That was his mother. He didn’t answer her. He looked at the room, at the table with its red tablecloth, now set for the evening meal, at the crayon enlargements of his grandfather and grandmother on the wall. At the ice box in the corner of the dining room. At the long-handled pot in which the soup had been cooked and brought to the table. His father ... long beard ... almost asleep.... Reba--was she dirty or was that just the way she put the rouge on her face? So much rouge! That was his sister. “Where were you?” He brushed past his mother. He went into the bedroom. Over his shoulder he told her: “In school.” “So late? You get out at five, no?” “Well....” He didn’t care to wash up. To hell with hygiene. That was for doctors. He wouldn’t be a doctor. “Ain’t coming to eat?” His mother again, in the doorway. “I don’t want to eat. I’m tired.” But he went. He sat down at the table. “I’m tired....” “Ha! You make me giggle.” Reba. “What should I say then? You tired? My Gawd, you don’t have to stand at the machine all day long, punching them buttons till you think your arm was gonna break off.” “Now you let ’im alone.” The mother had come to his defence. Always she came to his defence. “Studying ain’t so easy.” “It ain’t? Wisht to Gawd you would ’ave let me study. How I was begging you to let me go to business school. All the girls I know is stenogs, only I got to work in a factory, because....” She didn’t say it. But she looked at Emmanuel. The accusation was there. He jumped up. He pushed away his plate and jumped up. “What do you want of me? Did I stop you from school? Am I making you go to work?” Still, he couldn’t shake off her eyes. They were telling the truth. His mouth twitched, he lowered his voice: “I guess you’re right. If it wasn’t for me you’d.... I’m sorry, Reba!” She softened, too. She rose and put a hand on his sleeve. She smiled; underneath the thick paint on her face there was something kindly. “Oh, what’s the matter with you, Manny? I was only kiddin’. Can’t you take a joke?” Yes, they were all working for him! His father, getting rheumatism in that basement shop of his, haggling, cheating customers out of an extra potato, cheating for the sake of an added cent.... That mother of his, over there. She worked, too. Embroidered with her always diseased eyes. Reba.... “No, I guess you’re right, Reba. I ... I’m just sucking the blood out of you, all of you....” “Don’t be a fool. My work is all right. You’ll be a doctor soon.” Ah, he’ll be a doctor soon! That’s why they were willing to work. He was a bank of flesh, into which they put their greasy pennies.... To be returned with interest! What if he told them that he didn’t intend to become a doctor? What if he told them to go to hell? How? How to say it to them? After all this?