Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [340]
“Thought I tol’ you that! They over in Alamance County, tobacco planter name Murray, live not far from the railroad shops—” Massa Lea’s eyes were narrowed. “Don’t you raise your voice at me, boy!”
Alamance . . . Murray... railroad shops. Inking into memory those key words, Chicken George now managed a seeming con-triteness, “I’se sorry, jes’ got excited, sho’ ain’t meant to, Massa—”
The massa’s expression wavered, then forgave. I got to ease out’n ’im dat piece o’ paper he writ dat free me. “I been down, boy!” Hunching forward across the table, the massa squinted fiercely, “You hear me? Nobody never know how down I been! Ain’t jes’ meanin’ money—” He gestured at his chest, “Down in here!” He seemed wanting a response—
“Yassuh.”
“Seen hard days, boy! Them sonsabitches used to holler my name crossin’ the street when I’m comin’. Heared ’em laughin’ ’hin’ my back. Sonsabitches!” A bony fist banged the tabletop. “Swore in my heart Tom Lea show ’em! Now you back. Git ’nother set of chickens! Don’t care I’m eighty-three... we can do ’er, boy!”
“Massa—”
Massa Lea squinted closely, “Forgot how old you now, boy?”
“Fifty-fo’ now, Massa.”
“You ain’t!”
“Is, too, Massa. Fo’ long, be fifty-five—”
“Hell, I seen you the same mornin’ you birthed! L’il ol’ wrinkled-up straw-colored nigger—” Massa Lea cackled. “Hell, I give you your name!”
Pouring himself another smaller drink after Chicken George had waved his hand negatively, quickly Massa Lea peered around as if to insure that only they were there. “Reckon ain’t no sense keepin’ you’mongst all them I got fooled! They think I ain’t got nothin’ no more—” He gave Chicken George a conspiratorial look. “I got money! Ain’t much... I got it hid! Don’t nobody but me know where!” He looked longer at Chicken George. “Boy, when I go, you know who git what I got? Still ownin’ ten acres, too! Lan’ like money at the bank! Whatever I got go to you! You the closest I got now, boy.”
He seemed to be wrestling with something. Furtively he leaned yet closer. “Hell, ain’t no need not to face the fact. It’s blood ’tween us’, boy!”
He done hit bottom fo’ sho’, sayin’ dot. His insides contracting, Chicken George sat mutely.
“Jes’ stay on even if a l’il while, George—” The whiskied face petitioned. “I know you ain’t the kin’ go turnin’ your back ’gainst them what helped you in this worl’—”
Jes fo’I lef ’ he showed me my freedom paper he’d writ an’ signed an said he gwine keep in ’is strongbox. Chicken George realized that he was going to have to get Massa Lea yet drunker. He studied the face across the table, thinking bein’ white de only thing he got lef’...
“Massa, never will fo’git how you bring me up—mighty few white men’s good as dat—”
The watery eyes lighted. “You was jes’ l’il shirttail nigger. I shore remember—”
“Yassuh, you an’ Uncle Mingo—”
“Ol’ Mingo! Damn his time! Bes’ nigger trainer it was—” The wavering eyes found a focus on Chicken George “... ’til you learnt good’... started takin’ you to fights an’ leavin’ Mingo—”
... hope you an’ massa trus’ me to feed de chickens—” The memory of old Uncle Mingo’s bitterness hurt even yet.
“’Member, Massa, we was gwine to a big fight in New Orleans?”
“Shore was! An’ never did make it—” His brow wrinkled.
“Uncle Mingo died jes’ befo’ was how come.”
“Yeah! Ol’ Mingo over under them willow trees now.” Along with my mammy and Sister Sarah, and Miss Malizy whenever she go, ’pending which one y’all goes first. He wondered what either would do without the other.
“Boy, you ’member me givin’ you the travelin’ pass to go catch all the tail you wanted?”
Making himself simulate guffawing laughter, Chicken George pounded the tabletop himself, the massa continuing,