Perly straightened up in horror. Good God, Mickey, he cried. “You are muddled. We had to demote Mickey,” he announced to the townspeople. “I offered to send him on a cure, but he insisted he didn’t have a problem. In fact, he’s been nursing a grudge against me for even suggesting it.”
Cogswell swayed slightly as he faced the auctioneer.
“You see...” Perly said, gesturing sadly.
But the people kept their eyes on Perly.
“He turned us into a pack of thieves,” Mickey muttered.
“Well, why’d you let him?” shouted Arthur Stinson, clapping a hand over his mouth before he was quite finished. Stinson had married four years ago at sixteen, and, despite a reputation as a hothead, he had settled down and managed to support his young wife and then his child as a general repairman.
“I didn’t see you sayin no either,” cried Sonny Pike, standing in his place and leaning toward Stinson over the sling that still held his wounded arm. “You think we liked it? We thought we was doin’ the town a favor. By the time we found out different... Well, look what happened to the Carrolls when Jimmy quit.”
Perly watched the exchange, his chiseled features composed. “Sonny’s lost his nerve,” he said in an even voice. “Nothing’s quite so shattering as a secret ambush.”
Sonny dropped his eyes and shook his head, but remained on his feet, his free hand resting heavily on the chair in front of him.
“It’s hard...” soothed Perly.
“And what about them children, Perly Dunsmore?” Ma cried, her question rasping through the hall. “What about them children?”
Dixie began to whine, but Perly almost visibly relaxed. Without taking his eyes off Ma, he motioned to Dixie to lie down. He spread his feet wide and put his hands in his pockets so that he was planted firmly in the center of the stage. He waited. In the shadow of the American flag, Mudgett began to jiggle his foot impatiently.
When Perly spoke, his voice was low and easy. “Naturally, it’s hard for someone nearly eighty to keep up with the new ways,” he said. “Still, it makes me sad. Mrs. Moore is a symbol to me of everything I’m trying to save in this town.”
John was still standing in his place, hugging himself with both arms. But Perly looked at Ma, and a pale pink flush spread across her face. Mim, sitting near her, could feel her tremble.
“She asked about the children,” Perly said. “I’m glad she asked about the children. I’m proud of my—”
“We seen him Tuesday,” John interrupted. “Sellin’ children at auction just like slaves. One of them Jimmy Carroll’s—”
“Like slaves!” Perly cried. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned toward the townspeople. “What was I to do with those children?” he asked, indignant. “Me. A bachelor. Me, who never had wife nor child. Me, who’d love so much to have some children of my own. You all know I love children. Hildie Moore can tell you I love children. Mickey Cogswell’s poor neglected little ones can tell you I love children. But what kind of a life can I offer a child? Two young mothers came to me with their children. What should they do, they asked me. They couldn’t look after their children. Just couldn’t manage. What was I supposed to say? All I could think of to suggest was that people sometimes adopt children.”
Perly paused. “And those mothers begged me to find good people to adopt their children. Now I’m no social agency. I know that. But Harlowe doesn’t have a social agency. Maybe someday, if my changes go through, we will. But those parents couldn’t wait. I’ve been around. I have some money. So they came to me. And, by golly, I found those children homes. Good homes, with parents who were eager to love them, and able to support them in style. What more could I do? What does this town want of me?” Perly stopped. He was breathing hard, his face dark.
People shifted before him like reprimanded children. John and Mickey and Sonny Pike were still standing, high and conspicuous among the seated townspeople.
“Ask him,” Mickey said, his voice fuzzy, but his head erect with the easy confidence of a man who has always been a favorite, “ask him how he got people to part with their own flesh and blood. That took more than talk.”
“Ah, Mickey,” Perly said, his anger apparently lapsing. “You mean well by your children, for all your problems. If only everyone were as loving a parent as you.” And Perly looked over the townspeople almost wearily, as if he were looking in vain for loving parents.
“Look at Sally Rouse, a settin’ there as slim as ever,” said Fanny Linden. Fanny didn’t stand. She sat perfectly still and subjected Perly to the flat uncompromising stare familiar to everyone who had ever tried to bargain with her as she sat on her high stool behind the counter in the store. “Ask Sally how he done it and what he paid with. She must think I ain’t got a woman’s eyes in my head. Ain’t more than a month ago, she was prancing around the store, far gone. But I don’t see as she’s got no baby with her now. So I ask you where that baby went to.”
Sally Rouse sat with her parents in the back part of the hall. People craned to see her. She was a tall clear-featured girl with a long blond braid down her back and a grace that stood out in the plain crowd. She raised a strong chin and let her blue eyes rove slowly around the room, meeting the stares of the people, then coming to rest on Perly.
Dunsmore met her gaze for a long moment before he spoke. “I don’t think this is quite kind,” he said gently. “Is it such a terrible sin? Would you have her wear a scarlet letter just because she wants a better—”
“Oh, Sally, Sally,” cried Agnes Cogswell and rose out of her seat, her hair and eyes wild. She would have stumbled over to Sally to comfort her, but Jerry pulled her back. “What did he do to you, Sally?” she sobbed.
“Out of the goodness of my heart,” Perly said, standing straight now and lifting his shoulders in the beginning of a shrug, “I took responsibility for some other man’s child.” He leaned toward the people, his voice gaining momentum. “I said I’d find a home for it. And now you’re—”
“He never said he was a goin’ to sell her,” wailed Sally’s mother, a broad pale woman, flushed now with anger. “Poor babe. Poor tiny girl. She fell sobbing against her husband’s shoulder. He didn’t move. Sally sat erect, her dry eyes firmly fastened on Perly.
“And was it you got the money, child?” asked Ma.
Sally turned to Ma. “Me?” she said. She looked back at Perly and gave a short laugh.
“Not a cent,” said Dan Rouse, standing slowly in his place. He was a tall man with a heavy stoop as though he had spent his life with his head bowed to keep the sun out of his eyes. “Not a cent,” he repeated. “And he used his power over the child to make us keep contributin’.” He spoke slowly. “I’m a fool. I should have let him shoot me. I thought I could save Sally, somehow. But now that’s gone, I say it out. The man’s a devil. Sally ain’t the only one as did his bidding. Scarce a soul left in Harlowe can call hisself a man.” And Dan Rouse stood in his place, looking at Perly from under his brows.
Perly cocked his head to one side and said casually, “Sit down, Dan. You’re making a fool of yourself.”
But Rouse remained standing.
This time Perly fixed his eyes on him and commanded him. “Sit down.”
Rouse didn’t move. Slowly, Sally rose to stand beside her father, her head thrown back as if to avoid the curiosity of the townspeople. She was almost as tall as her father, and her figure, under blue jeans and a loose shirt, was still full from childbirth. Her mother tugged at her shirt but she didn’t move.