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 K
ing. 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.
CHAPTER TWELVE
You live in an amazing house," Beep Dewar said to Dave Williams.
Dave was thirteen years old; he had lived here as long as he could remember; and he had never really noticed the house. He looked up at the brick facade of the garden front, with its regular rows of Georgian windows. "Amazing?" he said.
"It's so old."
"It's eighteenth century, I think. So it's only about two hundred years old."
"Only!" She laughed. "In San Francisco, nothing is two hundred years old!"
The house was in Great Peter Street, London, a couple of minutes' walk from Parliament. Most of the houses in the neighborhood were eighteenth century, and Dave knew vaguely that they had been built for members of Parliament and peers who had to attend the House of Commons and the House of Lords. Dave's father, Lloyd Williams, was an M.P.
"Do you smoke cigarettes?" said Beep, taking out a packet.