She did; then Myron Brodsky did the same, and the rest of the men. Rachel couldn’t watch and she turned around just as the Garners got out of the Cadillac and came up the gravel path toward the group around the grave. Rachel saw them first, but a second later everyone else did too. No one moved or said anything. Mud dripped from the men’s hands and the Garners waited. Tom didn’t know to wear a hat; thin sunlight shone on his black hair. Luria let go of his daughter. She sank to her knees in the mud, wailing—the only sound. Luria held a ball of mud and Rachel knew he was going to throw it. She broke away from Allan and jumped and slid between Luria and Willa. But Luria’s arm was already moving, he couldn’t stop and the mud meant for Willa hit Rachel’s cheek and neck with a smack, like a slap. Willa gasped, then cried out.

“Tom didn’t hit that boy. Please, Mr. Luria, my Tom never hurt anyone. . . .”

“Rachel . . . Rachel,” Levy called and started around the grave to get to her. Allan was too stunned to move and only Rachel and Luria seemed to know what they were doing.

Rachel almost wanted to take it back. But she faced Isaac Luria with mud clammy on her skin. Until then, whenever he had looked at her his eyes had been blank, but now they were full of life, full of wonder that anything like her existed, and then he smiled at her. It was the worst, most spiteful smile she’d ever seen. She wanted to cover her face and turn away, but she raised her head, stretched her neck, felt mud slide into her blouse, and smiled back at him.

“Why?” Allan asked. He sounded angry at her for the first time.

“Because he had no right to treat Willa like that. She came out of sympathy, to show her respect.”

“The old guy just lost his grandson, Rachel. Her son was in on it—”

“No!”

“Maybe in on it . . .”

“It was an accident.”

“You were there?” he asked.

She looked at him. “Do you think Tom killed Michael?” she asked softly.

“I don’t know.”

“But he’s black, so he must’ve done something. Right?”

“I don’t know,” Allan said again. Then he shook his head. “The prejudice is there, Rachel,” he said gently, “like it or not.”

He was right. The prejudice was there. Adam had known that, but he’d fought it and won. But Allan wasn’t Adam, she told herself for the thousandth time. Suddenly she wondered if Roger Hawkins had had to fight the same feelings about whites. He must have, she thought, and won, too, or he and Adam could never have been friends.

6

Chapter 6