who I am."
"Yes, sir," I said, "but they hate us up at the school. They never come there . . ."
"What!"
"No, sir."
"And those children along the fence down there?"
"They don't either, sir."
"But why?"
"I don't really know, sir. Quite a few folks out this way don't, though. I guess they're too ignorant. They're not interested."
"But I can't believe it."
The children had stopped playing and now looked silently at the car, their arms behind their backs and their new over-sized overalls pulled tight over their little pot bellies as though they too were pregnant.
"What about their men folk?"
I hesitated. Why did he find this so strange?
"He hates us, sir," I said.
"You say he; aren't both the women married?"
I caught my breath. I'd made a mistake. "The old one is, sir," I said reluctantly.
"What happened to the young woman's husband?"
"She doesn't have any --That is . . . I --"
"What is it, young man? Do you know these people?"
"Only a little, sir. There was some talk about them up on the campus a while back."
"What talk?"
"Well, the young woman is the old woman's daughter . . ."
"And?"
"Well, sir, they say . . . you see . . . I mean they say the daughter doesn't have a husband."
"Oh, I see. But that shouldn't be so strange. I understand that your people --Never mind! Is that all?"
"Well, sir . . ."
"Yes, what else?"
"They say that her father did it."
"What!"
"Yes, sir . . . that he gave her the baby."
I heard the sharp intake of breath, like a toy balloon suddenly deflated. His face reddened. I was confused, feeling shame for the two women and fear that I had talked too much and offended his sensibilities.
"And did anyone from the school investigate this matter?" he asked at last.
"Yes, sir," I said.
"What was discovered?"
"That it was true --they say."
"But how does he explain his doing such a --a --such a monstrous thing?" He sat back in the seat, his hands grasping his knees, his knuckles bloodless. I looked away, down the heat-dazzling concrete of the highway. I wished we were back on the other side of the white line, heading back to the quiet green stretch of the campus.
"It is said that the man took both his wife and his daughter?"
"Yes, sir."
"And that he is the father of both their children?"
"Yes, sir."
"No, no, no!"
He sounded as though he were in great pain. I looked at him anxiously. What had happened?
What had I said?
"Not that! No . . ." he said, with something like horror.
I saw the sun blaze upon the new blue overalls as the man appeared around the cabin. His shoes were tan and new and he moved easily over the hot earth. He was a small man and he covered the yard with a familiarity that would have allowed him to walk in the blackest darkness with the same certainty. He came and said something to the women as he fanned himself with a blue bandanna handkerchief. But they appeared to regard him sullenly, barely speaking, and hardly looking in his direction.
"Would that be the man?" Mr. Norton asked.
"Yes, sir. I think so."
"Get out!" he cried. "I must talk with him."
I was unable to move. I felt surprise and a dread and resentment of what he might say to Trueblood and his women, the questions he might ask. Why couldn't he leave them alone!
"Hurry!"
I climbed from the car and opened the rear door. He clambered out and almost ran across the road to the yard, as though compelled by some pressing urgency which I could not understand. Then suddenly I saw the two women turn and run frantically behind the house, their movements heavy and flatfooted. I hurried behind him, seeing him stop when he reached the man and the children. They became silent, their faces clouding over, their features becoming soft and negative, their eyes bland and deceptive. They were crouching behind their eyes waiting for him to speak --just as I recognized that I was trembling behind my own. Up close I saw what I had not seen from the car: The man had a scar on his right cheek, as though he had been
"Yes, sir," I said, "but they hate us up at the school. They never come there . . ."
"What!"
"No, sir."
"And those children along the fence down there?"
"They don't either, sir."
"But why?"
"I don't really know, sir. Quite a few folks out this way don't, though. I guess they're too ignorant. They're not interested."
"But I can't believe it."
The children had stopped playing and now looked silently at the car, their arms behind their backs and their new over-sized overalls pulled tight over their little pot bellies as though they too were pregnant.
"What about their men folk?"
I hesitated. Why did he find this so strange?
"He hates us, sir," I said.
"You say he; aren't both the women married?"
I caught my breath. I'd made a mistake. "The old one is, sir," I said reluctantly.
"What happened to the young woman's husband?"
"She doesn't have any --That is . . . I --"
"What is it, young man? Do you know these people?"
"Only a little, sir. There was some talk about them up on the campus a while back."
"What talk?"
"Well, the young woman is the old woman's daughter . . ."
"And?"
"Well, sir, they say . . . you see . . . I mean they say the daughter doesn't have a husband."
"Oh, I see. But that shouldn't be so strange. I understand that your people --Never mind! Is that all?"
"Well, sir . . ."
"Yes, what else?"
"They say that her father did it."
"What!"
"Yes, sir . . . that he gave her the baby."
I heard the sharp intake of breath, like a toy balloon suddenly deflated. His face reddened. I was confused, feeling shame for the two women and fear that I had talked too much and offended his sensibilities.
"And did anyone from the school investigate this matter?" he asked at last.
"Yes, sir," I said.
"What was discovered?"
"That it was true --they say."
"But how does he explain his doing such a --a --such a monstrous thing?" He sat back in the seat, his hands grasping his knees, his knuckles bloodless. I looked away, down the heat-dazzling concrete of the highway. I wished we were back on the other side of the white line, heading back to the quiet green stretch of the campus.
"It is said that the man took both his wife and his daughter?"
"Yes, sir."
"And that he is the father of both their children?"
"Yes, sir."
"No, no, no!"
He sounded as though he were in great pain. I looked at him anxiously. What had happened?
What had I said?
"Not that! No . . ." he said, with something like horror.
I saw the sun blaze upon the new blue overalls as the man appeared around the cabin. His shoes were tan and new and he moved easily over the hot earth. He was a small man and he covered the yard with a familiarity that would have allowed him to walk in the blackest darkness with the same certainty. He came and said something to the women as he fanned himself with a blue bandanna handkerchief. But they appeared to regard him sullenly, barely speaking, and hardly looking in his direction.
"Would that be the man?" Mr. Norton asked.
"Yes, sir. I think so."
"Get out!" he cried. "I must talk with him."
I was unable to move. I felt surprise and a dread and resentment of what he might say to Trueblood and his women, the questions he might ask. Why couldn't he leave them alone!
"Hurry!"
I climbed from the car and opened the rear door. He clambered out and almost ran across the road to the yard, as though compelled by some pressing urgency which I could not understand. Then suddenly I saw the two women turn and run frantically behind the house, their movements heavy and flatfooted. I hurried behind him, seeing him stop when he reached the man and the children. They became silent, their faces clouding over, their features becoming soft and negative, their eyes bland and deceptive. They were crouching behind their eyes waiting for him to speak --just as I recognized that I was trembling behind my own. Up close I saw what I had not seen from the car: The man had a scar on his right cheek, as though he had been
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