“Marse John,” he said, “you tole me dat Hitch wus borned on yo’ plantation. Does you know who his maw is?”
“Certainly.”
“Is his maw livin’ yit?”
“Yes.”
“I ain’t never heerd Hitch say nothin’ ’bout his maw,” Skeeter remarked.
“Hitch don’t know who his mother is,” Flournoy smiled. “I doubt if she knows that Hitch is her son.”
“How come?” Skeeter asked.
“Hitch’s mother committed a little crime the year before I was elected sheriff. Hitch was then one year old. His mother abandoned him—ran off and stayed away for thirty years. Hitch was taken care of by the other negroes on the plantation, and all who once knew who Hitch’s mother is are now either dead or have gone away from here.”
“Fer Gawd’s sake, Marse John!” Skeeter wailed. “Why don’t you tell Hitch who his maw am? Who is she?”
Flournoy considered this question while he took the time to light a fresh cigar. Then he asked: