“My family?”

“That’s right.”

“You don’t like my family, Luther, take it up with my father.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause I need the fucking job.”

“Then I guess you should go home now. Hope you still have it in the morning.”

Luther took another couple of steps back. “How’s your union going?”

“What?”

“Your dream of a workers brotherhood? How’s that?”

Danny’s face flattened, as if it had been run over. “Go home, Luther.”

Luther nodded. He gulped some air. He turned and started walking.

“Hey!” Danny called.

Luther looked back at him standing by his building in the early evening cold.

“Why’d you come all the way out here? To dress down a white man in public?”

Luther shook his head. He turned to start walking again.

“Hey! I asked you a question.”

“Because she’s better than your whole fucking family!” Luther took a bow in the middle of the sidewalk. “Got that, white boy? Go grab your noose, string me up, whatever the fuck you Yankees do up here. And you do? I’ll know I died speaking truth to your fucking lie. She is better than your whole family.” He pointed at Danny. “Better than you, especially.”

Danny’s lips moved.

Luther took a step toward him. “What? What’s that?”

Danny put a hand on his doorknob. “I said you’re probably right.”

He turned the knob and entered his building and Luther stood alone on the steadily darkening street, raggedy Italians stabbing him with their almond eyes as they passed.

He chuckled. “Shit,” he said. “I got him and his horseshit where it lived.” He smiled at an angry old lady trying to slide past him. “Don’t that beat all, ma’am?”

Yvette called to him soon as he entered the house. He came into the parlor with his coat still on because her voice sounded fearful. But as he entered, he saw that she was smiling, as if she’d been touched by a divine joy.

“Luther!”

“Ma’am?” Luther used one hand to unbutton his topcoat.

She stood there, beaming. Isaiah came through the dining room and entered the parlor behind her. He said, “Evening, Luther.”

“Evening, Mr. Giddreaux, sir.”

Isaiah wore a small private smile as he took a seat in the armchair by his teacup.

“What?” Luther said. “What?”

“Did you have a good 1918?” Isaiah said.

Luther looked away from Yvette’s bursting smile and met Isaiah’s tiny one. “Uh, sir, in point of fact, no, I did not have a good 1918. Bit troublesome if you need to know the truth, sir.”

Isaiah nodded. “Well, it’s over.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece: ten-forty-three. “Almost twenty-four-hours over.” He looked over at his wife. “Oh, stop your teasing, Yvette. It’s starting to torture me.” He gave Luther a look—women—and then he said, “Come on now. Give it to the boy.”

Yvette crossed the floor to him and for the first time Luther noticed that she’d kept her hands behind her back since he’d entered the room. Her body was rippling, and her smile kept sliding, topsy-turvy, all over her face.