"Snuff has sure gone up," the widow said. "Eight dollars a jar now, and the jars ain’t even fit for putting jelly in no more. Used to be pretty glass things, little diamond patterns on the outside. Now they’re plastic."

"You need to quit that, anyway," Marlene said. "Stuff will rot your mouth."

"I only do it of an evening," she said. "After dinner. When me and your daddy-"

She looked down at her hands. Her voice grew quiet, and even Alfred stopped his fidgeting.

"We’d sit out on the porch this time of year, rock and snap beans, Jacob with his chew and me with my dip. Never felt like no sin to me. Nowhere in the Bible does it say tobacco’s wrong."

Cindy Parsons stood up, went to Alfred, held the hand that wasn’t gripping the rifle. "You don’t need that gun."

"Don’t tell me what I need or don’t need."

"Honey-"

"We got the land," Marlene said. "Forty acres split four ways, we’ll all do okay."

"Except you’d sell your share off in a heartbeat, and before you know it, we’ll have a row of condos popping up on the ridge," Alfred said. "You’d open it up to the same rich Yankee trash that caused the rest of Barkersville to go to hell."

"You’re forgetting about Momma," Sarah said. "Forty acres split five ways."

"Won’t be no splitting ‘til after I’m dead," the widow said.

"What about we sell it all in one chunk and just divide the money?" Anna Beth said to her. "You can move into the Westfield Estates. It’s real nice in there, air conditioned, satellite TV, an indoor pool, a cafeteria right there on the spot."

The widow worked her lips as if she were holding back too much snuff juice. "It’s an old folks’ home, no matter what fancy name you give it."