People said she and George were a good match, but they had never dated. Whenever he had been unattached, she had been in a relationship, and vice versa. Now it was too late.

Verena was an ardent civil rights campaigner, and was going to work for Martin Luther King in Atlanta after graduation. Now she said enthusiastically: “You really started something with that Freedom Ride!”

It was true. After the firebombing at Anniston, George had left Alabama by plane with his arm in plaster; but others had taken up the challenge. Ten students from Nashville had caught a bus to Birmingham, where they had been arrested. New Riders had replaced the first group. There had been more mob violence by white racists. Freedom Riding had become a mass movement.

“But I lost my job,” George said.

“Come to Atlanta and work for King,” Verena said immediately.

George was startled. “Did he tell you to ask me?”

“No, but he needs a lawyer, and no one half as bright as you has applied.”

George was intrigued. He had almost fallen in love with Maria Summers, but he would do well to forget her: he would probably never see her again. He wondered whether Verena would go out with him if they were both working for King. “That’s an idea,” he said. But he wanted to think about it.

He changed the subject. “Are your folks here today?”

“Of course, come and meet them.”

Verena’s parents were celebrity supporters of Kennedy. George was hoping they would now come out and criticize the president for his feeble reaction to segregationist violence. Perhaps George and Verena together could persuade them to make a public statement. That would do a lot to ease the pain of his arm.

He walked across the lawn beside Verena.

“Mom, Dad, this is my friend George Jakes,” said Verena.

Her parents were a tall, well-dressed black man and a white woman with an elaborate blond coiffure. George had seen their photographs many times: they were a famous interracial couple. Percy Marquand was “the Negro Bing Crosby,” a movie star as well as a smooth crooner. Babe Lee was a theater actress specializing in gutsy female roles.

Percy spoke in a warm baritone familiar from a dozen hit records. “Mr. Jakes, down there in Alabama you took that broken arm for all of us. I’m honored to shake your hand.”

“Thank you, sir, but please call me George.”

Babe Lee held his hand and looked into his eyes as if she wanted to marry him. “We’re so grateful to you, George, and proud, too.” Her manner was so seductive that George glanced uneasily at her husband, thinking he might be angered, but neither Percy nor Verena showed any reaction, and George wondered whether Babe did this to every man she met.

As soon as he could free his hand from Babe’s grasp, George turned to Percy. “I know you campaigned for Kennedy in the presidential election last year,” he said. “Aren’t you angry now about his record on civil rights?”