Foster studied him. The old man was dry and cool in the heat of the day. The hand gripping the cane handle shook slightly with the effort of keeping the tip free for any sudden use. His eyes were wide with a taint of wildness to them, square upon Foster. Those eyes someway at odds with the speech just delivered. His lips were dry, cracked open over broad age-stained teeth. The teeth with gaps between them where the gums had shrunk back.

Foster looked down at the warped porch boards, then back to the old man. He said, “She thought you were dead. She thought she killed you. Brained you with a flatiron, was what she did. I’d guess that little ridge up over your ear there is what’s left of that try. Her name was Leah. Not Lee.”

The man said nothing. Rocking back and forth slightly. Then settled the cane tip and stepped squarely into the door. Not out of the house but with the door pushed open so he stood in it. Resting the cane before him with his one palm flat on the curved handle. Fresh-shaved, the scent of bay rum.

“Tell me your name again.”

“Foster Pelham, sir.”

“How old are you Foster Pelham?”

“I’m sixteen.”

“And where is it you’re from?”

“New Hampshire. Is where I grew up. But I just came down from Vermont.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, how come, Foster Pelham? Leaving aside the question of this woman you’re looking for, asking after, how come now? You, sixteen years old, chasing off across the country. How’d you get here?”

“I drove.”

Alexander Mebane leaned forward a little and peered out onto the street and spied the Chrysler and looked back at Foster. “That’s your automobile out there?”

“Yes sir. It was my father’s.”

“It was your father’s. He’s not with you?”

“I’m alone. My father’s dead. That’s how—I never knew his family. After he died I found two sisters over to Vermont. And it was them told me about things.”

“What things would that have been?”

“That my grandmother was a Negro woman. From here. That her name was Leah and that the people who owned her were called Mebane. That she ran away from here at the tail end of the war. And that something happened and she hurt one of them, left him hurt, her thinking that person was dead. Somebody she called Lex.”

“And you think that might be me.”

“Yes sir, I’m thinking maybe it was. Said you were a one-armed man.”

“Did they? It’s what they call a distinguishing characteristic, isn’t it? I was a boy when I lost it so I can’t hardly recall what it was like to have both. Most days I don’t even think about it. You’re not a boy that takes things for granted, though, are you, Foster Pelham?”