If I protested he would fly into a tantrum and shake his big finger at me vigorously. And so I retreated, step by step, into my room, from which I emerged only to go to the bathroom or kitchen or out of the house. I tried to stay out on nights when he had company. But he had company so often that I could not always help being in my room after he had walked her to the door. Then he would knock on my door for his talk. He might offer me a drink, and if I refused, he would go to his room for a while and then come back. He would pace about for a while, like a big little boy who wants to ask for money over his allowance. At these times my mind would move feverishly over all our contacts for as far back as I could make it reach, searching and attempting to pull out that one incident which would surely be the point of his attack. But it was never any use; it might have been anything.

“Howard, I got something on my chest and I might as well get it off.”

“What is it?” I asked from my bed.

“You been acting strange lately. Haven’t been talking to me. If you got something on your chest, get it off now.”

“I have nothing on my chest,” I said.

“Then why don’t you talk?”

I did not answer.

“You hardly speak to me in the kitchen. If you have something against me, tell me now.”

“I have nothing against you.”

“Why don’t you talk, then?” He looked directly at me. “If a man doesn’t talk, you think something’s wrong!”

“I’ve been nervous lately, that’s all. I got problems and I don’t want to talk.”

“Everybody’s got problems. That’s no reason for going around making a man feel guilty.”

“For God’s sake, I don’t want to talk.”

“I know what’s wrong with you. Your conscience is bothering you. You’re so evil that your conscience is giving you trouble. You got everybody fooled but me. I know you’re a black devil.”

“I’m a black devil,” I said. “Now will you let me sleep?”

He went to the door. “You dish it out but you can’t take it,” he said. “That’s your trouble.”

“I’m a black devil,” I said.