The streaks of dirty tears lining Harold’s face made him look as old as Mister Harper. “Is Mister Stewart telling the truth, Papa? Tucker gone crazy? Is that what happened?”

Harry could not answer. If I’d-a met someone tomorrow and they’d told me about what I just seen I would say that Tucker Caliban’s crazy for sure. But I can’t say that sitting here watching it happen because I know this, if I don’t know nothing else. Craziness ain’t driving him. I don’t know what is pushing at him, but it ain’t craziness.

The afternoon had crept away and now above the corral, where the dead animals were beginning to collect flies from half the county, and away from the three-part farm house, and beyond the field, white and vacant, and the trees, tall strips of black velvet trimmed with green, the sun went down like a burning new penny.

Tucker had gone into the house, and now the door opened and Harry could see his thin back, a broad sweat stain showing his dark brown skin gray through his white shirt. He was pulling something heavy. A shove made him stumble back a step. Bethrah, his wife, must be behind, in the doorway.

Wallace Bedlow climbed over the fence and went toward the house, removing his white coat, beneath which he wore nothing but a torn undershirt. “You tell Bethrah to stop shoving that thing in her condition. I’ll help you, whatever the hell you doing.”

“I don’t need any help, Mister Bedlow.” Bethrah’s voice came from darkness. “You go on now. Thank you anyway.”

Tucker just stared up at the man who was at least ten hands taller.

“Missus Caliban?” Bedlow spoke over Tucker’s head. “You don’t want to be working hard like that, not now.” He had his coat draped over his shoulder; its green plaid lining was ripped.

“We realize you’re trying to be helpful, but we have to do this ourselves. Thank you anyway, but go on now.” Her voice was very sweet, and firm.

Tucker just stared.

Bedlow came back to the fence. Tucker turned to his work and soon Harry could see by the leftover light of day he was struggling with Dewitt Willson’s grandfather clock, the same clock which had come on the African’s ship, boxed and packed in cotton, and had traveled, after the African’s betrayal and death, with the African’s baby and the auctioneer’s Negro to the Willson Plantation. It had been given to that baby, First Caliban, when he reached his seventy-fifth year, or what they thought anyway was his seventy-fifth year, a present from the General for First’s years of good and faithful service, first as a slave and later as an employee; and passed down to Tucker.