“You dont think I am lawyer enough, you mean?”
“I guess I’ve got just what was coming to me.
There’s no use fighting it.”
“Certainly not, if you feel that way about it.
But you dont.
Or you’d have told Isom to drive you to the railroad station.
Wouldn’t you?”
She was looking down at the child, fretting the blanket about its face.
“You get a good night’s rest and I’ll be in early tomorrow.”
They passed the jail—a square building slashed harshly by pale slits of light.
Only the central window was wide enough to be called a window, criss-crossed by slender bars.
In it the negro murderer leaned; below along the fence a row of heads hatted and bare above work-thickened shoulders, and the blended voices swelled rich and sad into the soft, depthless evening, singing of heaven and being tired.
“Dont you worry at all, now.
Everybody knows Lee didn’t do it.”
They drew up to the hotel, where the drummers sat in chairs along the curb, listening to the singing.
“I must—” the woman said.
Horace got down and held the door open.
She didn’t move.
“Listen. I’ve got to tell—”
“Yes,” Horace said, extending his hand.
“I know.
I’ll be in early tomorrow.”
He helped her down.
They entered the hotel, the drummers turning to watch her legs, and went to the desk.
The singing followed them, dimmed by the walls, the lights.
The woman stood quietly nearby, holding the child, until Horace had done.
“Listen,” she said.
The porter went on with the key, toward the stairs.
Horace touched her arm, turning her that way.
“I’ve got to tell you,” she said.
“In the morning,” he said.
“I’ll be in early,” he said, guiding her toward the stairs.
Still she hung back, looking at him; then she freed her arm by turning to face him.
“All right, then,” she said.
She said, in a low, level tone, her face bent a little toward the child:
“We haven’t got any money.
I’ll tell you now.
That last batch Popeye didn’t—”
“Yes, yes,” Horace said; “first thing in the morning.
I’ll be in by the time you finish breakfast.
Goodnight.”
He returned to the car, into the sound of the singing.
“Home, Isom,” he said.
They turned and passed the jail again and the leaning shape beyond the bars and the heads along the fence.
Upon the barred and slitted wall the splotched shadow of the heaven tree shuddered and pulsed monstrously in scarce any wind; rich and sad, the singing fell behind.
The car went on, smooth and swift, passing the narrow street.
“Here,” Horace said, “where are you—” Isom clapped on the brakes.
“Miss Narcissa say to bring you back out home,” he said.
“Oh, she did?” Horace said.
“That was kind of her.