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."