George did not press Joe. He was scared enough himself. If he started to discuss the dangers he might talk himself out of going. He looked around the group. He was pleased to see John Lewis, a quietly impressive theology student who was a founding member of the Student Nonviolent Co-ordinating Committee, the most radical of the civil rights groups.
Their leader called for attention and began a short statement to the press. While he was speaking George saw, slipping into the coffee shop, a tall white man of forty in a crumpled linen suit. He was handsome though heavy, his face showing the flush of a drinker. He looked like a bus passenger, and no one paid him any attention. He sat next to George and, putting one arm around his shoulders, gave him a brief hug.
This was Senator Greg Peshkov, George’s father.
Their relationship was an open secret, known to Washington insiders but never publicly acknowledged. Greg was not the only politician to have such a secret. Senator Strom Thurmond had paid for the college education of a daughter of his family’s maid: the girl was rumoured to be his child – which did not stop Thurmond being a rabid segregationist. When Greg had appeared, a total stranger to his six-year-old son, he had asked George to call him Uncle Greg, and they had never found a better euphemism.
Greg was selfish and unreliable but, in his own way, he cared for George. As a teenager George had gone through a long phase of anger with his father, but then he had come to accept him for what he was, figuring that half a father was better than none.
‘George,’ Greg said now in a low voice, ‘I’m worried.’
‘You and Mom too.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She thinks those Southern racists are going to kill us all.’
‘I don’t think that’ll happen, but you could lose your job.’
‘Has Mr Renshaw said something?’
‘Heck, no, he doesn’t know anything about this, yet. But he’ll find out soon enough if you get arrested.’
Renshaw, who was from Buffalo, was a childhood friend of Greg’s, and senior partner in a prestigious Washington law firm, Fawcett Renshaw. Last summer Greg had got George a vacation job as a law clerk at the firm and, as they both had hoped, the temporary post had led to the offer of a full-time job after graduation. It was a coup: George would be the first Negro to work there as anything other than a cleaner.
George said with a touch of irritation: ‘The Freedom Riders are not law breakers. We’re trying to get the law enforced. The segregationists are the criminals. I would have expected a lawyer such as Renshaw to understand that.’
‘He understands it. But, all the same, he can’t hire a man who has been in trouble with the police. Believe me, it would be the same if you were white.’
‘But we’re on the side of the law!’
‘Life is unfair. Student days are over – welcome to the real world.’
The leader called out: ‘Everybody, get your tickets and check your bags, please.’
George stood up.
Greg said: ‘I can’t talk you out of this, can I?’
He looked so forlorn that George longed to be able to give in, but he could not. ‘No, I’ve made up my mind,’ he said.
‘Then please just try to be careful.’
George was touched. ‘I’m lucky to have people who worry about me,’ he said. ‘I know that.’
Greg squeezed his arm and left quietly.
George stood in line with the others at the window and bought a ticket to New Orleans. He walked to the blue-and-grey bus and handed over his bag to be loaded in the luggage compartment. Painted on the side of the bus were a large greyhound and the slogan: IT’S SUCH A COMFORT TO TAKE THE BUS . . . AND LEAVE THE DRIVING TO US. George got on board.
An organizer directed him to a seat near the front. Others were told to sit in interracial pairs. The driver paid no attention to the Riders, and the regular passengers seemed no more than mildly curious. George opened the book his mother had given him and read the first line.
A moment later the organizer directed one of the women to sit next to George. He nodded to her, pleased. He had met her a couple of times before and liked her. Her name was Maria Summers. She was demurely dressed in a pale-grey cotton frock with a high neckline and a full skirt. She had skin the deep, dark colour of George’s mother’s, a cute flat nose, and lips that made him think about kissing. He knew she was at Chicago Law School, and like him was about to graduate, so they were probably the same age. He guessed she was not only smart but also determined: she would have to be, to get into Chicago Law with two strikes against her, being both female and black.
He closed his book as the driver started the engine and pulled away. Maria looked down and said: ‘To Kill a Mockingbird. I was in Montgomery, Alabama, last summer.’
Montgomery was the state capital. ‘What were you doing there?’ George said.
‘My father’s a lawyer, and he had a client who sued the state. I was working for Daddy during the vacation.’
‘Did you win?’
‘No. But don’t let me keep you from reading.’
‘Are you kidding? I can read any time. How often does a guy on a bus have a girl as pretty as you sit down next to him?’
‘Oh, my,’ she said. ‘Someone warned me you were a smooth talker.’
‘I’ll tell you my secret, if you want.’
‘Okay, what is it?’
‘I’m sincere.’
She laughed.
He said: ‘But please don’t spread that around. It would spoil my reputation.’
The bus crossed the Potomac and headed into Virginia on Route 1. ‘You’re in the South, now, George,’ said Maria. ‘Are you scared yet?’
‘You bet I am.’
‘Me, too.’
The highway was a straight, narrow slash across miles of spring-green forest. They passed through small towns where the men had so little to do that they stopped to watch the bus go by. George did not look out of the window much. He learned that Maria had been brought up in a strict churchgoing family, her grandfather a preacher. George said he went to church mainly to please his mother, and Maria confessed that she was the same. They talked all the way to Fredericksburg, fifty miles along the route.
The Riders went quiet as the bus entered the small historic town where white supremacy still reigned. The Greyhound terminal was between two red-brick churches with white doors, but Christianity was not necessarily a good indication in the South. As the bus came to a halt, George saw the restrooms, and was surprised that there were no signs over the doors saying WHITES ONLY and COLORED ONLY.
The passengers got off the bus and stood blinking in the sunshine. Looking more closely, George saw light-coloured patches over the toilet doors, and deduced that the segregation signs had been removed recently.
The Riders put their plan into operation anyway. First, a white organizer went into the scruffy restroom at the back, clearly intended for Negroes. He came out unharmed, but that was the easier part. George had already volunteered to be the black person who defied the rules. ‘Here goes,’ he said to Maria, and he walked into the clean, freshly painted restroom that had undoubtedly just had its WHITES ONLY sign removed.
There was a young white man inside, combing his pompadour. He glanced at George in the mirror, but said nothing. George was too scared to pee, but he could not just walk out again, so he washed his hands. The young man left and an older man came in and entered a cubicle. George dried his hands on the roller towel. Then there was nothing else to do, so he went out.
The others were waiting. He shrugged and said: ‘Nothing. Nobody tried to stop me, no one said anything.’
Maria said: ‘I asked for a Coke at the counter and the waitress sold me one. I think someone here has decided to avoid trouble.’
‘Is this how it’s going to be, all the way to New Orleans?’ said George. ‘Will they just act as if nothing has happened? Then, when we’ve gone, impose segregation again? That would kind of cut the ground from under our feet!’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Maria. ‘I’ve met the people who run Alabama. Believe me, they’re not that smart.’