Tangled Branches

By William Bailey

Southern Race relations are a disordered and mismanaged mess snared in prejudices, suppression, and failures in communication. Tangled Branches does not fit into the popular context of the causes or effects. While slavery existed within the author's family for thirty-four years, the black and white families remained together for 150 years. Tangled Branches is a week-long discussion between the author and the African-American grandson of his mother's maid. It is the story of a middle age white man facing his own fears of allegations of racial prejudice and finding the responsibility to tell the African-American family's history. It is the true story of the black family history through the white family. Both families are traced five generations through the evolution of both technology and society, from pioneers to the 1970s. It recounts the crimes committed by both upon each other and on those around them. It reveals a generational dependence each family had upon the other. While popular dialogue claims black and white races separated at the conclusion of the American Civil War, Tangled Branches tells how one family remained together; from Tilly a freed slave using the white family's farm as an underground railroad station, through both black and white working together to supply Al Capone with whiskey, to Ina walking out after decades of abuse. It tells of the final separation of the two families when the Author's mother's maid is fired, and of their reconciliation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823000697

William Bailey

William Perry Bailey, III was the last generation to own the family farm where Tangled Branches occurred. It was purchased from the North Carolina government of King George III, before the American Revolution. It remained in the family until the final tract was sold in 2023. He received his BA from Emory and Henry College and has served on the boards of various charities. He does not claim to be a historian, but instead, the chronicler of family stories, told from generation to generation while the family worked in fields and gardens. Being the last of his generation to know the stories, he put pen to paper, to prevent Matilda and her family from being lost to time. He continues to live in Johnson City, Tennessee.

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© 2023 William Bailey. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  02/10/2023

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0068-0 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0067-3 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0069-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023902193

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Preface

Chapter 1     The Bible

Chapter 2     Keeper of Stories

Chapter 3     Slavery

Chapter 4     Andrew Jackson

Chapter 5     Nancy Fleming

Chapter 6     The Frying Pan

Chapter 7     1815

Chapter 8     1807

Chapter 9     1830

Chapter 10   1832

Chapter 11   The 1830s

Chapter 12   The Bounty Hunter

Chapter 13   Matilda Burton: The Stationmaster

Chapter 14   Pre–Civil War

Chapter 15   1861

Chapter 16   War

Chapter 17   The Cave

Chapter 18   Upgrades

Chapter 19   Nannie’s Obsession

Chapter 20   1865

Chapter 21   Revenge

Chapter 22   1869

Chapter 23   1870

Chapter 24   1871

Chapter 25   1875

Chapter 26   1877

Chapter 27   1880s

Chapter 28   1886

Chapter 29   The Still

Chapter 30   1891

Chapter 31   Photos

Chapter 32   1893

Chapter 33   1896

Chapter 34   1897

Chapter 35   1900

Chapter 36   1901

Chapter 37   New Century, New Generation

Chapter 38   1911

Chapter 39   1917

Chapter 40   The 1920s

Chapter 41   Eastman and Carter

Chapter 42   March 1934

Chapter 43   Mrs. Elizabeth

Chapter 44   The Great Depression

Chapter 45   July 15, 1939

Chapter 46   Leah

Chapter 47   1940–1951

Chapter 48   1951

Chapter 49   Intolerance

Chapter 50   1953

Chapter 51   1964

Chapter 52   1969

Chapter 53   1970

Chapter 54   1977

Chapter 55   The Graveyard

Chapter 56   Family Photos

PREFACE

I t has been several years since that first day Kaylan walked up the two steps to ring the doorbell. It took him a few days to work up his courage. Finally, the day came, and he stood in jeans, a T-shirt, and a Hard Rock hoodie, with his backpack slung over his shoulder. He took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. He waited for the door to open, certain it would end up being slammed in his face.

A middle-aged man with gray hair and a reddish complexion opened the door and looked at the young African American over his glasses.

The college student forgot his rehearsed opening. He blurted out in nervousness, I think yours owned my great-great-grandparents.

What a horrible opening line. Where could the conversation possibly go from there? No movie director would dare to begin with something so absurd. No discussion to follow could be believable. Audiences would stand up and walk out at the absurdity. But that was what happened. For Kaylan, it felt as if time froze. Drivers stopped their cars in the street to see how this man staring at Kaylan with his mouth slightly fallen open would reply.

The moment froze the writer as well. In a spinning mind, he flipped through alternative questions that were certain to follow. Did he want to answer these or not? Should he slam the door or grab the rifle hidden behind it? Should he attempt to reply? All were terrible choices. If he slammed the door, he would instantly be labeled a racist for refusing to speak with the boy. If he wanted to tell the boy what had happened, there was nothing he could say. At the university, they taught that slave owners had instructed their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren through the generations to be racist. It did not matter that the stereotype was not factual. It did not matter that five generations had passed. African Americans were taught that all white southerners were to be painted with that broad brush.

Conversely, the white man wanted to know what this boy wanted. Was this the start of a money grab? Was a lawsuit lurking in his future for a possible claim to reparations? His every question landed on suspicion. He greeted the young man’s presence with hostility. This conversation was not one the writer of this book wanted to have.

Nicole, the writer’s best friend, was an African American. She was sitting in the living room, silencing the television to eavesdrop on the conversation. The boy was fortunate that Nicole was there that day. She intervened in an unpleasant conversation on the boy’s behalf. She had the skills of a human resources manager, with an ability to listen to both and understand what each was saying; she negotiated, navigated, and facilitated a conversation that lasted a week.

The writer’s mother had recently died. She had been born during the Great Depression, and the family threw nothing away. Boxes filled the attic with diaries, journals, and ledgers. Boxes held boxes of boxes filled with folded, used wrapping paper. Attics were time capsules of all the generations of families past. During her life, his mother had stuffed cabinets with letters and photographs. She had shoved deeds and plats into desk drawers. This mess was the house Kaylan had approached.

Kaylan had approached a house in a small city in the Appalachian Mountains of Tennessee. The area often had struggled to find its identity. Before the American Revolution, it was part of North Carolina. That sense of not belonging led to small local battles and minirevolts moving toward statehood. After the area became part of Tennessee, the allegiances and party affiliations of the mountain people did not always match those of the rest of the state. Just as the locals were frustrated, so were the state’s political leaders. Landon Carter Haynes lived from 1816 to 1875. His financial and economic investments paralleled and intertwined with the family Kaylan now approached. Landon became one of Tennessee’s two senators in the Confederate States of America. Following the war, he was sent into political exile to Memphis, away from the democratic base of East Tennessee, as part of the pardon received from President Andrew Johnson.

In 1872, he attended a banquet in Jackson, Tennessee. Former Confederate general Nathan Bedford Forrest participated in the event. He knew Landon had been born in East Tennessee, for which Forrest harbored no affection. Forrest delivered a toast to the former Confederate senator to poke fun at him and lighten the moment: Mr. Chairman, I propose the health of the eloquent gentleman from East Tennessee, sometimes called the God-forsaken country.

In response to the toast from General Forrest, Haynes delivered a short speech now known as the Ode to Tennessee.

"Mr. Chairman and gentlemen: I plead guilty to the soft impeachment. I am from East Tennessee. Evidently, the distinguished soldier proposing that toast was not himself born breathing the pure air of the mountains. At least I understand he was reared in the sluggish atmosphere of a lagoon far back in the swamps of Mississippi.

"Yes, I was born in East Tennessee—on the banks of the Watauga, which in the Indian vernacular means beautiful river. And a beautiful river it is! Standing upon its banks in my childhood, I have looked down through its glassy waters and beheld a heaven below and then up beheld a heaven above. Reflecting like two great mirrors, each into the other—its moon and planets and trembling stars! Away from its banks of rock and cliff, cedar, hemlock, and laurel stretches a vale back to the distant mountains, more beautiful than any in Italy or Switzerland. There stands the great Unaka, the great Roan, the great Black, and the Great Smoky Mountains among the loftiest in America on whose summits the clouds gather of their own accord, even on the brightest day. There I have seen the great spirit of the Storm after noontide go take his evening nap in his pavilion of darkness and of clouds. Then I have seen him aroused at midnight like a giant refreshed by slumber, covering the heavens with gloom and greater darkness as he awoke the tempest and let loose the red lightings that ran along the mountaintops for a thousand miles, swifter than an eagle’s flight in heaven! And now the lightning would stand up and dance like angels of light in the clouds to the music of that grand organ of nature whose keys seemed touched by the fingers of Jehovah in the hall of eternity, sounding and resounding in notes of thunder through the universe!

Then I have seen the darkness drift away and the morn get up from her saffron bed, like a queen putting on her robes of light, and come forth from her palace in the sun and tiptoe on the misty mountaintop, whilst night fled before her glorious face to his bed chamber at the pole, as she lighted the beautiful river and the green vale where I was born and played in childhood with a smile of sunshine.

The author had grown up in these mountains, in a town that, during his youth, had resembled Andy Griffith’s Mayberry, which now was found only on Nickelodeon or obscure television networks. The landscape, economy, and population transformed when the federal interstate system completed construction throughout the region. The trains that once had been the only reliable way through the mountains all but stopped running. A modern city emerged that gave no resemblance to the town it replaced.

This was the backdrop on which Kaylan spoke that horrible first sentence. A weeklong exploration of resources followed, with excursions to see those places when possible. At the beginning of the week, Matson, the man who’d opened the door to Kaylan, said, Slaves were not whipped in my family, even though he knew they had been by his cousins. At first, he attempted to sugarcoat what had happened. Eventually, through mutual exploration and trust, he revealed what he knew. Finally, through debate among the three, they reached an agreement on the truth. But that truth was different for each of the three.

There is no intent or hope that this story’s writing or reading will change anyone’s mind on the topic of race relations or slavery. Positions have become polarized on opposite ends of the spectrum of this conversation. What happened between these two families does not fit within the popular dialogue. The intent in writing this story is to put what happened within these two families on paper. It is not intended to speak to or for the region or any other family. This is only the Perry and Burton family story.

A law professor once assigned his first-year students to write two papers. He gave them a set of facts. They were not allowed to change any of the points. The students were to assume these were the facts of a lawsuit. In the first paper, they were to interpret and skew the facts to the plaintiff’s case. In the second paper, they were to reinterpret the facts skewed to the defendant. Those students learned that the truth was somewhere in the middle.

Matson and Kaylan began their conversation on opposite sides. They held polarized opinions, which prevented them from having any honest discussions. However, through Nicole’s steering each to set aside his views and listen to the other, Kaylan finally learned the story of his family.

In the end, he still held to his views taught at the university but with understanding, not acceptance. He learned about the good, the bad, and the heroes and villains of both black and white families in a story that stretched for seven generations. Slavery had existed within it for forty years, but the black and white remained together for 150 years. The primary lesson Kaylan learned was that the entanglements and nuances of the relationships and the conversation about them disallowed broad-stroke classifications or judgments. The topic was far more complex.

The four points of history are easy to write: who, what, when, and where. But the fifth point, the why or how is more difficult. In the Perry family, it was necessary to tell the black family history to answer the questions. The names of the white were on deeds and contracts. Dates survive in family bibles and on tombstones. But why was found in letters, journals, and diaries. Matilda’s family does not appear in real estate deeds, with the exception of deeds of sale of slaves. They briefly appear in census records. It is in the journals, letters, photographs, and diarys of the Perry family that Matilda and her family found.

The author’s mother was either the fifth or sixth woman in the State of Tennessee to obtain her medical license. She married into this family unaware of its past. The author’s three sisters were afraid the public telling of this story during her lifetime would tarnish her reputation within the local community. The arrival of Kaylan was the catalyst that began the writing of this story. The discussions with him provided the framework. The author is grateful to his sisters for the contribution of their memories.

In a family with no imagination with names, there are seven generations of men of direct descent named William within nine generations. Of those, five are named William Perry. For the family itself, this is sometimes difficult to track. Even within the family conversations, there are often requests to clarify which William. It would be impossible for a reader to separate the characters. Within Tangled Branches, Emma marries Joe Johnstone. In true life, she married Joe Bailey. In Tangled Branches, her son’s descendants have variations of William Matson Johnstone. The name was not changed to create anonymity for the author or his family, but rather for clarity on the part of the reader. In the story to follow Emma’s son was in life, William Perry Bailey. In Tangled Branches, his son grew up to become Dr. Johnstone. He was, in reality, Dr. William Perry Bailey, Jr. His son, in the story, is the narrator, Matson. In reality, he is the author. To protect the living, only three additional names have been changed.

There was a discussion regarding the change in location of the introductory confrontation between Matson and Kaylan. Above, in the preface, the truth was told of that moment. That conversation played out over several hours inside the home. It was condensed to a few sentences on the front porch. This was to tell the reader some liberties had to be taken. Tangled Branches spans 150 years. The lives of seven generations are condensed into two hundred-plus pages. It is not meant to be a literal biographical history. Instead, this is their story. It is based on the true events of the lives of real people. What follows is true-ish.

CHAPTER 1

The Bible

M atilda Decker was born into slavery on Zebulon Decker’s farm in Carter County, Tennessee. She was born in a dirt-floored one-room log cabin clinging to the edge of a mountain, tucked into a hollow along the Doe River. No one knew her birthday. She was just a single entry under births: Female, Matilda, 1811.

Her purchaser was David Haynes. He entered her mother’s name onto the Haynes family’s purchase records as Colloured Female age 17 when Minola and her two daughters were bought from Zebulon. David considered himself to be aristocratic, although he had no title. The monarchy was gone, but the traditions of social behavior continued. David was what those in the mountains called landed. The number of acres owned was counted in the tens of thousands. He treated his slaves and his children as if he were lord of the manor, despite living in a simple five-room wood-frame house. That house overflowed with all the luxury he could order from North Carolina and have brought by wagon into the mountains from the coast.

Following their abrupt relocation to the Haynes farm, Matilda’s mother, Minola, was assigned to an enslaved man. Soon Matilda had additional brothers and sisters. Her brother George became a gift to Landon. When David’s first son was born, the two-year-old George was given to Landon at birth. They would spend their entire lives together. When David’s additional children were born, each was assigned a slave but not given ownership. That privilege was reserved for the firstborn. Matilda saw each of her brothers and sisters assigned to a white child. She was not; she was a runt. She had been born so small that David had not believed she would live. Thus, her life was destined for the demanding work of the kitchen. She was to cook and feed everyone on the farm, both white and black.

This was the farm where Matilda grew up. Her life was working in the kitchen, backing up the house slaves, and cleaning up after the white family. The white family would see itself torn apart. Some family members would succeed in social climbing, while others would end up penniless. One of David’s daughters, Emmaline, would become wealthy and the mother of two Tennessee governors, one Republican and the other Democrat. Landon would achieve fame in his life. He would be a Speaker of the House in the Tennessee legislature. He would become a senator in the Congress of the Confederate States of America, only to end up forgotten in an unmarked grave. For Matilda, not being assigned to a white child confined her opportunities on the Haynes farm. Being the runt of the children had labeled her unfit. It made her property David was willing to sell. It would be twelve years before an ambitious farm boy would enter her life and free her.

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The course description of Black American Studies at the local university listed the program’s cornerstones: respect for knowledge and others, affirmation of diversity and inclusion, humility, compassion, and cooperation. While this first portion was acceptable to everyone, the rest of the description of the program became problematic. It included, The original sin of slavery has tainted every aspect of our lives in the United States. The scourge of racial oppression has impacted all of our national cultures. With those words, every black person reading the description nodded his or her head in agreement. But there were readers who dug in their heels. Although they agreed that racism had permeated all institutions of the United States historically, they recognized that the course began with a starting point of aggressive reinterpretation of American history from the standpoint I am right; you are wrong; and if you disagree with me, you are a racist. The written course description created an oxymoron between the confrontational approach and the cornerstones. The locals reading the course description understood the program’s intent and tactic and braced themselves.

A professor within the program assigned her students a research project to learn their own families’ histories. A liberal arts education did not prepare a student for a future career. Instead, it taught the student how to question, think, and find the answers. Within that framework, the professor wanted students to understand and know what had happened to their individual families—to discover and learn the good and the bad. She hoped that once they knew their personal histories, they could become proponents of change while drawing upon personal experience.

Kaylan was attending the university. He enrolled in the Black American Studies program to his parents’ surprise. Kaylan had grown up in Johnson City, Tennessee, where the university was located. Although he attended on a state scholarship, he continued living with his parents to save money. He would have liked to be able to say for how many generations they had lived in those mountains, but he did not know. His parents did not know either. During the time of Jim Crow, when his parents had been growing up, his grandparents had attempted to shield their children. Parents did not discuss the bad and ugly parts of their lives and history with their children. Kaylan’s parents knew only that their grandparents had been enslaved. His mother knew little of her grandparents except that they had been slaves on the Perry farm in Sullivan County. She knew her mother had worked for one of the descendants, a doctor. However, she did not know the farm’s location. Nor did she know the name of the doctor who had been in town. Kaylan was searching for a starting point. Interviewing his parents had yielded nothing he had not already known.

He felt a logical next step was to ask within the community. When Kaylan mentioned the project to his pastor at Thankful Baptist, he was immediately redirected to Langston Community Center, which, in the days of segregation, had been the black high school. Roan Street divided the city in half. The neighborhood of Langston was north of downtown, with Roan Street at its western edge and Watauga Avenue to the south. Tenth Avenue formed its northern border, with Garden Drive to the west. The neighborhood was not all black. Economically, it was lower middle class. Black and white families lived side by side. Children played ball in the street until parents called them in for supper. Both races had lived there since the neighborhood was built.

Now children rode the bus to the new high school, but they had walked down Roan Street together during segregation. At Myrtle Avenue, the black students had turned left and walked to Langston High School, while the whites had continued five more blocks to old Science Hill. After school, the trip had reversed. At Myrtle Avenue, segregation had ended. After completing homework, the children had returned to the streets to play together. Friends had run into one another’s homes, eaten meals, and slept over at one another’s houses. In this neighborhood, parents insulated their children from their hardships. When racial segregation had ended, the neighborhood had continued just as it always had been. This community did not suffer from the racial prejudices endured by much of the town. After the end of segregation, the city school system’s maintenance department had utilized the black high school. While the building generally had fallen into disrepair, the gymnasium was sound. It had become the equipment and materials storage location. Eventually, the city had razed the school’s classrooms, salvaging only the gym. The city had repurposed Langston into a community center, and the local Black History Museum was located there.

Kaylan’s hopes were realistic. He did not expect to find any answers at the museum. He walked along the displays along the wall. Black families had donated a few items here or there. On a shelf of books on black history was a ragged tan book. Its cover was stained and frayed. The back was broken and crumbling to the touch. It was an old family Bible laid open between the Old and New Testaments to the pages where owners had inscribed generations of family names.

He read, Joseph Crouch purchased this book on Jul 22nd, Anno Domini 1803. He had never heard the name. Carefully, he turned the page. There were sections for births, deaths, and marriages. The first entry was a marriage: Joseph Crouch and Peggy, his wife was married Feb 21st, 1778. Below each section, names and dates were carefully inscribed. Clearly, this had been a white family. Why was the book in the Black History Museum? He turned the page. The following section was the record of births. He looked closely to read the script: The Colloured Children of Sanford. That made his eyes pop. His own father’s name was Sanford. Could there have been a connection?

Not all the pages of the Bible were from the same Bible. There were pages of another that someone had inserted. Kaylan took out paper and a pen and began to copy entries to see if he could track the generations. Under the births, he found Joseph’s birthday. Then he saw that Sarah Crouch, daughter of Joseph, had been born on November 16, 1775. That was hilarious. His daughter had been born before her parents were married.

Under the marriages, he found Sarah had married Samuel H. Hunt. His birth date was written in pencil in the births. The entry had faded with time, and Kaylan could barely read the name. He found their deaths entered in the deaths section. Then Kaylan found Mary Hunt, the daughter of Sarah Crouch. Under the marriages, he found Mary Hunt had married Peter Miller. On a separate page from another Bible inserted into the Crouch family Bible, he found under the births that Peter Miller Jr. had been born in 1792. In this second Bible’s torn pages, the category divisions of births, deaths, and marriages were written in German. Someone had pulled the pages, merging the two. Reading the entries of the Miller family, Kaylan saw they’d had seven children. On a separate page, the ink changed. Nancy Jane Perry had married William Reeves Miller. The Bible had changed hands again. On the next page, he found that Emma, the daughter of Nancy Miller, had been born in 1874.

He had come past the Civil War. He was past when his family had been enslaved. Believing the book to be a dead end, he turned the final page—and came to a stop. He read, Matilda, born 1811. Bought from David Haynes. Then there was a list: Colloured Children of Matilda and Samuel Burton. Below the heading were names and dates: Benjamin born Mar 3rd, 1842. Tabitha Feb 11th, 1845. Beside that entry, written in pencil, was Died Feb 13th, 1845. Daniel Jany 21st 1846. Marissa was born and died on Dec 30th, 1846. Tom was born on Apr 11th, 1859. The ink changed to pencil: Benjamin killed at Donelson. Below that, in ink, the handwriting of several different people appeared: Isaac, son of Tom and Maude, born 1886. 1926, Beulah, daughter of Isaac and Ina.

Kaylan stood staring at the page. The page before had been Nancy Jane Perry. His grandmother’s name was Beulah. Being far more careful with the Bible’s pages than before, Kaylan closed the Bible and then opened the front cover. Inside was a label with the museum inventory number and a typed note that it had been donated by Dr. William Matson Johnstone Jr.

Using his cell phone, he photographed multiple pages. His feet barely touched the floor as he ran for his car to show his mom what he had found. Schoolwork happened, and days passed before Kaylan stood in the office of the registrar of deeds in Sullivan County. Did they have record of a Dr. Johnstone? Yes, they had a Dr. William Johnstone Jr., but he was deceased. Although his name had less acreage, William Johnstone III still owned part of Dr. Johnstone’s farm. The clerk looked at the mailing addresses. The address in Johnson City for both father and son were the same.

It looks like the son inherited his father’s house. That would be my guess. The clerk shrugged as he handed Kaylan the information he had.

It was unnerving to hold this information in his hand. Could this be the family he was hunting? So many generations later, would this man know anything about Kaylan’s family? Would he be willing to talk to him? Come on, Google. Give me a phone number, he thought. White pages produced the same address. But no phone number was listed. What was he supposed to do now, just knock on the man’s door?

It took him a few days to work up his nerve before turning the car into the home’s driveway. A black lady and two white men sat on the porch. All three turned their faces to see who was pulling in. Then, getting out of the car, Kaylan said, Excuse me. Is this the Johnstone residence?

I’m Matson Johnstone, the gray-haired older man replied. How can I help you?

My name is Kaylan Faw, and I’m a student at ETSU. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.

Questions about what? the man asked with suspicion and confusion.

I’m in the Black American Studies program and trying to research my family history. I think they might have been slaves of your family farm.

You need to get back in your car and get out of here, the gray-haired man said.

I don’t mean to upset you; I’m just trying to find my people, Kaylan said.

I said turn around and get out of here. I have nothing to say to you.

Nicole Stanley was Matson Johnstone’s best friend. She had been sitting on the porch, enjoying an evening mint julep, when the confrontation began. She interjected. Matty! Matt! Stop that. Sit down. Calm down.

Matson Johnstone was already red-faced. I will not. This boy walks up here and says his people were my family’s slaves. What does he want—reparations? Is he after money? There is no money. What am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to give him my dining room table? Does he want my TV? No! I’m not having this conversation.

Matt! Sit yourself down. The boy said he is trying to find his people. She turned to Kaylan. Are you crazy? Is that how you walk up on someone with this topic? I know your mama taught you better than that.

Kaylan had no idea what to say. He had hoped for the best but failed to plan for this reaction.

Nicole threw him a lifeline. What makes you think Matty knows your people? she asked.

Looking at the angry man, Kaylan launched in again. I found your family Bible at Langston Community Center. It had your father’s name as the donor. And I think it has my family’s names in the births. So I was wondering if you knew anything about them.

The other man on the porch asked, What did you say your name was?

I’m Kaylan Faw.

Oh, you have got to be kidding me, Matson said, rolling his eyes.

The other man shook his head. This town is way too small.

Nicole looked at Kaylan. You any kin to Nadine Smith?

You know Auntie Nadine? he said with a smile. A sense of relief started to creep into him.

How is she your aunt? the other man asked.

She’s my dad’s aunt.

You’re Paul’s son? Nicole asked.

No, I’m Sanford’s son.

Your Sans’s boy? Matson asked.

You know my daddy? Kaylan replied with a big grin.

I was cutting class and smoking cigarettes behind the gym in high school with your daddy forty years ago. So yeah, I know your father, Matson said flatly. What makes you think Sans is connected to that book?

My grandma was Beulah Hise, Kaylan said, looking directly at Matson, expecting him to recognize the name.

Who’s that? Matson looked at Nicole. I’ve never heard that name in my life.

I think she was your father’s maid.

That’s a lie! I remember the maid. She was Mrs. Burton. We didn’t have a Hise working here. Matson’s anger was back up. He was defensive again.

She was a Burton, but her married name was Hise. The boy tried to clarify.

Nicole knew most of Matson’s stories, but she had never heard mention of a maid. How old were you when your Mrs. Burton left here?

I was ten or eleven. I would have been just a few years into elementary school.

Nicole slapped his arm. "You were a child. Are you sure they were not saying Miss Burton and you remembered it as Missus?"

The idea shocked him. He had lived his entire life remembering Mrs. Burton. But that was the name in the Bible. He had seen it many times. It never had occurred to him that she had a married name.

No, wait. Mrs. Burton only had one child, who died of a drug overdose as a teenager. There are moments you do not forget. I remember the conversation between her and my mama. That conversation between those two women is seared into the plates of my memory. Mrs. Burton told my mommy he had died. Then asked how she could be happy in heaven when she looked across the great divide and could see her son in hell. You cannot be her grandson. Her son was an only child and did not have any kids.

He was her only son, not her only child. She had a daughter, Sarah, and several stepchildren, Kaylan calmly replied.

Sarah Hise? Sans’s wife is your mama? Nicole asked. Child, you should have led off with that. You about got yourself shot.

It doesn’t matter. Knowing the boy’s family makes the situation worse, Matson said, glaring at Kaylan.

What are you talking about? Nicole asked.

If this is true, my friends’ ancestors might have belonged to my great-great-grandparents. All that is going to do is ruin a friendship.

That is reality. The slaves’ descendants grew up in the same city you did. Did you think your families’ paths would never cross again? The two families were bound to have walked down the same sidewalks and played on the same playground together. If both black and white stayed in the same city, their kids and grandkids would know one another. This is a small town. The interconnections between the families are there. That is reality. People just do not know the history of who they are. We would all be shocked by the number of connections between families that would appear if the veil of time were raised.

It does not matter. I could not tell him even if I wanted to, Matson growled.

Why not? Nicole had turned sideways, and her eyebrows had arched. This was her look of derision.

Because there is nothing I can say that does not make me look racist. If I try to explain to this kid what happened and who belonged to whom, everything I say will make me look racist. Matson snarled out his reply.

Why? You are not them. Just because you tell what they did doesn’t make you them, she argued.

You know that is not true. Over at the university, they will teach this boy the assumption that the slave owners led their kids to be racist, and they instructed their kids and on down to me. His black history professor will have taught him to assume that because they owned slaves, I am a racist. That is going to be his starting point. So there is nothing I can say to him. It does not matter that I know his daddy. It does not matter that I know his mama. My friendship with his daddy will be ruined over what they did seven generations ago.

Your friendship will be ruined if you are a stubborn old man and do not help his boy. He has a right to know. Nicole’s temper was starting to show.

No! No, he does not! I do not have to tell him anything. Matson had stood back up in anger, pointing to Kaylan but yelling at Nicole.

Matty, you know I love you, but if you yell at me again, I will lay you out. Now, sit yourself back down. I know you researched your family. You have that Sons of the American Revolution certificate hanging on the wall in the living room. You are in that group. You researched your family back, what, six ancestral lines? That is all this boy said he was doing. He has the same right to research his family as you did.

How do I know that? How do I know his professor is not teaching him there should be demands for reparations? Matson was in full fury but was shut down by his friend.

Did he say that? No, he did not. He said he was trying to find his people. And he has that right. He has part of the pieces, and you have the rest. You owe him that much.

I don’t owe him anything! Matson hissed.

"OK, that was a poor choice of words on my part. This boy has a right to know his people, just as you do. But owe and right—those are two different things and two different attitudes and approaches. I apologize for the wrong word. But he does have a right to know his people. How would you feel if you were researching your family, and someone refused to give you the information because of what he perceived as a potential conflict? That is what you are doing to him. Think of it this way. If you do not talk to him with a civil tongue in your mouth, Nadine will slap you into yesterday just to make you come back to today and relive it."

Nicole had a valid point. It did not change Matson’s fears, but he had to agree that the boy had a right to know his family genealogy, how his ancestors had come to be, and what had happened to them.

So you want to know about Tilly’s family. Matson’s anger had cooled, and he was calmer. I’m surprised your mother didn’t tell you about her.

Her parents didn’t talk about it, Kaylan replied, and now they have passed on.

Let’s get something straight right now. Matson looked at the teen over his glasses. To say my family owned yours is insulting. Slavery as an institution existed within the family for only thirty-four years. However, your black family and my white family stayed together for one hundred fifty years. To say we enslaved them is insulting to them and to the five generations who remained together and everything they went through together. The two didn’t separate after the Civil War. We were together through Reconstruction, World War I, Prohibition, the Great Depression, World War II, and Korea. When relations between black and white races eroded nationally, they did within our family as well. That I blame entirely on Emma, my great-grandmother. I am not going to lie to you and say I know what happened inside your family’s cabins and homes. I don’t. Inside them, they were trying to survive. But I know what happened inside mine. I know your family history through mine. That I can tell you.

Matson felt as if he were giving a speech, which people tended to do when they were mad, but he didn’t care. He had to lay some ground rules for this conversation. If you’re looking for slaves being beaten, this isn’t your story. But the reverse is equally not true. This was not a family sitting around a fireplace together singing kumbaya. They were trying to build businesses and improve their lives, every generation. They lived and worked together. They committed crimes together and sometimes against one another. There were good and bad times. But they were together; it was what they knew, and it was what was comfortable for black and white, until it wasn’t anymore. Matson stood up. I need a drink. How old are you? He turned, directing his question to Kaylan.

Twenty, Kaylan replied.

Then you can’t have one. Nicole chimed in. She had stood up and was heading into the house. As she walked past Matson, she pointed to his chair. You sit down. I will get the boy some lemonade. Jonathan, get yourself up, and get us wine. I have to watch this show. It is going to be a good one.

Matson was staring at the boy with anger still in his eyes. If I help you with this, you agree you will not judge me by what someone did five generations ago. You might as well come up onto the porch and sit down. This conversation is going to take a while.

It’s one hundred fifty years! This is going to take a week. Nicole’s voice came from inside the house.

CHAPTER 2

Keeper of Stories

H e was William Matson Johnstone III—Matson to most and Matty to family and friends. He lived in the same town in the mountains of eastern Tennessee where his family had lived for more than 250 years. They had been there when Tennessee was part of colonial North Carolina.

Twenty years ago, when his father had been selling a few acres of the family farm, the accountant across the table had asked what the family had paid for the land. Matson had shot up his head and said, I know the answer to that. We paid King George III of England ten shillings per acre. While the original portion of the farm may have been bought from the king, William Perry, Matson’s great-great-great grandfather, had vastly expanded its acreage.

Several years after Matson’s wife had died, he had met Jonathan. No one seemed to remember when or how they’d met. They just had. Some months into their relationship, the two had realized that Matson’s stories of Aunt Leah were the same stories Jonathan had grown up hearing about Cousin Leah Miller. When they had drawn out their family trees, Matson had found out Jonathan was a distant cousin through Matson’s grandmother and grandfather on the paternal side of the family. Family trees did not branch in East Tennessee.

One never knew what inappropriate thing Matson would say. Others could always count on him to be the one to point out the elephant in the room or say the worst possible thing for the moment. Sitting on the porch, Nicole would look at him and ask, Did you just say that?

Jonathan would look at her and reply, Was his mouth open? Jonathan had found his role to be to keep Matson under control. Jonathan would stop Matson when he went off inappropriately and prevent him from acting upon his whims.

Nicole Harris Stanley had grown up on a pig farm in Egypt, Mississippi. She had married a police officer, who’d taken a job in Knoxville, Tennessee. While he’d worked on the police force, Nicole had taken a job as a makeup