The clock showed nearer four than three. It was really too late in the afternoon for such a walk, for the days were drawing in. But she would do it now while she thought of it, for if she postponed it, the gesture would seem too calculated for her to enjoy. She picked up a shawl from the back of a chair in the office where she had sat examining the portrait. Not needing it yet, she folded it over her arm and then slipped through and out of the house the back way, hoping no one, not even Rachel or Roman, would see her and ask to go along, for then it would not be right for her to do. When she knew she had got away, she laughed, feeling as free as a girl.

Roscoe and Junior had come together to the farm that afternoon, and they had just left Alonzo in a fuming rage, after declaring that even Clarence Anderson had got more bales of cotton per acre than Alonzo had. (They had no way of knowing this, but Alonzo never disputed what they stated as fact.) They were also critical of the looks of the cows. The bag of one of them was blue and shriveled: another’s coat was rough. As a parting insult, Junior said, “See you still haven’t got around to new hinges for this saggy barn door.” He gave it a rude kick and mounted his horse.

Already mounted, Roscoe looked down at his younger son and said, “Time for you to get your finger out of your ass and amount to something.”

He watched them ride away and then went into the house. Stepping from the back porch into the kitchen, he found his mother and Geraldine, one of them sifting flour to make supper biscuits, the other washing new turnip greens. They broke off talking when they saw him.

“They gone?” Clovis said.

He nodded.

She sighed relief. “Thank God for that.”

Alonzo went to the round dining table and picked up a cold baked sweet potato left from the noon meal. Pinching off the end he peeled it carefully and began to eat it.

Clovis had turned back to Geraldine. “Finish telling me about the cake.” She added buttermilk to the bowl of sifted flour.