George felt wary when he went to lunch with Larry Mawhinney at the Electric Diner. George was not sure why Larry had suggested this, but he agreed out of curiosity. He and Larry were the same age and had similar jobs: Larry was an aide in the office of air force chief of staff General Curtis LeMay. But their bosses were at loggerheads: the Kennedy brothers mistrusted the military.
Larry wore the uniform of an air force lieutenant. He was all soldier: clean shaven, with buzz-cut fair hair, his tie knotted tightly, his shoes shiny. “The Pentagon hates segregation,” he said.
George raised his eyebrows. “Really? I thought the army was traditionally reluctant to trust Negroes with guns.”
Mawhinney lifted a placatory hand. “I know what you mean. But, one, that attitude was always overtaken by necessity: Negroes have fought in every conflict since the War of Independence. And two, it’s history. The Pentagon today needs men of color in the military. And we don’t want the expense and inefficiency of segregation: two sets of bathrooms, two sets of barracks, prejudice and hatred between men who are supposed to be fighting side by side.”
“Okay, I buy that,” said George.
Larry cut into his grilled-cheese sandwich and George took a forkful of chili con carne. Larry said: “So, Khrushchev got what he wanted in Berlin.”
George sensed that this was the real subject of the lunch. “Thank God we don’t have to go to war with the Soviets,” he said.
“Kennedy chickened out,” Larry said. “The East German regime was close to collapse. There might have been a counterrevolution, if the president had taken a tougher line. But the Wall has stopped the flood of refugees to the West, and now the Soviets can do anything they like in East Berlin. Our West German allies are mad as hell about it.”
George bristled. “The president avoided World War Three!”
“At the cost of letting the Soviets tighten their grip. It’s not exactly a triumph.”
“Is that the Pentagon’s view?”
“Pretty much.”
Of course it was, George thought irritably. He now understood: Mawhinney was here to argue the Pentagon’s line, in the hope of winning George as a supporter. I should be flattered, he told himself: it shows that people now see me as part of Bobby’s inner circle.
But he was not going to listen to an attack on President Kennedy without hitting back. “I suppose I should expect nothing less of General LeMay. Don’t they call him ‘Bombs Away’ LeMay?”
Mawhinney frowned. If he found his boss’s nickname funny, he was not going to show it.
George thought the overbearing, cigar-chewing LeMay deserved mockery. “I believe he once said that if there’s a nuclear war, and at the end of it there are two Americans and one Russian left, then we’ve won.”
“I never heard him say anything like that.”
“Apparently President Kennedy told him: ‘You better hope the Americans are a man and a woman.’”
“We have to be strong!” Mawhinney said, beginning to get riled. “We’ve lost Cuba and Laos and East Berlin, and we’re in danger of losing Vietnam.”
“What do you imagine we can do about Vietnam?”
“Send in the army,” Larry said promptly.
“Don’t we already have thousands of military advisers there?”
“It’s not enough. The Pentagon has asked the president again and again to send in ground combat troops. It seems he doesn’t have the guts.”
That annoyed George because it was so unfair. “President Kennedy does not lack courage,” he snapped.
“Then why won’t he attack the Communists in Vietnam?”
“He doesn’t believe we can win.”
“He should listen to experienced and knowledgeable generals.”
“Should he? They told him to back the stupid Bay of Pigs invasion. If the Joint Chiefs are experienced and knowledgeable, how come they didn’t tell the president that an invasion by Cuban exiles was bound to fail?”
“We told him to send air cover—”
“Excuse me, Larry, but the whole idea was to avoid involving Americans. Yet as soon as it went wrong, the Pentagon wanted to send in the marines. The Kennedy brothers suspect you people of a sucker punch. You led him into a doomed invasion by exiles because you wanted to force him to send in U.S. troops.”
“That’s not true.”
“Maybe, but he thinks that now you’re trying to lure him into Vietnam by the same method. And he’s determined not to be fooled a second time.”
“Okay, so he’s got a grudge against us because of the Bay of Pigs. Seriously, George, is that a good enough reason to let Vietnam go Communist?”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
Mawhinney put down his knife and fork. “Do you want dessert?” He had realized he was wasting his time: George was never going to be a Pentagon ally.
“No dessert, thanks,” George said. He was in Bobby’s office to fight for justice, so that his children could grow up as American citizens with equal rights. Someone else would have to fight Communism in Asia.
Mawhinney’s face changed and he waved across the restaurant. George glanced back over his own shoulder and got a shock.
The person Mawhinney was waving at was Maria Summers.
She did not see him. She was already turning back to her companion, a white girl of about the same age.
“Is that Maria Summers?” he said incredulously.
“Yeah.”
“You know her.”
“Sure. We were at Chicago Law together.”
“What’s she doing in Washington?”
“Funny story. She was originally turned down for a job in the White House press office. Then the person they appointed didn’t work out, and she was the second choice.”
George was thrilled. Maria was in Washington—permanently! He made up his mind to speak to her before leaving the restaurant.
It occurred to him that he might find out more about her from Mawhinney. “Did you date her at law school?”
“No. She only went out with colored guys, and not many of them. She was known as an iceberg.”
George did not take that remark at face value. Any girl who said no was an iceberg, to some men. “Did she have anyone special?”
“There was one guy she was seeing for about a year, but he dumped her because she wouldn’t put out.”
“I’m not surprised,” George said. “She comes from a strict family.”
“How do you know that?”
“We were on the first Freedom Ride together. I talked to her a bit.”
“She’s pretty.”
“That’s the truth.”
They got the check and split it. On the way out George stopped at Maria’s table. “Welcome to Washington,” he said.
She smiled warmly. “Hello, George. I’ve been wondering how soon I’d run into you.”
Larry said: “Hi, Maria. I was just telling George how you were known as an iceberg at Chicago Law.” Larry laughed.
It was a typical male jibe, nothing unusual, but Maria flushed.
Larry walked out of the restaurant, but George stayed behind. “I’m sorry he said that, Maria. And I’m embarrassed that I heard it. It was really crass.”
“Thank you.” She gestured toward the other woman. “This is Antonia Capel. She’s a lawyer, too.”
Antonia was a thin, intense woman with hair severely drawn back. “Good to know you,” George said.
Maria said to Antonia: “George got a broken arm protecting me from an Alabama segregationist with a crowbar.”
Antonia was impressed. “George, you’re a real gentleman,” she said.
George saw that the girls were ready to leave: their check was on the table in a saucer, covered with a few bills. He said to Maria: “Can I walk you back to the White House?”
Antonia said: “I have to run to the drugstore.”
They stepped out into the mild air of a Washington autumn. Antonia waved good-bye. George and Maria headed for the White House.
George studied her out of the corner of his eye as they crossed Pennsylvania Avenue. She wore a smart black raincoat over a white turtleneck, clothing for a serious political operator, but she could not cover up her warm smile. She was pretty, with a small nose and chin, and her big brown eyes and soft lips were sexy.
“I was arguing with Mawhinney about Vietnam,” George said. “I think he hoped to persuade me as a way of indirectly getting to Bobby.”
“I’m sure of it,” said Maria. “But the president isn’t going to give in to the Pentagon on this.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s making a speech tonight saying that there are limits to what we can achieve in foreign policy. We cannot right every wrong or reverse every adversity. I’ve just written the press release for the speech.”
“I’m glad he’s going to stand firm.”
“George, you didn’t hear what I said. I wrote a press release! Don’t you understand how unusual that is? Normally the men write them. The women just type them out.”
George grinned. “Congratulations.” He was happy to be with her, and they had quickly slipped back into their friendly relationship.
“Mind you, I’ll find out what they think of it when I get back to the office. What’s happening at Justice?”
“It looks like our Freedom Ride really achieved something,” George said eagerly. “Soon all interstate buses will have a sign saying: ‘Seating aboard this vehicle is without regard to race, color, creed, or national origin.’ The same words have to be printed on bus tickets.” He was proud of this achievement. “How about that?”
“Well done.” But Maria asked the key question. “Will the ruling be enforced?”
“That’s up to us in Justice, and we’re trying harder than ever before. We’ve already acted several times to oppose the authorities in Mississippi and Alabama. And a surprising number of towns in other states are just giving in.”
“It’s hard to believe we’re really winning. The segregationists always seem to have another dirty trick in reserve.”
“Voter registration is our next campaign. Martin Luther King wants to double the number of black voters in the South by the end of the year.”
Maria said thoughtfully: “What we really need is a new civil rights bill that makes it difficult for Southern states to defy the law.”
“We’re working on that.”
“So you’re telling me Bobby Kennedy is a civil rights supporter?”
“Hell, no. A year ago the issue wasn’t even on his agenda. But Bobby and the president hated those photographs of white mob violence in the South. They made the Kennedys look bad on the front pages of newspapers all over the world.”
“And global politics is what they really care about.”
“Exactly.”
George wanted to ask her for a date, but he held back. He was going to break up with Norine Latimer as soon as possible: that was inevitable, now that Maria was here. But he felt he had to tell Norine their romance was over before he asked Maria out. Anything else would seem dishonest. And the delay would not be long: he would see Norine within a few days.
They entered the West Wing. Black faces in the White House were unusual enough for people to stare at them. They went to the press office. George was surprised to find it a small room jammed with desks. Half a dozen people worked intently with gray Remington typewriters and phones with rows of flashing lights. From an adjoining room came the chatter of teletype machines, punctuated by the bells they rang to herald particularly important messages. There was an inner office that George presumed must belong to press secretary Pierre Salinger.
Everyone seemed to be concentrating hard, no one chatting or looking out of the window.
Maria showed him her desk and introduced the woman at the next typewriter, an attractive redhead in her midthirties. “George, this is my friend Miss Fordham. Nelly, why is everyone so quiet?”
Before Nelly could answer, Salinger came out of his office, a small, chubby man in a tailored European-style suit. With him was President Kennedy.
The president smiled at everyone, nodded to George, and spoke to Maria. “You must be Maria Summers,” he said. “You’ve written a good press release—clear and emphatic. Well done.”
Maria flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
He seemed in no hurry. “What were you doing before you came here?” He asked the question as if there was nothing in the world more interesting.
“I was at Chicago Law.”
“Do you like it in the press office?”
“Oh, yes, it’s exciting.”
“Well, I appreciate your good work. Keep it up.”
“I’ll do my very best.”
The president went out, and Salinger followed.
George looked at Maria with amusement. She seemed dazed.
After a moment, Nelly Fordham spoke. “Yeah, it takes you like that,” she said. “For a minute there, you were the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Maria looked at her. “Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly how I felt.”
• • •
Maria was a little lonely, but otherwise happy.
She loved working at the White House, surrounded by bright, sincere people who wanted only to make the world a better place. She felt she could achieve a lot in government. She knew she would have to struggle with prejudice—against women and against Negroes—but she believed she could overcome that with intelligence and determination.
Her family had a history of prevailing against the odds. Her grandfather, Saul Summers, had walked to Chicago from his hometown of Golgotha, Alabama. On the way he had been arrested for “vagrancy” and sentenced to thirty days’ labor in a coal mine. While there, he saw a man clubbed to death by guards for trying to escape. After thirty days he was not released, and when he complained he was flogged. He risked his life, escaped, and made it to Chicago. There he eventually became pastor of the Bethlehem Full Gospel Church. Now eighty years old, he was semiretired, still preaching occasionally.
Maria’s father, Daniel, had gone to a Negro college and law school. In 1930, in the Depression, he had opened a storefront law firm in the South Side neighborhood, where no one could afford a postage stamp, let alone a lawyer. Maria had often heard him reminisce about how his clients had paid him in kind: homemade cakes, eggs from their backyard hens, a free haircut, some carpentry around his office. By the time Roosevelt’s New Deal kicked in and the economy improved, he was the most popular black lawyer in Chicago.
So Maria was not afraid of adversity. But she was lonely. Everyone around her was white. Grandfather Summers often said: “There’s nothing wrong with white people. They just ain’t black.” She knew what he meant. White people did not know about “vagrancy.” Somehow it slipped their minds that Alabama had continued to send Negroes to forced labor camps until 1927. If she spoke about such things, they looked sad for a moment, then turned away, and she knew they thought she was exaggerating. Black people who talked about prejudice were boring to whites, like sick people who recited their symptoms.
She had been delighted to see George Jakes again. She would have sought him out as soon as she got to Washington, except that a modest girl did not chase after a man, no matter how charming he was; and anyway she would not have known what to say. She liked George more than any man she had met since she broke up with Frank Baker two years ago. She would have married Frank if he had asked her, but he wanted sex without marriage, a proposal she had rejected. When George had walked her back to the press office, she had felt sure he was about to ask her for a date, and she had been disappointed when he had not.
She shared an apartment with two black girls, but did not have much in common with them. Both were secretaries, and mainly interested in fashions and movies.
Maria was used to being exceptional. There had not been many black women at her college, and at law school she had been the only one. Now she was the only black woman in the White House, not counting cleaners and cooks. She had no complaints: everyone was friendly. But she was lonely.
On the morning after she met George she was studying a speech by Fidel Castro, looking for nuggets the press office could use, when her phone rang and a man said: “Would you like to go swimming?”
The flat Boston accent was familiar, but she could not identify it for a moment. “Who is this?”
“Dave.”
It was Dave Powers, the president’s personal aide, sometimes called the First Friend. Maria had spoken to him two or three times. Like most people in the White House, he was amiable and charming.
But now Maria was taken by surprise. “Where?” she said.
He laughed. “Here in the White House, of course.”
She recalled that there was a pool in the west gallery, between the White House and the West Wing. She had never seen it, but she knew it had been built for President Roosevelt. She had heard that President Kennedy liked to swim at least once a day because the water relieved the pressure on his bad back.
Dave added: “There will be some other girls.”
Maria’s first thought was of her hair. Just about every black woman in an office job wore a hairpiece or a wig to work. Blacks and whites alike felt that the natural look of black hair just was not businesslike. Today Maria had a beehive, with a hairpiece carefully braided into her own hair, which itself had been relaxed with chemicals to mimic the smooth, straight texture of white women’s hair. It was not a secret: it would be obvious to every black woman who glanced at her. But a white man such as Dave would never even notice.
How could she go swimming? If she got her hair wet it would turn into a mess that she would not be able to rescue.
She was too embarrassed to say what the problem was, but she quickly thought of an excuse. “I don’t have a swimsuit.”
“We have swimsuits,” Dave replied. “I’ll pick you up at noon.” He hung up.
Maria looked at her watch. It was ten to twelve.
What was she going to do? Would she be allowed to ease herself carefully into the water at the shallow end, and keep her hair dry?
She had asked all the wrong questions, she realized. She really needed to know why she had been invited and what might be expected of her—and whether the president would be there.
She looked at the woman at the next desk. Nelly Fordham was a single woman who had worked at the White House for a decade. She hinted that years ago she had been disappointed in love. She had been helpful to Maria from the start. Now she was looking curious. “‘I don’t have a swimsuit’?” she quoted.
“I’m invited to the president’s pool,” Maria said. “Should I go?”
“Of course! Just as long as you tell me all about it when you come back.”
Maria lowered her voice. “He said there will be some other girls. Do you think the president will be there?”
Nelly looked around, but no one was listening. “Does Jack Kennedy like to swim surrounded by pretty girls?” she said. “No prizes for answering that one.”
Maria still was not sure whether to go. Then she remembered Larry Mawhinney calling her an iceberg. That had stung. She was not an iceberg. She was a virgin at twenty-five because she had never met a man to whom she wanted to give herself body and soul, but she was not frigid.
Dave Powers appeared at the door and said: “Coming?”
“Heck, yes,” said Maria.
Dave walked her along the arcade at the edge of the Rose Garden to the pool entrance. Two other girls arrived at the same time. Maria had seen them before, always together: both were White House secretaries. Dave introduced them. “Meet Jennifer and Geraldine, known as Jenny and Jerry,” he said.
The girls led Maria into a changing room where a dozen or more swimsuits hung on hooks. Jenny and Jerry stripped off quickly. Maria noticed that both had superb figures. She did not often see white girls naked. Although blondes, both had dark pubic hair in a neat triangle. Maria wondered whether they trimmed it with scissors. She had never thought of doing that.
The swimsuits were all one-pieces and made of cotton. Maria rejected the more flamboyant colors and picked a modest dark navy. Then she followed Jenny and Jerry to the pool.
The walls on three sides were painted with Caribbean scenes, palm trees and sailing ships. The fourth wall was mirrored, and Maria checked her reflection. She was not too fat, she thought, except for her ass, which was too big. The navy blue looked good against her dark-brown skin.
She noticed a table of drinks and sandwiches to one side. She was too nervous to eat.
Dave was sitting on the edge, barefoot with his pants rolled up, paddling his feet in the water. Jenny and Jerry were bobbing around, talking and laughing. Maria sat opposite Dave and put her feet in. The pool was as warm as a bath.
A minute later, President Kennedy appeared, and Maria’s heart beat faster.
He was wearing the usual dark suit, white shirt, and narrow tie. He stood at the edge, smiling at the girls. Maria caught a lemon whiff of his 4711 cologne. He said: “Mind if I join you?” just as if it was their pool, not his.
Jenny said: “Please do!” She and Jerry were not surprised to see him, and Maria deduced that this was not the first time they had swum with the president.
He went into the dressing room and came out again wearing blue swimming trunks. He was lean and tanned, in great shape for a man of forty-four, probably on account of all the sailing he did at Hyannis Port on Cape Cod, where he had a holiday home. He sat on the edge, then eased himself into the water with a sigh.
He swam for a few minutes. Maria wondered what her mother would say. Ma would disapprove of her daughter going swimming with a married man if he were anyone other than the president. But surely nothing bad could happen here, in the White House, in front of Dave Powers and Jenny and Jerry?
The president swam over to where she sat. “How are you getting on in the press office, Maria?” He asked this as if it were the most important question in the world.
“Fine, thank you, sir.”
“Is Pierre a good boss?”
“Very good. Everyone likes him.”
“I like him, too.”
This close, Maria could see the faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the touch of gray in his thick red-brown hair. His eyes were not quite blue, she saw; more like hazel.
He knew she was scrutinizing him, she thought, and he did not mind. Perhaps he was used to it. Perhaps he liked it. He smiled and said: “What kind of work are you doing?”
“A mixture.” She was overwhelmingly flattered. Maybe he was just being nice, but he seemed genuinely interested in her. “Mostly I do research for Pierre. This morning I’ve been combing through a speech by Castro.”
“Rather you than me. His speeches are long!”
Maria laughed. In the back of her mind a voice said, The president is joking with me about Fidel Castro! In a swimming pool! She said: “Sometimes Pierre asks me to write a press release, which is the part I like best.”
“Tell him to give you more releases to write. You’re good at it.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”
“You’re from Chicago, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are you living now?”
“In Georgetown. I share an apartment with two girls who work in the State Department.”
“Sounds good. Well, I’m glad you’re settled. I value your work, and I know Pierre does too.”
He turned and talked to Jenny, but Maria did not hear what he said. She was too excited. The president remembered her name; he knew she was from Chicago; he thought highly of her work. And he was so attractive. She felt light enough to float up to the moon.
Dave looked at his watch and said: “Twelve thirty, Mr. President.”
Maria could not believe she had been here for half an hour. It seemed like two minutes. But the president got out of the pool and went into the changing room.
The three girls got out. “Have a sandwich,” Dave said. They all went to the table. Maria tried to eat something—this was her lunch break—but her stomach seemed to have shrunk to nothing. She drank a bottle of sugary soda pop.
Dave left, and the three girls changed back into their work clothes. Maria looked in the mirror. Her hair was a little damp, from the humidity, but it was still perfectly in place.
She said good-bye to Jenny and Jerry, then went back to the press office. On her desk was a thick report on health care and a note from Salinger asking for a two-page summary in an hour.
She caught the eye of Nelly, who said: “Well? What was that all about?”
Maria thought for a moment, then said: “I have no idea.”
• • •
George Jakes got a message asking him to drop in on Joseph Hugo at FBI headquarters. Hugo was now working as personal assistant to FBI director J. Edgar Hoover. The message said that the Bureau had important information about Martin Luther King that Hugo wished to share with the attorney general’s staff.
Hoover hated Martin Luther King. Not a single FBI agent was black. Hoover hated Bobby Kennedy, too. He hated a lot of people.
George considered refusing to go. The last thing he wanted was to speak to that creep Hugo, who had betrayed the civil rights movement and George personally. George’s arm still hurt occasionally from the injury he had received in Anniston while Hugo looked on, chatting to the police and smoking.
On the other hand, if it was bad news George wanted to hear it first. Perhaps the FBI had caught King out in an extramarital affair, or something of that kind. George would welcome the chance to manage the dissemination of any negative information about the civil rights movement. He did not want someone such as Dennis Wilson spreading the word. For that reason he would have to see Hugo, and probably suffer his gloating.
FBI headquarters was on another floor of the Justice Department building. George found Hugo in a small office near the director’s suite of rooms. Hugo had a short FBI haircut and wore a plain midgray suit with a white nylon shirt and a navy blue tie. On his desk was a pack of menthol cigarettes and a file folder.
“What do you want?” said George.
Hugo grinned. He could not conceal his pleasure. He said: “One of Martin Luther King’s advisers is a Communist.”
George was shocked. This accusation could blight the entire civil rights movement. He felt cold with worry. You could never prove that someone was not a Communist—and anyway, the truth hardly mattered: just the suggestion was deadly. Like the accusation of witchcraft in the Middle Ages, it was an easy way to stir up hatred among stupid and ignorant people.
“Who is this adviser?” George asked Hugo.
Hugo looked at a file, as if he had to refresh his memory. “Stanley Levison,” he said.
“That doesn’t sound like a Negro name.”
“He’s a Jew.” Hugo took a photograph from the file and handed it over.
George saw an undistinguished white face with receding hair and large spectacles. The man was wearing a bow tie. George had met King and his people in Atlanta, and none of them looked like this. “Are you sure he works for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference?”
“I didn’t say he worked for King. He’s a New York attorney. Also a successful businessman.”
“So in what sense is he an ‘adviser’ to Dr. King?”
“He helped King get his book published, and defended him from a tax-evasion lawsuit in Alabama. They don’t meet often, but they talk on the phone.”
George sat upright. “How would you know a thing like that?”
“Sources,” Hugo said smugly.
“So, you claim that Dr. King sometimes telephones a New York attorney and gets advice on tax and publishing matters.”
“From a Communist.”
“How do you know he’s a Communist?”
“Sources.”
“What sources?”
“We can’t reveal the identities of informants.”
“You can to the attorney general.”
“You’re not the attorney general.”
“Do you know Levison’s card number?”
“What?” Hugo was momentarily flustered.
“Communist Party members have a card, as you know. Each card has a number. What’s Levison’s card number?”
Hugo pretended to search for it. “I don’t think that’s in this file.”
“So you can’t prove Levison is a Communist.”
“We don’t need proof,” Hugo said, showing irritation. “We’re not going to prosecute him. We’re simply informing the attorney general of our suspicions, as is our duty.”
George’s voice rose. “You’re blackening Dr. King’s name by claiming that a lawyer he consulted is a Communist—and you offer no evidence whatsoever?”
“You’re right,” said Hugo, surprising George. “We need more evidence. That’s why we’ll be asking for a wiretap on Levison’s phone.” The attorney general had to authorize wiretaps. “The file is for you.” He proffered it.
George did not take it. “If you wiretap Levison you’ll be listening to some of Dr. King’s calls.”
Hugo shrugged. “People who talk to Communists take the risk of being wiretapped. Anything wrong with that?”
George thought there was something wrong with that, in a free country, but he did not say so. “We don’t know that Levison is a Communist.”
“So we need to find out.”
George took the file, stood up, and opened the door.
Hugo said: “Hoover will undoubtedly mention this next time he meets with Bobby. So don’t try to keep it to yourself.”
That thought had crossed George’s mind, but now he said: “Of course not.” It had been a bad idea anyway.
“So what will you do?”
“I’ll tell Bobby,” George said. “He’ll decide.” He left the room.
He went up in the elevator to the fifth floor. Several Justice Department officials were just coming out of Bobby’s office. George looked in. As usual, Bobby had his jacket off, his shirtsleeves rolled, and his glasses on. He had evidently just finished a meeting. George checked his watch: he had a few minutes before his next meeting. He walked in.
Bobby greeted him warmly. “Hi, George, how are things with you?”
It had been like this ever since the day George had imagined Bobby was about to hit him. Bobby treated him like a bosom pal. George wondered if that was a pattern. Maybe Bobby had to quarrel with someone before becoming close.
“Bad news,” George said.
“Sit down and tell me.”
George closed the door. “Hoover says he’s found a Communist in Martin Luther King’s circle.”
“Hoover is a troublemaking cocksucker,” said Bobby.
George was startled. Did Bobby mean that Hoover was queer? It seemed impossible. Maybe Bobby was just being insulting. “Name of Stanley Levison,” George said.
“Who is he?”
“A lawyer Dr. King has consulted about tax and other matters.”
“In Atlanta?”
“No, Levison is based in New York.”
“It doesn’t sound like he’s really close to King.”
“I don’t believe he is.”
“But that hardly matters,” Bobby said wearily. “Hoover can always make it sound worse than it is.”
“The FBI says Levison is a Communist, but they won’t tell me what evidence they have, though they might tell you.”
“I don’t want to know anything about their sources of information.” Bobby held up his hands, palms outward, in a defensive gesture. “I’d be blamed for every goddamn leak forever after.”
“They don’t even have Levison’s party card number.”
“They don’t fucking know,” Bobby said. “They’re just guessing. But it makes no difference. People will believe it.”
“What are we going to do?”
“King has to break with Levison,” Bobby said decisively. “Otherwise Hoover will leak this, King will be damaged, and the whole civil rights mess will just get worse.”
George did not think of the civil rights campaign as a “mess,” but the Kennedy brothers did. However, that was not the point. Hoover’s accusation was a threat that had to be dealt with, and Bobby was right: the simplest solution was for King to break with Levison. “But how are we going to get Dr. King to do that?” George asked.
Bobby said: “You’re going to fly down to Atlanta and tell him to.”
George was daunted. Martin Luther King was famous for defying authority, and George knew from Verena that in private as well as in public King could not easily be talked into anything. But George hid his apprehension behind a calm veneer. “I’ll call now and make an appointment.” He went to the door.
“Thank you, George,” Bobby said with evident relief. “It’s so great to be able to rely on you.”
• • •
The day after she went swimming with the president, Maria picked up the phone and heard the voice of Dave Powers again. “There’s a staff get-together at five thirty,” he said. “Would you like to come?”
Maria and her flatmates had plans to see Audrey Hepburn and the dishy George Peppard in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. But junior White House staffers did not say no to Dave Powers. The girls would have to drool over Peppard without her. “Where do I go?” she said.
“Upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” That usually meant the president’s private residence.
“I’ll pick you up.” Dave hung up.
Maria immediately wished she had put on a more fancy outfit today. She was wearing a plaid pleated skirt and a plain white blouse with little gold-colored buttons. Her hairpiece was a simple bob, short in the back with long scimitars of hair either side of her chin, in the current fashion. She feared she looked like every other office girl in Washington.
She spoke to Nelly. “Have you been invited to a staff get-together this evening?”
“Not me,” said Nelly. “Where is it?”
“Upstairs.”
“Lucky you.”
At five fifteen, Maria went to the ladies’ room to adjust her hair and makeup. She noticed that none of the other women were making any special effort, and she deduced that they had not been invited. Perhaps the get-together was for the newest recruits.
At five thirty, Nelly picked up her handbag to leave. “You take care of yourself, now,” she said to Maria.
“You, too.”
“No, I mean it,” said Nelly, and she walked out before Maria could ask what she meant by that.
Dave Powers appeared a minute later. He led her out of doors, along the West Colonnade, past the entrance to the pool, then back inside and up in an elevator.
The doors opened on a grand hallway with two chandeliers. The walls were painted a color between blue and green that Maria thought might be called eau de nil. She hardly had time to take it in. “We’re in the West Sitting Hall,” Dave said, and led her through an open doorway into an informal room with a scatter of comfortable couches and a large arched window facing the sunset.
The same two secretaries were here, Jenny and Jerry, but no one else. Maria sat down, wondering whether others were going to join them. On the coffee table was a tray with cocktail glasses and a jug. “Have a daiquiri,” Dave said, and poured it without waiting for her answer. Maria did not drink alcohol often, but she sipped it and liked it. She took a cheese puff from the tray of snacks. What was this all about?
“Will the First Lady be joining us?” she asked. “I’m longing to meet her.”
There was a moment of silence, making her feel as if she had said something tactless; then Dave said: “Jackie’s gone to Glen Ora.”
Glen Ora was a farm in Middleburg, Virginia, where Jackie Kennedy kept horses and rode with the Orange County Hunt. It was about an hour from Washington.
Jenny said: “She’s taken Caroline and John John.”
Caroline Kennedy was four and John John was one.
If I were married to him, Maria thought, I wouldn’t leave him to ride my horse.
Suddenly he walked in, and they all stood up.
He looked tired and strained, but his smile was as warm as ever. He took off his jacket, threw it over the back of a chair, sat on the couch, leaned back, and put his feet on the coffee table.
Maria felt she had been admitted to the most exclusive social group in the world. She was in the president’s home, having drinks and snacks while he put his feet up. Whatever else happened, she would always have the memory of this.
She drained her glass, and Dave topped it up.
Why was she thinking, Whatever else happened? There was something off here. She was just a researcher, hoping for an early promotion to assistant press officer. The atmosphere was relaxed, but she was not really among friends. None of these people knew anything about her. What was she doing here?
The president stood up and said: “Maria, would you like a tour of the residence?”
A tour of the residence? From the president himself? Who would say no?
“Of course.” She stood up. The daiquiri went to her head, and for a moment she felt dizzy, but it passed.
The president went through a side door, and she followed.
“This used to be a guest bedroom, but Mrs. Kennedy has converted it into a dining room,” he said. The room was papered with battle scenes from the American Revolution. The square table in the middle looked too small for the room, Maria thought, and the chandelier too big for the table. But mostly she thought: I’m alone with the president in the White House residence—me! Maria Summers!
He smiled and looked into her eyes. “What do you think?” he said, as if he could not make up his own mind until he had heard her opinion.
“I love it,” she said, wishing she could think of a more intelligent compliment.
“This way.” He led her back across the West Sitting Hall and through the opposite door. “This is Mrs. Kennedy’s bedroom,” he said, and he closed the door behind them.
“It’s beautiful,” Maria breathed.
Opposite the door were two long windows with light-blue drapes. To Maria’s left was a fireplace with a couch placed on a rug patterned with the same blue. Over the mantel was a collection of framed drawings that looked tasteful and highbrow, just like Jackie. At the other end, the bedcovers and the canopy also matched, as did the cloth that covered the round occasional table in the corner. Maria had never seen a room like it, even in magazines.
But she was thinking: Why did he call it “Mrs. Kennedy’s bedroom”? Did he not sleep here? The big double bed was made up in two separate halves, and Maria recalled that the president had to have a hard mattress because of his back.
He led her to the window and they looked out. The evening light was soft over the South Lawn and the fountain where the Kennedy children sometimes paddled. “So beautiful,” Maria said.
He put a hand on her shoulder. It was the first time he had touched her, and she trembled a little with the thrill. She smelled his cologne, close enough now to pick up the rosemary and musk under the citrus. He looked at her with the faint smile that was so alluring. “This is a very private room,” he murmured.
She looked into his eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. She felt a deep sense of intimacy with him, as if she had known him all her life, as if she knew beyond doubt that she could trust and love him without limit. She had a momentary guilty thought about George Jakes. But George had not even asked her for a date. She put him out of her mind.
The president put his other hand on the opposite shoulder and gently pushed her back. When her legs touched the bed she sat down.
He pushed her farther back, until she had to lean on her elbows. Still gazing into her eyes, he began to undo her blouse. For a moment she felt ashamed of those cheap gold-colored buttons, here in this unspeakably elegant room. Then he put his hands on her breasts.
Suddenly she hated the nylon brassiere that came between his skin and hers. Swiftly she undid the rest of the buttons, slipped her blouse off, reached behind her back to undo her bra, and threw that aside too. He gazed adoringly at her breasts, then took them in his soft hands, stroking them gently at first, then grasping them firmly.
He reached under her plaid skirt and pulled down her panties. She wished she had remembered to trim her pubic hair, as Jenny and Jerry did.
He was breathing hard, and so was she. He unfastened his suit pants and dropped them, then he lay on top of her.
Was it always this quick? She did not know.
He entered her smoothly. Then, feeling resistance, he stopped. “Haven’t you done this before?” he said with surprise.
“No.”
“Yes.” She was more than okay. She was happy, eager, yearning.
He pushed more gently. Something gave way, and she felt a sharp pain. She could not suppress a soft cry.
“Are you okay?” he repeated.
“Yes.” She did not want him to stop.
He continued with closed eyes. She studied his face, the look of concentration, the smile of pleasure. Then he gave a sigh of satisfaction, and it was over.
He stood upright and pulled up his pants.
Smiling, he said: “The bathroom is through there.” He pointed to a door in the corner, then did up his fly.
Suddenly Maria felt embarrassed, lying on the bed with her nakedness exposed to view. She stood up quickly. She grabbed her blouse and bra, stooped to pick up her panties, and ran into the bathroom.
She looked in the mirror and said: “What just happened?”
I lost my virginity, she thought. I had intercourse with a wonderful man. He happens to be the president of the United States. I enjoyed it.
She put her clothes on, then adjusted her makeup. Fortunately he had not mussed her hair.
This is Jackie’s bathroom, she thought guiltily; and suddenly she wanted to leave.
The bedroom was empty. She went to the door, then turned and looked back at the bed.
She realized he had not once kissed her.
She went into the West Sitting Hall. The president sat there alone, his feet up on the coffee table. Dave and the girls had gone, leaving behind a tray of used glasses and the remains of the snacks. Kennedy seemed relaxed, as if nothing momentous had happened. Was this an everyday occurrence for him?
“Would you like something to eat?” he said. “The kitchen’s right here.”
“No, thank you, Mr. President.”
She thought: He just fucked me, and I’m still calling him Mr. President.
He stood up. “There’s a car at the South Portico waiting to take you home,” he said. He walked her out into the main hall. “Are you okay?” he said for the third time.
“Yes.”
The elevator came. She wondered if he would kiss her good night.
He did not. She got into the elevator.
“Good night, Maria,” he said.
“Good night,” she said, and the doors closed.
• • •
It took a while for George to tell Norine Latimer that their affair was over.
He was dreading it.
He had broken up with girls before, of course. After one or two dates it was easy: you just didn’t call. After a longer relationship, in his experience, the feeling was usually mutual: both of you knew that the thrill had gone. But Norine fell between the two extremes. He had been seeing her only for a few months, and they were getting on fine. He had been hoping that they would spend a night together soon. She would not be expecting the brush-off.
He met her for lunch. She asked to be taken to the restaurant in the basement of the White House, known as the mess, but women were not allowed in. George did not want to take her somewhere swanky such as the Jockey Club, for fear she would imagine he was about to propose. In the end they went to Old Ebbitt’s, a traditional politicians’ restaurant that had seen better days.
Norine looked more Arabic than African. She was dramatically handsome, with wavy black hair and olive skin and a curved nose. She wore a fluffy sweater that really did not suit her: George guessed she was trying not to intimidate her boss. Men were uncomfortable with authoritative-looking women in their offices.
“I’m really sorry about canceling last night,” he said when they had ordered. “I was summoned to a meeting with the president.”
“Well, I can’t compete with the president,” she said.
That struck him as kind of a dumb thing to say. Of course she couldn’t compete with the president; no one could. But he did not want to get into that discussion. He went right to the point. “Something’s happened,” he said. “Before I met you, there was another girl.”
“I know,” said Norine.
“What do you mean?”
“I like you, George,” Norine said: “You’re smart and funny and kind. And you’re handsome, apart from that ear.”
“But . . .”
“But I can tell when a man is carrying a torch for someone else.”
“You can?”
“I guess it’s Maria,” said Norine.
George was astonished. “How the heck did you know that?”
“You’ve mentioned the name four or five times. And you’ve never talked about any other girl from your past. So it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she’s still important to you. But she’s in Chicago, so I thought maybe I could win you away from her.” Norine suddenly looked sad.
George said: “She’s come to Washington.”
“Smart girl.”
“Not for me. For a job.”
“Whichever, you’re dumping me for her.”
He could hardly say yes to that. But it was true, so he said nothing.
Their food came, but Norine did not pick up her fork. “I wish you well, George,” she said. “Take care of yourself.”
It seemed very sudden. “Uh . . . you too.”
She stood up. “Good-bye.”
There was only one thing to say. “Good-bye, Norine.”
“You can have my salad,” she said, and she walked out.
George toyed with his food for a few minutes, feeling bad. Norine had been gracious, in her own way. She had made it easy for him. He hoped she was okay. She did not deserve to be hurt.
He went from the restaurant to the White House. He had to attend the President’s Committee on Equal Employment Opportunity, chaired by Vice President Lyndon Johnson. George had formed an alliance with one of Johnson’s advisers, Skip Dickerson. But he had half an hour to spare before the meeting started, so he went to the press office in search of Maria.
Today she was wearing a polka-dot dress with a matching hair band. The band was probably holding in place a wig: Maria’s cute bob was definitely not natural.
When she asked him how he was, he did not know how to answer. He felt guilty about Norine; but now he could ask Maria out with a good conscience. “Pretty good, on balance,” he said. “You?”
She lowered her voice. “Some days I just hate white people.”
“What brought this on?”
“You haven’t met my grandfather.”
“Never met any of your family.”
“Grandpa still preaches in Chicago now and again, but he spends most of his time in his hometown, Golgotha, Alabama. Says he never really got used to the cold wind in the Midwest. But he’s still feisty. He put on his best suit and went down to the Golgotha courthouse to register to vote.”
“What happened?”
“They humiliated him.” She shook her head. “You know their tricks. They give people a literacy test: you have to read part of the state constitution aloud, explain it, then write it down. The registrar picks which clause you have to read. He gives whites a simple sentence, like: ‘No person shall be imprisoned for debt.’ But Negroes get a long complicated paragraph that only a lawyer could understand. Then it’s up to the registrar to say whether you’re literate or not, and of course he always decides the whites are literate and the Negroes aren’t.”
“Sons of bitches.”
“That’s not all. Negroes who try to register get fired from their jobs, as a punishment, but they couldn’t do that to Grandpa because he’s retired. So, as he was leaving the courthouse, they arrested him for loitering. He spent the night in jail—no picnic when you’re eighty.” There were tears in her eyes.
The story hardened George’s resolve. What did he have to complain about? So, some of the things he had to do made him want to wash his hands. Working for Bobby was still the most effective thing he could do for people like Grandpa Summers. One day those Southern racists would be smashed.
He looked at his watch. “I have a meeting with Lyndon.”
“Maybe I will.” The time George spent with Maria always seemed too short. “I’m sorry to hurry away, but do you want to meet up after work?” he said. “We could have drinks, maybe go for dinner somewhere?”
She smiled. “Thank you, George, but I have a date tonight.”
“Oh.” George was taken aback. Somehow it had not occurred to him that she might already be dating. “Uh, I have to go to Atlanta tomorrow, but I’ll be back in two or three days. Maybe over the weekend?”
“No, thanks.” She hesitated, then explained: “I’m kind of going steady.”
George was devastated—which was stupid: why would a girl as attractive as Maria not have a steady date? He had been a fool. He felt disoriented, as if he had lost his footing. He managed to say: “Lucky guy.”
She smiled. “It’s nice of you to say so.”
George wanted to know about the competition. “Who is he?”
“You don’t know him.”
No, but I will as soon as I can learn his name. “Try me.”
She shook her head. “I prefer not to say.”
George was frustrated beyond measure. He had a rival and did not even know the man’s name. He wanted to press her, but he was wary of acting like a bully: girls hated that. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. With massive insincerity he added: “Have a great evening.”
“I sure will.”
They separated, Maria heading for the press office and George toward the vice president’s rooms.
George was heartsick. He liked Maria more than any girl he had ever met, and he had lost her to someone else.
He thought: I wonder who he is?
• • •
Maria took off her clothes and got into the bath with President Kennedy.
Jack Kennedy took pills all day but nothing relieved his back pain like being in water. He even shaved in the tub in the mornings. He would have slept in a pool if he could.
This was his bathtub, in his bathroom, with his turquoise-and-gold bottle of 4711 cologne on the shelf over the washbasin. Since the first time, Maria had never been back inside Jackie’s quarters. The president had a separate bedroom and bathroom, connected to Jackie’s suite by a short corridor where—for some reason—the record player was housed.
Jackie was out of town, again. Maria had learned not to torture herself with thoughts of her lover’s wife. Maria knew she was cruelly betraying a decent woman, and it grieved her, so she did not think about it.
Maria loved the bathroom, which was luxurious beyond dreams, with soft towels and white bathrobes and expensive soap—and a family of yellow rubber ducks.
They had slipped into a routine. Whenever Dave Powers invited her, which was about once a week, she would take the elevator up to the residence after work. There was always a pitcher of daiquiris and a tray of snacks waiting in the West Sitting Hall. Sometimes Dave was there, sometimes Jenny and Jerry, sometimes no one. Maria would pour a drink and wait, eager but patient, until the president arrived.
Soon afterward they would move to the bedroom. It was Maria’s favorite place in the world. It had a four-poster bed with a blue canopy, two chairs in front of a real fire, and piles of books, magazines, and newspapers everywhere. She felt she could cheerfully live in this room for the rest of her life.
He had gently taught her to give oral sex. She had been an eager pupil. That was usually what he wanted when he arrived. He was often in a hurry for it, almost desperate; and there was something arousing about his urgency. But she liked him best afterward, when he would relax and become warmer, more affectionate.
Sometimes he put a record on. He liked Sinatra and Tony Bennett and Percy Marquand. He had never heard of the Miracles or the Shirelles.
There was always a cold supper in the kitchen: chicken, shrimp, sandwiches, salad. After they ate they would undress and get into the bath.
She sat at the opposite end of the tub. He put two ducks in the water and said: “Bet you a quarter my duck can go faster than yours.” In his Boston accent he said quarter like an Englishman, not pronouncing the letter r.
She picked up a duck. She loved him most when he was like this: playful, silly, childish. “Okay, Mr. President,” she said. “But make it a dollar, if you got the moxie.”
She still called him Mr. President most of the time. His wife called him Jack; his brothers sometimes called him Johnny. Maria called him Johnny only at moments of great passion.
“I can’t afford to lose a dollar,” he said, laughing. But he was sensitive, and he could tell she was not in the right mood. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I don’t usually talk to you about politics.”
“Why not? Politics is my life, and yours, too.”
“You get pestered all day. Our time together is about relaxing and having fun.”
“Make an exception.” He picked up her foot, lying alongside his thigh in the water, and stroked her toes. She had beautiful feet, she knew; and she always put varnish on her toenails. “Something has upset you,” he said quietly. “Tell me what it is.”
When he looked at her so intensely, with his hazel eyes and his wry smile, she was helpless. She said: “The day before yesterday, my grandfather was jailed for trying to register to vote.”
“Jailed? They can’t do that. What was the charge?”
“Loitering.”
“Oh. This happened somewhere in the South.”
“Golgotha, Alabama; his hometown.” She hesitated, but decided to tell him the whole truth, although he would not like it. “Do you want to know what he said when he came out of jail?”
“What?”
“He said: ‘With President Kennedy in the White House, I thought I could vote, but I guess I was wrong.’ That’s what Grandma told me.”
“Hell,” said the president. “He believed in me, and I failed him.”
“That’s what he thinks, I guess.”
“What do you think, Maria?” He was still stroking her toes.
She hesitated again, looking at her dark foot in his white hands. She feared that this discussion could become acrimonious. He was touchy about the least suggestion that he was insincere or untrustworthy, or that he failed to keep his promises as a politician. If she pushed him too hard, he might end their relationship. And then she would die.
But she had to be honest. She took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. “Far as I can see, the issue is not complicated,” she began. “Southerners do this because they can. The law, as it stands, lets them get away with it, despite the Constitution.”
“Not entirely,” he interrupted. “My brother Bob has stepped up the number of lawsuits brought by the Justice Department for voting rights violations. He has a bright young Negro lawyer working with him.”
She nodded. “George Jakes. I know him. But what they’re doing isn’t enough.”
He shrugged. “I can’t deny that.”
She pressed on. “Everyone agrees that we have to change the law by bringing in a new civil rights act. A lot of people thought you promised that in your election campaign. And . . . nobody understands why you haven’t done it yet.” She bit her lip, then risked the ultimate. “Including me.”
His face hardened.
She immediately regretted being so candid. “Don’t be mad,” she pleaded. “I wouldn’t upset you for the world—but you asked me the question, and I wanted to be honest.” Tears came to her eyes. “And my poor grandpa spent all night in jail, in his best suit.”
He forced a smile. “I’m not mad, Maria. Not at you, anyway.”
“You can tell me anything,” she said. “I adore you. I would never sit in judgment on you, you must know that. Just say how you feel.”
“I’m angry because I’m weak, I guess,” he said. “We have a majority in Congress only if we include conservative Southern Democrats. If I bring in a civil rights bill, they’ll sabotage it—and that’s not all. In revenge, they’ll vote against all the rest of my domestic legislation program, including Medicare. Now, Medicare could improve the lives of colored Americans even more than civil rights legislation.”
“Does that mean you’ve given up on civil rights?”
“No. We have midterm elections next November. I’ll be asking the American people to send more Democrats to Congress so that I can fulfill my campaign promises.”
“Will they?”
“Probably not. The Republicans are attacking me on foreign policy. We’ve lost Cuba, we’ve lost Laos, and we’re losing Vietnam. I had to let Khrushchev put up a barbed-wire fence right across the middle of Berlin. Right now my back is up against the goddamn wall.”
“How strange,” Maria reflected. “You can’t let Southern Negroes vote because you’re vulnerable on foreign policy.”
“Every leader has to look strong on the world stage, otherwise he can’t get anything done.”
“Couldn’t you just try? Bring in a civil rights bill, even though you’ll probably lose it. At least then people would know how sincere you are.”
He shook his head. “If I bring in a bill and get defeated I’ll look weak, and that will jeopardize everything else. And I’d never get a second chance on civil rights.”
“So what should I tell Grandpa?”
“That doing the right thing is not as easy as it looks, even when you’re president.”
He stood up, and she did the same. They toweled each other dry, then went into his bedroom. Maria put on one of his soft blue cotton nightshirts.
They made love again. If he was tired, it was brief, like the very first time; but tonight he was at ease. He reverted to a playful mood, and they lay back on the bed, toying with one another, as if nothing else in the world mattered.
Afterward he went to sleep quickly. She lay beside him, blissfully happy. She did not want the morning to come, when she would have to get dressed and go to the press office and begin her day’s work. She lived in the real world as if it were a dream, waiting only for the call from Dave Powers that meant she could wake up and come back to the only reality that mattered.
She knew that some of her colleagues must have guessed what she was doing. She knew he was never going to leave his wife for her. She knew she should be worried about getting pregnant. She knew that everything she was doing was foolish and wrong and could not possibly have a happy ending.
And she was too much in love to care.
• • •
George understood why Bobby was so pleased to be able to send him to talk to King. When Bobby needed to put pressure on the civil rights movement, he had more chance of success using a black messenger. George thought Bobby was right about Levison but, nevertheless, he was not entirely comfortable with his role—a feeling that was beginning to be familiar.
Atlanta was cold and rainy. Verena met George at the airport, wearing a tan coat with a black fur collar. She looked beautiful, but George was still hurting too much from Maria’s rejection to be attracted. “I know Stanley Levison,” Verena said, driving George through the urban sprawl of the city. “A very sincere guy.”
“He’s a lawyer, right?”
“More than that. He helped Martin with the writing of Stride Toward Freedom. They’re close.”
“The FBI says Levison is a Communist.”
“Anyone who disagrees with J. Edgar Hoover is a Communist, according to the FBI.”
“Bobby referred to Hoover as a cocksucker.”
Verena laughed. “Do you think he meant it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hoover, a powder puff?” She shook her head in disbelief. “It’s too good to be true. Real life is never that funny.”
She drove through the rain to the Old Fourth Ward neighborhood, where there were hundreds of black-owned businesses. There seemed to be a church on every block. Auburn Avenue had once been called the most prosperous Negro street in America. The Southern Christian Leadership Conference had its headquarters at number 320. Verena pulled up at a long two-story building of red brick.
George said: “Bobby thinks Dr. King is arrogant.”
Verena shrugged. “Martin thinks Bobby is arrogant.”
“What do you think?”
“They’re both right.”
George laughed. He liked Verena’s sharp wit.
They hurried across the wet sidewalk and went inside. They waited outside King’s office for fifteen minutes, then they were called.
Martin Luther King was a handsome man of thirty-three, with a mustache and prematurely receding black hair. He was short, George guessed about five foot six, and a little plump. He wore a well-pressed dark-gray suit with a white shirt and a narrow black satin tie. There was a white silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, and he had large cuff links. George caught a whiff of cologne. He got the impression of a man whose dignity was important to him. George sympathized: he felt the same.
King shook George’s hand and said: “Last time we met, you were on the Freedom Ride, heading for Anniston. How’s the arm?”
“It’s completely healed, thank you,” George said. “I’ve given up competitive wrestling, but I was ready to do that anyway. Now I coach a high school team in Ivy City.” Ivy City was a black neighborhood in Washington.
“That’s a good thing,” King said. “To teach Negro boys to use their strength in a disciplined sport, with rules. Please have a seat.” He waved at a chair and retreated behind his desk. “Tell me why the attorney general has sent you to speak to me.” There was a hint of injured pride in his voice. Perhaps King thought Bobby should have come himself. George recalled that King’s nickname within the civil rights movement was De Lawd.
George outlined the Stanley Levison problem briskly, leaving out nothing but the wiretap request. “Bobby sent me here to urge you, as strongly as I can, to break all ties with Mr. Levison,” he said in conclusion. “It’s the only way to protect yourself from the charge of being a fellow traveler with the Communists—an accusation that can do untold harm to the movement that you and I both believe in.”
When he had finished, King said: “Stanley Levison is not a Communist.”
George opened his mouth to ask a question.
King held up a hand to silence him: he was not a man to tolerate interruption. “Stanley has never been a member of the Communist Party. Communism is atheistical, and I as a follower of the Lord Jesus Christ would find it impossible to be the close friend of an atheist. But—” He leaned forward across the desk. “That is not the whole truth.”
He was silent for a few moments, but George knew that he was not supposed to speak.
“Let me tell you the whole truth about Stanley Levison,” King went on at last, and George felt he was about to hear a sermon. “Stanley is good at making money. This embarrasses him. He feels he should spend his life helping others. So, when he was young, he became . . . entranced. Yes, that’s the word. He was entranced by the ideals of Communism. Although he never joined, he used his remarkable talents to help the Communist Party of the USA in various ways. Soon he saw how wrong he was, broke the association, and gave his support to the cause of freedom and equality for the Negro. And so he became my friend.”
George waited until he was sure King had finished, then he said: “I’m deeply sorry to hear this, Reverend. If Levison has been a financial adviser to the Communist Party, he is forever tainted.”
“But he has changed.”
“I believe you, but others will not. By continuing a relationship with Levison you will be giving ammunition to our enemies.”
“So be it,” said King.
George was flabbergasted. “What do you mean?”
“Moral rules must be obeyed when it doesn’t suit us. Otherwise, why would we need rules?”
“But if you balance—”
“We don’t balance,” King said. “Stanley did wrong to help the Communists. He has repented and is making amends. I’m a preacher in the service of the Lord. I must forgive as Jesus does and welcome Stanley with open arms. Joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons. I myself am too often in need of God’s grace to refuse mercy to another.”
“But the cost—”
“I’m a Christian pastor, George. The doctrine of forgiveness goes deep into my soul, deeper even than freedom and justice. I could not go back on it for any prize.”
George realized his mission was doomed. King was completely sincere. There was no prospect of changing his mind.
George stood up. “Thank you for taking the time to explain your point of view. I appreciate it, and so does the attorney general.”
“God bless you,” said King.
George and Verena left the office and walked outside. Without speaking, they got into Verena’s car. “I’ll drop you at your hotel,” she said.
George nodded. He was thinking about King’s words. He did not want to talk.
They drove in silence until she pulled up at the hotel entrance. Then she said: “Well?”
He said: “King made me ashamed of myself.”
• • •
“That’s what preachers do,” said his mother. “It’s their job. It’s good for you.” She poured a glass of milk for George and gave him a slice of cake. He did not want either.
He had told her the whole thing, sitting in her kitchen. “He was so strong,” George said. “Once he knew what was right, he was going to do it, no matter what.”
“Don’t set him up too high,” Jacky said. “No one’s an angel—especially if he’s a man.” It was late afternoon, and she was still wearing her work clothes, a plain black dress and flat shoes.
“I know that. But there I was, trying to persuade him to break with a loyal friend for cynical political reasons, and he just talked about right and wrong.”
“How was Verena?”
“I wish you could have seen her, in that coat with a black fur collar.”
“Did you take her out?”
“We had dinner.” He had not kissed her good night.
Out of the blue, Jacky said: “I like that Maria Summers.”
George was startled. “How do you know her?”
“She belongs to the club.” Jacky was supervisor of the colored staff at the University Women’s Club. “It doesn’t have many black members, so of course we talk. She mentioned she worked at the White House, I told her about you, and we realized you two already know each other. She has a nice family.”
George was amused. “How do you know that?”
“She brought her parents in for lunch. Her father’s a big lawyer in Chicago. He knows Mayor Daley there.” Daley was a big Kennedy supporter.
“You know more about her than I do!”
“Women listen. Men talk.”
“I like Maria, too.”
“Good.” Jacky frowned, remembering the original topic of conversation. “What did Bobby Kennedy say when you got back from Atlanta?”
“He’s going to okay the wiretap on Levison. That means the FBI will be listening to some of Dr. King’s phone calls.”
“How much does that matter? Everything King does is intended to be publicized.”
“They may find out, in advance, what King is going to do next. If they do, they’ll tip off the segregationists, who will be able to plan ahead, and may find ways to undermine what King does.”
“It’s bad, but it’s not the end of the world.”
“I could tip King off about the wiretap. Tell Verena to warn King to be careful what he says on the phone to Levison.”
“You’d be betraying the trust of your work colleagues.”
“That’s what bothers me.”
“In fact, you’d probably have to resign.”
“Exactly. Because I’d feel a traitor.”
“Besides, they might find out about the tip-off, and when they looked around for the culprit they’d see one black face in the room—yours.”
“Maybe I should do it anyway, if it’s the right thing.”
“If you leave, George, there’s no black face in Bobby Kennedy’s inner circle.”
“I knew you’d say I should shut up and stay.”
“It’s hard, but yes, I think you should.”
“So do I,” said George.