“What has nonviolence 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.”