Page from a Tennessee Journal (AmazonEncore Edition)

thirteen-year-old child? All Alex could do was nod his head in confusion.
    “I don’t mean nothin’ serious like a lynch…” Alex realized his error almost before he spotted Ben Roy’s eyes narrow to half the size of a lead point. He shook his head and hurried off the memory. “Just need a few of us to make sure Welles knows he ain’t welcome back here in Lawnover after what he done.” Alex watched Ben Roy shift a new wad of chewin’ tobacco from one cheek to the other. He said nothing, as Wiley George, his head bowed down toward the bare table, glared at his father-in-law under his brows.
    “You talkin’ ’bout bad business.” Wiley studied the tabletop like he was counting each and every stain ever put on it by a poker player. “Seems like to me, it’s bad business if a nigger don’t stay put when it’s plantin’ and growin’ season. Ain’t right for niggers to shuffle off whenever they take a notion. Only a white man gets to say when a nigger goes or stays.” He finally lifted his eyes to his father-in-law. “If you was to ask me, I’d say that nigger needs to learn him a good lesson that’ll stick with the rest of ’em too.” Before Wiley George finished, the down county farmer pushed back from the table and rose to his feet.
    “I just put me in eighty acres with one pretty good hired hand. But he got six children, five of ’em boys and all of ’em of good size.” The farmer patted at his now flat pockets as he turned toward Alex. “With all them children, I don’t reckon my nigger gonna run off, lessen there’s trouble. I can’t afford to have me no trouble.” He held out a hand to shake Alex’s. “If that nigger of your’n still needs a good learnin’, call on me after harvest.”
    “Alex, you ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. My money’s on that nigger gettin’ out of town once he’s done a little drinkin’, some fightin’, and a little harmless shootin’ with that pistol. He ain’t gonna turn that thing on nobody.” The cousin flexed his shoulders as he stood, stretched, and reached for his empty Mason jar. His own jar refilled, the man slipped into the front room. Ben Roy turned toward his younger brother.
    “Take this fool on home to Tillie.” He jerked his head toward Wiley George. “God gave a goose a double more portion of good sense than he gave you. You don’t stir niggers up when you need ’em. Fifteen farmers in this part of Montgomery County depend on them hired hands to bring in the crop, and you tell me that now is the time to teach them a lesson?” He turned full on his son-in-law. “When you rile up niggers, it better be over somethin’ good and worth the trouble ’cause there could be hell to pay for more years than you wanna count.” Ben Roy slumped back into his chair.
    The younger Thornton grabbed Wiley by his collar and pulled him to his feet. The new father wobbled. Little brother Thornton put an arm around Wiley’s waist and half dragged his niece’s husband out of the room. Ben Roy reached for the last of his whiskey. He drained the jar, started to call out Hettie’s name, changed his mind, and turned to Alex in the now quiet room.
    “Funny ’bout the Welles woman and her baby. Been a lot of years between babies.” Ben Roy leaned his elbows on the table. “You sure ’bout that baby? Could some other nigger have come in there?” Ben Roy kept his voice low.
    “I’m damn sure ’bout the baby.” Alex’s voice boomed.
    “If you’re sure ’bout the daddy…high-yella babies born in these parts stay put for a lot of years.” Ben Roy let loose with a stream of tobacco juice. “Anybody can take a look at the child from time to time. ’Course, could be troublesome if the momma moves on to some other man’s acres.” Eula’s brother nodded his head toward the door leading to Bobby Lee’s main room. “If a man took a mind, he could always come here to town and take himself a good look. The momma’s bound to bring the child by at least once a month.” Ben Roy squeezed the deck of cards tight between his hands. “Baby or no, if that nigger goes back to his woman, works like he ought, and don’t cause no trouble, ain’t nobody in Lawnover gonna drive him out of town. That’s the way of it.”
    The building went silent in Alex’s ears. The clink of jars and the cussing from the front room stopped. The smell of sorghum turned sickly sweet. The brined pickled feet let off the stench of ten-day-old pig slop. Alex