“Son, I know you’re right. You don’t have to tell me that. I understand the Constitution. But what do you think will happen?”

“I guess we’ll get arrested sooner or later. Then there’ll be a trial, and we’ll argue our case in front of the world.”

She shook her head. “I sure hope you get off that easy.”

“What do you mean?”

“You grew up privileged,” she said. “At least, you did after your white father came back into our lives when you were six years old. You don’t know what the world is like for most colored folk.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that.” George was stung: he got this accusation from black activists, and it annoyed him. “Having a rich white grandfather pay for my education doesn’t make me blind. I know what goes on.”

“Then maybe you know that getting arrested might be the least bad thing that could happen to you. What if things get rough?”

George knew she was right. The Freedom Riders might be risking worse than jail. But he wanted to reassure his mother. “I’ve had lessons in passive resistance,” he said. All those chosen for the Freedom Ride were experienced civil rights activists, and they had been put through a special training program that included role-playing exercises. “A white man pretending to be a redneck called me nigger, pushed and shoved me, and dragged me out of the room by my heels—and I let him, even though I could have thrown him out the window with one arm.”

“Who was he?”

“A civil rights campaigner.”

“Not the real thing.”

“Of course not. He was acting a part.”

“Okay,” she said, and he knew from her tone that she meant the opposite.

“It’s going to be all right, Mom.”

“I’m not saying any more. Are you going to eat those pancakes?”

“Look at me,” George said. “Mohair suit, narrow tie, hair close-cropped, and shoes shined so bright I could use the toe caps for a shaving mirror.” He usually dressed smartly anyway, but the Riders had been instructed to look ultra-respectable.

“You look fine, except for that cauliflower ear.” George’s right ear was deformed from wrestling.

“Who would want to hurt such a nice colored boy?”

“You have no idea,” she said with sudden anger. “Those Southern whites, they—” To his dismay, tears came to her eyes. “Oh, God, I’m just so afraid they’ll kill you.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “I’ll be careful, Mom, I promise.”

She dried her eyes on her apron. George ate some bacon, to please her, but he had little appetite. He was more anxious than he pretended. His mother was not exaggerating. Some civil rights activists had argued against the Freedom Ride idea on the grounds that it would provoke violence.

“You’re going to be a long time on that bus,” she said.

“Thirteen days, here to New Orleans. We’re stopping every night for meetings and rallies.”

“What have you got to read?”