“Well, die, for Christ’s sake! Die!” he cried. “And don’t blame anybody, you stupid old fool—don’t blame anybody but yourself! You wouldn’t see the way things are. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t see. So they blew up your church! Where was your blessed God when they were doing that, preacher? Where was He then?” Joey’s arm raised; the finger of his hand stiffened and pointed at the old man. “Where will your dear Lord be when those same guys come and plant dynamite under the other homes, when they blow up Simon’s Hill and everybody on it?”

The preacher stirred.

“Right now, right now, Reverend—maybe my own mother and father are dead. Maybe their guts are all over the floor! Is it worth it, all them words? Freedom!”

He rushed to the bed and shook his arm away from the nurse’s grip, and screamed at the still figure: “Tell me about our rights now, you old son of a bitch! Oh, Christ, tell me about them now!”

“Doctor!”

“Leave me alone. He did it himself. He killed all of us. My mother’s dead, they blew her up—”

Strong hands pulled him away. He felt the hot tears on his cheeks and he began to fight, when suddenly the doctor froze.

There was the ghost of a sound from the bed.

“Joey,” the sound said.

They waited.

Again: “Joey Green.”

He tried to pull away, but the hands held him firmly.

“He’s calling me!”

“You’re in no condition to—”

“I’m all right now, I am, I’m okay. He’s calling—”

“He won’t recognize you, Mr. Green.”

Joey pushed the doctor aside angrily and knelt by the bed.

The old man’s eyes flickered, opened; there was a light behind them, but it was a dim light.

“Joey . . . must not blame them all. A few . . .”

He strained to hear.

“A few. Tell Irma, tell her I don’t mind. Are you here, Joey?”

“I’m here.”

The doctor and the nurse stood very still, watching.

“Joey, you remember . . . you remember once I told you everybody got a test . . . for him alone?”

“I remember, Reverend.”

“This is your test.”

The voice stopped; there was a long pause; then some hidden strength inside the preacher pulled more air into his lungs.

“Promise me,” he said, so softly only Joey Green could hear. “Promise me you see the job gets done.”

Joey’s teeth were clamped together tightly; he was holding off the scream that was a solid thing within his throat.

“You’re the only one . . . can do it now. Joey? Promise?”

He tasted the salt and thought of all the Jeremiah Streets and felt the shudder then that chilled along his arms. He put his head against the white sheet, heard his own voice say:

“I promise.”

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