"Come in," he said from the half-shadow; then I saw him move and his head coming forward, his eyes burning.
He began mildly, as if quietly joking, throwing me off balance.
"Boy," he said, "I understand that you not only carried Mr. Norton out to the Quarters but that you wound up at that sinkhole, that Golden Day."
It was a statement, not a question. I said nothing and he looked at me with the same mild gaze. Had Barbee helped Mr. Norton soften him?
"No," he said, "it wasn't enough to take him to the Quarters, you had to make the complete tour, to give him the full treatment. Was that it?"
"No, sir . . . I mean that he was ill, sir," I said. "He had to have some whiskey . . ."
"And that was the only place you knew to go," he said. "So you went there because you were taking care of him . . ."
"Yes, sir . . ."
"And not only that," he said in a voice that both mocked and marveled, "you took him out and sat him down on the gallery, veranda -- piazza -- whatever they call it now'days -- and introduced him to the quality!"
"Quality?" I frowned. "Oh -- but he insisted that I stop, sir. There was nothing I could do . . ."
"Of course," he said. "Of course."
"He was interested in the cabins, sir. He was surprised that there were any left."
"So naturally you stopped," he said, bowing his head again.
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, and I suppose the cabin opened up and told him its life history and all the choice gossip?"
I started to explain.
"Boy!" he exploded. "Are you serious? Why were you out on that road in the first place? Weren't you behind the wheel?"
"Yes, sir . . ."
"Then haven't we bowed and scraped and begged and lied enough decent homes and drives for you to show him? Did you think that white man had to come a thousand miles -- all the way from New York and Boston and Philadelphia just for you to show him a slum? Don't just stand there, say something!"
"But I was only driving him, sir. I only stopped there after he ordered me to . . ."
"Ordered you?" he said. "He ordered you. Dammit, white folk are always giving orders, it's a habit with them. Why didn't you make an excuse? Couldn't you say they had sickness -- smallpox -- or picked another cabin? Why that Trueblood shack? My God, boy! You're black and living in the South -- did you forget how to lie?"
"Lie, sir? Lie to him, lie to a trustee, sir? Me?"
He shook his head with a kind of anguish. "And me thinking I'd picked a boy with brain," he said. "Didn't you know you were endangering the school?"
"But I was only trying to please him . . ."
"Please him? And here you are a junior in college! Why, the dumbest black bastard in the cotton patch knows that the only way to please a white man is to tell him a lie! What kind of education are you getting around here? Who really told you to take him out there?" he said.
"He did, sir. No one else."
"Don't lie to me!"
"That's the truth, sir."
"I warn you now, who suggested it?"
"I swear, sir. No one told me."
"Nigger, this isn't the time to lie. I'm no white man. Tell me the truth!"
It was as though he'd struck me. I stared across the desk thinking, He called me that . . .
"Answer me, boy!"
That, I thought, noticing the throbbing of a vein that rose between his eyes, thinking, He called me that.
"I wouldn't lie, sir," I said.
"Then who was that patient you were talking with?"
"I never saw him before, sir."
"What was he saying?"
"I can't recall it all," I muttered. "The man was raving."
"Speak up. What did he say?"
"He thinks that he lived in France and that he's a great doctor . . ."
"Continue."
"He said that I believed that white was right," I said.
"What?" Suddenly his face twitched and cracked like the surface of dark water. "And you do, don't you?" Dr. Bledsoe said, suppressing a nasty laugh. "Well, don't you?"
I did not answer, thinking, You, you . . .
"Who was he, did you ever see him before?"
"No, sir, I hadn't."
"Was he northern or southern?"
"I don't know, sir."