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know that my uncle, Byron Bingham, he passed away recently, and the funeral is tomorrow. My brother Albert got beat up real bad, so he won’t be here tomorrow on account of his injuries and the funeral. I wanted to come work in his place after the service, to make up for his absence.”
    “Your uncle?” My chest constricted. The oxygen around me slowly disappeared. I gasped for air, my heart palpitatin’ so fast I thought I might pass out. I reached for the tractor, missed, and stumbled.
    “Ma’am?” He rushed to my side, grabbin’ my arm just before I hit the ground, and lowered me slowly to the earth.
    I waited for my breathin’ to calm.
    “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to—are you okay?” A flash of fear washed over him. He squinted, glancin’ around to see if he’d been seen touchin’ me, and backed away quickly.
    The magnitude of that one act of assistance suddenly burst before me like fireworks. I understood the fear in his eyes, and it killed me to know that if someone had seen him—Daddy, Jake, or Jimmy Lee—he’d be runnin’ for his life right now.
    I nodded, unable to find my voice. Mr. Bingham’s bloated face floated before me. My eyes dampened. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, unsure if I was apologizin’ for what had happened to his uncle, or to his race for how his people were treated. I rubbed my arm where he’d grabbed me.
    “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” He watched me with concern. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I just didn’t want you to fall.”
    “You didn’t hurt me. I’ve just never been touched—I’m sorry, I’ve never even spoken to a colored person before.” The realization of that statement sickened me.  It also wasn’t quite true. Once, when I was a little girl, maybe five or six, I’d seen a colored girl in the street by Woolworths. I asked her if she wanted to come in with me and get a soda pop at the counter. Mama had dragged me away. I remember cryin’ because I had no idea what I’d done wrong. That was the instance that drove home the meanin’ of knowin’ my place . I’d never spoken to a colored person again—child or adult.
    He dropped his eyes, noddin’ his head as if he’d expected my response.
    I looked behind me. If Daddy caught me I probably wouldn’t be allowed out of his sight for weeks. The coloreds in town never would have spoken to me, even if I had been cryin’. They knew better. But this man who stood before me, he had a gentle confidence about him that made me want to know more about him.
    “Yes, ma’am. I understand. I don’t want to cause no trouble.” He lifted his eyes to meet mine. “I heard a noise, and I thought you mighta been Mr. Tillman. I’m sorry to have startled you. I meant no disrespect.” A friendly warmth lingered in the gentle way he spoke. He looked right into my eyes, as if he was interested in, even waitin’ on, what I had to say next. There was a little liftin’ of the edges of his lips, not quite a smile.
    “Aren’t you afraid to talk to me? You know what happens to colored men when they talk to white women, right?” I realized after I’d spoken that I’d said that because it’s what was probably expected of me, not because it was somethin’ that I felt.
    He pursed his lips, holdin’ tight to his hat. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. Before I could respond he added, “I know what happens here in Forrest Town when colored men speak to white women, but that’s not what happens everywhere.”
    I knew there had been racial riots in some of the bigger cities, even if Daddy did turn off the radio the minute I walked into the room. Kids at school had talked about civil uprisin’s, but I’d never seen them, or, I suddenly realized, cared enough about them to ask for details. I lifted my eyebrows in question.
    “Yes, ma’am. I serve with white men. Do you think we don’t talk?”
    “Men, not women,” I smirked.
    “No, ma’am. I’ve been to other states. My people talk to white women in other