Page from a Tennessee Journal (AmazonEncore Edition)

departing passengers as they wrestled their boxes and string-tied bundles. John followed the man’s stare, though he already knew what held the attention of his porter.
    Two cars up the line from his own, steam hissed out of the undercarriage of the first of the whites-only train coaches. Colored porters there could expect tips, though they were seldom more than five or ten cents. Still, in times like these, every bit of change from four or five people at every stop could add up to substantial money. As John put one valise under an arm and juggled the second, he tried to lift up the gift box with his free hand.
    “All aboard!” The disinterested porter called out, as a man dressed in an ill-fitting suit stood on the platform waiting for John to disembark so he could board.
    For a fleeting moment, John wondered if the fellow was one of the fortunate ones heading for Chicago. The porter, finally turning back to his own disembarking passengers, reached out a hand to grab one of John’s valises. On the ground, John lent the man one of his smiles as he fished in his pocket. It pleased him immensely to drop a fifty-cent piece in the porter’s top pocket.
    “Th-thank you, suh.” The surprised train man could barely stutter out his appreciation.
    Without a word, John winked and walked up the platform. With over a thousand dollars in his money belt, it felt better than good to show the world that John Welles was a man on the move. Judging by the time on the big round-faced clock on the platform, he figured he could rent a horse and buggy and be with Annalaura by three thirty. He nudged the gift box with his knee. The sturdy, rope-tied cardboard was stuffed full of presents for his family.
    Every child had a complete outfit from underwear to shoes. Little Lottie even had bows for her hair. And, the doll, all made of cloth except for her head covered with real horsehair, would thrill his little girl. Henry had a fine wood-carved train. Cleveland would get a bone-handled knife. He knew Doug would take to the reading book he got for him. For Annalaura, he had gone wild.
    Her pinafore was white with yellow trim over the ruffled parts that women liked. He had gotten her two dresses, one blue and one white to set it over. For the front of her pinafore, he bought a brooch that the man said was made of real shells from far-off California. And when he spread that money out on his bed, he could see her jumping in eagerness to let him scrub her all over with that sweet-smelling soap. He could already hear her moan her pleasure when he dabbed that rose water in all her secret places. Even Annalaura would grin and forgive him for being gone just a little longer than he wanted when she saw all that he was bringing home just for her.
    John knew it was planting day even before the horse and buggy left Lawnover’s wood-planked sidewalks. He could smell the new plowed earth, and the May air touched his face with just that right amount of warm and wet oozing out of it. The time was close to three thirty when he turned off the lane and up the path to the mid-forty barn. He reckoned Annalaura and the two older boys would be in the fields scattering seedlings right about now. He wondered if McNaughton had sense enough to put on some help for her.
    He was surprised to see a tall, skinny boy of about ten standing just outside the smoke house door. The lad had apparently spotted the horse and buggy before John got a look at the child. There was something in the way the boy cocked his head to stare at the approaching buggy that told John the child’s identity.
    “Doug? That you, boy?” John jerked on the reins and the horse pulled up.
    The child’s eyes grew as big as a river lizard’s. The smile coming from John was real.
    “I swear, boy, I thought you was Cleveland, you is so big.” John jumped down from the buggy, holding the reins in his hand.
    “Papa? Papa is that really you?” His son’s voice was still that of a child, and he was glad.
    The troubles of a man would come on his boy soon enough. John wanted to make these last years of his Doug’s childhood filled with some of the fun and ease the lad had missed.
    “Well, what other man come ridin’ up to yo’ barn? ’Cose it’s yo’ papa.” John swooped the boy into his arms, lifting his feet off the ground.
    The child flung his arms around his father’s neck.
    “I knew you’d come back. I knew it mo’ than anything.” He squeezed his skinny arms all the