“Are you saying you have proof of your paternity?”

“I’m saying I know, brother.”

“We’re both lawyers, Mr. Turner. There’s a world of difference between ‘knowing’ something and proving it. With all respect, I can’t help raising what seems a pretty obvious objection to your assertion. You’ve got a very dark skin tone, considerably darker than your mother’s. So how do you figure that my father, who’s got the pale skin of Scots-English descent, is your father?”

Lincoln grins again. “Your lack of education’s showing, Counselor. It’s obvious you’re a lawyer and not a doctor. You ever read a genetics textbook?”

“No.”

“Well, I have. And that idea you’ve got of what mixed-race people look like belongs on the trash pile with phrenology and all the other hokum from that era. Did you know you can get a black mouse from two white ones? Luck of the draw, in genetic terms. I’ve seen the face of a white man when the high-yellow woman he married popped out a black baby. I’m talking ’bout a woman who’d been passing for white. There’s no expression like it, my man. No, indeed. Sur-priiise.”

I’m not sure how to respond to this. I know a lot of black people, and in my mind those on the lighter end of the spectrum—those with “yellow” or “bright” skin tones—represent the mixed-race types that my ancestors called mulattos, quadroons, or octoroons, those classifications based on the percentage of African blood. We all develop preconceptions about such matters based on folk wisdom rather than science, and until I learn more, there’s no point in debating the issue.

Lincoln leans closer to me. “The man you called Daddy your whole life is my daddy, too. Only I never saw him in person till yesterday. That’s no mystery, either. What white man ever wanted the world to know he had a nigger baby? Huh? Because that’s what it comes down to, brother. Simple as that.”

“Are you suggesting that my father has known all this time that he had a son by Viola, and did nothing to help support her?”

Lincoln shakes his head almost sadly. “I’m not saying he did nothing. A rich man can always spread a little money around to ease his conscience. But as far as acknowledging my existence, he did nothing. He wanted Mama to stay up in Chicago, same as the Klan did. They wanted it for different reasons, I guess. Though when you strip away all the bullshit, the reasons weren’t so different after all.”