They looked at him with musing tolerance.

“Say, boy, where do you live?” Lawson asked.

“Sir?”

“Come on. Where do you live?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I live at 49 East Canal Street. Yes, sir,” he said, nodding his head vigorously like a child anxious to be believed.

“All right,” Lawson said. “Let’s go.”

They led him down the steps and along the walk to the waiting car. Again he was in the back seat, sitting between Murphy and Johnson. The motor throbbed and the car moved swiftly through Temple Street. Without looking he knew that the sidewalks were filled with black people, people like himself, but he did not want to think of them; at some time during the recent past they had become alien to him. The reality of Reverend Davis had fallen from him; the reality of Mr. and Mrs. Wooten had faded. He was claimed by some strange, powerful reality which the policemen represented, but he felt that the mere sight of Rachel would launch him again into the normal routine of his living. All he felt and knew right now was that the car in which he sat was carrying him toward home, to the familiar walls; and, once home, he would come back alive. The car picked up speed and sailed onto Market Street and swung west to State Street where they paused for a red light. When the green light flashed, the car traveled along State Street, northward, to Canal Street and swung eastward and pulled to a stop directly in front of his door. He was home! His body was poised for action. But nothing happened; minutes passed. What were they waiting on?

“Mister,” he ventured timidly, “this is my place. I live here. My wife is up there . . .”

The policemen did not reply. Perhaps his voice had not been heard? Perhaps he had only imagined that he had spoken? Is this a dream? he asked himself.

“Yes, sir,” he began. “I live here . . .”

“We know that,” Lawson said. “You just sit still and keep your damn shirt on.” Lawson turned to Murphy. “You want to take ’im up?”

“Okay. I’ll take ’im,” Murphy said, shrugging.

“We’ll wait here for you,” Lawson said. “Give ’im ten minutes with her. That’ll do.”

“Okay.”

“Think you can handle ’im all right?” Lawson asked.

“Oh sure,” Murphy said. “He’ll be no trouble, not after last night . . . He’s like a baby.” Murphy turned to him. “Ain’t you, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, nodding; he had not really heard the question.

The car door was opened and Murphy caught his arm and led him across the sidewalk and into the vestibule. Murphy paused.

“Got your key?”

“Sir?”

“Your key, goddammit!”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”

He pulled a key from his pocket. Murphy took it and opened the door and led him into the dim-lit hallway.

“Now, listen here. Be quiet when you go up these steps, if you don’t want another slap, you hear?”