Page from a Tennessee Journal (AmazonEncore Edition)

her dress so hard that one button clung to the garment only by a single thread.
    Fedora slipped both arms around her, pulled her close, rocked her in her arms.
    “Men think different than we do. They have their colored women for their own silly fun, but they have us fo’ wives.” She smoothed Eula’s hair. “Alex is just talkin’ crazy right now. He don’t really want to trade.” She sounded so certain.
    “If he could, he would.” The words rode out of Eula on a great wave of sobs.
    All the years with Alex slipped in front of her eyes. Everything about her husband played over and over in her mind. She knew when he was happy, when the planting had gone wrong, when the harvest had gone right, when he was pleased, what he disliked, what and when he wanted more, when he wanted quiet, when he wanted laughter. Even the passion he’d shown two nights ago fit into the picture puzzle that was her husband. It had been there, simmering deep down in the center of him always. Now, somewhere, at her own core, she knew she’d never been, and would never be, the one to unlock that power. The woman…Laura…held the only key.
    “If he could, he would.” Eula repeated the sounds that squeezed out of her mouth in a soft moan.
    Fedora squeezed the ring again. “You will get through this, Eula. Every other white wife in Lawnover married more than five years has lived through the exact same thing you’re goin’ through right now.”
    “Belle? Cora Lee? Jenny?” Their pain couldn’t be as great as hers. She loved Alex. Did Fedora love Ben Roy like that?
    “All of us. Don’t worry none. Alex won’t never talk about this day again. You ain’t seen Ben Roy bring Hettie anywhere near my house, now have you? Why do you think I wouldn’t allow Ben Roy’s woman to come serve the plantin’ dinner and prayer when Tillie carried on so? Your brother knows better than to parade his colored whore in front of me. All the men do.” Fedora put her hand on Eula’s whiskey glass and tipped it to her sister-in-law’s lips.
    As she drank, Eula knew the woman, Alex’s woman, was no whore. He couldn’t love her if she was.
    The parlor door slammed open, and Ben Roy walked through, Alex’s shotgun crooked in one arm.
    “Let’s get outta here, Fedora.” Ben Roy spoke through blood-oozing lips. One eye was swollen almost shut, and a large lump had made an appearance on his forehead. He turned to his sister. “Eula Mae, get on in to yo’ husband. He’s in the kitchen.” Ben Roy crossed the floor of the front parlor in two strides, grabbed Fedora by the wrist, turned, and stalked out of the house.
    Eula eased up from the settee as though she’d been the one in the fistfight. Her feet wanted to take her into her bedroom, away from Alex, away from Fedora telling her to be brave, away from Ben Roy ordering her to comfort her scoundrel of a husband, away from all thoughts of…She wanted to climb into her bed and pull the coverlet over her head, go so deep into sleep that she would dream only of darkness. She turned her head toward the parlor door leading to the kitchen. Alex was in there. What could she say to him? Nothing, as Fedora suggested? Everything, like she wanted? Cajoling like Ben Roy ordered?
    First one foot, then a second, led her toward the bedroom. She stopped in her tracks. Through the partially cracked door, she spotted the neatly made bed. The bed where Alex had lain with her two nights ago. Lain on top of her, and lied with his body. Her stomach churned as she moved like a stiff scarecrow into the kitchen.
    Alex’s usual chair was empty. Whether Ben Roy put him in there or he just didn’t care, her husband sat at her regular place at the table. Alex must have heard her walk into the room, for he turned a cheek reddened with an upcoming bruise toward her. His moist eyes looked right through her. He turned his head back to the crib and rocked it slowly. Moving like a rusted plow badly in need of oiling, he picked up the porcelain-headed doll and brought it to his lips. He rubbed his face against the horsetail hair.
    On the kitchen table within easy reach was the knife. Ben Roy must have picked it up from the floor. Slow like she was treeing a possum, Eula inched her hand toward it. Alex paid her no mind. Grabbing the handle, she slid the knife as quiet as she could toward her. Even though it was twenty-one years old, the rocker was so well made that only the whisper of a sound came from its runners as Alex let