GARRETT WAS STILL gazing through his reflection in the window when Dovehouse entered the coffeehouse.
“Looking for something, old boy?” Dovehouse said.
Garrett, startled, turned from the window. He had not seen his old friend come in.
Dovehouse sat down in an empty chair at Garrett’s table.
“I have just come from the house,” he said. “Elizabeth said I might find you here. We had a charming conversation.”
Garrett returned his attention to his reflection.
“James,” Dovehouse said. “I am worried about you.”
Garrett blinked and looked at him.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes what?” Dovehouse said. “You are not yourself these days. Your mind is distracted—somewhere else. And I have noticed your shortness of breath.”
“I know, Benjamin,” Garrett said. “I know.”
Dovehouse raised his hand and snapped a finger in front of Garrett.
“What is it with you, man? Where is your mind wondering off to?”
Garrett remained silent, and neither of them spoke for some time. Then Dovehouse said:
“It’s the photograph, isn’t it?”
The photograph, Garrett thought. He could see the image in front of him.
“It is indeed the photograph,” Garrett replied. “It is everything. The photograph has resurrected everything.”
Dovehouse respectfully bowed his head.
“It was long ago, James … it was a long time ago.”
“I thought I would be able to forget,” Garrett said.
In that moment Garrett considered revealing the truth—about what was on the negative, and about what he had been remembering. Dovehouse, after all, had been his friend for forty years. He had been there throughout everything … through the first days of Garrett’s career, through the difficult debates of the fifties, through William Jeffrey’s passing, even through—
“I am remembering—” Garrett said.
Dovehouse leaned in closer.
“I am remembering my first days in Congress. That impossible time … and how I failed.”
“For God’s sake, Garrett!” Dovehouse stormed. “Not the California bill again! I know that it is your chief regret, but really, it was twenty years ago.”
“I failed,” Garrett said. “I failed her.”
“Failed who?” Dovehouse said. “Elizabeth?”
“She was the only one who would have stood by my decision.”
“And seen California lost?” Dovehouse said. “I find that hard to believe.”
“It was all lost,” Garrett said. “Everything was lost.”
Dovehouse shifted in his seat. He was becoming impatient again.
“Garrett, look at me,” he said. “This will not do. Everything is said and done, and the prosperity of the future lies before us. Your melancholy is quite uncalled for. It is time for you to forget, and move on.”
But now Dovehouse was asking for something more horrible. He wanted Garrett to commit an even greater sin.
“I will never forget!” Garrett said, striking the table.
“Old boy,” Dovehouse said, “there are some things you’d do better to forget. Sometimes the greater the injustice, the greater the need to bury it.”
Garrett bit down hard.
“I will not bury it,” he said. “We have been committing crimes against the people of this country for over two centuries. It is time that we take responsibility for our sins.”
“The people of this country?” Dovehouse said. “Sins? Against the negroes? By God, Garrett, when are you going to stop being such a damned fool? We may have majorities in Congress right now, and you may be able to push your laws through … but for heaven’s sake, you above all people must realize that this is a moment in time, and things will turn again.”
“We must see that that does not happen.”
“It will happen!” Dovehouse fumed. “It is only natural that it should happen!”
Yes, the old ghosts. Dovehouse would never let them speak.
“You’ve accomplished your task,” Dovehouse said. “The war is over—and free labor is the law of the land. But it’s a different world entirely down there, and they are determined to destroy anything you try to accomplish. You ask too much. It has always been your greatest strength, but also your greatest weakness.”
“Damn you,” Garrett said. “Damn all of you.”
Dovehouse’s cheek twitched before the calm came over his face.
“There will never be racial equality in this country. The sooner you and the rest of your radical cronies realize that, the sooner we can all move on.”
How had it come to this? How had a forty-year friendship, full of grand and healthy debate, reached such an impasse, so late in its life? How had Garrett and the man who knew nearly everything about him grown so far apart in such a short time? Perhaps it had not been such a short time at all, but a long time—like his marriage. While Garrett had spent the past decades advancing his career, the things most personal to him had been slowly disintegrating before his eyes.
A moment of silence followed Dovehouse’s remark, and both men glared at each other without moving. Then Dovehouse pushed his chair out and stood up like a marble soldier.
“Good day, old boy,” he said, and left.