“Why, sure! That’s just what you’re going to be!” Andrew wanted to apologize for something, and this was as close as he could come. And beyond this he didn’t want to risk further conversation. So the two of them rode in unaccustomed silence to the gray Victorian block of apartments on the corner of Fifth and Central Park South, a very exclusive gray Victorian block of apartments, and she supposed that made her a blockbuster, and she knew there were people in those poshy-poshy flats who would not speak to her unless they absolutely had to, and she didn’t really care. Besides, she was above them, and they knew she was above them. It had occurred to her on more than one occasion that it must have galled some of them mightily, knowing there was a nigger living in the penthouse apartment of this fine staid old building where once the only black hands allowed had been clad in white gloves or perhaps the thin black leather ones of a chauffeur. She hoped it did gall them mightily, and scolded herself for being mean, for being unchristian, but she did wish it, she hadn’t been able to stop the piss pouring into the crotch of her fine silk imported underwear and she didn’t seem to be able to stop this other flood of piss, either. It was mean, it was unchristian, and almost as bad—no, worse, at least as far as the Movement was concerned, it was counterproductive. They were going to win the rights they needed to win, and probably this year: Johnson, mindful of the legacy which had been left him by the slain President （and perhaps hoping to put another nail in the coffin of Barry Goldwater）， would do more than oversee the passage of the Civil Rights Act; if necessary he would ram it into law. So it was important to minimize the scarring and the hurt. There was more work to be done. Hate would not help do that work. Hate would, in fact, hinder it.
But sometimes you went on hating just the same.
Oxford Town had taught her that, too.
2
Detta Walker had absolutely no interest in the Movement and much more modest digs. She lived in the loft of a peeling Greenwich Village apartment building. Odetta didn’t know about the loft and Detta didn’t know about the penthouse and the only one left who suspected something was not quite right was Andrew Feeny, the chauffeur. He had begun working for Odetta’s father when Odetta was fourteen and Detta Walker hardly existed at all.
Sometimes Odetta disappeared. These disappearances might be a matter of hours or of days. Last summer she had disappeared for three weeks and Andrew had been ready to call the police when Odetta called him one evening and asked him to bring the car around at ten the next day—she planned to do some shopping, she said.
It trembled on his lips to cry out Miz Holmes! Where have you been? But he had asked this before and had received only puzzled stares—truly puzzled stares, he was sure—in return. Right here, she would say. Why, right here, Andrew—you’ve been driving me two or three places every day, haven’t you? You aren’t starting to go a little mushy in the head, are you? Then she would laugh and if she was feeling especially good （as she often seemed to feel after her disappearances）， she would pinch his cheek.
“Very good, Miz Holmes,” he had said. “Ten it is.”
That scary time she had been gone for three weeks, Andrew had put down the phone, closed his eyes, and said a quick prayer to the Blessed Virgin for Miz Holmes’s safe return. Then he had rung Howard, the doorman at her building.
“What time did she come in?”
“Just about twenty minutes ago,” Howard said.
“Who brought her?”
“Dunno. You know how it is. Different car every time. Sometimes they park around the block and I don’t see ’em at all, don’t even know she’s back until I hear the buzzer and look out and see it’s her.” Howard paused, then added: “She’s got one hell of a bruise on her cheek.”
Howard had been right. It sure had been one hell of a bruise, and now it was getting better. Andrew didn’t like to think what it might have looked like when it was fresh. Miz Holmes appeared promptly at ten the next morning, wearing a silk sundress with spaghetti-thin straps （this had been late July）， and by then the bruise had started to yellow. She had made only a perfunctory effort to cover it with make-up, as if knowing that too much effort to cover it would only draw further attention to it.