Page from a Tennessee Journal (AmazonEncore Edition)

the Welles woman was doing. Patting down the gray, he resolved to give more thought to the mid-forty after he’d eaten the midday meal Eula was holding for him. He stopped at the pump at his closed-in back porch to wash his hands.
    Stepping through the rear porch door into the kitchen, he barely nodded a greeting to Eula, who moved quickly to her feet as soon as he appeared. Except for the clear space in front of his chair, the kitchen table was cluttered with dozens of Mason jars, some empty, some capped, and others filled with peach preserves. Alex pulled out the mash from the Lawnover store he had visited after making his rounds and laid it on the table next to Eula’s account journal.
    His wife scurried to the stove and began ladling string beans and fried corn onto his plate. She topped it with two deep-fried pork chops and set the plate, mounded with his dinner, before him. He watched Eula move to the safe to pull out a fork just before he discovered its absence on the table. On her way back, she stopped at the stove to cut off a hunk of corn bread. As his wife bent over to lay his bread on the oilcloth, Alex caught the strong aroma of vinegar.
    “You wash your hair?” He didn’t bother to hide the touch of surprise in his voice as he ran the date through his head.
    He slid his eyes toward the almanac calendar hanging on the inside of the open pantry door. Today was Friday, but was it that Friday? He spotted the galvanized bathing tub sitting on the floor of the pantry. Normally, it would hang from its hook on the back porch. Eula had washed her hair and bathed.
    “Uh huh” was her only sound as she pushed aside her journal and set down her own plate.
    Did she expect him to remember these things? Every other Friday he took Eula to bed. It was a routine that had worked well for them for nearly seven years. What was the cause of the washed hair he wondered? She only did that about four times a year. But he had no time to probe the whys of Eula’s actions. He would be ready for her tonight.
    A light knock on the back door caught a forkful of string beans on their way to his mouth. He gave Eula an accusatory look. She knew better than to have visitors come when he was eating his meal. With “I’m sorry” written across her face, Eula left her own plate untouched as she pushed open the kitchen screen door and walked across the porch to the back door. Whoever it was, Alex trusted Eula to get rid of them as fast as possible. He was surprised when she returned and stood over him without starting her own meal.
    “Some colored man’s at the door.” Her voice sounded apologetic.
    “What colored man?” Alex wanted to hear none of this. Couldn’t Eula see that he had just started his dinner? It was her house, and she was responsible for keeping niggers or anybody else away who would disturb him.
    Still, she stood.
    “New to Lawnover. Says his name is Isaiah Harris.” When Eula made no motion to sit, Alex put down his fork and stared at her.
    “Wants to know if he can farm for you next year?” The tail end of her voice ended in a question.
    The mid-forty, never entirely off his mind all day, flooded Alex’s thoughts.
    “It’s harvest time. Lots of tenants want to work two or three weeks at harvest and then coast off me for the next six months.” Alex pushed back from the table, though he did not stand. He ran the possibilities through his mind.
    “Maybe he could help out on the mid-forty?” Eula did not meet his eyes when his face trained on hers.
    “Can’t this nigger come back tomorrow?” Annoyed at the disturbance, still Alex wasn’t at all sure the mid-forty could wait until tomorrow.
    Before Eula could bob her head yea or nay, Alex got to his feet, almost knocking over the chair. “I’ll get this over with now.”
    The man who greeted him outside the porch door, stood with his head bowed, waiting respectfully for Alex to begin his greeting. Alex took his time looking over the fellow. At first glance, the man looked able enough. Almost as tall but not nearly as muscular as John Welles, this one verged on the skinny.
    “What’s that name again?” Alex estimated the fellow to be in his early thirties.
    A man in his thirties was usually a decent worker, while young bucks in their twenties were nothing but trouble. Alex searched his farmyard for the man’s family.
    “It’s Isaiah, suh. Isaiah Harris.” The man busied his fingers turning the brim of his hat over in his hands.
    The lane