He then regained his composure and continued his defense. "Your father's father was named 'Jones' too, wasn't he? Taylor Jones Mansfield, correct?" He emphasized Jones.
I felt like I'd been slapped. My mind whirled, thoughts erupting in all directions. My feelings spiked. My granddaddy was "Jones" Mansfield. Then I remembered our first meeting, when Mr. Jones had walked into the pool hall and offered to collaborate in my writing project. What had he said about my visit to his grave and my calling him? He'd said that he answered because I had shown interest in his neglected story, but he also said, "I heard your call and then recognized you." Recognized me? Me?
Bewildered and incredulous, I answered, "Yes, Mr. Jones, my granddaddy was Taylor Jones Mansfield."
"And perchance his father was John Longstreet Mansfield and his mother Miss Emily Mayberry Mansfield? She was his second wife as I recall. After his first wife died he went back to his home country, the Sequatchie, and courted and fetched Miss Emily back here, correct friend?" he asked rhetorically, evidently knowing my genealogy.
"Yes," I said, dumbfounded.
"Pray, friend Mansfield, do you suppose Jones Mansfield was named after me too?" He was enjoying my discomfort and then pulled me in gently, "My dear sir, your ancestor, Mr. John L.-I thought well of him. I drew up his deed for that place in Dellrose and worked out his loan to build that house. I even had supper there once in '82. It was a beautiful, long, pleasant drive from Dellrose in the rented hack to his, I mean your, place."
That eighty-acre farm atop a magnificent ridge had briefly belonged to Daddy and his sister and brothers. It never was mine by deed. It was most certainly mine by story and attachment.
"Yes, friend Mansfield, I knew your people and know you and knew that this country was your country too. As a matter of fact, from time to time I did some legal work for Mr. J.J. Maddox, another great-grandsire of yours, I believe. Reckoned I'd lend you a hand, given how we were related, after a fashion…or at least neighbors, even if a century removed." He offered a mischievous, small smile and then a broad one. His whole bearing was serene and joyful. The wolf had been driven into the woods, confused by his gentle, wounded spirit.
He rested in that good place in his soul for a few moments and then his face went hard. He had offered an expression of joy and "I got ye" as he spoke of him and my family's connections. His face showed that now he had other business to deal with, hard and sad business.