*
George Jakes flew from Portland to Los Angeles to meet Verena with a diamond ring in his pocket.
He had been on the road with Bobby Kennedy, and had not seen Verena since the funeral of Martin Luther King in Atlanta seven weeks earlier.
George was devastated by the assassination. Dr King had been the bright burning hope of black Americans, and now he was gone, murdered by a white racist with a hunting rifle. President Kennedy had given hope to blacks and he, too, had been killed by a white man with a gun. What was the point of politics if great men could be so easily wiped out? But, George thought, at least we still have Bobby.
Verena was even harder hit. At the funeral she had been bewildered, angry and lost. The man she had admired, cherished and served for seven years was gone.
To George’s consternation she had not wanted him to console her. He was hurt deeply by this. They lived six hundred miles apart, but he was the man in her life. He figured that her rejection was part of her grief, and would pass.
There was nothing for her in Atlanta – she did not want to work for King’s successor, Ralph Abernathy – so she had resigned. George had thought she might move into his apartment in Washington. However, without explanation she had gone back to her parents’ home in Los Angeles. Perhaps she needed time alone to grieve.
Or perhaps she wanted something more than just an invitation to move into his place.
Hence the ring.
The next primary was California, which gave George a chance to visit Verena.
At LAX he rented a white Plymouth Valiant, a cheap compact – the campaign was paying – and drove to North Roxbury Drive in Beverly Hills.
He passed through tall gates and parked in front of a Tudor-style brick house that he guessed was the size of five genuine Tudor houses. Verena’s parents, Percy Marquand and Babe Lee, lived like the stars they were.
A maid let him in and showed him into a living room that had nothing Tudor about it: a white carpet, air-conditioning, and a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on to a swimming pool. The maid asked if he would like a drink. ‘A soda, please,’ he said. ‘Any kind.’
When Verena came in he suffered a shock.
She had cut off her wonderful Afro, and her hair was now cropped close to her head, as short as his. She wore black pants, a blue shirt, a leather blazer and a black beret. It was the uniform of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense.
George suppressed his outrage in order to kiss her. She gave him her lips, but only briefly, and he knew right away that she had not moved on from her mood at the funeral. He hoped his proposal would bring her out of it.
They sat on a couch covered in a swirly pattern of burnt orange, primrose yellow and chocolate brown. The maid brought George a Coke with ice in a tall glass on a silver tray. When she had gone he took Verena’s hand. Holding in his anger, he said as gently as he could: ‘Why are you wearing that uniform?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Not to me.’
‘Martin Luther King led a non-violent campaign, and they shot him.’
George was disappointed in her. He had expected a better argument than that. He said: ‘Abraham Lincoln fought a civil war, and they shot him, too.’
‘Blacks have a right to defend themselves. No one else will – especially not the police.’
George could barely conceal his contempt for these ideas. ‘You just want to scare whitey. Nothing has ever been achieved by this kind of grandstanding.’
‘What has non-violence achieved? Hundreds of black people lynched and murdered, thousands beaten and jailed.’
George did not want to fight with her – on the contrary, he wanted to bring her back to normal – but he could not help raising his voice. ‘Plus the Civil Rights Act of 1964, the Voting Rights Act of 1965, and six black congressmen and a senator!’
‘And now white people are saying it’s gone far enough. No one has been able to pass a law against housing discrimination.’
‘Maybe the whites are afraid they’ll have Panthers in Gestapo outfits walking around their nice suburbs carrying guns.’
‘The police have guns. We need them too.’
George realized that this argument, which seemed to be about politics, was really about their relationship. And he was losing her. If he could not talk her out of the Black Panthers, he could not bring her back into his life. ‘Look, I know that police forces all over America are full of violent racists. But the solution to that problem is to improve the police, not shoot them. We have to get rid of politicians such as Ronald Reagan who encourage police brutality.’
‘I refuse to accept a situation where the whites have guns and we don’t.’
‘Then campaign for gun control and more black cops in senior positions.’
‘Martin believed in that and he’s dead.’ Verena’s words were defiant, but she could not keep it up, and she began to cry.
George tried to embrace her, but she pushed him away. Nevertheless, he strove to make her see reason. ‘If you want to protect black people, come and work on our campaign,’ he said. ‘Bobby is going to be President.’
‘Even if he wins, Congress won’t let him do anything.’
‘They’ll try to stop him, and we’ll have a political battle, and one side will win and the other will lose. It’s how we change things in America. It’s a lousy system, but all the others are worse. And shooting each other is the worst of all.’
‘We’re not going to agree.’
‘Okay.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We’ve disagreed before, but always kept on loving each other, haven’t we?’
‘This is different.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘My whole life has changed.’
George looked hard at her face, and saw there a mixture of defiance and guilt that gave him a clue to what was going on. ‘You’re sleeping with one of the Panthers, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
George had a heavy feeling in his guts, as if he had drunk a tankard of cold ale. ‘You should have told me.’
‘I’m telling you now.’
‘My God.’ George was sad. He fingered the ring in his pocket. Was it going to stay there? ‘Do you realize it’s seven years since we graduated from Harvard?’ He fought back tears.
‘I know.’
‘Police dogs in Birmingham, “I have a dream” in Washington, President Johnson backing civil rights, two assassinations . . .’
‘And blacks are still the poorest Americans, living in the lousiest houses, getting the most perfunctory health care – and doing more than their share of the fighting in Vietnam.’
‘Bobby’s going to change all that.’
‘No, he’s not.’
‘Yes, he is. And I’m going to invite you to the White House to admit that you were wrong.’
Verena went to the door. ‘Goodbye, George.’
‘I can’t believe it ends like this.’
‘The maid will see you out.’
George found it difficult to think straight. He had loved Verena for years, and had assumed they would marry sooner or later. Now she had ditched him for a Black Panther. He felt lost. Although they had lived apart, he had always been able to think about what he would say to her and how he would caress her next time they were together. Now he was alone.
The maid came in and said: ‘This way, Mr Jakes, if you please.’
Automatically he followed her to the hall. She opened the front door. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Goodbye, Mr Jakes.’
George got into his rented car and drove away.
*
On voting day in the California primary, George was with Bobby Kennedy at the Malibu beach home of John Frankenheimer, the movie director. The weather was overcast that morning but, nevertheless, Bobby swam in the ocean with his twelve-year-old son, David. They both got caught in the undertow and emerged with scratches and scrapes from being dragged over the pebbles. After lunch Bobby fell asleep beside the pool, stretched out across two chairs, his mouth open. Looking through the glass patio doors, George noticed an angry mark on Bobby’s forehead from the swimming incident.
He had not told Bobby that he had broken up with Verena. He had told only his mother. He barely had time to think on the campaign trail, and California had been non-stop: airport mob scenes, motorcades, hysterical crowds, and packed meetings. George was glad to be so busy. He had the luxury of feeling sad only for a few minutes every night before falling asleep. Even then he found himself imagining conversations with Verena in which he persuaded her to return to legitimate politics and campaign for Bobby. Perhaps their different approaches had always been a manifestation of fundamental incompatibility. He had never wanted to believe that.
At three o’clock the results of the first exit poll were broadcast on TV. Bobby led Gene McCarthy 49 percentage points to 41. George was elated. I can’t win my girl, but I can win elections, he thought.
Bobby showered and shaved and put on a blue pinstriped suit and a white shirt. Either the suit, or perhaps his increased confidence, made him seem more presidential than ever before, George thought.
The bruise on Bobby’s forehead was unsightly, but John Frankenheimer found some professional movie make-up in the house and covered up the mark.
At half past six the Kennedy entourage got into cars and drove into Los Angeles. They went to the Ambassador Hotel, where the victory celebration was already getting under way in the ballroom. George went with Bobby to the Royal Suite on the fifth floor. There in a large living room a hundred or more friends, advisors and privileged journalists were downing cocktails and congratulating one another. Every TV set in the suite was on.
George and the closest advisors followed Bobby through the living room and into one of the bedrooms. As always, Bobby mixed partying with hard political talk. Today, as well as California, he had won a low-profile primary in South Dakota, birthplace of Hubert Humphrey. After California he felt confident of winning New York, where he had the advantage of being one of the state’s senators. ‘We’re beating McCarthy, damn it,’ he said exultantly, sitting on the floor in a corner of the room, keeping an eye on the TV.
George was beginning to worry about the convention. How could he make sure that Bobby’s popularity was reflected in the votes of delegates from states where there were no primaries? ‘Humphrey is working hard on states such as Illinois, where Mayor Daley controls the delegate votes.’
‘Yeah,’ said Bobby. ‘But in the end men like Daley can’t ignore popular feeling. They want to win. Hubert can’t beat Dick Nixon, and I can.’
‘It’s true, but do the Democratic power brokers know that?’
‘They will by August.’
George shared Bobby’s sense that they were riding a wave, but he saw the dangers ahead all too clearly. ‘We need McCarthy to withdraw so that we can concentrate on beating Humphrey. We have to make a deal with McCarthy.’
Bobby shook his head. ‘I can’t offer him the vice-presidency. He’s a Catholic. Protestants might vote for one Catholic, but not two.’
‘You could offer him the top job in cabinet.’
‘Secretary of State?’
‘If he pulls out now.’
Bobby frowned. ‘It’s hard to imagine working with him in the White House.’
‘If you don’t win, you won’t be in the White House. Shall I put out feelers?’
‘Let me think about it some more.’
‘Of course.’
‘You know something else, George?’ Bobby said. ‘For the first time I don’t feel I’m here as Jack’s brother.’
George smiled. That was a big step.
George went into the main room to talk to reporters, but he did not get a drink. When he was with Bobby he preferred to stay sharp. Bobby himself liked bourbon. But incompetence on his team infuriated him, and he could lacerate someone who let him down. George felt comfortable drinking alcohol only when Bobby was far away.
He was still stone cold sober a few minutes before midnight when he accompanied Bobby down to the ballroom to give his victory speech. Bobby’s wife, Ethel, looked groovy in an orange-and-white minidress with white tights, despite being pregnant with their eleventh child.