Read Online A Moment in the Sun by John Sayles - Free Book Online Page B

singing dog. The fascination is not that she does it well, but that she does it at all .”
    Dorsey always starts around the ears, tiny little strokes to outline the sideburns. The Judge has a large mole on the left side he has to be careful of.
    “The key,” says the Judge, finger jabbing underneath the cloth to make a point, “is to have some sort of qualification as to who is allowed to vote. That’s what the Founders envisaged. Responsible government issues from informed voters.”
    “You’re suggesting a literacy test.”
    “That is one possibility, yes.”
    “An awful lot of them can read now. I see them at my store with the—what’s it called, Dorsey? Your colored paper?”
    “The Record , suh.” Dorsey advertises in the Manly brothers’ paper for his other shop, where they cut colored hair.
    “Do you read it?”
    “No, suh. Don’t have the time.”
    “Well, there is a group over in Brooklyn got them a bit more leisure,” Turpin winks to the Judge in the mirror. “Unless it’s to wrap fish in, I see an awful lot of em look like they read it.”
    “I would not propose that puzzling out the limited vocabulary displayed in a colored daily constitutes literacy,” says the Judge. Dorsey can do his neck if he’s steady. “If we were to take a section of the state constitution and have the voter demonstrate his competence by explaining its meaning—”
    Mr. Turpin laughs. “We’re going to do that with every voter in the city?”
    “Selectively, yes.”
    “Selectively.” Hoke is bending close to clip out Turpin’s nose hairs.
    “We administer the test to those whom we—we su spect of being illiterate, on a ward-by-ward basis.”
    “I would su spect that half the poor whites in Dry Pond might fail that test, Judge. Including a goodly number of loyal Democrats.”
    “Well, of course, if there is a tra di tion of voting in the family—”
    “Record turnout in the last election, Judge—”
    “Selling your vote for a glass of whiskey does not qualify as a tradition. What I’m suggesting is that if you can prove your grand father was a registered voter—”
    “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
    “—you would be passed unchallenged at the polling place.”
    “The Louisiana clause,” adds Colonel Waddell. The old gentleman been in office himself, before Dorsey’s day, rumored to be a great one for the oratory. He is always very quiet in the shop, but well-spoken, using words like impecunious and recondite that Dorsey makes sure to look up in his dictionary when he gets home and then slip into his conversations at Lodge meetings.
    “Of course, given the present infestation here and in Raleigh, such an amendment to our statutes would stand no chance.”
    “I wouldn’t give it up so easily, Judge. When his back is pressed to the wall, the true white man is capable of—”
    Dorsey catches the Judge’s look in the mirror, just a tiny nod of warning to Mr. Turpin. Hoke is rapidly snipping air with his scissors, made nervous by the turn of the conversation.
    “What?” says Mr. Turpin. “Dorsey? Dorsey doesn’t mix in politics, do you, Dorsey?”
    “I try to keep my nose out of em.”
    Hoke shakes the cloth out and Mr. Turpin stands. “What I tell you? The good ones know enough to steer clear of it.”
    “Almost all absurdity of conduct,” Colonel Waddell observes, “arises from the imitation of those we cannot resemble.”
    Turpin steps a little closer. Dorsey can feel him over his shoulder, watching him do the Judge’s cheeks. “You planning to vote this coming election, Dorsey?”
    The Judge cocks his head. Colonel Waddell lays the newspaper in his lap, waiting to hear the answer. Hoke retreats to get the broom. Dorsey always voted, ever since he was old enough, but nobody made any fuss about it till lately.
    “No, suh,” he lies softly. “Don’t suppose I will.”
    “If the rest of your people show that kind of good sense, it’ll stay peaceful in this city.” It sounds