“I’ve been working on my speech.”
“Oh.” Then some details of how frightened the Negroes had been, and “Marjorie and Betty are coming over tonight. Would you care to—? No, well then, I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night!”
Robert spent the evening reading patriotic addresses, making notes of the more striking passages, wondering about Margaret and drinking ice water. His parents’ voices drifted pleasantly up to him from the porch through the open windows.
He yawned and looked out. He was becoming restless. Through the heavily scented trees the moon glimmered and a faint breeze stirred. He remembered that he had not sent the poem to Dorothy as he had intended and decided to take it with him. The vines in front of the window swished softly.
He shut his book, turned off the light and went downstairs.
“I’m going out for a little ride,” he said. “I’ll be back early. But don’t sit up for me.”
“All right, son.”
Driving along the country roads, at any rate, would be cooler than sitting up there. Phrases from the speeches he had read ran through his mind. It was good to see the long road, silver in the moonlight, unwind before him. The wind soothed him, coolly. He stepped on the accelerator and reveled in the sensation of flying through the night. The yellow lights of Carthage twinkled ahead and he slowed up. He bumped across a plank bridge. Then a mill, a church, some dreary shops. Shanties. The sinister jail. What were so many people doing in the street? Their voices were buzzing. Shouting. He slowed down.
“Hey, they all goin’,” someone yelled. A tall, lanky form leaned excitedly over the side of the car. His voice twanged. It was an old face, wrinkled, and his goatee went up and down.
“Who’s gone?” Robert stopped his car.