“Why?”
Reggie scowled then, a grimace that was not really ugly yet, because it was associated only with words and not with feeling. That would come later, and the word would be made flesh, and the flesh would be his forever. Now the scowl was only imitation.
“Because you’re a nigger, that’s why,” Reggie said.
Conway looked at me wonderingly, not feeling hurt, as they say a man knowing himself shot but still without pain will look with surprise.
“I’m better than you,” Reggie said, “’cause my father said so.”
“You are not,” Conway said, but I thought he shrank a little against me.
“No, son, he isn’t,” I said.
“I am so, too,” Reggie said, looking at both of us. Words were beginning to arouse emotion and link with emotion. The sneer was no longer imitation. He stood bearing his weight on his left foot, his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, the whiteness of him showing in a streak just below the hairline, the rest of him—bare trunk, bare legs—tanned almost to the color of my son.
“No, son,” I said, as much to the one as to the other. I think I felt sorry for Reggie too. I do now at any rate, thinking back.
“You are not,” Conway said, and straightened. “My daddy says you aren’t.”