He’d seen them before in the small scattered towns of the deep north where chance or circumstance had washed them up and left them and so the second afternoon in Randolph he knew more about Leah than she could guess when he looked upon the small crowd as he faced them, hoisting the weights more slowly than he needed to, and saw the tea-skinned woman flanked one side by a beautiful girl of eighteen or twenty and the other by another beautiful child, a small boy of five or so. He knew she’d married a white man most likely during or just after the war and come home with him. He knew it was probable that he was the first Negro she’d seen in a long while, if not since leaving wherever it was she came from. By her dress and manner he knew her as a well-off countrywoman who held herself at a remove from most of the whites around her. He was reasonably sure her husband was not among the crowd and wondered if he’d been at the fights the night before and guessed he’d not. With his eyes vacant and unfocused he watched her as he bent the rod and saw the satisfaction come over her face, as if they’d done the job together. He knew she would seek him afterward to speak.