Page from a Tennessee Journal (AmazonEncore Edition)

you, just a little…” Eula’s voice trailed down low.
    Alex read respectful apology in both her words and her eyes. Though he had every right to be upset at his wife’s indiscretion, he nodded his head. She was only a female. Even so, Eula did seem to have a good head for sorting out people. Most times, she had the good sense to know that it had to be the husband who decided these things. Still, there had been something about the sharecropper that caught Alex’s eye two years ago. Maybe Eula was right. The fellow had skirted too close to uppity.
    “It’s not but two weeks ’til harvest.” Eula’s voice strained out of her throat. “If the man is gone, who you gonna get to bring in the tobacco?” The quick flash of worry that crossed his wife’s face was dashed away almost before he could see it.
    “I reckon I can sort that out without either you or Ben Roy telling me how,” Alex snapped as he scowled his displeasure.
    What had gotten into Eula? Had his wife talked around the barn to get to what was really bothering her—the tobacco harvest? Yes, it would hit him in the pocketbook in a tight year if the nigger actually had run off, but money worries were not for women. Eula knew that. Talk of money around any of the Thorntons always started that rumble in his stomach. Most of the time Alex felt just fine with the clothes, food, and furniture he’d provided for Eula in their twenty years together. But, every now and again, something came along to remind him that he had married a Thornton girl, raised with taffeta dresses, real china plates, and a half dozen colored cooks and maids. He’d never had a harvest big enough to provide his wife with even one full-time cleaning woman. Not that Eula had complained about his ability to support her. At least, not that Alex had noticed.
    Eula dropped her head and stared at the well-scrubbed floorboards. Both reddened hands went to her bosom. He watched her suck in and then poke out her lower lip like she wanted to say her sorrys. Instead, she walked to their black wood stove and stirred the peaches he finally sniffed bubbling in the big pot.
    “You canning more preserves?” He tried to soften his criticism. Eula had meant no disrespect, he was certain. “I’ll bring you back some mash, and you can make peach brandy.”
    Without looking behind him, he stepped out of the door. Alexander had to fix this mess on the mid-forty. He couldn’t afford to lose three thousand dollars and a chance to get Eula a little help with the cleaning. If the man was really gone, he’d have to throw the woman and her get off the place and find another nigger soon.

CHAPTER THREE
     
    At only ten in the morning the sun had already blazed through the long sleeves of Annalaura’s shirt. Perspiration cascaded down her forehead and arms as she swung her hoe at the offending weeds. Standing upright, she wiped the sweat off her face as she glared at the trespassing foliage. The weeds were keeping the tobacco plants low. She lifted an arm again and planted it across her forehead, wishing that the threadbare cotton of her work shirt could sop up some of the sweat coming faster than she could wipe it away.
    Annalaura tapped the hoe to the ground. ’Cropping had always been tough work, but last year, with John, Cleveland, and even Doug, the family had stayed on top of the job. Without John…she pushed the thought of her missing husband from her head. She glanced over at Henry, who had dropped to his knees in the next row. The child had mounded a pile of dirt scooped from around the rugged root of one weed. He wielded the stalk of a particularly low-growing tobacco plant to push a small pebble over his newly constructed “hill.” The boy had given voice to each piece in his play.
    “Henry,” Annalaura shouted. “Stop that playactin’, and get on up ahead to find me another patch of weeds.” She watched a reluctant Henry stop his game.
    Untying the bandanna from her head to wipe at more sweat, Annalaura sighted Lottie over her shoulder. She had assigned her daughter’s weed-pulling duties close to the path that separated the barn and smoke house from the field. That way, Lottie could run in and check on the supper butter beans every hour or so. But Lottie was neither checking on supper nor pulling weeds. The girl skipped between two rows of tobacco, singing her made-up song. Annalaura shook her head. Unscrewing the lid from a Mason jar full of fresh drawn well water, she motioned