“I don’t know,” she said. “Henrietta was telling me on the phone this morning. Said it was the same thing that ailed her before. I bet she’s pregnant again. The hussy. Already had one youngin and she ain’t even out of school. She ought to get sick.”

“Now, Aunt Ruth,” Jimmy said. The tone of his voice indicated that he could not, would not say more, cautioning, pleading for her to leave the subject alone. Zeke did not like Ruth’s disposition, but what he disliked more was Jimmy’s way of behaving like a child toward Ruth. Now that was one thing I got from Papa: how not to cower to nobody. My boy, Sam, he learned that too well, but that grandboy, Horace . . . Lord, he was like this here Jimmy. Quiet. Polite. There ain’t nothing wrong with quiet. Papa was quiet. Or polite, cause Papa was as good a gentleman as the rest of them. But there was a difference­—­there he was, again, measuring things by his father. Had he not come to terms with the fact he was not Thomas Cross and that it was all right—all right—to be Ezekiel Cross?

Now Horace’s daddy—yeah, Sammy was completely different. Sammy was smart, but he was sly with his smartness, just as cunning as a cat. It wont books he was always studying. No, what he was after had two legs and a nice behind and a nice squeezebox. The boy loved him some pussy more than any man I know; and in my day I have felt my oats all I pleased and ain’t shamed to admit it . . . but I did turn away, thank the Lord Jesus. But ole Sammy. Sammy. Sammy. Sammy. Sammy. I do miss that boy. Miss his smart mouth. He could always make me laugh. Paw, you ever wonder why a black man born to be poor? Boy, get away from me with your foolishness. Cause if he was rich he’d have to be white, cause the white man would kill him off. Sammy, big like his grandaddy, Sammy, the color of his mama, brown like pine needles, brown, Sammy, laughing in the tobacco patch like he got Rockefeller’s money—Papa, ain’t you heard, you don’t need to pray no more? Boy, you better get back to work. No, Paw, this here is hell; ain’t nothing left to worry over; cause you ain’t gone die—can you figure anything more hell than a tobacco patch in August? Sammy drinking his liquor, Sammy fussing with his mamma, Sammy chasing after women, Sammy coming in at three o’clock in the morning.

Boy, I can’t have you laying up in this house, doing all such wickedness like you do . . .

Wickedness?

Wickedness! If you plan to stay here, you gone tighten up.

Leave me alone, old man.

Boy, don’t talk disrespectful to me. This is my house.