"One of my girls was due today. Her second child. I didn't call the office. I guess it's the medication."
"And the alcohol."
"All right, dammit. So I'm an alcoholic. Who can blame me? Sometimes I wish I had the guts to do what Eddie did."
"Come on, Lee. Let me help you."
"Oh, you've already helped a great deal, Adam. I was fine, nice and sober until you arrived."
"Okay. I was wrong. I'm sorry. I just didn't realize - " His words trailed off, then quit.
She moved slightly and Adam watched as she took another sip. A heavy silence engulfed them as minutes passed. The rancid smell emanated from her end of the bed.
"Mother told me the story," she said quietly, almost whispering. "She said she'd heard rumors about it for years. Long before they married she knew he'd helped lynch a young black man."
"Please, Lee."
"I never asked him about it, but Eddie did. We had whispered about it for many years, and finally one day Eddie just up and confronted him with the story. They had a nasty fight, but Sam admitted it was true. It really didn't bother him, he said. The black kid had allegedly raped a white girl, but she was white trash and many people doubted if it was really a rape. This is according to Mother's version. Sam was fifteen or so at the time, and a bunch of men went down to the jail, got the black kid, and took him out in the woods. Sam's father, of course, was the ringleader, and his brothers were involved."
"That's enough, Lee."
"They beat him with a bullwhip, then hung him from a tree. My dear father was right in the middle of it. He couldn't really deny it, you know, because somebody took a picture of it."
"A photograph?"
"Yeah. A few years later the photo found its way into a book about the plight of Negroes in the Deep South. It was published in 1947. My mother had a copy of it for years. Eddie found it in the attic."
"And Sam's in the photograph."
"Sure. Smiling from ear to ear. They're standing under the tree and the black guy's feet are dangling just above their heads. Everybody's having a ball. Just another nigger lynching. There are no credits with the photo, no names. The picture speaks for itself. It's described as a lynching in rural Mississippi, 1936."
"Where's the book?"
"Over there in the drawer. I've kept it in storage with other family treasures since the foreclosure. I got it out the other day. I thought you might want to see it."
"No. I do not want to see it."
"Go ahead. You wanted to know about your family. Well, there they are. Grandfather, greatgrandfather, and all sorts of Cayhalls at their very best. Caught in the act, and quite proud of it."
"Stop it, Lee."
"There were other lynchings, you know."
"Shut up, Lee. Okay? I don't want to hear any more."
She leaned to her side and reached for the nightstand.
"What are you drinking, Lee?"
"Cough syrup."
"Bullshit!" Adam jumped to his feet and walked through the darkness to the nightstand. Lee quickly gulped the last of the liquid. He grabbed the glass from her hand and sniffed the top of it. "This is bourbon."
"There's more in the pantry. Would you get it for me?"
"No! You've had more than enough."
"If I want it, I'll get it."
"No you won't, Lee. You're not drinking any more tonight. Tomorrow I'll take you to the doctor, and we'll get some help."
"I don't need help. I need a gun."
Adam placed the glass on the dresser and switched on a lamp. She shielded her eyes for a few seconds, then looked at him. They were red and puffy. Her hair was wild, dirty, and unkempt.
"Not a pretty sight, huh," she said, slurring her words, and looking away.
"No. But we'll get help, Lee. We'll do it tomorrow."
"Get me a drink, Adam. Please."
"No."
"Then leave me alone. This is all your fault, you know. Now, leave, please. Go on to bed."
Adam grabbed a pillow from the center of the bed and threw it against the door. "I'm sleeping here tonight," he said, pointing at the pillow. "I'm locking the door, and you're not leaving this room."
She glared at him, but said nothing. He switched off the lamp, and the room was completely dark. He pressed the lock on the knob and stretched out on the carpet against the door. "Now sleep it off, Lee."
"Go to bed, Adam. I promise I won't leave the room."
"No. You're drunk, and I'm not moving. If you try to open this door, I'll physically put you back in the bed."
"That sounds sort of romantic."
"Knock it off, Lee. Go to sleep."
"I can't sleep."
"Try it."
"Let's tell Cayhall stories, okay, Adam? I know a few more lynching stories."
"Shut up, Lee!" Adam screamed, and she was suddenly quiet. The bed squeaked as she wiggled and flipped and got herself situated. After fifteen minutes, she was subdued. After thirty minutes, the floor became uncomfortable and Adam rolled from side to side.
Sleep came in brief naps, interrupted by long periods of staring at the ceiling and worrying about her, and about the Fifth Circuit. At one point during the night he sat with his back to the door and stared through the darkness in the direction of the drawer. Was the book really there? He was tempted to sneak over and get it, then ease into the bathroom to look for the picture. But he couldn't risk waking her. And he didn't want to see it.