Rachel: No, Ma dear.
Tom: No, Ma.
(Another silence.)
Tom (Slowly; as though thinking aloud): I hear people talk about God’s justice—and I wonder. There, are you, Ma. There isn’t a sacrifice—that you haven’t made. You’re still working your fingers to the bone—sewing—just so all of us may keep on living. Rachel is a graduate in Domestic Science; she was high in her class; most of the girls below her in rank have positions in the schools. I’m an electrical engineer—and I’ve tried steadily for several months—to practice my profession. It seems our educations aren’t of much use to us: we aren’t allowed to make good—because our skins are dark. (Pauses) And, in the South today, there are white men—(Controls himself). They have everything; they’re well-dressed, well-fed, well-housed; they’re prosperous in business; they’re important politically; they’re pillars in the church. I know all this is true—I’ve inquired. Their children (our ages, some of them) are growing up around them; and they are having a square deal handed out to them—college, position, wealth, and best of all, freedom, without galling restrictions, to work out their own salvations. With ability, they may become—anything; and all this will be true of their children’s children after them. (A pause). Look at us—and look at them. We are destined to failure—they, to success. Their children shall grow up in hope; ours, in despair. Our hands are clean;—theirs are red with blood—red with the blood of a noble man—and a boy. They’re nothing but low, cowardly, bestial murderers. The scum of the earth shall succeed.—God’s justice, I suppose.
Mrs. Loving (Rising and going to Tom; brokenly): Tom, promise me—one thing.
Tom (Rises gently): What is it, Ma?
Mrs. Loving: That—you’ll try—not to lose faith—in God. I’ve been where you are now—and it’s black. Tom, we don’t understand God’s ways. My son, I know, now—He is beautiful. Tom, won’t you try to believe, again?
Tom (Slowly, but not convincingly): I’ll try, Ma.
Mrs. Loving (Sighs): Each one, I suppose, has to work out his own salvation. (After a pause) Rachel, if you’ll get Jimmy ready, I’ll take him to school. I’ve got to go down town shopping for a customer, this morning. (Rachel rises and goes out the rear doorway; Mrs. Loving, limping very slightly now, follows. She turns and looks back yearningly at Tom, who has seated himself again, and is staring unseeingly at his plate. She goes out. Tom sits without moving until he hears Mrs. Loving’s voice within and Rachel’s faintly; then he gets the paper, sits in the arm-chair and pretends to read).
Mrs. Loving (From within): A yard, you say, Rachel? You’re sure that will be enough. Oh! you’ve measured it. Anything else?—What?—Oh! all right. I’ll be back by one o’clock, anyway. Good-bye. (Enters with Jimmy. Both are dressed for the street. Tom looks up brightly at Jimmy).