I can see Jane now. Let’s see, it’s five o’clock. Probably getting supper. Glad she can cook so well. Most girls nowadays can’t boil water without burning it.
He reflected on the unusual conversation he had had the night before with Dr. Scott, John Anthony, and Gordon. It was good to know there were some white men who were thinking seriously on the race problem. And trying to be fair. Most white Southerners were modern Pontius Pilates. Figuratively and literally, mentally and morally, they washed their hands of all personal responsibility for the increasing complexities of the race question. He wondered how many more men there were in the South like those three. Broadminded but afraid to speak out. Ewing, Judge Stevenson, Scott, Anthony, Gordon—all by word or action seemed mortally afraid lest the public know they were even thinking of justice. How soon, he wondered, would they gain sufficient courage to take a manly stand? Would that time come before the inevitable clash that continued oppression would cause?
Coloured folks weren’t going to stand it much longer. They were organizing up North and even in the South to use legal means to better their lot. But some of them were getting desperate. Armed resistance would be foolish. Would be certain death. At any rate, even that would be better than what has been going on.
Good Lord, he reflected, let’s forget the race problem awhile! A Negro never gets away from it. He has it night and day. Like the sword of Damocles over his head. Like a cork in a whirling vortex, it tosses him this way and that, never ceasing. Have to think about something else or it’ll run him crazy. Guess Mary Ewing’s about out of danger now.
Glad when she’s all right again. Don’t like to be going over there to those white folks’ house. Neighbours might begin to talk. How much can I charge Roy Ewing? Two hundred dollars? Yes, he can stand it. Hope he’ll pay me soon. Can use it when Jane and I go on our honeymoon. Just about cover our expenses. Honeymoon. Always thought it a darned silly name. But it doesn’t sound so bad now. Not when it was mine and Jane’s.
Thank Goodness, there’s Ashland! Next stop’s Central City. Be home in an hour. Guess I’ll go home first and take a bath and put on some clean clothes. Feel dirty all over and there are a thousand cinders down my back. Ugh, but this is a nasty ride! Hope Bob’ll be at the train with the car. …
Kenneth descended from the train and looked for Bob. He wasn’t there. He looked around for some other coloured man to drive him home. He knew it was useless to try and get any of the white taxi-drivers to take him home—they would have considered it an insult to be asked to drive a Negro. He thought it strange that there were no Negroes to be seen. Usually there were crowds of them. It formed the biggest diversion of the day for white and coloured alike to see the train come in. It was the familiar longing for travel—adventure contact with the larger and more interesting things of the outside world, though none of them could have given a reasonable statement of the fundamental psychological reactions they were experiencing when they went to the station. They never thought of it in that light—it was simply a pleasurable item in the day’s course. That was enough.
When he found no one around, Kenneth picked up his bag and started down the platform to the street. He noticed, but paid little attention to, the silence that fell over the various groups as he passed. He heard a muttered oath but it never occurred to him that it might have any possible connection with himself. Intent on reaching home, seeing the folks, telephoning Hiram Tucker that his wife had passed safely through her operation and was resting well—eager to get freshened up and go over to Jane’s, he cut across a field that would save a half-mile walk instead of going the longer route through Lee Street and town. Swinging along in a long, free stride reminiscent of his army days, he continued the musing he had done on the train.
He thought nothing of the fact that his house was darkened. He rang the bell but no one answered. Thinking his mother and Mamie were out visiting in the neighbourhood, he dug down in his bag, got his keys, and let himself into the house. His mother was coming down the stairs, an oil lamp in her hands. As he went up to kiss her, he noticed her eyes were sunken and red. Anxiously he inquired the reason.
“Oh, Kenneth, my boy—my boy—haven’t you heard?”