"His appointment to defend a man accused of harming a child had changed all that. It had revived everything in his life that was ever painful. It had returned to his mind and soul an emptiness that once had overwhelmed him. It had set him on a course where he must again confront and deal with the same emotions that had almost destroyed him.

As he watched the water move slowly by his deck, he winced at the thought of going to work. He was scheduled to be at the Public Defender's office that morning to view the Brewton file. Perhaps that explained why he thought the pull of the river was unusually magnetic. The more his sleepy head cleared, the more he realized he wasn't being attracted by the river. He was being repelled by his intense dislike for a man he'd never met.

Clay had tried to picture him many times, but had failed. He tried venting his anger with imaginary punches, thrown as hard as he could. But, he got no relief hitting a man who had no face. It was time to get on with his dirty chore and learn all the things he didn't want to know about a man called Harco."

"Forsyth sat on the step of the parking lot office reading the Monday morning newspaper. The same little tombstone notice had appeared in the paper three times now, just like clockwork. He wasn't given to reading the paper's legal notices, but a news clipping containing a foreclosure notice on the lot had been mailed to Harry by Fidelity Union Bank a few weeks earlier, and he'd opened it by mistake. Since then, he'd located it in the paper and read it for himself every week.
He was fascinated to see his brother's name in the paper amidst all that legal jargon. It wasn't often that anything about his family was worthy of print. The last time was his father's obituary. It seemed that the occasions were always sad ones. But then, so was just about everything else in the newspaper.
According to the notice, an auction of the lot would take place on the steps of the county courthouse a week from Tuesday at nine thirty. The public was invited to attend and submit bids. He could go. He was a member. As a matter of fact, the public was the only group he belonged to."

"Billy was quiet for a moment, then asked, "When is my face going to turn black like yours?"
"It's not ever going to turn black, Punkin."
"Why not?"
"It's just not, that's why. When God makes up his mind what color a flower's going to be, that's what color it is. And it's never going to change. We're God's little flowers, you and me, and he picked me for black and you for pink, which is what most folks call white."
Neither spoke for a while, then Billy broke the silence. "Was your mama black like you?"
"Yes, she was."
"And your daddy?"
"Yes."
"And your brother?"
"Yes." She anticipated and dreaded the next question.
"Are you my mama?"
Sookey spoke slowly and looked straight ahead. "If cutting your cord with a butcher knife and breathing air into your lungs with my own makes me your mama, then that's what I am." She took a deep breath. "If giving you breast milk from your very first drop to your last, and wiping your forehead with a cold cloth all night when you was sick with the fever makes me your mama, then that's what I am." "

"Billy was quiet for a moment, then asked, "When is my face going to turn black like yours?"
"It's not ever going to turn black, Punkin."
"Why not?"
"It's just not, that's why. When God makes up his mind what color a flower's going to be, that's what color it is. And it's never going to change. We're God's little flowers, you and me, and he picked me for black and you for pink, which is what most folks call white."
Neither spoke for a while, then Billy broke the silence. "Was your mama black like you?"
"Yes, she was."
"And your daddy?"
"Yes."
"And your brother?"
"Yes." She anticipated and dreaded the next question.
"Are you my mama?"
Sookey spoke slowly and looked straight ahead. "If cutting your cord with a butcher knife and breathing air into your lungs with my own makes me your mama, then that's what I am." She took a deep breath. "If giving you breast milk from your very first drop to your last, and wiping your forehead with a cold cloth all night when you was sick with the fever makes me your mama, then that's what I am." "

"Forsyth sat on the step of the parking lot office reading the Monday morning newspaper. The same little tombstone notice had appeared in the paper three times now, just like clockwork. He wasn't given to reading the paper's legal notices, but a news clipping containing a foreclosure notice on the lot had been mailed to Harry by Fidelity Union Bank a few weeks earlier, and he'd opened it by mistake. Since then, he'd located it in the paper and read it for himself every week.
He was fascinated to see his brother's name in the paper amidst all that legal jargon. It wasn't often that anything about his family was worthy of print. The last time was his father's obituary. It seemed that the occasions were always sad ones. But then, so was just about everything else in the newspaper.
According to the notice, an auction of the lot would take place on the steps of the county courthouse a week from Tuesday at nine thirty. The public was invited to attend and submit bids. He could go. He was a member. As a matter of fact, the public was the only group he belonged to."

His appointment to defend a man accused of harming a child had changed all that. It had revived everything in his life that was ever painful. It had returned to his mind and soul an emptiness that once had overwhelmed him. It had set him on a course where he must again confront and deal with the same emotions that had almost destroyed him. As he watched the water move slowly by his deck, he winced at the thought of going to work. He was scheduled to be at the Public Defender's office that morning to view the Brewton file. Perhaps that explained why he thought the pull of the river was unusually magnetic. The more his sleepy head cleared, the more he realized he wasn't being attracted by the river. He was being repelled by his intense dislike for a man he'd never met. Clay had tried to picture him many times, but had failed. He tried venting his anger with imaginary punches, thrown as hard as he could. But, he got no relief hitting a man who had no face. It was time to get on with his dirty chore and learn all the things he didn't want to know about a man called Harco.