Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

                                                                             October 1955

The drive had been long and arduous, but Sammie was finally in Mississippi. The sky was a pale pink, and the sun was beginning to rise. He could see the lush green of the trees and grass, and the lazy Mississippi River in the distance. The air was crisp and smelled of sweet grass.

He hadn’t been back to Mississippi in over twenty years. It had once been his home, but it held so much darkness, so much evil. But it was only right that he came to say goodbye to his father. 

And it seemed that it was just as vicious of a place as when he’d left it, if not more so. The previous summer, a boy from Chicago had been lynched while visiting his relatives about an hour away from Clarksdale. Emmett Till. Sammie had gone to the funeral, which was open to the public, and open casket. It had been standing room only in the church. When he saw the boy’s eviscerated face, he felt a pit in his stomach. Not only at the sight of him, but at the thought that had he made one small misstep, that could have been his fate. 

He had already felt the dread seeping in, as soon as he made it out of Chicago. He had the latest copy of The Negro Motorist Green Book on him, but it didn't make him feel any less nervous when he stopped in various towns to get gas or food, or find a place to sleep. The pit in his stomach only increased the further south he drove. 

He followed the course of the river, trees slowly giving way to fields. It was cotton season. Soon, he’d reached the Clarksdale town limits. It looked like the main drag hadn’t changed a bit. It was quiet, empty. To his left stood Chow’s Grocery, where it had always been, for as long as he could remember, at least. 

The town seemed to spill out into farmland once again. His car kicked up dust from the road. The peach orchard wasn’t far from here. Of course, the trees didn't have any fruit this time of year.

When he was small, during prime peach season- around June or July- he would sneak out to the orchard and, when he was sure nobody was looking, pick as many peaches as his little hands could hold and eat them, one by one.

                                                                                        June 1917

One such morning, he was sitting under a peach tree, five yellow peaches in his hands. He picked one up and bit into it. It was sweet, juicy, and delicious, but tasted all the better with the knowledge that he was doing something naughty and getting away with it. 

Just then, he heard feet. Big people feet. His heart skipped a beat. I’m in real bad trouble now. But then a familiar voice said, “Got all them peaches and you ain’t thought to offer me one?”

He looked up and smiled. His two big cousins. Everyone called them Smoke and Stack- except for his parents, that is. He didn't quite know where the nicknames came from, but everybody had a nickname around here. At six, he already had one- Preacher Boy. 

They sat down next to him, and Stack placed him in his lap. “Careful you don’t get sick off them peaches now,” warned Smoke.

“Eat too many, you might just turn into one,” joked Stack. He pretended to bite Sammie’s cheeks, eliciting giggles.

Once the boy’s giggles had died down, he said, “Me and my brother were gon’ go someplace nice. Wanna come?”

Sammie jumped up, peaches in hand. Of course he did! 

As he walked, he felt the hot dirt beneath his feet. He was almost always barefoot, especially because his shoes were starting to get tight in the toes. He didn't know where they were going, but it was always exciting. Sometimes, they went into town, where everybody seemed to know the twins, and they knew everybody. But today seemed like it would be a surprise. 

                                                                                 October 1955

The Moore family home was right where it had always been. He put the car in park, and his mother came out from behind the house, where she had been hanging the wash. "Sammie?" 

His mother had aged significantly since he'd last seen her. Her features looked drawn, and she had bags under her eyes. He swore he could even see a few grays in her black hair.... "Mama?"

She ran towards him. "Baby!" She caught him in a tight hug. He hugged her back. She smelled of laundry soap, wood smoke from the stove... home. And in her eyes, he would always be her baby, even well into his forties. 

They parted, and she took his hands in hers. "I missed you."

He was starting to get a little choked up. Save the tears for the funeral. "Missed you, too, Mama."

"I know you a Northern man now, and you got yo' music and all that, but... I wish you would come down here more. It's been real lonely." She gave him a sad smile. "As long as I live, you got a place here."

He wasn't too sure about that, but he wasn't one to argue. She cleared her throat. "Want somethin' to eat?"

He was hungry, but... "I'm real tired. Been drivin' all night."

"Of course." 

Once inside, he took in the surroundings. They had a new stove. The floor was still dirt, but it appeared that at some point, his parents had been able to get two beds for the little ones. They all used to sleep close together, on mats on the floor at the foot of their parents' bed. Sure, it may have been hot, but it was cozy, in an odd way. As the oldest, he felt like he was protecting them as they slept. They were all grown now, living in various places in the Deep South- except for Isaac, the youngest, who lived in California- with their own families. He was the only one who hadn't married. 

He set down his suitcase and sat on the edge of one of the beds. It was almost surreal, being back here. And now that so many of the people he loved were gone... The exhaustion was starting to set in, and his eyes were heavy. Before he knew it, he was asleep. 

When he woke, it was around noon. The sun shone bright through the window. He could smell something cooking. His mother looked up from the stove and smiled. "You sure were tired."

He nodded and rubbed his eyes. "You sleep good?"

"Yeah."

"I made you some grits, the way you always liked 'em." She ladled them into a bowl, then sliced off a pat of butter and put it on top. "You need somethin' solid in your stomach."

He sat at the table and ate, nearly burning his mouth. The grits were just what he needed- warm, filling, comforting. "So. When you gon' get yourself a wife?"

He chuckled a little. "You keep askin', and the answer's always gon' be the same. I don't know."

Her face was serious this time, though. "Ain't you ever lonely?"

For this, he had no answer. He liked to think he was doing alright on his own- and on the surface, he was. He had a successful career, a string of girlfriends. But some nights, when he was alone, he felt a yawning emptiness. 

Finished with his food, he straightened up. "I think I might go out right quick. Have a look around."

He got back in his car and started to drive. The noon sun was hot on his head. He turned over the question in his head. When you gon' get yourself a wife?  He had a girlfriend back in Chicago. Charlemae. Two years earlier, she'd been in the front row at one of his shows, looking up at him and smiling as she swayed. And for some reason, he couldn't help but keep his eyes on her as he was playing. He'd be lying if he said the reason he was drawn to her wasn't because she reminded him of Pearline- her smooth dark complexion, her pert little mouth. She walked up to him as he was clearing the stage and complimented his singing. "Thank you, thank you."

She smiled and extended her hand. "I'm Charlemae."

He shook it. "Pleased to meet you, Charlemae." Then he raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it. "Where you from?"

"Chicago. Born and raised. Where are you from?"

"Mississippi."

She chuckled. "Oh, you from down South. You playin' that real blues." 

"Yup."

He later found out that she was thirty-three and recently divorced, with a seven-year-old daughter. They moved pretty quickly from there, and he became close with her daughter, who always loved when he came around. And he'd pick her up, swing her around, listen to her rambling stories. For a second there, he could see himself being a father to this little girl. 

But now Charlemae seemed to be a bit annoyed that he couldn't let her in. "I feel like I don't really know you," she said one night. "You know everything about me, but I don't know a whole lot about you. Who are you, Sammie?"

And he realized he didn't quite know the answer to that.

The houses began to disappear, and he entered a wooded area. Cicadas hummed in the air. As he kept driving, he could hear the rushing of water. The swimming hole. 

He parked the car next to a pine tree, walked to the water's edge, and stared down into it. 

                                                                                        June 1917 

“Hey!” called a familiar high-pitched voice. Mary. She stood in the doorway of her house, wearing a faded yellow dress.  “Where y’all headed?”

”I’m 'bout to show 'em our swimmin' hole!” said Stack.

“And you mean to go without me? Let me come with y’all!” She ran towards them. 

She looked down at the boy and smiled. "Hey, there, little Sammie."

He looked up. All of them were like giants to him. "Hi, Mary."

She pulled a makeup mirror and a tube of lipstick out of her pocket, then applied it, looking at her reflection. The lipstick was bright red, like a fresh strawberry. “Where you get that from?” asked Smoke.

”Woolworth’s.” She smirked. “Five-finger discount.” 

He rolled his eyes. "Sticky-fingers over here. Who taught her that?" He looked pointedly at Stack, who just shrugged. 

Sammie had no idea what any of that meant at the time, but he didn’t bother asking. The path was all dirt. The sounds of birds and cicadas filled the air. The trees provided some shade, but in the blazing Mississippi summer, the shade didn't really help much. His mouth was parched, and the sweat was pooling under his scratchy cotton shirt. But he was determined to keep up with them.

Soon, he could hear the rushing of water. And past a few trees- there it was! 

The three adults sat down by the water's edge, and he sat down next to them. Almost immediately, Mary proceeded to kick off her shoes, peel her dress off, and run into the water. "Now you done lost yo' damn mind, Mary! Runnin' around in yo' goddamn bloomers! What if somebody see you?" hissed Smoke.

Stack, who was also stripping to his underwear, laughed him off. "We here all the time. Don't nobody come 'round here." He joined Mary, who was already kicking and splashing.

Smoke rolled his eyes. "Between the two o' you.... not a lick of sense."

Stack seemed not to hear him, though, as Mary gave him a kiss on the cheek. There was a red imprint of her mouth where she'd kissed him. Sammie could hear him making some off-color comments about how much she'd filled out- "Not two years ago, your titties were like little mosquito bites. Now look at you."

"Oh, you hush!" Laughing, she sent a massive wave of water towards him. 

Smoke made a face, then turned to Sammie. "Listen here. Don't you repeat nothin' that gets said out here. Got it?"

"Got it." He never told anybody else about these outings, anyway. It was like they were sacred. He picked up a handful of water and brought it to his mouth. It was cool, refreshing, just what he needed on a day like today.

"Hey, Sammie!" called Stack. "Wanna jump in?"

"It's real nice," said Mary.

Sammie walked up to the water's edge and dipped his toes in. The cold sent shockwaves through his body. "It's real cold."

"It'll feel good once you're in it," said Stack.

He wasn't too sure, but he trusted Stack... "Ain't no gators in here?"

"No, no!"

With that, he started to shuck his clothes. "You comin', Smoke?"

"Not right now." He leaned back and stretched out. "Maybe later."

The cold was still a big shock to Sammie, but it sure did beat the heat. "Yeah! There you go!"

As he went in further, his feet couldn't touch the bottom any longer. "Kick your feet," instructed Stack. He held his body up as he kicked. "Now paddle."

Pretty soon, he'd let go of him, and he was swimming on his own. "Hey! Look at him go!"

He felt a fluttery feeling in his stomach. I'm really doing it! 

                                                                                         October 1955

He shook the memory out of his head. That was all they were now, memories. These people who had once been such a big part of his life, who had taught him everything he knew- they were all gone. And yet he saw their faces every night. 

The guilt ate him alive. Guilt for surviving, for inviting the vampires in the first place. Over the last twenty years, he'd tried to shove it down in various ways- with his music, aimless walks through Chicago late at night, the occasional strong drink or two. He knew people who shot up heroin, who swore it gave them the best high of their lives, that it made them forget all their worries and cares. But he also saw how it destroyed them, and any aspirations they'd once had. He'd never touch the stuff. 

As he was going to his car, he heard the laughter of children from somewhere far off. The laughter got closer and closer, until he saw three young children skipping down the path. Two boys and a girl. They couldn't have been older than seven or eight. "There's somebody here!" called the girl, pointing to Sammie's car. 

The three kids were looking at him now. He smiled and waved at them. "That's a real nice car you got there, sir," said one of the boys.

"Thank you."

The other boy tilted his head. "What's on your face?"

The girl elbowed him. "C.J.!"

By this point, he was used to coming up with excuses for the scar. "No, no, it's alright." In a mock whisper, he said, "When I was littler, I got into a fight with a bear."

The kids' eyes were wide. "Wow." 

"Did you win?" asked C.J. 

He nodded and smiled. "You shoulda seen the bear once I was done with him." He got in the car and started it. "Y'all take care now."

As he drove off, he could hear one of the kids saying, "I wanna be like him when I'm grown."

No, you don't, he thought.

He headed back into town. Now more people were out and about. He pulled up next to Chow's Grocery, parked the car, and got out. There weren't very many people in here today, just a woman looking at the oranges and a family checking out. Once the family left, he saw the woman behind the counter. She was wearing blue gingham. Her shiny black hair was pinned back. Her nose was small and twitchy, like a rabbit's. "Lisa?"

She smiled. "Well, I'll be. Sammie Moore, in the flesh."

Chapter Text

                                                                                                  October 1955

The sounds of a guitar through crackling static emanated softly from a radio perched atop a shelf. A white plastic fan whirred on the counter, but it did little to break up the stuffy air. 

"Can I get a Coke and.... a bunch of these flowers?" Sammie pointed to a tub of multi-colored peonies in the back. 

"Comin' right up." Lisa took a Coke out of the fridge and wrapped the flowers in paper, tying the ends off with a ribbon. "I'd ask what the occasion was, but I think I know. I'm awful sorry to hear about your daddy."

He gulped. "Thank you."

"And... that'll be one dollar even."

He reached into his pocket for his wallet. Just then, he realized the guitar lick in the song on the radio sounded familiar. He listened a little more closely- it was his song! He'd written this particular one in a single sleepless night, performed it the next night, recorded it a few days later, and it somehow became his most popular. Even the white stations in Chicago were playing it. But... out here? He placed a dollar on the counter, and she took it.

He pointed to the radio. "You know, that's my song."

"Really?" Lisa chuckled a little, then turned it up. The song was about his love for a woman, and it was dripping with sexual innuendo, but loving at the same time. "No way! It is you!" She smiled. "Looks like you made it big."

No matter what he accomplished, he never felt like it was enough. "I guess you could say that."

"You know, we're all proud o' you, Sammie."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You're like the town hero, or somethin'."

Just then, a voice said, "Where you want this, Mama?"

He turned around. The speaker was a tall, lanky teenage boy holding a huge crate. He almost looked like a teenage version of Bo. "Just put it in the back," said Lisa. 

The boy nodded, then went to the back room. "That's Edgar," she explained. "He's sixteen." 

"He looks like Bo."

Her voice was soft now. "He sure does."

Edgar emerged from the back room. "Hey, Edgar, you mind takin' over the till for me? My friend here and I got some catchin' up to do."

"Sure thing."

Sammie followed her outside. They stood at the wall, and Lisa reached into her pocket. "Want a cigarette?"

"Sure." She tilted the pack towards him. "Oh, you got the good kind."

"Mm-hm." She lit hers first, then his. "You ain't been back here since that night, huh."

"No."

"I hope you don't mind me askin', but... what even happened?"

His heart began to pick up speed, and his stomach dropped, as it had that night as Remmick stood over him. "We... we got attacked."

She took a drag. "That's what I heard. We didn't know if it was the Klan, or what, but...."

"Well..." He wasn't sure how much he should tell her. "First, it was three of 'em... they asked us to let 'em in. Of course, we didn't... but they just kept multiplyin'." He looked down at the sidewalk. 

"And they gave you that scar."

"Yeah."

"When I finally saw my mama and daddy, they were... charred." She remembered going to identify the bodies, how their faces were almost unrecognizable- but she just knew it was them. And she'd recognize her mother's shoes anywhere. It had felt strange to say their names instead of Mama and Daddy (or Baba, if she was speaking Chinese). "God, the smell.... I can't eat bacon no more."

He knew what she meant. "Me neither."

She looked up at him. "Did you... did you see what happened to them?"

He hesitated. Right then, she seemed less like a grown woman and more like the little girl he remembered, who would cling to Bo as he held her in his arms. He tried to think of how to tell her. "Well... what I think happened is.... Grace knew that if Bo was gon' die, then she'd die with him."

He saw her wiping a tear from her eye. "It's what they woulda wanted."

For a while, they just sat in silence. Neither was sure what to say after that. Then Sammie asked, "The Klan ever come 'round you?"

"Just once. Least I think they were Klan," she said. "About seven years ago. I was closin' up shop, and this car full o' white men... boys, really.... they pull up, and a few of 'em jump out. Two of 'em were holdin' shotguns. They come in, they're jeerin' at me, hasslin' me.... and I grab my gun. My daddy always kept a revolver in a drawer under the register. I still got it."

Finished with her cigarette, she ashed it out with her foot. "I raise it, I fire a warnin' shot... and they completely change their tune. Guess the shotguns were just for show. One of 'em said, 'She's a feisty one' and started backin' away all slow. And whoever's drivin' yells out, 'Somebody's comin'!' And they all peel out, just like that."

Sammie was speechless. That could have taken a horrifying turn, and he was glad she'd made it out unscathed. Finally, he asked, "Was- was Edgar with you?"

"No. And thank God he wasn't." She shook her head. "I couldn't ever leave here, though. Life here can be hard, but... it's home."

"I understand."

She straightened up. "Well, I better be gettin' back. But it was nice to see you again. And we'll be at the funeral."

"I'll see you there."

He wasn't quite ready to head back home yet. Instead, he drove aimlessly down back roads, asphalt giving way to dirt. The cotton fields seemed to stretch on forever. Suddenly, he realized this area looked familiar. The old sawmill wouldn't have been too far from here- except where it had once stood, there was just an empty plot of land. Still, just looking at that empty patch of grass made his stomach churn. He swore he could still smell the death.... he shook it out of his head and kept driving.

He stopped in front of a dilapidated barn, the red paint peeling, the wood splintering. 

                                                                                                  August 1922

It was only nine in the morning, but the air was already thick and hot. Smoke and Stack had somehow acquired a pickup truck- in all likelihood, they'd stolen it, but Sammie didn't bother asking. And quite frankly, it didn't matter much to him. The car may not have driven all that fast, but it beat walking. And when they drove into town, it felt like they were on top of the world. He especially loved sitting in the flatbed, feeling the sun on his face and smelling the magnolias and sweet grass in the air. 

The twins had something special planned for tonight, and as always, Sammie was invited. As Smoke drove, Annie sat by his side. She'd entered the picture five years back, when she came to Clarksdale from Ferriday, Louisiana. And Smoke was smitten with her from day one, but it took him a while to work up the nerve to talk to her. Stack would often tease him about it- "It's prob’ly fifty-leven other men that want her, and she got eyes for you! Even a blind man could see it! But you can't even talk to her."

But when he finally did, it moved pretty fast from there. Everyone saw how she brought out a softer side in him. He'd open doors for her, kiss her hand. And he’d make a point to tell Sammie, “This how you treat a lady.”

He proposed to her the night before he left for the front, in a secluded spot down by the river. And they married shortly after he returned. Sammie's father had officiated the wedding. It was a simple affair, but a joyous one, nonetheless. Nearly the whole town showed up. 

And now she was eight months pregnant, with the baby they would eventually bury. But of course, none of them knew that at the time. For now, this was a time of bliss, of excitement. Over the last eight months, Smoke had damn near spoiled her, making sure she rested, rubbing her feet every night, bringing home whatever it was the baby craved that day. 

They parked in front of Bo's store, and they all got out. Smoke turned to his wife. "You s'posed to be restin'."

"It won't be for long. I'll be fine."

"You shouldn't be on your feet so much. 'Specially not now."

"I ain't sittin' in that hot-ass car."

"Alright, then. Suit yourself." 

Once inside, the adults got to talking, and Sammie just watched and listened. Grace had stopped in here, and as soon as she saw Annie, she got to fussing over her. "Why, you shouldn't be out here in this heat! You oughta be at home with your feet up!"

"Well, I appreciate the concern, but I'm managin' just fine." She nodded towards her husband. "He been takin' real good care of me."

Grace smiled. "As he ought to."

Lisa tugged her mother's skirt and said something in Chinese. Grace looked down and answered her- clearly not the answer she wanted, because the girl crossed her arms and pouted. "Well, I better go set up shop across the street. Y'all take care now." She left, holding her daughter's hand as she dragged her feet. 

The twins bought cigarette papers and tobacco. Smoke bought the ingredients for cherry pie, which Annie had been craving recently. 

Stack leaned in close. "You got one o' them magazines?"

Bo grinned. "You know I do."

He went into the back and returned with a magazine, full of pictures of beautiful, scantily dressed women making all kinds of indecent poses. Sammie watched, rapt, as the men flipped through the pages. He'd never seen anything like it. But all of a sudden, Smoke noticed that he was there and said, "Go on, Sammie, you don't need to be seein' this."

After getting Mary, they went to the swimming hole. Sammie, Stack, and Mary jumped in almost immediately. Sammie floated on his back and stared up at the cloudless sky, the sun bright and hot. I wish I could stay like this forever.

Annie kicked her shoes off, lifted her skirt, and waded in. The cool water did wonders for her swollen feet. Between the humidity, and the baby kicking, and her sore feet, she'd been feeling very pregnant today, in all the worst ways. "Elijah?"

"What is it, baby?"

"Come in here with me, will ya?" 

"Alright." He took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs, and went in with her. He took her hand, and everything else around them seemed to disappear. 

That evening, when everyone else was asleep, Sammie snuck out of the house and ran down to the peach orchard. Smoke and Stack pulled up in their truck once again. "What we doin' tonight?"

"You gon' see real soon," said Stack.

He jumped into the flatbed. It had cooled down some from the day, but the moisture still hung in the air, draping everything like a thick blanket. It was clear tonight, and the sky glittered with stars. The darkened landscape stretched out in front of them, full of possibilities. 

Finally, they pulled up in front of a barn, and they got out and pushed the doors open. The place was dimly lit with a few gas lamps. "Ain't nobody been in or out o' here in years," said Stack. "So this is perfect for our li'l operation."

Bo was inside, standing next to two huge kegs. "Got 'em set up for ya."

"After three months...." said Smoke, "the finished product." He turned to Sammie. "And you get to try some."

Each of them got a glass of the amber brown liquid. He raised his glass, and everyone else did the same. "To freedom, success, and a bright future ahead of us."

"I'll drink to that," said Stack. 

They drank from their cups, and Sammie figured he might as well do the same. It was bitter and burned going down, but he still downed the whole glass. He coughed a little. The liquor gave him a warm feeling in his belly that soon spread throughout his body. 

As the night went on, his head started to feel fuzzy. Suddenly, he could hear the sounds of thunder and rain from outside. While the adults were preoccupied, he pushed open the door and stepped outside. He felt the rain on his head. Lightning flashed across the sky, and he thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. This is the best night of my life. 

                                                                                                            October 1955

When he finally made it home, it was evening, and his siblings and their families were all there. The house was buzzing once again, the way he remembered it. The smells of fry grease, vinegar, and garlic filled the air. His sisters were at the stove with his mother. She looked up. "Sammie!"

Now everyone was looking at him, even the children. Their famed blues musician uncle they'd heard all about, but never seen. "Hey, Mama."

"How was your... look around?"

"It was alright."

"Good to be back?"

Was it? "Yeah."

She pointed to a pile of potatoes on the kitchen table. "You mind peelin' those for me?"

As a kid, he'd always loved peeling potatoes. It was simple, repetitive, and put his mind at ease. "Sure thing."

As they ate, the kids had all sorts of questions for Sammie- "What's Chicago like?", "What happened to your face?", "Why ain't you married?" and the like. He hardly had time to answer one before another kid asked another. Finally, his mother said, "Enough. You talkin' his ear off now."

It took a while for them to settle down enough to go to bed, wanting to learn as much about their uncle as they could. He told them about Chicago, about the skyscrapers, the hot dogs, how sometimes it got so cold that if you went out right after washing your hair, you'd find ice crystals in it. He told them about performing on stage, the huge crowds, the famous people he'd gotten to meet. 

"Alright, go on to bed now," said Isaac, scooping up his two small sons. "Uncle Sammie still gon' be here tomorrow."

"But I'm not tired!" whined the older one.

But despite his insistence that he wasn't tired, the boy was fast asleep not even twenty minutes later.

Blood-curdling screams. The smells of blood, burning flesh, death. Remmick's dripping fangs. His claws piercing his skin. Sammie woke up, gasping, clutching the side of his face. He looked around. The room was pitch-black. Everyone else was asleep, his sister Rebecca right next to him, her arm curled around one of his little nieces. It's alright. You're here now, and that's all that matters.

The funeral service was held in the same church his father had presided over. Because he'd been such a fixture in the community, it was packed. He walked through those doors he hadn't walked through in more than twenty years. He half-expected everyone to turn and stare at him as they had that morning. A few people stopped to look, but not everyone. 

There was a line to view his open casket. Sammie could feel his hands starting to sweat. His first time seeing his father in twenty-three years, and it was right before they put him in the ground. When he made it to the front of the line, he looked down into his father's face. It looked as if he was merely sleeping. "I know we ain't always seen eye-to-eye on things," he whispered. "But I ain't never stopped lovin' you. And I know you loved me- the way you knew how. And.... I'm sorry I ain't been down here to see you, but... I'm here now."

The current pastor- the second son, Jacob- was the first to speak. He talked about how Jedidiah Moore was a good, honest man, a man of God, and how he'd devoted his life to God and to serving his community. "We should all strive to follow his example."

As his brother spoke, Sammie thought about the days when his father was so sure that he'd be the next pastor. "You got a real talent," he'd tell him. "When you speak, people listen."

Now he was drawing crowds with his voice, but in a different way, a way his father had always looked down on. But even he had to acknowledge Sammie's success. In one of his recent letters, he'd written that he was proud of him for achieving things he'd never thought possible. You always told me that if I kept dancin' with the Devil, he'd follow me home. Well, he did.... but I fought the Devil and I won, Daddy. That's gotta mean somethin'. 

"And now, a reading from the book of John." He knew the verse Jacob was about to read. He'd heard it many times. "Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father's house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me, that you also may be where I am."

When it came time to make a eulogy, Sammie came up and spoke. His hands were shaking. He hoped it wasn't noticeable. "I'm Sammie Moore," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'm the... oldest son of Jed Moore."

He spoke about the father he remembered, who ruled the house- and his congregation- with a firm hand. He talked about how, although they didn't always agree on things, at the end of it all, he still loved him, and he wished he had come down to see him earlier. 

The pallbearers lowered him into a grave in the little graveyard behind the church. And they sang the songs that he knew deep in his heart, but hadn't heard in years: "Swing low, sweet chariot, comin' for to carry me home..."

He stayed at the fresh grave for a few minutes after everyone had left, just staring at the patch of disturbed soil. The larger-than-life man who'd raised him was now buried in this plot behind the church. Exactly how he would have wanted. Sammie wasn't sure if he believed in Heaven anymore- or if he himself would go there. But he hoped there was something after this life. This couldn't be the end. 

"Jedidiah Moore. 1884-1955." Was that it? When Sammie died, was that all he'd be remembered as? A name and two dates? He looked up at the sky. Cloudless and blue. He took a deep breath in, straightened up, and turned around to join the rest of the mourners.

Chapter Text

                                                                                       October 1955

That evening, Sammie got in his car and drove once again. This time, he went back into town. The combined glow from the streetlamps and his headlights was almost otherworldly. Most of the shops were closed. But further down, he could see the dim lights of the bars and hear faint laughter from its patrons. 

At the very end of the main street, he could see one such establishment, this time with all Black patrons. A resonator guitar and a man's wailing voice, men and women pressed up against each other. This was exactly the kind of place he'd missed since leaving Mississippi. He parked his car outside, pulled his guitar out of the trunk, and walked right in. 

He sat at the bar and ordered whiskey on the rocks. He sipped it- smooth and rich. He didn't know why, but he swore it tasted better here than in Chicago. The man performing tonight was a fresh-faced young man who couldn't have been much older than twenty, but his voice was beyond his years. It was gravelly and seemed to come from deep within his chest. Sammie could see himself in the young man, and he felt a little twinge of sadness.

He walked up to the man standing beside the stage, a big, burly guy in a three-piece suit and a fedora tilted low over his eyes. "'Scuse me, sir. You the owner of this establishment?"

"Yeah."

"Think you could get me on this here stage?" He gestured to his guitar. 

"Now-" 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out two 20-dollar bills. The man's eyes widened. "Got more where that came from, too."

The man looked up and studied him. "Wait a minute.... you not Sammie Moore, is you?"

He smiled. "The one and only."

"Heard they buried your daddy today."

"Yup. 's why I'm here."

"Sorry to hear that. Name's Big Red, by the way." He extended his hand, and Sammie shook it. "Glad you decided to stop by. Tell you what, your drinks are on the house. You got my word on that."

"Now that's awful kind o' you, but...."

"I insist."

The young man ended his set, to raucous applause. "Alright, up next, we got a special guest, all the way from Chicago... our very own Sammie Moore!"

 Our very own. He was the pride of Clarksdale, Lisa had told him so. It didn't stop his hands from shaking as he went on stage. And it wasn't typical stage fright, either. He'd performed countless times and nothing had happened- nothing of the caliber of that night. But it still didn't make him any less uneasy. And especially now that he was back in the place where it had all happened.... 

On principle, he never sang "I Lied To You" live. He'd recorded it, sure. But singing it on stage was, he felt, taking too big of a risk. "I'm Sammie Moore," he said. "I been in Chicago the last twenty-three years, but... I thought I'd play y'all a few songs, in the place where it all started."

He began plucking the strings. "Travelin', I don't know why in the hell I'm here...."

The man behind the piano started playing some chords, and Sammie lost himself in the music, and the crowd's reactions. Nothing else mattered now, just this moment.

He played three more songs after that, and the crowd was eating it up. Couples of all ages were dancing together. Even the men sitting at the bar, having had a few drinks too many, were nodding along. And here in this little place in Clarksdale, he was reminded of that night in the twins' juke joint, the joy and excitement he'd felt before everything went south. He'd been so hopeful. That enthusiasm for life he once had- it seemed almost foreign to him now. 

Every time he performed, he swore he could see them in the crowd, everyone that had come to the juke joint that night. But they'd go away as soon as he blinked. 

He ended his set with a flourish, and everyone clapped and cheered. "Thank you, thank you," he said into the microphone. 

As he walked off the stage, he saw the young man from earlier. "Hello, there, young man."

He looked up, clearly a little taken aback. "Hello."

Sammie smiled. "You got a real good voice."

"Well, thank you, sir, but I don't think I'm quite as good as you."

"Don't say that. Here, why don't I buy you somethin' to drink?" The two sat at the bar, and Sammie signaled to the bartender. "Two whiskeys, please." 

"Comin' right up." He filled two glasses with ice, then poured the whiskey over it.

"What's your name, son?" asked Sammie.

"Bobby."

"And how old are you?"

"Nineteen."

Sammie nodded and smiled. "That's a good age." He turned to him. "Now I know you may not think so, but you got a real talent, 'specially for bein' so young." 

"You think?"

"I know it. I was you, once." He took a sip of his drink. "Look, if you ever think about leavin' the Delta, come to Chicago and find me. I can get you in with the right people."

Bobby smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Moore, sir."

"Please. Call me Sammie."

The next morning, Sammie got up before everyone else, dressed quickly, and went outside. There was one last thing he had to do before he left. As he walked, the sky was starting to brighten. He saw a patch of wildflowers growing in the grass- pink and blue, dew forming on the petals. He picked several of each, until he had a bunch in his hands. 

He walked into that plot beyond the church, seeing the rows of white crosses. His father's was the latest- the peonies he'd lain in front of it were still there, but the petals were beginning to fall off. Flowers in hand, he walked through the rows until he found the one he was looking for. "Elias Moore. 1898-1932."

They'd never found Stack's body- the marker was just a placeholder. Still, he knelt and laid the pink flowers in front of it. "I love you, Stack. And I miss you. And.... I hope you happy, wherever you at."

He sat in silence for a bit, then straightened up and left. It had been years, but he knew the way like the back of his hand. Trees lined the path, and he could hear the birds chirping. There, in a clearing, was the little house that was once Smoke and Annie's. A spot was marked by three stones, the middle one the smallest, with a tiny handprint on it. He laid the blue flowers down. "I miss you both, every day. Thank you for protectin' me. I still feel like I owe you." His eyes began to blur with tears.

Kneeling, he looked down at the three stones. They all together now.

Before he left, he hugged his family goodbye. His mother had insisted he take a couple jars of her homemade strawberry jam back to Chicago with him. "It's been real nice, havin' you here," she said as she squeezed his hands. "Remember- door's always open if you wanna come back."

"I know."

"And I know you busy and all, but come back here soon as you can. As you can see, I ain't gettin' no younger." She laughed a little. 

He laughed a little, too. "I'll see what I can do." 

"I love you, Sammie."

"I love you, too, Mama."

As he pulled away from the house, she stood in the doorway and waved. And she grew smaller and smaller as he gathered distance.

He looked around as he drove out of Clarksdale, taking it all in. This place held so much pain, and so much beauty, too. And while it hurt to look back on the people he'd lost, there was some joy in the memories, too. I'll live for them.

When Sammie finally parked in front of his townhouse in Kenwood, it was around three the next day. There was a chill in the air. It had taken him quite a while to get used to Chicago weather. He wasn't sure which he wanted to do first- eat? Sleep? Shower?

He turned the key in the door. With all the lights off, the place felt bigger, emptier. He took his shoes off, flicked on the lights, and turned up the heat. Colder than a witch's titty in here. As soon as he'd put his bags in his room, he could feel his eyelids getting heavy. Guess I should sleep first. 

When he woke up, the sun was starting to set. He sat up and stretched, hearing the popping sound his shoulders made. He was no spring chicken, but sitting in a car for long periods of time didn't help, either. 

He walked to the bathroom and ran the shower. Once in it, he looked up at the ceiling and let the warm water roll over him. After two days in Mississippi, this was one thing he'd missed- a long, hot shower. 

Having changed clothes and shaved, he thought about what to do next. Perhaps he should pay Charlemae a visit. She lived in Greater Grand Crossing- not too far from him.

He stood at the door to her apartment and rang the doorbell. Come on.... After what felt like forever- it couldn't have been longer than two minutes, though- she opened the door. "Oh! Hello, there, Sammie."

He smiled and took off his hat. She looked beautiful as always. "Hey, baby."

Right then, he heard running footsteps and a familiar little voice: "Sammie!"

"Hey, there, Loretta! How you been?" Her hair was in three braids, tied off at the ends with white ribbons. He held his arms out, and the girl jumped into them.

"I missed you, Sammie!"

"Oh, I missed you, too, girl."

Charlemae smiled. "You came at the right time. I was just finishin' dinner."

In the living room, Loretta tugged his hand and showed him the picture she'd been drawing. The fedora, the brown skin, his scars.... it was his face. "You like it? I'm tryin' to get better at drawin' people."

She looked up at him, a broad smile across her face. It was so sweet it melted his heart. "I love it." He squeezed her shoulder. "You just keep at it, and you'll be even better."

"Thank you." She beamed. "You can have it, you know."

"For real?"

"Yeah!"

"Why, thank you."

At the dinner table, Charlemae had asked him how Mississippi was. He didn't quite know how to answer that, especially in front of Loretta. "Well... it's hard to explain. It feels like.... so much has changed, and yet, so much has stayed the same."

He told them about the funeral, meeting his nieces and nephews for the first time, performing at that little club in Clarksdale. "What's it like there?" asked Loretta.

"Well, it's a whole lot different from Chicago. This here's a big city, and Clarksdale's real small. There's one big main street, and then the rest is pretty spread out. It's a lotta fields, lotta trees. There's a swimmin' hole I used to go to with my big cousins, when I was littler. We did almost everything together back then." He felt a little twinge of sadness at the memory. "My mama's house ain't got runnin' water or electricity- a lotta houses down there don't. But, you know, when you grow up like that, you get used to livin' with less, 'cause it's all you know." 

Once the dishes were cleared, the three went out to the living room, and Loretta wanted to put on some music. She picked out a doo-wop record and put it on the player. Sammie smiled and extended his hand. "May I have this dance?"

The girl took it. "Yes, you may."

She was still small enough that she had to stand on his feet to reach his hands, but soon, she wouldn't be anymore. He swore she was getting taller and taller by the day. He led, counting out the steps. 

He looked over at Charlemae, who was sitting on the couch and watching them, a little smile on her face. He let go of Loretta's hands, then walked over to her. "May I have this dance, Miss Charlemae?"

She took his hand and stood up. "Yes, you may."

He grabbed her by the waist and held her to him. He could almost feel her heartbeat. A quiet calm settled over him. She rested her head against his chest, and they moved together to the slow rhythm of the song. 

Once Loretta had gone to bed, Sammie and Charlemae sat on the couch together. She placed a hand over his. "How you feelin', Sammie?"

"About what?"

"Just about.... everything. I mean, losin' your daddy, goin' back down South after twenty years...." She sighed. "I know you don't like to talk about why you left Mississippi. And I won't make you. But... I just want you to tell me what you're feelin'."

"Well.... I'm sad, of course. But... I s'pose there's somethin' else, too. While I was there, I was reminded of... of everybody I lost, and... don't get me wrong, I still love it. But it hurts, bein' back there. And it's a real deep kinda hurt, too." 

She placed her arm around his shoulders, and he rested his head on hers. He didn't feel like talking anymore, just wanted to stay there with her. She traced little circles on his arm with her fingers, and he found the motion oddly soothing. He knew she couldn't take away the pain- nothing and nobody could. But with her, he felt just a little better. 

                                                                                            October 1975

Sammie was in New York, making a series of appearances on different television shows. He had a tour coming up, but at this point in his career, he'd never had this level of media attention before. One of his songs had been used in a movie earlier this year, introducing him to a wider audience. And now everybody wanted to know Sammie Moore, the man, the myth, the legend.

He wasn't particularly relishing the attention. There was something so grating about these television interviews. No matter how many times he was reminded, he couldn't remember where he was supposed to look: the host? The cameras? He felt like he was answering the same questions over and over, and he was sure that irritation was reflected in his tone. He didn't bother watching them when they aired. Maybe I'm just too old for this shit. 

But the hosts- and audiences- seemed to love him. When he spoke, they hung onto his every word. They found his little Southernisms charming. Even when he deviated from his usual canned answers and made a wisecrack or two, they ate that up like a hot fudge sundae. 

But one night, a host asked him a question that caught him off-guard. "Now in your hometown of Clarksdale, Mississippi, there are many stories about how you got your trademark scar, but by far, the most enduring one is that you got it from the Devil himself. So, now that you're here, we all want to know: is there any truth to this story?"

"I...." He looked at the floor. He could almost hear Remmick's voice in his head: Sssssammie! "Well, uh...." He scratched the back of his neck. "I can neither confirm nor deny that." There. That seemed like a good answer. 

He'd long since married and divorced Charlemae. The split was amicable, and he still kept in touch with Loretta, sending her gifts on her birthday and Christmas. He'd even danced with her at her wedding, at her request. 

His mother was still alive, well into her eighties, with a knee so bad she needed a cane to walk now. This worried him, but every time he brought it up, she insisted that she was just fine. He'd flown her out to Chicago the previous year, her first-ever plane trip. And he saw the way she took in everything he was showing her, rapt, not wanting to miss a thing. 

He smoked a cigarette in his hotel room, as his publicist went through the day's agenda. "You'll get a few hours to rehearse with the band, and then the taping starts at 11:30."

"Good Lord," he muttered under his breath. He was performing on a new show called Saturday Night Live. "Alright, when I gotta be there by?"

"6."

"Alright, then." 

That gave him some time to explore Manhattan. His hotel was right by the Central Park reservoir. He turned up the collar on his coat. The air was crisp and cold. The leaves on the trees had turned beautiful colors: yellows, oranges, reds. The park was full of people- cyclists, buskers, families with children, people walking dogs of all sizes. He sat on a bench and stared out at the water.

Slowly, he got up, started walking along the path towards the other side of the lake. He took it all in. In this moment, there were no cameras, no pressure. He could just be.

Harlem wasn't far from here. He rode the subway for a few stops, getting off at 125th. Here were Black people of all shades, going about their days. Couples walking arm-in-arm, unhurried. Women with their perms, purses in hand, heels clicking along the sidewalk. A few little girls with beads in their hair were jumping rope, the beads clacking as they jumped. "Windy, windy, weather, we all jump out together, starting January, February, March...." Sammie found himself smiling a little. Their joy was infectious. 

He stopped at a record store and walked in. It was small, cozy. There were a few people in here looking. A Marvin Gaye song was playing. "Picket lines, and picket signs, don't punish me with brutality." 

The selection was almost overwhelming. Newer records, like Van McCoy's "The Hustle". Older ones, too, like Billie Holiday, Ray Charles, Miles Davis.... He kept browsing, until he found his own records. And not just the newest ones, either. They even had his very first album! He smiled at the memory of his first recording session. He was still a young man then, and unsure if this would work out. But it did, and now millions of people- more people than he could imagine- were hearing his music. 

"Oh, that's a good one," said a voice. 

He turned around. The speaker was a young man with an afro wearing a striped shirt. "Wait a minute, are you..."

"Sammie Moore?" He smiled. "Sure am."

"I-" The man was clearly flustered. "I really love your music. My father used to play it for me, when I was young. You see, he was also from Mississippi. Yazoo City, to be exact." Sammie could hear the New York accent in the way he said his vowels. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen and a small notepad. "Hope it's not too much to ask, but... could I get your autograph?"

"Ain't no trouble at all." He took the pen from him. "What's your name?"

"James."

"James. Alright, then." He wrote in the notepad: "James- follow your heart, wherever it leads you. Sammie Moore."

He ate lunch at a little soul food place, ordering catfish, collard greens, and candied yams. It reminded him a little bit of the food his mother would make on special occasions- except he could tell that the yams had come from a can. Oh, well, can't have everything. 

After paying for his food and leaving, he took the subway further into Manhattan, getting off at Penn Station. His next destination was the Empire State Building. As he stood in line, he felt as giddy as a little kid. This is for real!

The view from the observation deck was almost dizzying. The cars on the streets below looked like little toys. If he looked out across the Hudson River, he could see into New Jersey. He almost couldn't believe his eyes. 

Finally, at six p.m., he made it to the studio, guitar in hand. He knew he was in for a long night, but he was ready for it. The cast and crew were all young- much younger than him, of course- and they regarded him with a sort of reverence that took him aback a little. Surely, I ain't all that, now. 

"Alright," he said, addressing the band. "I know y'all got the setlist earlier today, but I wanted to switch it up some." He had an idea- whether it was a good one or not remained to be seen. 

They all listened, rapt. "I wanna play a li'l song called 'I Lied To You'." He was going to change it up a little from the original version, which had been just him and no backing band. The gears were turning now. He went over to each band member and taught them their parts. He was surprised at how nicely it was coming together, the drums, the bass.... "Yeah, yeah, keep it goin'. Just like that."

When the taping started, he just couldn't stop his hands from shaking. Richard Pryor gave his opening monologue, which he was sure was hilarious, because he'd seen a few snippets of his stand-up sets before, but he was hardly paying attention. All he was thinking about was the upcoming performance. This would be his first time performing that song live since.... that night. And on national TV, to boot.

When a PA gave him his cue to get on stage, he thought, Shit. That was fast. He made his way onto the stage, starting to sweat a little. "Ladies and gentlemen, Sammie Moore."

The lights went up, and they were hot. He tugged at his collar a little. The sight of the cameras in front of him had his stomach doing flips. He played the opening chords. "Somethin' I been wantin' to tell you, for a long time..." 

Almost immediately, he was transported. He was no longer playing for a studio audience in New York City- he was twenty-one years old again, at the twins' juke joint. He was excited, eager to share his new song with everybody. There were some nerves, too, but the good kind. 

When the song was over and the audience was applauding, he saw two familiar faces towards the back, a man and a woman. The man smiled and nodded. Wait, he knew that smile... Stack? Mary? He shook his head and bent down to put his guitar back in the case. Just memories, is all. Sure enough, when he looked back up, they were gone.

                                                                                         October 1932 

Sammie sat under a weeping willow, guitar in his lap. It was late at night, but he'd had an idea for a song and he couldn't just let it go to waste. He plucked the strings until he had a lick he was satisfied with. He tapped a rhythm with his foot. "There's somethin' I gotta tell you..."

No, no, no. He started again. "Somethin' I been wantin' to tell you, for a long time...." Yeah, that's good. 

The next line came pretty easily: "It might hurt you, hope you don't lose your mind."

Now the juices were flowing. "I lied to you," he sang. A grin spread across his face. "Yes, I lied to you. I love the blues."

Having finished the song, he set his guitar down and breathed in the cool night air. The sky was clear and glittering with stars. He could hear the crickets chirping. The twins were due to come back from Chicago tomorrow. He couldn't wait to show them what he could do, on the guitar they'd gifted him.