Ivanhoe Grant let loose a caterwauling laugh. “Of course they aren’t firing anybody—not yet! You think the man can run his own mills? You think he can lay a straight course of bricks? You think he can stand up under twelve hours on the wharf that would kill a plow mule? They’ve got to keep some of us, or the city will fall apart. It’s a simple matter of good business.”

“Say the word, preacher.”

“Keep this city keeping on.”

Grant seemed to grow in stature as he talked. Kirk watched the man’s back—it was as if he were inflating.

“Now, the businessmen of this community—the white businessmen of this city—made a proclamation today: no Negroes need apply. All new jobs will go to whites. The strategy is to replace us one by one. Man by man. Black man dies, white man take his place.”

“Amen.”

“Black man quits, white man take his place.”

“Amen.”

“Black man injured on the job, white man take his place.”

“Black man fired—”

“White man take his place!”

“White man!”

“We losing that job!”

Ivanhoe Grant turned to stone and let them mutter, signify, testify, even shout, for a long minute. Then he held up one finger and the place quieted instantly. The gaslamps hissed.

The Reverend Kirk burned with envy and humiliation.

“Plenty of black men working,” Grant whispered. “Plenty of black men got good jobs. Earn a pay envelope. Raise a family. Pay for the groceries. Pay for the streetcar. Pay for the gas company. Buy a dress for the wife, shoes for the little children. Plenty of black men working.”

“Working, that’s the truth.”

“Plenty of good providers. Taxpayers. God-fearing men with quick minds and noble hearts and strong backs and nimble hands.” His whisper had a soothing quality, like honey and whiskey on a sore throat.

He walked away from them, far back into the shadows until he all but disappeared. Some thought he had left. Kirk couldn’t see him. Men in the back row stood up. The gaslamps whispered along the walls.

Suddenly, out of the shadows, the voice exploded at them: “But they dare not vote!” A woman in the front pew toppled into the arms of her neighbors. Grant strode forward, arriving in their midst with miraculous speed. His great voice filled the church like an organ. “Any black man who votes! Any black man who exercises his rights as a citizen and votes!” He flew out of the chancel, swung into a pew, and leaped up onto the seat, suddenly ten feet tall. An old, bent woman scrambled out of his way. “That man will be cast out! That man will be fired!”

“Word, preacher, word!”

“Can’t vote in our own homeplace!”