What the hell, he thought. He sat on the revolving piano stool and played “Steal Away,” “Go Down Moses,” “Rock of Ages,” “That Old Rugged Cross” and “My Lord, What a Morning.” There wasn’t a decent voice among the four of them, and any white trash who insisted that all Negroes are born with rhythm should have heard her old man. But he was listening to the girl, not the way he would listen to a professional singer, but as one person listening to another person, and hearing her voice, thin and reed-like and full of emotion, singing with her mother and father like this, he felt like a fish who has been toying with a lure and suddenly realizes the barb is in his throat.

They said a number of warm things about his playing and he mumbled hypocrisies about their singing and then her parents went to put the child to bed and make coffee. As soon as they were alone she treated him as though he weren’t worth stepping on.

“Why did you have to lie?”

“I didn’t.”

“You told them you’re a doctor.”

“I am.”

“You told me you were a musician.”

“I am. I was a musician before I became a doctor, but I’m a doctor now.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Your loss.”

Her father came back, and then her mother carrying a tray, and they had coffee and banana bread. He saw that it was dark outside and said he would have to be leaving.

“Are you a church-going man?” her mother said.

“No, ma’am. I guess I haven’t been to church six times in the past five years.”

She was silent for a moment. “I admire you for telling the truth,” she said at last. “What church do you attend when you go?”

“My mother’s a Methodist,” he said.

“We’re Unitarians. If you’d care to come with us tomorrow morning, you’re welcome.”

“I heard somewhere that a Unitarian is somebody who believes in the fatherhood of God, the brotherhood of man and the neighborhood of Boston.”

Henry Williams threw back his head and shouted his mirth, but Spurgeon saw Mrs. Williams’ compressed lips and realized that he was being a damned fool. “I’ll be on duty at the hospital the next two Sundays. I’d like very much to sit next to Dorothy in church in three weeks, if the invitation still holds.”

He saw that both parents were looking at her.

“I haven’t been going to church,” she said clearly. “I’ve been going to Boston Temple Eleven.”

“You’re a Muslim?”

“She’s not,” her mother said quickly. “She’s just very interested in their movement.”

“Some things in that religion make sense,” Henry Williams said uncomfortably. “No question about that.”

He thanked them and said goodbye and the girl walked him to the front porch.

“I like your mother and father,” he said.