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The good book says that the Lord remembers the sins of the fathers even unto the third and the fourth generations. That means that if your great-granddaddy committed adultery, or worshipped a golden calf, or broke any one of those Ten Commandments, the family would be paying for it long after he was gone. That hardly seems right, but it's His choice. What I want to know is how come the same isn't true for the good works of the fathers? My grandfather, the Honorable Reverend Jesse M. Bolling, was a Revolutionary War hero, the first judge in Kentucky, and a Baptist minister to boot. You would think that he would have earned a little mercy for the rest of us, but here I am, one game leg, four daughters to clothe and feed, and a farm that I am real close to losing. And if that wasn't enough, that disgusting Cajun, Jean Dufresne, dropped by last night.

I saw him through the window, lumbering up the front lawn, the sun going down behind him. He had a turkey in one hand, a bottle of whiskey in the other, and a wad of tobacco in his mouth. I got up and went out on the porch, shutting the door behind me. I try to keep him out of the house because he has a habit of staring at my daughters. "What can I do for you, Durfresne?"

"Actually Henry, I'm here to do you a good turn. I know this year's been real rough, what with the accident and the crops and all, and I thought I'd stop by with a gift." He held out the limp turkey and the bottle. Dufresne has been my neighbor for three years and I've yet to see him do a thing out of simple Christian charity.

"Alright, and why else are you here?"

He snorted and set his "gifts" down on the porch. "Henry, you are a sharp man. There is actually something else that has been on my mind. As you know, I've been here a few years now, and I feel like I've really got myself settled. I think it's high time for me to start a family. I know it would be no surprise to you to hear that your daughter Anna is one of the prettiest girls in Kentucky, and Henry, I'd like to make her my wife."

I can't say I haven't been expecting this. "A turkey and a bottle of liquor might do it in Louisiana," I told him, "but here in Kentucky we don't sell our daughters." Even in the twilight I could see his face turning red behind his wiry black beard and I hoped he would stomp off, but he stood his ground.

"Henry Bolling, there ain't a thing on this farm I'd be interested in buying." He spit over the porch rail. "If you're too proud to accept a neighborly gesture, then give the turkey to your dogs. It's no matter to me. But Henry, you're in trouble here. Look at that leg. What's it good for anymore? You can't keep pretending that things are gonna go on around here like they used to. I been watching Anna and she's gonna be as shrunk as Begley Creek in a drought before long. That is if she don't drop of something else first."

Of my four girls, Anna is the oldest. She'll be 15 this December. Then there's Tabitha, America, and Nancy. I've been watching them pretty closely myself. Corn soup is nothing to raise four children on, and they are beginning to show the effects. I wrote to my brother in August, asking if he had room for any of them this winter. He wrote back saying that things were so bad for him he was sending his own 2 girls to their grandmother's place in Louiseville. He recommended I find husbands for them. So is this my lot now, to give away my daughters to Cajun misfits and God knows what else?

My grandfather, Jesse M. Bolling, son of Benjamin Blair Bolling III, was born May 22, 1758. He was born in Virginia where I'm sure the name Bolling still gets the respect it deserves. When you are descended from folks like Tristram DeBolling, and John Rolfe and the Indian princess Pocahontas it counts for something in Virginia. But here? Here you could be the grandson of George Washington himself and they'd still come circling like vultures as soon as you were down on your luck.

The sun was gone and I couldn't stand there any longer with the cold creeping up from the creek and into my bad leg. I slumped down on the the bench. Dufresne plopped down next to me, like we were old war buddies or something. "Don't spit on my porch."

The cries of geese glying over head, invisible in the dark, broke the silence.

Dufresne shifted and the bench groaned. "So Henry, what are you thinking?"

"You know who George Washington was, Dufresne?"

"Course I know."

"Well, Anna's great grandfather fought along side GeorgeWashington at Valley Forge. You know the court house in Helton? Anna's great grandfather built that. And Begley Creek down there? That's named after her great grandmother."

Dufresned snorted and tugged his beard.

"Are you trying to say I ain't good enough for your daughter, Henry Bolling?" I didn't see a need to answer that question. He slapped his knee and the bench rocked. "Well, then I got a story for you. Happened back when I was a young man. The year was 1865 and Baton Rouge was swarming with carpet baggers and freed negroes. An honest Southern man couldn't earn a days wages if his life depended on it. I decided it was time to try my luck elsewhere. It was the middle of January. I went down to the train yard, waited until dark, and climbed, secret like, onto the first train goin' east. The car was full of Pritchard's HorseFeed in big burlap sacks. I had just made myself comfortable, thinking how luck I was not to have jumped into a car full of Pritchard's Horse Shit or some such thing, when I caught wind of a terrible stink.

"There was hardly enough light to make out my hand in front of my face, but I thought 'hell, if there's a corpse in here I need to know 'cause a free ride ain't worth getting accused of murder.' I got up to investigate. The train was making a real racket, but after a bit I thought I could make out the sound of snoring from back in the corner. 'Anybody in here?' I shouted. Nothing. I started picking my way over the bags on my hands and my knees. I knew I was headed in the right direction 'cause the stink kept getting worse. Finally one of my hands landed on a man's boot."

Dufresne heaved himseslf off the bench, walked to the rail, spit out into the dark, and then sat back down. "For a second I thought I really had come across a corpse. But, being so close, I could certainly hear snoring now. I grabbed the boot and gave it a good shake. 'Hey you, wake up! You smell worse'n a dead dog, what the hell is wrong with you?'

"'Unhand me you limey bastard!" shouted my corpse, and he jumped up and swung a bottle at my head! And that, Henry, is how I met Mr. Jackson Roberts, Governor of the State of Mississippi. Drunk as a skunk and covered in his own sick, the man was. Said he was running' for his life. Somethin' about the Queen of England and her Yankee conspirators." Dufresne shook his head and laughed. "I gave the poor man some of my whiskey and piece of bread, but I had to toss him out at the next stop 'cause the stench was killing me."

Dufresne reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of tobacco. "Want some?"

"No."

"Suit yourself. Anyway, if I'm good enough to help out the very Governor of Mississippi in his hour of need, then I figure I'm good enough to help the Bolling family. That's what I'm trying to do after all. You got no need to be so uppity all the time." He stood up, a massive grizzled silhouette in the moonlight. "Keep the turkey and the whiskey, it's a gift."

He turned around, stepped off the porch and started down the yard toward the creek. "Jean," I called, and limped down after him, afraid the girls might here me through the window. He turned and watched me hobble toward him, "yeah, Henry?"

"Could you wait until December? Until she's 15?"

"Sure Henry," he spit on the lawn. "What are neighbors for?"