In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. As she raised it, its lower portion fell apart into two baggy crimson masses. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic.
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