By that time they had pulled into town and stopped across the street from Mister Thomason’s.

The Negro rolled down the window, and Mister Leland peered across the street and saw his father resting on his post, then straighten up, saw Bobby-Joe spit into the street, and Mister Harper leaning forward.

“Thank you and God keep you, sir.” The Negro called to his father, then turned to him. “Thank you too, Mister Leland. You’re a fine young man, and if ever you should come North, do pay me a visit.” He reached into a tiny pocket in his vest and produced a card. Mister Leland took it, running his fingers across the raised surface of the letters, not looking at it. The Negro reached over and they shook hands—his hand was soft and flabby like a fat woman’s—then opened the door and Mister Leland hopped out. By the time he reached the porch, the car was halfway up to Harmon’s Draw.

He handed the card to his father, who in turn handed it, without reading it, to Mister Harper, who read it aloud to all the men. “THE REVEREND B. T. BRADSHAW. THE RESURRECTED CHURCH OF THE BLACK JESUS CHRIST OF AMERICA, INC., NEW YORK CITY.”

Mister Thomason brought out a chair and motioned for his father to sit down, and when he had done so, his father pulled Mister Leland onto his lap. Mister Harper wheeled up to him and leaned deeply toward him where he could smell the old man’s old breath, and questioned him. He told all he knew, all he could remember; he had remembered everything. Mister Harper made no comments until he had told about the clock and the Negro saying: “Isn’t that gloriously primitive!” and then only nodded his head and almost sighed: “Yes, yes, he’s right there.” But that was all. And the other men simply listened.

It was not quite four in the afternoon, but when he had finished, his father looked down at him gravely. “Well, let’s get on home.”

His father did not speak to him again until they were just turning into their own road, and Mister Leland could hear the horse’s hoofs as they left the asphalt and began to chomp in the dirt. “Harold, don’t tell your ma about going with the Negro.” He paused for a second. “She might not like it.”

“Yes, Papa.”

He did not turn, but did lean back so he was resting his head against his father’s chest and could hear the man’s large heart beating, and his voice, hollow and far away, rumbling. “It ain’t that it’s bad, you understand. It ain’t like yesterday when you had to tell a lie to keep me out of trouble. This is to save her worry because she don’t like you going off with strangers and since it’s done and nothing happened to you, ain’t no need to worry her about it. You understand?”

He nodded, feeling the back of his head rubbing the cloth of his father’s shirt.