Alex Haley - Roots - The Saga of an American Family

But Massa Lea gave no sign he’d even heard as he shoved a glass three-quarters filled across the table. Then, lifting his own, “Here y’are, boy. Le’s drink to you bein’ back—”

I needs dis... quaffing of the liquor, Chicken George felt it searing down and warming within him.

He tried again, obliquely. “Sho’ sorry to hear from Miss Malizy you los’ missis, Massa.”

Finishing his liquor, grunting, Massa Lea said, “She just didn’t wake up one mornin’. Hated to see her go. She never give me any peace since that cockfight. But I hated to see her go. Hate to see anybody go.” He belched. “We all got to go—”

He ain’t bad off as Miss Malizy, but he ’long de way. He went now directly to the point.

“My ’Tilda an’ young’uns, Massa, Miss Malizy say you sol’ ’em—”

Massa Lea glanced at him. “Yeah, had to, boy. Had to! Bad luck got me down so bad. Had to sell off near ’bout the last of my land, everything, hell, even the chickens!”

About to flare, Chicken George got cut off.

“Boy, I’m so po’ now, me an’ Malizy’s eatin’ ’bout what we can pick an’ catch!” Suddenly he cackled. “Hell, sure ain’t nothin’ new! I was borned po’!” He got serious again. “But now you’re back, you and me can get this place agoin’ again, you hear me? I know we can do ’er, boy!”

All that repressed Chicken George from lunging up at Massa Lea was his lifelong conditioning knowledge of what would automatically follow physically attacking any white man. But his rasping anger contained his closeness to it. “Massa, you sent me ’way from here wid yo’ word to free me! But I git back, you done even sol’ my fam’ly. I wants my papers an’ know where my wife and chilluns is, Massa!”

“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, “Damn right I did, ’cause you was horny buck if I ever seen one. An’ we both catched aplenty tail them trips we made, boy! I knowed you was an’ you knowed I was—”

“Yassuh! Sho’ did, Massa!”

“An’ you commence hackfightin’ an’ I give you money to bet, an’ you win your ass off!”

“Sho’ did, suh, de truth! De truth!”

“Boy, we was a team, we was!”

Chicken George caught himself almost starting to share a thrilling in the reminiscings; he also felt a little giddy from the whiskey. He reminded himself of his objective. Reaching across the table, taking up the liquor jug, he poured into his glass about an inch, closing a fist quickly around the glass to mask the small amount as extending the bottle across the table, he poured for Massa Lea about three quarters of a glassful. Raising his glass within his fist, appearing to lurch, his voice sounded slurring, “Drink to gooda massa as is anywhere! Like dem Englishmans says, ’Down de hawtch!’”

Sipping of his, he watched Massa Lea quaff, “Boy, it do me good you feel thataway—”

“’Nother toas’!” The two glasses elevated. “Fines’ nigger I ever had!” They drained their glasses.

Wiping his mouth with the back of a veiny hand, coughing from the whiskey’s impact, Massa Lea also slurred, “You ain’t tol’ me nothin’ ’bout that Englishman, boy—what’s his name?”

“Lawd Russell, Massa. He got mo’ money’n he can count. Got mo’n fo’ hunnud bloodline roosters to pick from to fight wid—” Then after a purposeful pause, “But ain’t nowhere de gamecocker you is, Massa.”

“You mean that, boy?”

“Ain’t as smart, one thing. An’ ain’t de man you is! He jes’ rich an’ lucky. Ain’t yo’ quality o’ white folks, Massa!” Chicken George thought of having overheard Sir C. Eric Russell say to friends, “ George’s mawster’s a glorified hackfighter. ”