“Say, Dymphnie, how are Tucker and Bethrah? And the baby?” He noticed the silence. “Did you hear me? Dymphnie? How are—”

“I heard you, Dewey.” She stopped short. “We don’t know.”

“Pardon?”

His mother swiveled around to face him. “They aren’t working for us any more, dear.”

“Really?” That saddened him, but he decided it could not be helped. “Who are they working for?”

“No one.”

There was another silence.

“Where are they?”

“They were out at the farm.” Dymphna put her hand on his arm. He turned to face her. “They stopped working for us in April—”

“And we knew you’d be studying hard and didn’t want to worry you so we didn’t write,” his mother finished.

He sat back and knit his hands behind his head. “Oh, then they’re at the farm and not working for anybody. That’s good; I wanted to talk to Tucker about something. He wrote me a letter. Did he tell you?”

There was still another silence.

“What’s everybody so mysterious and solemn about?”

“Dewey,” Dymphna started as if she were going to tell him he had done something terribly wrong and did not quite know how to say it.

“There was a fire out there Thursday.” His mother looked at him seriously.

He jumped forward. “They’re not…Are they? Are they?”

“No, dear, they got out.” She shook her head frantically, as if the words were not enough.

“But nobody knows where they are,” Dymphna whispered ominously. “It’s really mysterious as the DICKENS.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t joke; it’s not funny…” He paused, seized on that as a possibility. “Or is it? Are you folks joking with me? What a bunch—”

“No, Dewey, they’re not joking.” His father, speaking calmly, kept his eyes on the road. “There was a fire and Tucker and Bethrah and the baby got out safely. And Dymphna is correct. Nobody knows where they are.”

Dewey was leaning forward now, gripping the back of the seat. “How did it start?” And then a horrible picture flashed through his mind: men in sheets, flaming crosses, catcalls. “It wasn’t…it wasn’t the…”

His father knew what he was thinking. “No, they didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“The paper said he set it himself. Honestly!” Dymphna bounced on the seat like a small girl.

“Set it himself!” He threw his hands up. “Now you ARE joking.”

“No, dear, that’s what the paper said. But they weren’t certain. And no one’s seen Tucker or Bethrah since. I can’t really believe he set it himself, though.”

“I can,” his father asserted quite without emotion. “I’m quite certain he did.”

“How do you know?” Dewey was leaning over his father’s shoulder.

“It’s quite involved, son, and I’d like to go into it when we have more time.”