaze of two dozen tables watching him pay at the counter assaulted Carter and he put on his governor’s persona: smiling, winking, shaking hands, and waving as he left. Outside as they walked back to his car, they didn’t say anything. The dull roar of the invisible waves, buried in the spikey grass beyond the black pitch, called to him, like the ancient sirens singing for Odysseus. The reference came quickly to Carter, and he looked at Gabriel just as they arrived at the car, and said, “It’s tempting.”
Gabriel smiled back, and said, “What is? A swim?”
“No, it’s too cold,” Carter replied, unlocking the passenger door, then standing in front of Gabriel, whispered, “Come away with me, let’s leave it all behind.”
He leaned in for a kiss, in the darkened corner of the parking lot, and Gabriel turned away.
“Carter,” he said softly, “We can’t. Not here. Someone —”
Carter pulled him against his body, and kissed him before he could complete his sentence. Their lips opened and Carter reciprocated with his tongue, teasing Gabriel’s enough to elicit a response. They stood together, melting into the other, until Carter released him, and said, “You’re right. Not here.”