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“Shall we?” I asked Moody.
“You’re gonna start a riot,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
I clasped her hand tightly in mine. Then we began to walk down the sidewalk of the busiest street in Eudora.
To anyone who didn’t know us, we would seem like lovers out for a romantic stroll on a late-summer afternoon.
But of course there was a complication: I was white, Moody was black. My hair was blond and straight, hers was black and tightly curled.
The citizens of Eudora had never seen anything like the two of us.
They stopped in their tracks. Some got down off the sidewalk to put some distance between us. Others groaned or cried out, as if the sight of us caused them physical pain.
Corinna Cutler and Edwina Booth came out of Miss Ida’s store, a couple of plump old hens cackling to each other—until they laid eyes on our joined hands.
Both their jaws dropped.
“Afternoon, Miz Cutler,” I said. “Afternoon, Miz Booth.”
Their faces darkened and they hurried away.
Ezra Newcomb saw us through the window of his barber-shop. He abandoned his lathered-up customer in the chair and stalked to the door. “Ben Corbett,” he shouted, “I oughta take this razor to your damn throat!”
I relinquished Moody’s hand and wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder. “Nice to see you too, Ezra.”
Word of our coming spread down the street before us. About half the town stepped out onto the sidewalk to see what was causing the commotion.
At the drugstore I held the door for Moody.
Doc Conover stared down at us from his pharmacist’s bench at the rear. “What do you want, Corbett?”
“A bottle of wintergreen oil, please,” I said.
“We’re fresh out,” he said.
“Aw now, come on, Doc,” I said. “It’s for Abraham Cross. He’s dying, and it would bring him relief. You’ve known Abraham all your life.”
“I told you we’re out,” he said. “Now clear out of here.”
“There it is, up there next to the camphor.” I pointed to the row of bottles on the shelf above his head.
“You callin’ me a liar?” said Conover. “Take off, or I’ll have the police throw you out of here.”
Moody pulled at my sleeve. “Let’s go,” she said.
I followed her toward the front door.
There was a crowd waiting outside to point and jeer at us. We turned left and headed down the block. “Let’s go to the Slide Inn and have some iced tea,” I said.
“I can’t go in there,” she said.
“Sure you can. Who’s going to stop you?”
“Get out of here, nigger-lover!” called a man in the crowd.
We came to Jenkins’ Mercantile, passing the bench where Henry North and Marcus had carried my mother after she had had her stroke.
We walked the rest of the way to the Slide Inn, trailing our little mob of catcalling spectators.
