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shoulder blades. This was ridiculous. It was mid-May, not warm enough to be sweating. His neighbors had long since cleaned out their gutters. Fraser couldn’t let this foolish anxiety keep him from such a simple task. People worked on ladders every day. He reached for the leaves to the left of his ladder and dropped them to the ground.
    Now he faced the devil’s decision of gutter cleaning. Should he reach farther on either side, perhaps tilting the ladder and crashing earthward? Or should he, like a coward, slowly descend to the ground, move the ladder down the roof line, then carefully probe for two level spots where he could replant the ladder’s legs, then rescale the heights? And again? And again?
    Sighing with annoyance, Fraser let his right toe dangle until it brushed the rung below. He had at least another hour of struggling with his damnable weakness. He had no idea why he dreaded heights. He always had. But he wouldn’t give in to it.
    â€œExcuse me. Sir?” The deep voice came from his left and behind, from the front walk. Fraser didn’t care to engage in conversation while dangling from the ladder.
    â€œOn my way,” he called, descending more quickly than he liked. His stomach muscles relaxed when his back foot touched ground.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” he asked as he turned around. His smile included a measure of relief.
    He faced a light-skinned Negro of middle years, his hair and mustache shot through with gray. The man was as tall as Fraser and a trace thicker. He wore a formal black suit. He met Fraser’s gaze like a white man. Stepping over to the walk where the man stood, Fraser placed the face and the suit. “You were at John Bingham’s funeral,” he said. “You’re Speed Cook, aren’t you?”
    â€œI did attend Mr. Bingham’s service,” the man said, “and that’s my name.”
    After wiping his hand on his trousers, Fraser shook the man’s hand. “That was the perfect name for you. I watched you in the town games—You were fast!”
    â€œThe name ain’t for being fast. It’s short for Speedwell, one of the ships the pilgrims came over on.” Fraser looked blankly at him so the man explained. “ Speedwell, it was the second ship that sailed for Plymouth Rock.”
    â€œI don’t remember that. So you’re named for a ship took the pilgrims to freedom?”
    â€œNo, Speedwell turned back, never got here. It was my daddy’s idea. Neither have we.”
    â€œYou played for Steubenville, right? And then in college?”
    Cook nodded, “At Oberlin, then for the university up to Michigan, then pro ball, too, until they run us Negroes out.”
    â€œI read about that,” Fraser said. “Wasn’t right.” After a moment, he asked, “I can do something for you?”
    â€œI just moved to Steubenville when my father, Isaiah Cook, took sick.”
    â€œI heard about that. I’m sorry for your loss.”
    â€œThank you. A lady visiting from Maryland, she’s related to my wife, she took a spill off our wagon this morning. Her arm’s broke. Doc Marcotte’s away and Doc Grimes, the new man, he doesn’t treat colored. I set the arm best I could—you know my father did some of that before he took to the pulpit. She’s doing poorly, running a fever. Maybe I did something wrong. I’d rather a real doctor looked at it.”
    â€œWell, let’s see,” Fraser said, “Steubenville’s twenty miles and it’s already four o’clock.” Nodding up at the darkening sky, he added, “Looks like a storm, too, and I got a bad wheel on my rig.”
    â€œI know how far it is,” Cook said. “I just came from there.” Fraser scratched an ear and thought about his planned evening with long-neglected medical journals. Cook added, “Like I said, this lady’s poorly. If the weather turns,