“What about the Jews? Around here, the Catholics? The Chinese? The Mexicans? The Poles? In some places, even the Irish? No; it isn’t unnatural. This ‘progress’ of yours is a nice little argument, only it doesn’t happen to be true. I believed it, until this business started; then I realized I was mistaken. Because if it was true, the decision wouldn’t have kicked up much trouble. The fact that it did kick up trouble—and that there might be more: how’d you say? ‘the worst kind of violence the South has known since 1860’—proves—can’t you see that, Jim?—that there hasn’t been any real progress, that it’s just an illusion we’ve hung onto to justify our failure to do anything about the matter. Your failure and mine. It’s us, the nice people, the intelligent, sophisticated people—we’re the ones to blame for this, not the ignorant hillbillies and the cheap neurotics! They have no power to act; we have, and always have had. But we didn’t act. The guilt is ours, and we’ve got to keep this thing alive because if we don’t, then we’ll know the guilt is ours and that wouldn’t be pleasant, would it! Not a damn bit pleasant.”

His voice had been tense, while Jim’s had remained for the most part calm and relaxed; now they both knew, with certainty, that the friendship that had been theirs was gone, forever and irretrievably gone.

Jim had not even tried: “I’m sorry,” he’d said, “that this has happened. At the moment the most important reason is that I’m forced to take sides. And I’m not on yours, Tom.”

Now Tom McDaniel wondered how many people there were, not only in the South, but all over, who had to ‘take sides’ and found themselves for a faceless legion of strangers and against those whom they loved: against their friends and wives and the selves that they had been.

He talked with Ruth for an hour, and she listened quietly, and he told her the same things he had told Jim Wolfe; but robbed of their righteous anger, the words sounded false, and he was almost ashamed. Still, they had to be said. All of them.

When he finished, Ruth sat perfectly still. She breathed softly.

Then she said: “What are you going to do?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.” And it was true. In every other matter, he had been ruthlessly honest; the Messenger had won prizes for its liberal, forthright views; his blistering, knowledgeable editorials had achieved a measure of renown. In this matter, however, he had not been honest. Far from stating his belief that accepting the decision was a moral duty, he had not even stated that it was also a legal duty—not recently, anyway.

He was a pimp now, peddling diseased goods.

Why?

He started the engine, switched on the lights and pulled back onto the road.