He stripped his shirt off. She watched his back and thought, without meaning to, of Ivanhoe Grant. Where was he tonight? Whom was he with? A man like that—even a preacher man—surely he was with somebody. Especially a preacher man. Give me succor in my hour of trial What a pitch. It had worked beautifully—made her just indignant enough to call him nigger. He’d worked all afternoon to make her say that one word, and she had. She couldn’t believe she’d said it—it was a word she never used. Yet she had said it out loud. At the moment she said it, she believed it. It was the truth. It still amazed her. Made her want to knock his teeth out. The arrogance.

Sam stepped out of his trousers and folded them carelessly over a chair back. His white calves were too skinny, but his thighs and buttocks were muscled. The nightshirt fluttered down, covering them. If only he wouldn’t turn, she could enjoy watching him. Without his wanting anything from her, without his desire.

But he did turn. All at once, she felt flustered, unsure what to do, as she felt every night now when he came to bed. In her nightdress, she felt naked, almost chilly. Gooseflesh rose on her bare arms. She felt herself coil reflexively, gathering herself inside herself, out of reach. She didn’t want to, she just did. She thought of poor, fat Calliope, pining for her white-trash man—what she wouldn’t give for a man like Sam. But that didn’t help. Knowing didn’t help. Feeling was all that mattered.

He stepped over to the bed and took her hand. She stood up as awkwardly as if this were their wedding night. Sam drew her in and hugged her. She told herself not to stiffen, but she did. If he would only wait until she could touch him.

“Look, it’s all right,” he said. “I’m tired, too.”

“I’m not tired.”

He sighed—so it was going to be like this. “Harry wanted to talk. I couldn’t get away.”

“Harry always wants to talk. Doesn’t he have a wife?”

Sam loosened his arms around her and stepped back. “He’s just an old drunk, he doesn’t have anybody.” He walked around to the other side of the bed and poured himself half a glass of water from the pitcher on the night table. She watched him drink it in one long gulp, wishing she could start this whole conversation over.

“It’s this place,” she said softly. “I thought the school would be enough.”

“Nothing’s ever enough, is it?”

She touched other people. She and Calliope patted each other’s arms as they talked, without even noticing. She hugged the children at school, she told him so. She just could not bear to touch him.