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the porch there was an old-fashioned screen door. It was a peaceful
structure that reminded Skip of small houses in sleepy country towns.
When she identified herself, Mrs. Foucher drew in her breath.
    " He's dead. Dennis is dead, isn't he?"
    "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to frighten
you. We have no word of him yet. I'm just here to ask you some
questions. I'm trying to find him."
    Mrs. Foucher had a tissue in her hand that she had
squeezed the life out of. She was overweight and her face looked as
if it was probably sad even when no one was missing or dead. "Truly?
I thought he was dead. Milton, I thought he was dead."
    Her husband said, "It's all right, Josie. It's
all right now." He put an arm around her shoulder and turned to
Skip, holding open the screen door. "Come in, dear lady. Permit
me."
    The formal, old-fashioned mode of speech sounded
strange to Skip's ears.
    They're such ordinary white people, she thought. But
the town was full of families like this—some members "white,"
some "black." Mrs. Foucher was the lighter, with
gray-streaked brown hair, and her husband had darkish hair, also
graying, which he wore with a moustache.
    Skip was surprised that both the Fouchers were home,
though it was a Tuesday. Perhaps they were out of work, or one of
them was. Or perhaps Dennis's father had stayed home to await news of
his son. "Could we give you some coffee? You are a blue person,"
Milton said. "I know you understand how Josie feels. We are
happy to have you in our house."
    He used no contractions and he enunciated each word,
speaking in discrete phrases and projecting so strongly that if he'd
been a preacher he could have reached every ear in the congregation
without benefit of microphone. She wondered if he was a lay preacher
who just liked to practice; also whether he was a raving lunatic.
     " A blue person," she ventured. "Is
that what you call a policeman?"
    "Oh, hardly. I would hardly call a young lady a
‘man' of any sort. Accuracy is my passion, and I do not make
mistakes so easily avoided."
    He and his wife had now led her into a cramped and
dreary kitchen, still smelling of breakfast. Skip refused coffee, but
joined them at a table under a hanging light fixture that threatened
to decapitate anyone who moved too fast.
    Josie was silent. "A blue person," Milton
said, "is a person of compassion, someone who feels for other
people, who is kind and who wants to please. Josie is one as well. I
myself am a green person—a scholar, something of a recluse, an
intellectual, someone who loves studying above all else."
    In spite of herself, Skip was fascinated. "Is
this your own system or someone else's?"
    " Well, we green people are indeed the creative
ones—the inventors, the scientists. But this is not my handiwork.
It is something I learned in a seminar. I attend every seminar I am
able. I also read constantly. But never fiction, of course. No, sir,
I am interested only in facts." Here his voice rose as if he
were either angry or in the pulpit, making his most vital point.
"Only facts!" he raged, and his face turned red.
    He lowered his voice. "If there are no facts, I
do not have interest. I do not watch television for any reason."
    " Are there other colors?"
    " Of course. The world could not survive without
gold people. These are the doers; the movers and the shakers."
    "I see. Which one is Dennis?"
    An odd expression came over Milton's face. Skip could
have sworn it was confusion, but Milton didn't seem the sort who went
in for that. He recovered quickly.
    "He is not intelligent enough to be a green
person. He does not do enough to be gold person. I would say that he
is a blue person except that he does not listen. No system is
perfect."
    Skip turned to Josie and smiled. "I wonder if
you've heard from him since yesterday?"
    "Of course we have not," said Milton. "If
we had, we would have mentioned it. Dennis was always a hellion. He
skipped school more often than he went, he associated with