The three women on the couch laughed again.

“I’m here to do what I can for the town. I read about your difficulties.”

“What difficulties is that?”

“The integration issue, Mrs. Lambert.”

“Oh?” The woman stared. “But that’s all over, I mean, they got twelve nigras enrolled at the school already, it says in the paper. Starting up Monday.”

“Do you think it’s right?”

“Right? You mean right? No, I sure don’t, and neither does nobody. But it’s the law.”

“Whose law?”

The little woman thought a while and shrugged. “I’m not too good on politics, y’see, but Mr. McDaniel says there’s nothing we can do about it and that’s that.”

“Who is Mr. McDaniel?”

“He’s the editor over to the Messenger. A fine man, too; his wife’s mother and I were best friends until she died. He thinks letting the nigras in is the worst thing that could happen, and it was him and Mr. Shipman and Mr. Satterly, who’s the Mayor, that got Mr. Paton and the other people on the school board to complain to the Governor. I mean, he’s against the whole thing, just like everybody, but the law is the law, he says, and so there ain’t no more to it.”

The man called Billy appeared.

“It’s as clean as a whistle, ma’am,” he said. “She dusted everywhere except behind the bed, and I dusted there myself, so it’s all right, I guess. He can go on up.”

Mrs. Pearl Lambert began to walk quickly toward the staircase. “Just follow me, mister. You want Billy to tote your suitcase?”

“No, it isn’t heavy. That’s all right.”

“Yes, sir.”

They marched up the creaking stairs, up into an utterly airless landing. There was a table, buried under magazines, and a large pot with a fern growing out of it. The wallpaper was stained and faded to a neutral gray.

“It ain’t too fancy, but we keep our rooms clean and you can open a window, if you like.”

“It looks fine to me,” he said.

They stopped in a black alcove; the little woman kept nodding as she fumbled for the doorknob. The door opened and they went into a large room.

It was surprisingly light, with cream-colored walls and ceiling, a green rug, and two lamps with white cloth shades. The bed was huge and old; a thick, lumpy mattress on a foundation of iron, covered by a much-laundered bright yellow spread. There was a dresser and a steel closet that looked, somehow, like a filing cabinet.

“This is your bath here. The shower doesn’t work, I don’t know why—I’ve had Crawford fix it a dozen times; but the tub is new calked and we have plenty of good hot water.”