“He’s always been dangerous, Roxanne. He’s like Jonathan Moore. These are men who cannot see beyond their own shadows, who don’t want to see beyond their shadows, who don’t give a good goddamn for anyone but themselves, but Charlie Frye doesn’t mean enough to you that you’d cry your eyes out over him. What’s happened with Terrence?”

“Nothing.”

“Horseshit. You were on cloud nine when he came home. Now look at you.”

Wadding a Kleenex, I told her of our fight in the car this morning, and she shook her head.

“But can’t you really see! Don’t you understand what he’s telling you? When he comes back—he’s been writing about the Montgomery boycott for months, months of struggle, black people against white people, and when he gets back to the Challenger, he’ll be the hero of the hour. You want him to drive up with a white girl?”

“But I’m not the enemy, Thelma! I love him!”

“Then have the wisdom to let him be! Jesus Jumping Christ, Roxanne! He’d look like a hypocrite. He owes it to the Challenger—and the people who read the Challenger—not to come driving back home with you.” The phone rang. “If people knew how much love can hurt, they would take better care of their hearts,” she said on her way to answer it.

I went to the bathroom to wash my face and restore my makeup, and when I came back out I heard Thelma desperately trying to placate whoever was on the line.

“Don’t cry. Don’t cry,” Thelma pleaded. “Look, I don’t know who. Jesus. Yes, you did the right thing. You both did. No, I’m not leaving you there alone. I’ll be there in the next couple of hours.” She offered more soothing words, then put the receiver down. “That was Marian.” Her hands trembled as she held a match to her cigarette. “Max went out for a pack of cigarettes and a process server showed up at their door. Another subpoena from the Committee. If he ignores it, it’s contempt of Congress. Marian packed up Max’s passport, their checkbook, and a suitcase with his clothes, climbed out the back window, and waited at the end of the alley for him. She told him to leave right away.”

“Where can he go? Mexico?”

“No, he’ll never go back there. Probably England, if he can still use his passport. He’ll leave the car at the San Francisco airport. She and I will drive up and get it sometime when . . . Oh, Roxanne! We were all so careful! How did they know where to find him?”

I sank down in the chair across from her, blistering my brain for possibilities. “Charlie?”

“Did he know about Riverside?”

“No, but he knew about Covina. I must have let it slip.”