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    It was near to suppertime when Jeremy Simms came walking up the road. The boys and I were in the side yard washing the dust off the Ford. Stacey wanted the car looking its best on Sunday morning. Although I was supposed to be in the house helping prepare supper, I much preferred scrubbing on the car to standing in the hot kitchen stirring up food on the wood-burning stove. Besides, I was as fascinated by the car as the boys were. As Jeremy came up the drive Stacey stopped to greet him. Christopher-John, Little Man, and I said our hellos and kept on working. Jeremy folded his arms across his chest and nodded undeniable approval of the Ford. “It’s a mighty fine-looking car, all right,” he said. “Always did admire it.”
    “So did I,” admitted Stacey.
    “That wine coloring, it’s right rare.”
    “Mr. Jamison said he special ordered it for Mrs. Jamison. Said it was her favorite color.”
    “Well, Miz Jamison, she took mighty fine care of this car. Course, I don’t ’spect she drove it that much, seeing she died a year after she got it.” He paused for some moments, gazing at the car, and the silence with him was not unusual. “Heard Mr. Jamison got it for her ’cause he was doin’ so much work in Vicksburg and Jackson these here last few years and he wanted her to have a way to get ’round when he wasn’t home there in Strawberry.”
    “Yeah, that’s what he said.” Still holding the chammy, Stacey leaned against the fence that separated the drive from the side yard and the house and openly admired his new acquisition. “Course, it’s got no radio, and the heater needs fixing, but I figure I can do without a radio, and if I can’t fix the heater, I can stand a little cold. Main thing is the engine’s good and it runs fine. It was missing a bit, but Harris, look like he fixed that.” He took a pause. “Got to admit, too, I do like how it shines.”
    “Yeah . . . it do shine pretty,” Jeremy agreed. “Ain’t got a scratch on it.” Then he also leaned against the fencing. “How she ride?” he asked.
    “Fine. Just fine,” Stacey answered.
    Again Jeremy was silent. He started to speak, then hesitated. Finally he cleared his throat and got on. “You know, I—I want to thank y’all for helping us out today. On the road, I mean . . . with the truck.” We all looked at him. Jeremy’s eyes were dead set on the car as he spoke. “Couldn’t’ve got outa that ditch without y’all, ’less’n we’d’ve got hold of some mules.”
    Stacey, too, kept his eyes on the car. “Well, anybody would’ve done the same.”
    “I know my pa, he ain’t a easy man. He don’t give much to saying thanks, but I just wanted y’all to know we obliged just the same.”
    Stacey stepped from the fence. “Don’t matter about your pa. Like I said, anybody would’ve done the same.”
    Jeremy looked at him and nodded. “Yeah . . . yeah.”
    I glanced over at the two of them and once again studied on Jeremy Simms. That boy had been a puzzlement to me since I had first known him. He had always been friendly; he was like no other white boy I knew. In fact, he was the only whiteperson of manhood age whom we addressed face-to-face directly by his first name without setting a Mr . in front of it, but we only addressed him at those times when there were no other white folks around, for addressing him so familiarly could get us all, including Jeremy, into trouble. When other white folks were around, we usually did not address him at all, and though we never spoke of it to him, we knew Jeremy understood why.
    From childhood Jeremy had seemed to understand.
    From childhood and days of fishing on the Rosa Lee, days of chasing deer and squirrels through the forest pines, days of just lazing back on soft grass watching puffs of brilliant white clouds and dreaming of nothing more than fried chicken and sweet potato pie, we had had a friendship with Jeremy Simms. It was a cautious friendship. We all