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.

If I have so little regard for a small town newspaper, if these people are my enemies, why don’t I move away? I could accept Lubin’s offer. In New York. On a pro-integration paper.

Is it because, he asked himself, you like Caxton, and you like these people—even if they are enemies—and editing the Messenger is exactly what you want to do?

“Shipman won’t let me tell the truth,” he said to Ruth, to himself. “If I do, I’ll be fired.” He looked down at his wife. “Well, what do you think of me now? What do you think of a man who’s a nigger-lover and doesn’t have the guts to say it out loud?”

Ruth was silent.

“Go on! I know what you’re thinking. Why don’t you say it!”

“I’m—confused,” she said, pressing her hand to her forehead. “If you’d told me any of this before, or even hinted—if you’d tried to make me understand—”

Tom nodded. “Instead of ‘jamming it down your throat’ . . . I know.” He felt angry and disgusted. “It’s all ruined now, I suppose,” he said.

Ruth did not answer. He could see the tears that had fallen, unchecked, down her face.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Please believe that. I’m sorry.”