George realized now that he was hearing a sermon being rehearsed, but he was no less mesmerized. He had abandoned all hope of fulfilling his mission for Bobby.

“Our great stumbling block, in our stride toward freedom, is not the White Citizens’ Councilor or the Ku Klux Klanner. It’s the white moderate who is more devoted to order than to justice; who constantly says, like Bobby Kennedy: ‘I agree with the goal you seek, but I cannot condone your methods.’ He paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom.”

Now George felt ashamed, for he was Bobby’s messenger.

“We will have to repent, in this generation, not merely for the hateful words and actions of bad people, but for the appalling silence of the good,” King said, and George had to struggle against tears. “The time is always ripe to do right. ‘Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever flowing stream,’ said the prophet Amos. You tell Bobby Kennedy that, George.”

“Yes, sir, I will,” said George.

• • •

When George got back to Washington he called Cindy Bell, the girl his mother had tried to fix him up with, and asked her for a date. She said: “Why not?”

It would be his first date since he had dumped Norine Latimer in the doomed hope of romancing Maria Summers.

He took a taxi to Cindy’s place the following Saturday evening. She was still living at her parents’ home, a small working-class house. Her father opened the door. He had a bushy beard: George guessed a chef did not need to look neat. “I’m glad to meet you, George,” he said. “Your mother is one of the finest people I’ve ever known. I hope you don’t mind me saying something so personal.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bell,” said George. “I agree with you.”

“Come in, Cindy’s almost ready.”

George noticed a small crucifix on the wall in the hallway, and remembered that the Bells were Catholic. He recalled being told, as a teenager, that convent schoolgirls were the hottest.

Cindy appeared in a tight sweater and a short skirt that made her father frown a little, though he said nothing. George had to smother a smile. She was curvy and did not want to hide it. A small silver cross on a chain hung between her generous breasts—for protection, perhaps?

George handed her a small box of chocolates tied up with a blue ribbon.

Outside, she raised her eyebrows at the taxi.

“I’m going to buy a car,” George said. “I just haven’t had time.”

As they drove downtown, Cindy said: “My father admires your mother for raising you on her own, and making such a good job of it.”

“And they lend each other books,” said George. “Is your mom okay with all that?”

Cindy giggled. The idea of sexual jealousy in the parental generation was naturally comical. “You’re sharp. Mom knows nothing else is going on—but all the same she’s on her guard.”