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Moultrie’s mother began, scooting to the edge of the sofa to plant her pumps neatly on the carpet, “that we need to table the agenda and take up an item you yourself, Jay, have been trying to make us attentive to, namely, it is time we formalized this organization, elected officers, drafted a charter and put ourselves on the public scene as an official group.”
    “Right,” Ruby interjected. “No more hastily called meetings and five-minute commitments and unilaterally drawn-up agenda items. If we’re gonna deal, let’s deal.”
    Velma felt her sister’s fingernail gouging her arm. She hoisted herself up carefully and prayed the makeshift sanitary napkin would not dislodge itself.
    “Now, before we proceed,” Velma said, “we need to be clear, all of us, about the nature of the work. About how thingshave gotten done in the past and why that pattern has to change.”
    “Don’t be so damn polite,” Ruby interrupted. “It boils down to this. You jokers, and especially you,” cutting her eyes at Lonnie, “never want to take any responsibility for getting down. Mr. Reilly excepted. Now, what that has meant in the past is that we women have been expected to carry the load.”
    “Well, I for one,” Patterson said quickly, darting his eyes nervously about, fearful of the impression this was bound to make on Marcus Hampden of the Coalition of Black Trade Unionists, “have always been most appreciative of your input, most grateful for the work that you ladies have done, most—”
    “Insensitive,” Velma said, fairly hissed, wishing Portia Patterson were in attendance and might be bold enough to say in this gathering what she eagerly said about her husband in the privacy of her kitchen: “Not a clue, my friends, as to how the eggs, bacon and biscuits come to appear before him every morning. He makes up lists, see, of all the things he wants done and posts this list on the refrigerator door just like there were little kitchen fairies and yard elves and other magic creatures to get all these things done.” Velma was thinking “abstractionist” summed him up, a perfect label for the habit, the unmindful gap between want and done, demand and get. And abstractionists make good bombardiers, good military beasts, she was thinking, wanted to say, but Palma had warned her not to get metaphorical, to just speak to the issue and to speak plain so they could adjourn and Palma could pack to get on the road.
    “To put it bluntly, Jay, how could you still have the nerve to be talking about running?” Velma demanded. “We’ve been over this ground before. And three times we explained to you that if you refuse to relocate, to move back into the county, you simply can’t run. It’s hard enough trying to sell your lacklusterself and nonexistent record to folks. Add to that the fact that you never do a bit of work, put up a bit of money, or ever are prepared to do or be anything but a garden-variety ambitious careerist.”
    “Plus, you’re not even a resident,” Jan inserted.
    “Well, in regard to relocating,” Patterson was trying to keep his face under control, “I thought I made myself quite plain.”
    “You are always quite plain and there’s the rub, turkey.”
    “It’s simply out of the question,” he continued, ignoring Ruby. “Further, it’s not necessary. There’s no law that says I have to live within the county line.”
    “Is,” Old Man Reilly murmured, his head dropped onto his chest.
    “Or convention mayhap,” Lonnie amended. “I’ll look it up.”
    “Page six-seven-two, paragraph one, lines four and five,” Jan was saying, tilting a fat blue book from the upright stacks on Patterson’s desk and sliding it down the table, rattling ashtrays, coffee cups and Patterson.
    “The issue, Jay,” Velma continued, “is not simply your persistence in the teeth of law and convention”—she nodded toward Lonnie—“but the fact that it’s just a definitive example of the egocentric way