Ginger stood there, and a quiet came over the people. They stared at him, and he saw something in their faces that he had never seen before. He was thirty-eight years old, and he’d lived in the South all his life, and his mother had told him stories, but he had never seen anything like this or dreamed that it could happen.

It occurred, suddenly, to Ginger that he was going to die.

And standing there in the middle of the crowd of white people, he wondered why.

The word came out. “Why?”

The small man hawked and spat on the ground. “You ought t’ know, nigger,” he said.

There was no air. Only the heat and the smell of sweat and heavy breath.

The silence lasted another instant. Then the young men laughed, and ambled loosely over to the car. One of them supported himself on two others, lifted his feet and kicked the rear window. Glass exploded inward.

Ginger Beauchamp sprang, blind with fury. He pushed the two boys away and confronted the one who had kicked the glass. He was a gangling youth of no more than sixteen. His face was covered with blackheads and his hair hung matted over his forehead like strips of seaweed. He saw Ginger’s rage and grinned widely.

“Don’t you do it,” Harriet cried. “Ginger, don’t!”

The thin Negro knew what it would mean to strike a white man; but he also knew what it would mean if he did not fight to protect his family. All of this passed through his mind in a flash. As quickly, he decided.

He was about to smash his fist into the boy’s face, when a voice cried, “Awright, now, break it up! Break it up!” and the people began to move.

“Nigger here come a-lookin’ for trouble, Sheriff!”

“Which?”

“This one.”

“Awright, Freddy, you go on home now. We’ll take care of it.”

“He like to run over me!”

“Go on home.”

The circle of people gradually broke off, moved away, some standing and watching from the corner, others disappearing into the night.

Ginger Beauchamp stood next to his automobile, his hands still bunched solidly into fists, the cords tight in his neck and in his arms.

A large man in a gray suit said, “You better get along.”

Ginger could see only the red faces and the angry eyes, and hear the words that had fallen on him like whiplashes.

“I think he’s hurt, Sheriff.”

“Naw, he ain’t hurt. Are you, fella?”

Ginger couldn’t answer. Someone was talking to him, the kids were crying, Harriet was looking at him—but he couldn’t answer.

The large man in the gray suit nodded to a uniformed policeman. “Tony,” he said, “get ’em out of here quick. Send one car along.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t waste any time.”

The policeman walked over to Ginger Beauchamp and said, “Let’s go.”

Ginger nodded.

Suddenly he was very tired again.

“Tom, I know how you feel,” the sheriff said, “but we don’t want to go flying off the handle.”