Now you listen. I don't give one damn whether Joel is young or tells lies, or what. My boy is not a human punching-bag, Mr. Gordon's got no right hitting him. No right. What sort of man is he anyway? What sort of man beats up on a boy? I think he's a man. Maybe. Maybe. I don't know; maybe he don't know, himself-

Mrs. Beck, place your trust in my hands, we can work this out without constraint.

But her outrage grew to indignation, indignation to contempt: and contempt, drunk of its own godhead, stumbled over its own steep glory, and flopt in the gutters of indignity. Even so, the Mothers of America were legion in Mrs. Beck's anger now. Terrible. Shocking. Real.

You pissy-ass bastards make me sick, thats the truth. What sort of a mother you think I am? This freak, this Mr. wipe-my-ass Gordon slaps my kid around. Then you put in an appearance telling me, the mother, it was Joel's blame; not Mr. high-and-mighty Gordon. Well, you just truck it on back to that fancy-ass school and tell 'em what I think, that you're all a bunch of hypocrites to start with. And unless something is done about that pervert Mr. Gordon, I'm gonn'a blow off enough fire-works downtown to light up the Fourth of July. Now go on, go on and tell 'em what I think. Oh, I gave him the sun and the moon-

Mrs. Beck, please let us compromise? I gave him the stars. You, you go on-

tell them that I'm a mother. A mother.

A door slammed, a fat man hunched against the windy day and walked diminishing to his car parked on a far corner. Mrs. Beck twisted wool off her worn, bagging sweater; breathed out her enormous relief and inflated her nostrils with worry. She shrugged, then stood a long time; contemplated the bitterness of life; shrugged again, and made two dull eyes at God-

Thank goodness, Joel is asleep.

But Joel was not asleep. He lay remembering the whole tangy interview. Thrilled. Embarrassed too. How will he ever face Mr. Kurkey?

Somewhere a child cried, another laughed; a dog barked, a car honked. Someone started a song in a high voice. Mrs. Beck plucked at her worries; but Joel lay silent and content. His shame vindicated, his tormentors challenged, his pride restored: his MOTHER magnificent-

Mrs. Beck grumbled and got busy. We stick with our own, though, she sighed; without thinking she had started to hum and to smile again.

MR. GORDON

Mr. Gordon ate a wonderful supper; read a wonderful newspaper; watched a wonderful television show; took a wonderful bath; then suggested, wonder of wonders, turning-in at a wonderful early hour. Eve Gordon wondered-

What the hell's the matter with him?

He had been wonderful all evening, not one gripe. Not one. What was wrong with him? Something had to be, but she kept sarcasm at a safe enough banter not to spoil whatever it was that changed him. I wonder if he's been fired? What do you say, Honey, early to bed?

Well, the dishes-

Tomorrow you'll have all day.

The trouble with Eve, he thought, is she's a woman. No sense of variety. It was a fact, as far as Mr. Gordon felt concerned. No variety. I mean, after all, a