Viola arched her back like a cat and scratched it with her free hand. “What’s this science project you all working on?”

“It’s a demonstration of plant tropism.”

“Plant tropism?” Joe Allen chuckled.

“Negro,” Viola pursed up her lips again and looked toward Joe Allen, “what you laughing at? You know what it is?” He shrugged his shoulders, embarrassed, and gulped his liquor, turning away.

“Well,” she turned back to Horace, sucking her teeth. “What is . . . what did you call it again? ‘Trophytism’?”

“Tropism.”

“Yeah. What the hell is it?”

Lucius jumped. “Viola, you know who that boy is? Don’t talk like that in front—”

“Shut your mouth, Lucius. I’m the one talking to the boy.”

“Well, that ain’t no reason to cuss.”

“I ain’t cussing. I’m asking. Now hush up a minute!”

“Woman, don’t tell me to hush up.”

“Man, will you let me ask my question?”

“Well, ask you damn question, then, Goddamn it!”

“I will—”

“Well, go on then.”

“If you’ll hush!”

Horace quickly said, “It’s the study of what makes plants grow the way they do.”

“Is that all? Shit.”

“Viola!” Lucius almost jumped out of his chair. Viola lifted her glass threateningly.

At that moment Gideon appeared at the door. “Hey, Horace. Come on in.”

Horace leaped up at the invitation, excusing himself, and instantly realizing how prissy and proper his “Excuse me” had sounded to the people there on the porch.

The house, like the yard, resembled a junkyard. Clutter and rubbish, furniture with holes and cigarette burns, and empty glasses all around. The smell was the same as outdoors, a soggy, rotten, mossy smell—except more intense. Suddenly it struck him: there was something arousing about the odor. Or was it the odor? Gideon’s room, on the other hand, was neat and organized and clean, almost Spartan. The materials they were to work with were stacked neatly on the bed.

They set to work with the intensity of termites. They spoke little. Horace tried hard, but he could not ignore the situation. He was alone with Gideon. His thoughts strayed. Colorful. Forbidden. Thrilling. They rushed in and out of his mind, a restless army of ideas, possibilities, analyses. Several times Gideon caught Horace gazing at him. Gideon smiled and continued working. He didn’t seem to share any of Horace’s distraction. Horace could not help but notice Gideon’s deft fingers as they worked, their shape, or the rich, coffee color of his forearms, or the fullness of his biceps, or the muscular tension in his legs as he sat crosslegged, or the lines of his neck, equine and smooth, bent in concentration. Horace remembered all the past taunts and jokes he had hurtled at this person before him. They worked on into the afternoon.