George liked the feeling of doing something together. ‘We make a good team, don’t we?’ he said.
Verena raised her glass and drank. ‘You make a good Martini,’ she said.
George smiled ruefully. He had been hoping for a different answer, one that affirmed their relationship. He sipped and said: ‘Yeah, I do.’
Verena got out lettuce and tomatoes and two sirloin steaks. George began to wash the lettuce. As he did so he turned the conversation to the real purpose of his visit. ‘I know that we’ve talked about this before, but it doesn’t help the White House that Dr King has Communist associates.’
‘Who says he does?’
‘The FBI.’
Verena snorted contemptuously. ‘That famously reliable source of information on the civil rights movement. Knock it off, George. You know that J. Edgar Hoover believes that anyone who disagrees with him is a Communist, including Bobby Kennedy. Where’s the evidence?’
‘Apparently the FBI has evidence.’
‘Apparently? So you haven’t seen any. Has Bobby?’
George felt embarrassed. ‘Hoover says the source is sensitive.’
‘Hoover has refused to show the evidence to the Attorney General? Who does Hoover think he’s working for?’ She sipped her drink thoughtfully. ‘Has the President seen the evidence?’
George said nothing.
Verena’s incredulity mounted. ‘Hoover can’t say no to the President.’
‘I believe the President decided not to push the matter to a confrontation.’
‘How naive are you people? George, listen to me. There is no evidence.’
George decided to concede the point. ‘You’re probably right. I don’t believe that Jack O’Dell and Stanley Levison are Communists, though probably they used to be; but don’t you see that the truth doesn’t matter? There are grounds for suspicion, and that’s enough to discredit the civil rights movement. And, now that the President has proposed a civil rights bill, he gets discredited too.’ George wrapped the washed lettuce in a towel and windmilled his arm to dry the leaves. Irritation made him do it more energetically than necessary. ‘Jack Kennedy has put his political life on the line for civil rights, and we can’t let him be brought down by charges of Communist association.’ He tipped the lettuce into a bowl. ‘Just get rid of those two guys, and solve the problem!’
Verena spoke patiently. ‘O’Dell is an employee of Martin Luther King’s organization, just as I am, but Levison isn’t even on the payroll. He’s just a friend and advisor to Martin. Do you really want to give J. Edgar Hoover the power to choose Martin’s friends?’
‘Verena, they’re standing in the way of the civil rights bill. Just tell Dr King to get rid of them – please.’
Verena sighed. ‘I think he will. It’s taking a while for his Christian conscience to get around to the idea of spurning loyal long-time supporters, but in the end he’ll do it.’
‘Thank the Lord for that.’ George’s spirits lifted: for once he could go back to Bobby with good news.
Verena salted the steaks and put them in a frying pan. ‘And now I’ll tell you something,’ she said. ‘It won’t make any goddamn difference. Hoover will continue to leak stories to the press about how the civil rights movement is a Communist front. He would do it if we were all lifelong Republicans. J. Edgar Hoover is a pathological liar who hates Negroes, and it’s a damn shame your boss doesn’t have the balls to fire him.’
George wanted to protest but unfortunately the accusation was true. He sliced a tomato into the salad.
Verena said: ‘Do you like your steak well cooked?’
‘Not too much.’
‘The French way? So do I.’
George made a couple more drinks and they sat at the small table to eat. George embarked on the second half of his message. ‘It would help the President if Dr King would call off this damn Washington sit-in.’
‘That isn’t going to happen.’
King had called for a ‘massive, militant and monumental sit-in demonstration’ in Washington, coinciding with nationwide acts of civil disobedience. The Kennedy brothers were appalled. ‘Consider this,’ George said. ‘In Congress, there are some people who will always vote for civil rights and some who never will. The ones who matter are those who could go either way.’
‘Swing voters,’ said Verena, using a phrase that had come into vogue.
‘Exactly. They know that the bill is morally right but politically unpopular, and they’re looking for excuses to vote against it. Your demonstration will give them the chance to say: “I’m for civil rights, but not at the point of a gun.” The timing is wrong.’
‘As Martin says, the timing is always wrong for white people.’
George grinned. ‘You’re whiter than I am.’
She tossed her head. ‘And prettier.’
‘That’s the truth. You’re just about the prettiest sight I’ve ever seen.’
‘Thank you. Eat up.’
George picked up his knife and fork. They ate mostly in silence. George complimented Verena on the steaks, and she said he made a good salad, for a man.
When they had finished, they carried their drinks into the living room and sat on the couch, and George resumed the argument. ‘It’s different, now, don’t you see? The administration is on our side. The President is trying his best to pass the bill we’ve been demanding for years.’
She shook her head. ‘If we’ve learned one thing, it’s that change comes faster when we keep up the pressure. Did you know that Negroes are getting served by white waitresses in Birmingham restaurants now?’
‘Yes, I did know that. What an incredible turnaround.’
‘And it wasn’t achieved by waiting patiently. It happened because they threw rocks and started fires.’
‘The situation has changed.’
‘Martin won’t cancel the demonstration.’
‘Would he modify it?’
‘What do you mean?’
This was George’s Plan B. ‘Could it become a simple law-abiding march, rather than a sit-in? Congressmen might feel less threatened.’
‘I don’t know. Martin might consider that.’
‘Hold it on a Wednesday, to discourage people from staying in the city all weekend, and end it early so that the marchers leave well before nightfall.’
‘You’re trying to draw the sting.’
‘If we must have a demonstration, we should do everything possible to make sure the occasion is non-violent and makes a good impression, especially on television.’
‘In that case, how about stationing portable toilets all along the route? I guess Bobby can get that done, even if he can’t fire Hoover.’
‘Great idea.’
‘And how about rounding up some white supporters? The whole thing will look better on TV if there are white marchers as well as black.’
George considered. ‘I bet Bobby could get the unions to send contingents.’
‘If you can promise both of those things as sweeteners, I think we have a chance of changing Martin’s mind.’
George saw that Verena had already come around to his point of view and was now discussing how to persuade King. That was already half a victory. He said: ‘And if you can persuade Dr King to change the sit-in to a march, I think we might get the President to endorse it.’ He was sticking his neck out, but it was possible.
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said.
George put his arm around her. ‘See, we are a good team,’ he said. She smiled and said nothing. He persisted. ‘Don’t you agree?’
She kissed him. It was the same as the last kiss: more than just friendly, less than sexy. She said thoughtfully: ‘After that bomb smashed the window of my hotel room, you crossed the room barefoot to fetch my shoes.’
‘I remember,’ he said. ‘There was broken glass all over the floor.’
‘That was it,’ she said. ‘That was your mistake.’
George frowned. ‘I don’t get it. I thought I was being nice.’
‘Exactly. You’re too good for me, George.’
‘What? That’s insane!’
She was serious. ‘I sleep around, George. I get drunk. I’m unfaithful. I had sex with Martin, once.’
George raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
‘You deserve better,’ Verena went on. ‘You’re going to have a wonderful career. You might be our first Negro President. You need a wife who will be true to you and work alongside you and support you and be a credit to you. That’s not me.’
George was bemused. ‘I wasn’t looking that far ahead,’ he said. ‘I was just hoping to kiss you some more.’
She smiled. ‘That, I can do,’ she said.
He kissed her long and slow. After a while he stroked the outside of her thigh, up inside the skirt of her tennis dress. His hand went as far as her hip. He had been right: no underwear.
She knew what he was thinking. ‘See?’ she said. ‘Bad girl.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m crazy about you anyway.’