Edge of Eternity (15 page)

Maria's father, Daniel, had gone to a Negro college and law school. In 1930, in the Depression, he had opened a storefront law firm in the
South Side neighborhood, where no one could afford a postage stamp, let alone a lawyer. Maria had often heard him reminisce about how his clients had paid him in kind: homemade cakes, eggs from their backyard hens, a free haircut, some carpentry around his office. By the time Roosevelt's New Deal kicked in and the economy improved, he was the most popular black lawyer in Chicago.

So Maria was not afraid of adversity. But she was lonely. Everyone around her was white. Grandfather Summers often said: “There's nothing wrong with white people. They just ain't black.” She knew what he meant. White people did not know about “vagrancy.” Somehow it slipped their minds that Alabama had continued to send Negroes to forced labor camps until 1927. If she spoke about such things, they looked sad for a moment, then turned away, and she knew they thought she was exaggerating. Black people who talked about prejudice were boring to whites, like sick people who recited their symptoms.

She had been delighted to see George Jakes again. She would have sought him out as soon as she got to Washington, except that a modest girl did not chase after a man, no matter how charming he was; and anyway she would not have known what to say. She liked George more than any man she had met since she broke up with Frank Baker two years ago. She would have married Frank if he had asked her, but he wanted sex without marriage, a proposal she had rejected. When George had walked her back to the press office, she had felt sure he was about to ask her for a date, and she had been disappointed when he had not.

She shared an apartment with two black girls, but did not have much in common with them. Both were secretaries, and mainly interested in fashions and movies.

Maria was used to being exceptional. There had not been many black women at her college, and at law school she had been the only one. Now she was the only black woman in the White House, not counting cleaners and cooks. She had no complaints: everyone was friendly. But she was lonely.

On the morning after she met George she was studying a speech by Fidel Castro, looking for nuggets the press office could use, when her phone rang and a man said: “Would you like to go swimming?”

The flat Boston accent was familiar, but she could not identify it for a moment. “Who is this?”

“Dave.”

It was Dave Powers, the president's personal aide, sometimes called the First Friend. Maria had spoken to him two or three times. Like most people in the White House, he was amiable and charming.

But now Maria was taken by surprise. “Where?” she said.

He laughed. “Here in the White House, of course.”

She recalled that there was a pool in the west gallery, between the White House and the West Wing. She had never seen it, but she knew it had been built for President Roosevelt. She had heard that President Kennedy liked to swim at least once a day because the water relieved the pressure on his bad back.

Dave added: “There will be some other girls.”

Maria's first thought was of her hair. Just about every black woman in an office job wore a hairpiece or a wig to work. Blacks and whites alike felt that the natural look of black hair just was not businesslike. Today Maria had a beehive, with a hairpiece carefully braided into her own hair, which itself had been relaxed with chemicals to mimic the smooth, straight texture of white women's hair. It was not a secret: it would be obvious to every black woman who glanced at her. But a white man such as Dave would never even notice.

How could she go swimming? If she got her hair wet it would turn into a mess that she would not be able to rescue.

She was too embarrassed to say what the problem was, but she quickly thought of an excuse. “I don't have a swimsuit.”

“We have swimsuits,” Dave replied. “I'll pick you up at noon.” He hung up.

Maria looked at her watch. It was ten to twelve.

What was she going to do? Would she be allowed to ease herself carefully into the water at the shallow end, and keep her hair dry?

She had asked all the wrong questions, she realized. She really needed to know why she had been invited and what might be expected of her—and whether the president would be there.

She looked at the woman at the next desk. Nelly Fordham was a single woman who had worked at the White House for a decade. She hinted
that years ago she had been disappointed in love. She had been helpful to Maria from the start. Now she was looking curious. “‘I don't have a swimsuit'?” she quoted.

“I'm invited to the president's pool,” Maria said. “Should I go?”

“Of course! Just as long as you tell me all about it when you come back.”

Maria lowered her voice. “He said there will be some other girls. Do you think the president will be there?”

Nelly looked around, but no one was listening. “Does Jack Kennedy like to swim surrounded by pretty girls?” she said. “No prizes for answering that one.”

Maria still was not sure whether to go. Then she remembered Larry Mawhinney calling her an iceberg. That had stung. She was not an iceberg. She was a virgin at twenty-five because she had never met a man to whom she wanted to give herself body and soul, but she was not frigid.

Dave Powers appeared at the door and said: “Coming?”

“Heck, yes,” said Maria.

Dave walked her along the arcade at the edge of the Rose Garden to the pool entrance. Two other girls arrived at the same time. Maria had seen them before, always together: both were White House secretaries. Dave introduced them. “Meet Jennifer and Geraldine, known as Jenny and Jerry,” he said.

The girls led Maria into a changing room where a dozen or more swimsuits hung on hooks. Jenny and Jerry stripped off quickly. Maria noticed that both had superb figures. She did not often see white girls naked. Although blondes, both had dark pubic hair in a neat triangle. Maria wondered whether they trimmed it with scissors. She had never thought of doing that.

The swimsuits were all one-pieces and made of cotton. Maria rejected the more flamboyant colors and picked a modest dark navy. Then she followed Jenny and Jerry to the pool.

The walls on three sides were painted with Caribbean scenes, palm trees and sailing ships. The fourth wall was mirrored, and Maria checked her reflection. She was not too fat, she thought, except for her ass, which was too big. The navy blue looked good against her dark-brown skin.

She noticed a table of drinks and sandwiches to one side. She was too nervous to eat.

Dave was sitting on the edge, barefoot with his pants rolled up, paddling his feet in the water. Jenny and Jerry were bobbing around, talking and laughing. Maria sat opposite Dave and put her feet in. The pool was as warm as a bath.

A minute later, President Kennedy appeared, and Maria's heart beat faster.

He was wearing the usual dark suit, white shirt, and narrow tie. He stood at the edge, smiling at the girls. Maria caught a lemon whiff of his 4711 cologne. He said: “Mind if I join you?” just as if it was their pool, not his.

Jenny said: “Please do!” She and Jerry were not surprised to see him, and Maria deduced that this was not the first time they had swum with the president.

He went into the dressing room and came out again wearing blue swimming trunks. He was lean and tanned, in great shape for a man of forty-four, probably on account of all the sailing he did at Hyannis Port on Cape Cod, where he had a holiday home. He sat on the edge, then eased himself into the water with a sigh.

He swam for a few minutes. Maria wondered what her mother would say. Ma would disapprove of her daughter going swimming with a married man if he were anyone other than the president. But surely nothing bad could happen here, in the White House, in front of Dave Powers and Jenny and Jerry?

The president swam over to where she sat. “How are you getting on in the press office, Maria?” He asked this as if it were the most important question in the world.

“Fine, thank you, sir.”

“Is Pierre a good boss?”

“Very good. Everyone likes him.”

“I like him, too.”

This close, Maria could see the faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the touch of gray in his thick red-brown hair. His eyes were not quite blue, she saw; more like hazel.

He knew she was scrutinizing him, she thought, and he did not
mind. Perhaps he was used to it. Perhaps he liked it. He smiled and said: “What kind of work are you doing?”

“A mixture.” She was overwhelmingly flattered. Maybe he was just being nice, but he seemed genuinely interested in her. “Mostly I do research for Pierre. This morning I've been combing through a speech by Castro.”

“Rather you than me. His speeches are long!”

Maria laughed. In the back of her mind a voice said,
The president is joking with me about Fidel Castro! In a swimming pool!
She said: “Sometimes Pierre asks me to write a press release, which is the part I like best.”

“Tell him to give you more releases to write. You're good at it.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. I can't tell you how much that means to me.”

“You're from Chicago, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you living now?”

“In Georgetown. I share an apartment with two girls who work in the State Department.”

“Sounds good. Well, I'm glad you're settled. I value your work, and I know Pierre does too.”

He turned and talked to Jenny, but Maria did not hear what he said. She was too excited. The president remembered her name; he knew she was from Chicago; he thought highly of her work. And he was
so
attractive. She felt light enough to float up to the moon.

Dave looked at his watch and said: “Twelve thirty, Mr. President.”

Maria could not believe she had been here for half an hour. It seemed like two minutes. But the president got out of the pool and went into the changing room.

The three girls got out. “Have a sandwich,” Dave said. They all went to the table. Maria tried to eat something—this was her lunch break—but her stomach seemed to have shrunk to nothing. She drank a bottle of sugary soda pop.

Dave left, and the three girls changed back into their work clothes. Maria looked in the mirror. Her hair was a little damp, from the humidity, but it was still perfectly in place.

She said good-bye to Jenny and Jerry, then went back to the press office. On her desk was a thick report on health care and a note from Salinger asking for a two-page summary in an hour.

She caught the eye of Nelly, who said: “Well? What was that all about?”

Maria thought for a moment, then said: “I have no idea.”

•   •   •

George Jakes got a message asking him to drop in on Joseph Hugo at FBI headquarters. Hugo was now working as personal assistant to FBI director J. Edgar Hoover. The message said that the Bureau had important information about Martin Luther King that Hugo wished to share with the attorney general's staff.

Hoover hated Martin Luther King. Not a single FBI agent was black. Hoover hated Bobby Kennedy, too. He hated a lot of people.

George considered refusing to go. The last thing he wanted was to speak to that creep Hugo, who had betrayed the civil rights movement and George personally. George's arm still hurt occasionally from the injury he had received in Anniston while Hugo looked on, chatting to the police and smoking.

On the other hand, if it was bad news George wanted to hear it first. Perhaps the FBI had caught King out in an extramarital affair, or something of that kind. George would welcome the chance to manage the dissemination of any negative information about the civil rights movement. He did not want someone such as Dennis Wilson spreading the word. For that reason he would have to see Hugo, and probably suffer his gloating.

FBI headquarters was on another floor of the Justice Department building. George found Hugo in a small office near the director's suite of rooms. Hugo had a short FBI haircut and wore a plain midgray suit with a white nylon shirt and a navy blue tie. On his desk was a pack of menthol cigarettes and a file folder.

“What do you want?” said George.

Hugo grinned. He could not conceal his pleasure. He said: “One of Martin Luther King's advisers is a Communist.”

George was shocked. This accusation could blight the entire civil
rights movement. He felt cold with worry. You could never prove that someone was
not
a Communist—and anyway, the truth hardly mattered: just the suggestion was deadly. Like the accusation of witchcraft in the Middle Ages, it was an easy way to stir up hatred among stupid and ignorant people.

“Who is this adviser?” George asked Hugo.

Hugo looked at a file, as if he had to refresh his memory. “Stanley Levison,” he said.

“That doesn't sound like a Negro name.”

“He's a Jew.” Hugo took a photograph from the file and handed it over.

George saw an undistinguished white face with receding hair and large spectacles. The man was wearing a bow tie. George had met King and his people in Atlanta, and none of them looked like this. “Are you sure he works for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference?”

“I didn't say he
worked
for King. He's a New York attorney. Also a successful businessman.”

“So in what sense is he an ‘adviser' to Dr. King?”

“He helped King get his book published, and defended him from a tax-evasion lawsuit in Alabama. They don't meet often, but they talk on the phone.”

George sat upright. “How would you know a thing like that?”

“Sources,” Hugo said smugly.

“So, you claim that Dr. King sometimes telephones a New York attorney and gets advice on tax and publishing matters.”

“From a Communist.”

“How do you know he's a Communist?”