Chapter 74

Jefferson’s brothers, Patrick and I, we tried to form a circle around Jefferson and Calvin, a wall between these thugs and the two families we had brought up north. The language the trio of interlopers used was vile, because of skin color, because Jefferson and Calvin were in love.

“I know what you two are,” one of them said.

They looked like movie outlaws. Maybe that was how my brain created them—black hats, dark clothing, that certain strut all bad guys had in the old west, even if we were up north. My mind wanted me to recognize how evil they were.

“We don’t want trouble,” Mr. Eaves told them.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Brothers.” Jefferson’s word came like the hiss of a snake. “Francis, Wyatt…” He nodded almost imperceptibly at each. “And Thomas.”

My head snapped up to look at Jefferson’s face.

“Yes,” he said. “Thomas Crane. That Thomas.”