“Oh, cut the shit. What ‘deeper question’ am I here to answer?”
He seems to weigh the issue for a bit. “You ever hear that expression, ‘brothers from a different mother’?”
My stomach does a slow flip. “I’ve heard it.”
“That’s what we are.” He grins, showing his big teeth. “You and me. Literally. We got the same father.” His eyebrows arch expectantly. “Ain’t that some shit, Mayor?”
“I don’t believe you.” I’m speaking truthfully, despite my doubts about my father’s honesty.
“Yes, you do. The truth is already there, down deep in you. All I did was pick off the scab. Take a minute to adjust, if you need it. Nobody’s going to ask for our table.”
“What year were you born?” I ask.
“Nineteen sixty-eight, in December. Nine months after my mama left Natchez.”
I’m reluctant to raise Henry Sexton’s explanation of this juxtaposition of events, but what choice do I have? Lincoln has forced my hand.
“A lot of terrible things happened to your mother and her family in 1968,” I say in a neutral tone. “Her brother was kidnapped and murdered, for one thing. Viola had several good reasons to leave this town.”
“None measure up to being pregnant by her white, married boss. A man she loved, but who would never leave his wife.”
This simple, vivid description stops me for a few moments, but I press on. “Something else happened in 1968, Mr. Turner. Something a lot worse than what you just described.”
“What’s that, Mayor?”
“Your mother was raped by the Ku Klux Klan. Or several former members of it, anyway.”
The dark eyes smolder with anger. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I don’t know what you know.”
Lincoln stabs a thick forefinger at me. “You think I was sired by one of them cracker assholes?”
“I don’t know. It seems possible.”
Lincoln’s chest rumbles with contemptuous laughter. “You wish I was, don’t you? You and your daddy. That would make your lives a whole lot easier. Keep that fairy tale you was raised in intact. But I told you that first night who I am. I’m the chicken come home to roost. It’s taken damn near forty years, but I’m here now. Here to stay. And I know what I know. I had to break through a lot of lies to find out, but now I know.”
“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.”
Turner is filled with the accreted anger of thirty-seven years. And by the circular logic of every bastard son in history, he’s transformed supposition into “facts” to prove he’s the son of a great man. Arguing this point with him would be like arguing with a convert about religion. I should get out of here as quickly and quietly as possible.
While I try to think of a graceful excuse to leave, he takes a bite of pulled pork and speaks as he chews. “Now that you understand the situation, the idea of murder doesn’t seem so far-fetched, does it?”
“That’s ridiculous. Killing Viola wouldn’t keep your existence secret, if that’s what you’re implying. Dad would have to kill everyone else who knew, as well.”
“Almost nobody did.” Lincoln finishes chewing, then swallows and watches me for a few seconds, seeming to enjoy my discomfiture. “But by the other night, he knew that I knew.”
“So, killing your mother wouldn’t keep the alleged secret.”
“It would, if he killed me, too.”
I draw back from him in shock. “You’re not seriously suggesting …?”
Lincoln shrugs. “When was the last time you talked to him?”