Her mother helped her through a warm bath, insisting all the while on trying to soothe her with the thought that it was a mistake. She would straighten it out. Finally, in bed with a hot water bottle at her feet, Emma sipped warm milk. Her mother sat on her bed in silence until the milk was finished, then left the room. Emma slept fitfully, her sleep disturbed with unpleasant dreams that woke her frequently. One that she forgot immediately upon waking left her frightened. She sat up in bed and realized it was one o’clock in the afternoon. The quiet in the house drove her from her bed in search of her mother. In the hallway, voices filtered through to her from the kitchen. “You know, you sound as if you’re happy that she’s rejected,” her mother said. “What’s with you, Larry? Are you ashamed of Emma, or is it that you don’t expect much from her?” “Don’t go putting what you feel off on me. I’m merely being realistic. Blacks who have class are no different from any other people with class—thank God for that—and anybody wanting to be considered by those with class have to measure up,”
