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his forehead. “I guess we can talk about that.”
    I wondered what he had thought I was going to discuss with him, and then decided not to ask. If he came with me to New Haven, we would have plenty of time to talk in the car.
    He led me into the kitchen and slid a chair back with his bare foot. “Have some ice tea. I’ve gotta get a shirt. Althea’s rules.”
    I knew about Althea’s rules. They kept the household civilized, and you broke them on pain of death.
    I poured myself a glass, while Malcolm pulled open the door that led upstairs. The house was old enough to have existed before central heating. Doors blocked all sections of the house so that heat could remain in each area. The Grimshaws didn’t use most of those doors, but they did keep the one leading upstairs closed, probably to keep the downstairs noise from bothering those children who had to go to bed early.
    As I waited, I peered out the window into the backyard. In the middle of the yard, an old coffee can sat on top of a mound of dirt. The children were playing kick - the - can. Jimmy was the only kid I could see, which meant he was it.
    When Noren e , at six the youngest and most pampered Grimshaw, appeared at the edge of the garage, Jimmy ignored her. I knew that he had seen her, because his head moved ever so slightly. But he kept his back to the can, and continued his search of the trees at the back of the property.
    Noren e ran across the yard at top speed, her pigtails flying, her sneakers kicking up dust. When she was only a foot or two from the can, Jimmy pretended he had just noticed her and started toward her.
    She squealed in terror and kicked the can so hard that it flew onto the back patio, landing with a thunk. Then she grinned and waved her arms at Jimmy.
    “I beated you, Jim!” she shouted.
    He frowned, but the frown was as fake as his attempt to stop her had been. “Guess you did.”
    Malcolm thumped down the stairs. I turned, still smiling from my brief view of the game. Malcolm hurried into the kitchen, his mood visibly improved.
    “I wouldn’t mind a job,” he said, buttoning the short-sleeve white shirt he had put on. “Be nice if it paid enough so that I could quit the restaurant.”
    He’d been talking like that more and more. Malcolm didn’t like the cook’s job. After he got his GED a month ago, he had thought he would get better work. Even though he applied for other jobs, no one wanted to hire a young black man for anything other than menial labor.
    “Pay is an issue,” I said.
    He sighed.
    “Listen to me first before you make up your mind.” I handed him a glass from the cupboard, and he poured himself the last of Althea’s ice tea. Then he grabbed some tea bags, filled the pitcher, and set it on the back patio in the sun.
    When he finished, he came back in, picked up his glass, and sat down like a man who had worked a full and tiring day.
    “So I’m listening,” he said.
    “Daniel Kirkland has disappeared.”
    “I know.”
    Malcolm’s response surprised me. “You know?”
    He nodded. “I heard Mrs. Kirkland talking about it. I figure he’s probably off fighting some other white man’s cause.”
    Malcolm had no respect for the antiwar movement. He felt that it was run by wealthy white kids who had nothing else to do with their time.
    “But I did look for him a little,” Malcolm said.
    That caught my attention. “You did?”
    He shrugged. “Mrs. Kirkland’s really helping everyone out here, and I had the time. I figured if I found him, I’d be doing her a favor.”
    He constantly surprised me. He was a good kid, who liked helping people. “That was kind of you. Did she know about it?”
    He shook his head.
    “I take it you looked for him here,” I said. “Does that mean you think he’s in Chicago?”
    “Most of his friends are. Haven’t you heard?”
    I shook my head. I wasn’t sure what he was referring to.
    “The SDS is holding their national meeting at the Chicago Coliseum .”
    I