The summer Pauline became seven, Selma was nine. The two knew each other by sight, but had never spoken directly to each other, only as part of a general audience. It was that summer Selma developed a passion for lemons. Her father brought a large supply from town so that the family might enjoy lemon in their tea and make lemonade on a hot day. These uses held no special attraction for Selma.

Then, one morning, Lovey complained of toothache, and Ezra advised her to suck a lemon. Selma happened to be in the kitchen when Lovey cut a small round hole in the stem-end of a lemon and pressed its sides, letting the juice drip into her mouth and onto the aching tooth. Her eyes watered, her mouth watered, she moaned softly, comforted.

The smell of lemon seduced the child. She asked for one. Humoring her but telling her she would not like the sour taste, Lovey cut a hole in another lemon and handed it to Selma. Selma put it to her lips, pressed the oily, aromatic skin, and found earthly delight that was near-heavenly.

After that she often begged for a lemon, but only of Lovey, instinct telling her that such an appetite would not be understood by her mother. Unquestioningly, Lovey obliged her when there were lemons. When they were scarce, she was denied them.

One such time when Selma had been denied and languished in the midday, dew-dried, sun-hot kitchen garden, Pauline found her and wordlessly presented her with an entire lemon she had stolen from her mother’s small, secret trove.

10

The position of Roscoe Elk increased until it could increase no more under the prevailing circumstances. He was paid a wage. He lived alone in a cabin, cleaned and attended by the wives of those men who owed him special favors. Knowing how to be amiable when it suited his purpose, he sometimes obtained other favors of the women. Everything had a use, and favors got favors, and who would not smile at a solemn wink?

The very ease with which Roscoe made his way at Beulah Land made him despise those who allowed his growing power to thrive, but he never thought of moving on to another place.

He did not know who he was or what his parentage had been, but there was in his head a faint memory of Indians and Creoles and New Orleans, too vague for him to credit seriously himself, but serving to suggest his mystery to others.

His first real memory was of traveling with a man called Alfonzo, a half-and-half black and white, who pretended to be, maybe was, a real gypsy, and had a cart and a mule he drove all over everywhere, sharpening knives and scissors, soldering pots and pans, affecting, when he thought he could get away with it, a knowledge of water divining.