Trouble in July by Erskine Caldwell

thinking about that little book you sold me, Cissy.”
    He listened overhead, trying to detect any unusual sound Corra might make in the bedroom. He was not worried about her as long as the sounds of her movements were familiar. He dreaded the coming of the time when he would hear the sound of a trunk being shut decisively or of a suitcase being dropped heavily on the floor. When he left Corra upstairs, he was fairly positive he had let her talk herself into not leaving, but there was always the danger that she might argue herself into changing her mind.
    He beckoned Bert to him and whispered in his ear.
    “Go out and see if you can hear anything about Sam,” he said, keeping his voice low enough to prevent Cissy from overhearing. “Come right back as soon as you can. I’m all upset about what they done to him.”
    Bert left the office.
    “Well—” Cissy said impatiently.
    “Look here, Cissy,” Jeff said, turning and looking directly at her. “Who wrote that story about Christ coming back and selling second-hand cars? It wasn’t you, was it?”
    “No, I didn’t write it, Sheriff McCurtain. I sell the book to people.”
    “Do other folks believe Christ came down here and sold those old cars like the story said?”
    “I can’t speak for the tracts,” she said, moving uneasily in the chair, “but I stand up for the Bible.”
    Jeff glanced nervously at the ceiling.
    “I didn’t come here to talk about the tracts,” Cissy said quickly.
    “What did you come for?”
    “The petition,” she said, leaping to her feet and bringing the heavy bundle of papers to the desk and dropping it before him.
    “Now, Cissy—” he began.
    “These are dangerous times, Sheriff McCurtain,” she said, leaning over the desk towards him. “You know what the world’s like today. We’ve got to do something about it. We’ve got to send all the niggers back to Africa where they came from. They’re multiplying so fast there won’t be room for a white person to breathe in before long. The niggers—”
    “Now, Cissy,” he said helplessly, “a man like me holding political office can’t afford—”
    “I was raised up among colored people,” she said, her eyes sparkling with an intense light, “and I’ve always treated them right. But that was before they started buying those awful Black Jesus Bibles with pictures in it making Christ look like a black nigger man—”
    “That ain’t no sin, Cissy,” he protested. “It looks to me like the niggers has got just as much right to say Christ was a black as the brother whites has to say he was a white. There ain’t no way of proving it either way, is there?”
    The light in her eyes was more intense than ever.
    “Well, he might have been a black, at that,” Jeff said doggedly.
    “Sheriff McCurtain, you’ll never win another election in Julie County if you stand up for that,” she said firmly. “If you don’t sign this petition and help send every last nigger in the country back to Africa where they came from—”
    “But they didn’t all come from there, Cissy,” he said hopefully. “There’s been any number of niggers born right down the back alley from here. Two nigger babies was born down there only last month.”
    “I know,” she said in exasperation, “but I’m talking about the nigger race. All of us whites is duty-bound to get together with Senator Ashley Dukes and send the nigger race back to Africa.”
    “Why?” he asked, unconvinced.
    “Because!” Cissy said stubbornly.
    They sat in silence, each staring at the other.
    Jeff was wondering what had kept Bert so long, hoping that when he did get back he would have news that Sam Brinson had been turned loose unharmed. He knew Sam would be able to make his way back, but Jeff hoped Bert would know where he was so they could send a car for him. He hated to think of Sam’s having to trudge fifteen or twenty miles through swamps and over rough ground.
    He glanced up at the ceiling, cocking his head to