‘Nero wasn’t young. Must have been ten, fifteen years older than dad – the wife was much younger – grizzled old guy. He said to dad, “Sure enough, boss.” ‘Dad said, “Not ‘boss’. My name’s Johnny.” ‘We all went in the buggy together right there and then – Nero, Nero’s wife and kids and dad and me. Nero kept eyeing dad, gape-mouthed, and finally dad said, “You want to know why I’m doing this, don’t you?”

‘Nero said, “Yeah, boss, if’n you want to tell me.” His voice was a monotone, no inflection at all. ‘Dad said, “We’re brothers, you and I.” ‘Nero rolled his eyes some and said, “Yeah, boss.” ‘Dad drove on a mile or so, then he said, “They paid fifteen bucks flat for me. I was about four years old. Tobacco farm. Ran away when I was sixteen. I bet you cost more.”

‘“What you all telling me, boss?”

‘“I was” – dad seemed to have trouble getting the word out – “a slave. Just like you. We are the same.”

‘“Well, I’ll be,” Nero said in that monotone of his.

‘“The education came later. Much later.”

‘Nero didn’t look like he took it in, much less believed it. He said, “Yeah, boss,” again.

‘“I slept in the barn. With the animals.”

‘That seemed to surprise Nero some, but he didn’t say anything. Then I’ll be damned if dad didn’t rein in the horse; and right there in front of Nero and his wife and me, he got down, took off his coat, folded it, laid it on the seat. Then he took off his shirt. Everybody else – all the other farmers – stripped down in hot weather. Not dad. He always wore a shirt, always wore the sleeves rolled down. I’d never seen his back or arms bare – not that I ever thought about it much – but all over them was a crisscross of long white scars. Even I could see he’d been beaten bad at some time in his life. Maybe lots of times. That was the first hint I got of what had really happened to him. Then he put his shirt on again, still not a word, put on his coat, climbed into the wagon and off we went. Nero still didn’t say anything, so dad said, “Nero is the name of an emperor. It’s a proud name.”

‘Another mile went by, and suddenly Nero laughed out loud. “Where I come from they call dogs Nero,” he said. I turned to look at him because the voice wasn’t a monotone anymore; it was sharp and sort of musical. And – Jesus, I’ll never forget it – he just wasn’t the same man. He’d shed the stupidity somehow. The mouth was shut; the eyes weren’t rolling around, and there was some real shrewdness in them. “No, siree, Johnny,” he said then. “I didn’t cost nobody a penny. I was born to the trade. They got me for free.”

‘And dad laughed. You can’t imagine how odd that was: dad laughing. I could hardly believe it: this was the only time I ever saw him laugh in all my life. He and Nero laughed and laughed. I thought they’d gone nuts – the two of them – laughing like that. They built a house together for Nero to live in with his wife and his children, and Nero worked for nothing when nothing came in, and for whatever dad could afford when there was a little profit. He worked harder and better than anybody except dad himself. Whenever dad wasn’t around, Nero went back to rolling his eyes, and whenever they were together there was this ease to dad; he wasn’t so demanding; he seemed to tolerate us better – almost to enjoy us like a normal father. It was never like that before, and after Nero died – he didn’t live all that long: somebody in town set his house alight, and his whole family burned to death – after Nero died, it was never like that again.’