So he stepped into the crimson pantaloons and tied tight the drawstring waist and bent then to tie the cords that brought the billows tight to his ankles and had just straightened from this when she came around the back corner of the tent. The beautiful girl was not with her but the young boy was, and he was not disappointed by this. He’d had enough of young women in small towns and the mother up close was pleasure enough. Still, he wondered why she’d not wanted to meet him.

As she came around the backside of the tent the woman said, “Scuse me.” Her voice pitched and gay, nervous and off. He turned to her. The little boy back a pace, led by his mother.

“Well, hey there,” he said, giving nothing but still grinning at them.

The boy said, “You’re one blacker-than-soot nigger.”

The woman protested. “Jamie.”

The man ignored her and squatted, still not down to the boy’s level but close. He said, “Jamie. You’re mighty high-yellow yourself.”

The boy pulled back against his mother, frightened, the words meaning nothing to him, not reassured by the kind tone. The man went on.

“You’re just a little boy. Plenty people think, Little boy like that, he don’t know when he’s wronging somebody. They let it slide on by. They think he don’t know no better. But he does. He thinks, I got away with it once, I can again. Maybe so. But someday, somewhere, be someone won’t let you get away with it. And you’ll be thinking, I got away with it all that time, why this person get so upset now? And you’ll be thinking, Must be his fault not mine. But you’ll be wrong.” And reached out before the boy could shrink further and took his small shoulder in his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze just strong enough so the boy understood the message if not the words. Felt the boy quail before the touch and then push into it. And stood and addressed the mother, speaking to stop her apology before he was even all the way up. “That sounded like a lecture ma’am. Didn’t mean it to. Just trying to warn him off.”

Her features were alight. On a white woman would be a blush. “He knows better.”

He nodded, grave. “I’m sure he does.” Then, again without waiting for her, he stuck out his hand. He felt like a caretaker. “Name’s Ben. Unless you want to call me African Behemoth.” Grinned at her with the absurdity of this. Now more glad than before that the daughter wasn’t there. Wanted nothing before him to diminish or compare this woman to.

She took his hand, her own as strong and calloused as he expected. She said, “I’m Leah Pelham.”