His coolness infuriated her. His cool, plain arrogance, the arrogance only a man could have. She was angry that he had tried to seduce her, but just as angry that the seduction hadn’t been genuine—which was crazy, and she knew it. She hated herself for being tricked so easily. For being so predictably what she was. She hated this man. She hated all men. She hated all black men, hated all the coloreds, everywhere.

“Go ahead and say it. It’s on the tip of your tongue.”

She glared at him.

“Nigger,” he pronounced quietly. “Say it. Say it after me. You want to say it: nigger.” He was talking louder.

She cast her eyes uncertainly from side to side, looking for a way out.

“It’s easy, just repeat after me: N-I-G-G-E-R, nigger! See?”

“All right! Nigger! Nigger, nigger, nigger! Satisfied?”

“In the beginning was the Word, teacher.”

Some of the men were coming across the street. Grant didn’t seem to notice. Suddenly, they were all around her. Dear God, she prayed, don’t let them damage me, let me be able to have another baby someday.

“You all right, miss?” one of them said timidly, straw hat in hand.

The man next to him let his half-smoked cigarette drop from his lip. “Laws, she a white woman!” he said in amazement.

“Look like she sick.”

“Go on out of here, Charley Potatoes,” one of them said to Grant. “You scaring the lady.”

“We walk with you to the streetcar, ma’am.”

Ivanhoe Grant lifted his hands toward heaven, fluttering his fingers. “In the beginning was the Word, teacher,” he said coolly. “The Word.” He dropped his arms, bowed his head, then disappeared into the house.

His rank smell lingered in the air. She could hardly stand the smell—the air stank of men.

On the streetcar home, she leaned out the window to blow it off her tangled dark hair, out of her dusty nose and throat.

Sam walked to the gate to meet her, cross from having waited for more than an hour. Something was wrong, he could tell. “Children acting up at school?” he said, taking her heavy cloth bag.

She smiled, but she was near tears. On the porch, he embraced her. He wanted her. He’d been waiting for her. She was his wife. He wanted to strip off her dress and kiss her shining black hair, her breasts, the insides of her thighs, feel her heat. He would do it gently. He would take hours.

She pulled away. “No,” she said. “I’m not—I’m not ready.”

Sam felt scolded. He stood on the porch as she went inside, expecting her to find the blue chrysanthemums he had brought her and rush back to him, linger in his arms, feel his love.

But instead, he heard her footsteps on the stairs, heavy and measured. Sweet Jesus, he wanted a drink. He went into the kitchen and ran a glass of water from the pump. The water was lukewarm and tasted of rust. He thought, the only place in town that doesn’t have cold water.