Union Atlantic Page 0,25

they could, dividing up lots, turning fields and woods into new developments, the traffic worse every year.

He wondered if Ms. Cartwright had given him the wrong address, if perhaps this place was uninhabited. In fact, he hoped that it would be. But as soon as he tapped on the back door, he heard barking and the scuffle of paws on linoleum. From somewhere in the house a voice called out words he couldn't discern. And then he heard footsteps approaching. A harsh whisper followed.

"Don't be silly," the voice said. "Since when does the devil knock?"

Then, more loudly, "Who is it?"

"It's Nate Fuller. Are you Charlotte Graves?"

The door came open just a crack, and the snouts of two dogs pressed into the gap, followed a moment later by the deeply lined face of a gray-haired woman.

"Of course I am," she said. "Who else would I be? Are you some sort of Mormon? They usually come in twos."

"No," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the barking. "I'm here for the tutoring. I called last week? We spoke on the phone?"

"Did we?"

She considered him for a moment and then reluctantly pushed the dogs' heads back into the house.

"Yes, I suppose we did," she said. "I guess you'll have to come in."

She pulled the door open and stood aside. As soon as Nate entered, the Doberman leapt up, planting his front paws on Nate's chest and pinning him to the wall. He bared his teeth and began barking. A big, slobbering mastiff stood behind him growling.

"Stop being so paranoid, Wilkie!" the woman yelled. "He's got nothing to do with Elijah Muhammad. Now just come away!" she scolded, swatting the dog's head with a dish towel. The attacker pressed against Nate for a moment longer, the whites of his eyes bright in the dark pointed head. Reluctantly, he stepped off, joining the other one, the two of them standing either side of their owner like henchmen guarding passage to the rest of the house.

The kitchen looked like a set from The Grapes of Wrath, the wooden countertops warped and stained, the sink streaked with rust, the claw-foot stove losing its white enamel. The refrigerator appeared to be the only modern appliance, and even it was a pretty busted piece of merchandise. Yet this wasn't poverty. That didn't describe it. It was something else. Something Nate couldn't place.

"Is this a bad time?" he asked, hopefully. "I could come back another day?"

"No," she said. "It's as good a time as any. I remember your call now. You're the one trying to make up for lost time."

"Yeah. AP history."

Something seemed to catch her eye on the red-and-white speckle of the linoleum floor; her hands came to rest in the stretched pockets of her cardigan. For a moment there was complete silence.

"I don't do this much anymore," she said in a reflective tone, as if the commotion with the dogs had never happened and she were alone in the room, making an observation aloud to herself. "Tutoring, I mean."

Nate didn't know what to say. It seemed a private moment. Already, despite her surliness, he feared she'd be disappointed if he left.

"Ms. Cartwright - she mentioned you used to teach at the high school?"

The woman nodded, emerging from her inward turn.

As he picked up his backpack and moved toward the center of the room, the Doberman began growling again.

"Would you like some water?" she asked. "Or perhaps an Orangina?"

"Water's fine."

She moved to the sink, filled a pewter tankard, and handed it to him. It looked like something a knight might drink from.

"Well," she said, "I suppose we ought to get started."

HE'D IMAGINED a few preliminary questions. About what they had covered in class and what he had missed. But there was none of that. She had been reading about the law of property recently, she said, and this led her to the subject of taxation.

Perched on the edge of the couch, she folded her hands on her lap and stared fixedly into the ashes of the fireplace. After a moment of silence, she coughed slightly and said, "It's customary for students to take notes."

"Right," he said, reaching into his bag for pen and paper, "sure."

"The Sixteenth Amendment is generally neglected," she began. "But not in this household."

With this she commenced an uninterrupted half hour on the adoption of the federal income tax, and the long road to the passage of this general levy on corporations and the wealthy, an idea championed by the Populists and the Socialists