It was done. Locked. Bound. Tied. As if by the hands of the old Arab himself. He could hear John Anthony now: Ole Horace got a helpmeet. They gone tend their little garden together, boys. Like . . . like Adam and Eve—Huh, Horace? You gone name the animals, too? Or do you plan on giving him some forbidden fruit? Maybe even a little pea plant?

The first time Horace was to go to Gideon’s house to work on the charts, his mind was not on pea plants. Gideon had behaved himself throughout their collaboration. To Horace’s surprise there were no sly remarks, no attempts at touches or any of the abominable behavior he had expected. In fact, Gideon’s grasp of the project was so deft it angered Horace. All of a sudden it was Gideon’s project, and Horace found himself in the obstinate position of having to affirm that he had thought of the project, that he had initiated it, that he had done the majority of the work, and that he should receive the bulk of the credit, and that, in the end, make no mistake, Mr. Stone, this is my project.

Lucius Stone’s house sat on a path that trailed off from another dirt road, back just beyond a wood. Unpainted and older than Horace could imagine, it was greyish brown with a tin roof painted green. The yard, a bumpy, lumpy stretch from the barn to the woods, was littered with barrels and cans, stacks of lumber for extensions to the house, and cars, at least seven, four of which were tireless and on blocks, devoid of an engine here, a gas tank there, or a backseat there. Chickens ran all about the yard, for Mrs. Stone had said she couldn’t eat no store-bought hen—it had to be fresh killed for her. The place sat very near a creek, so the ground was soggy and wet. The entire estate smelled of the creek, of rotting timber, of moss, of chickenshit, of old cars and gasoline and oil.

People were always around Lucius Stone. As Horace walked up the path he could see him sitting on the porch with Mrs. Stone and three of the seven boys—Bo-Peep, the oldest; Bago, the biggest; and Boy-boy, the darkest. With them sat Sam Vickers, still in his Sunday-go-to-meeting suit, and Joe Allen Williams and John Powell in their coveralls. Except for Lucius, everybody had a glass in his hand. Lucius drank from a mason jar.