“I reckon I’m going North to stay with my younger brother Carlyle in New York.” Wallace Bedlow stared back at them, as his father said, “Oh.” He looked like he was daring them to stop him. The men did nothing, casually turned away to their small conversations; Wallace Bedlow too turned away, standing very quietly waiting for the bus to come. When it came, he got on it. By that time, seven Negroes had joined him; they too carried suitcases, wore their best clothes, some even with neckties. Waiting, they said nothing to each other, rather stood patiently, self-engrossed, as if the white men did not exist, and when the bus came careening, its wheels hissing, down from the Ridge and stopped at the porch, they boarded silently, dropped their money in the plastic box (all seemed to have exact fare), moved to the back, and the bus took them away.

Shortly after the bus departed, Mister David Willson came around the corner from his house in the rich section of town, the Swells. He was a nice-looking man, with sad brown eyes, a bit shorter than Mister Leland’s father. He was not a farmer, was descended from the General, though he seemed to possess none of his greatness, and was considered rather some kind of usurper of the family name. He owned much of the land on which Mister Leland’s father’s friends share-cropped; he was not their friend. He came on foot, thinking deeply, his hands knit behind his back, and without speaking to or even looking at the men on the porch, went inside, bought a newspaper, and retraced his steps up the street past the General.

Bobby-Joe spat into the street. “God-damn uppity bastard!”

Each hour for the next four, the bus came from New Marsails. At least ten Negroes were waiting silently, patiently, each hour, as if enclosed in invisible coffins, no longer having the power of communication or even possessing anything to communicate to the world around them, or each other. They all carried suitcases or boxes or shopping bags or bundles tied with string; all wore their best clothes.