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  This book is dedicated to my extraordinary mother,

  Lillie B. Files,

  to the first person I ever considered my hero,

  my brother,

  Arthur James Files, Jr.,

  and to the loving memory of my father,

  Arthur James Files, Sr.

  PART I

  1966

  PROLOGUE

  In all things there is a law of cycles.

  —TACITUS

  CHAPTER ONE

  There’s no sweeter stench than the scent of a burning baby.

  Grace raced across the yard, her steps hastened by the cries upon the wind.

  “Somebody help me,” she cried. “My grandbaby’s trapped inside the house.”

  She grabbed a large branch and began to beat against a window. It broke away and released a menacing gust of fire that licked the edges of her hair and sent her reeling backward in a choking fit.

  The anguished cries from inside the house escaped through the broken pane, hanging upon the wind.

  “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . .”

  It was a wild and airy sound, a wailing that trailed off into a whirlwind of echoes. In the midst of the biting-cold night, the house was engulfed in a blizzard of flames.

  Polo stood out front, drenched in sweat, flinging buckets of water. The fire became more savage with each bucket he threw. Grace found her footing again and began beating her house with another tree branch.

  “Mama, it’s not slowing down,” Polo said, out of breath. “It’s getting bigger. The water’s making it worse.”

  “Just keep trying. It’s got to be stopped.”

  “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . .”

  The cries of the baby were deafening.

  Polo threw away the bucket and grabbed a tree branch. He followed his mother’s lead and began to swat at the fire.

  Grace lifted her nose, catching the scent of the wind.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” She fell to her knees in exhaustion.

  “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . .”

  The haunting cry was like a lingering note in a dirge. Then it faded into the night and was never heard by Grace or Polo again.

  Grace raised her head and listened to the sound as it waned. Silent tears fell onto the dusty earth. If not for the gentle shaking of her shoulders as she dropped her head into her hands, Polo would not have known she was crying.

  “My grandbaby is dead.”

  Polo dropped on his knees in the dirt beside her, trying to make out her words as she sobbed into her soot-stained palms. He thought she was asking about his sister. He wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace.

  “Mama, Ophelia’s all right,” he said. “She’s out there by them fir trees.”

  Ophelia stood in the shadows of the woods, watching the fire gut the house. In the dazzling glow of the flames, she had seen her mother and brother trying to get to the baby and calm the blaze.

  Grace’s sobs grew heavy as the soot from her hands now covered her face. Her long black satiny hair hung loose and tangled around her head. Polo held his mother close, rocking her in his arms.

  The fire raged on before them, consuming the house.

  “Mama, we couldn’t do nuthin’,” said Polo. “The baby was ’sleep when we went next door. It wasn’t nothing burning in the house. The stove wasn’t even on. The baby was ’sleep.”

  “How we gon’ tell Ophelia about the baby?”

  The look of terror and questioning in his mother’s eyes frightened him.

  “I think she already know. Look like she came from out by the barn. That’s why she standing by them trees.”

  “What was she doing over there?” Grace asked. She was almost hysterical.

  “I’on know, Mama. She always be in the barn.” He rocked his mother faster. “She ain’t crying or even coming over here to ask ’bout the baby. I’on know, maybe she in shock. I guess she already knows he’s dead.”

  At those words, Grace fell onto her son’s chest and began to cry again.

  As the two held each other, the wooden porch collapsed, and the entire house folded in on itself.

  Polo’s girlfriend came running from across the field.

  “I could see it from my house,” she said. “I could see the flames just shooting up into the sky.”

  Polo ignored her, rocking his mother. Coolie ran next door to Polo’s uncle’s house for more water. She returned, hurling the bucket so hard, the entire thing flew into the flames.

  “What are you doing?” Polo cried. “The house can’t be saved, it’s already gone.”

  “We gotta put the fire out,” she said. She ran next door for more water. Her short, curly hair was sticking to her face and neck in sweaty ringlets, and her peach-colored skin was flushed from the heat. She ran closer to the house. The fire licked at her, rushing up the front of her skirt.

  She screamed and danced around in a frenzy.

  Polo let go of his mother and leaped upon his girlfriend, throwing her to the ground. The fire on her skirt was extinguished as they rolled in the dust. Smoke rose from the hem in a funky puff.

  A car approached in the distance. Grace’s husband, Big Daddy, sped toward them in his bright yellow ’59 Ford. Before he had turned the engine off, Big Daddy and Grace’s brother, Walter, were dashing out of the car, running to the house. Within seconds they realized there was nothing either of them could do to save it.

  Big Daddy rushed over to Grace. Walter stood rooted, staring at the fantastic flames.

  “What happened, baby?” Big Daddy said in his booming voice.

  Grace’s sobbing grew louder.

  “We was all next door just sittin’ around, like we’ve done a hundred times before. Hamlet was in there. We didn’t want to disturb him since he was ’sleep. The next thing you know, it’s this fire. My baby’s little boy done died in there.”

  Big Daddy grabbed his head and dropped to his knees beside her. He wrapped his tree-trunk arms around her and released his muffled cries deep within the security of her shoulder.

  Walter stood above them. “Ain’t nuthin’ we can do but let it burn out,” he said. “It’s too far gone now.”

  He wanted to hug and comfort his sister, but Big Daddy and his overpowering strength were in the way.

  “Where’s Ophelia?” Big Daddy asked, choking back tears.

  He looked around for his daughter amid the fire and smoke. Polo and Coolie pointed in the direction of the trees. Big Daddy turned to see Ophelia facedown in the dirt, her hands digging deep into the earth. Her body was wracked with sobs as they all watched her, alone in her pain.

  From the porch next door, Sukie looked out. She glanced at her husband, Walter, who was still staring down at Grace and Big Daddy. She looked at the burning house, now a frame shrouded in the brilliance of the fire. She noticed Ophelia in the thicket of trees, covered with dirt and leaves as she grieved in the darkness.

  Sukie shook her head.

  With a slow turn, she sucked her tongue and went into the house to mop up all the water Polo and Coolie had wasted.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Downtown, Tennessee, was about eighty miles north of Columbia, right square in the middle of the route to Nashville. It was hard to get folks to drop in for a spell. There wasn’t much there for anybody to see.

  Downtown was a dustbowl.
There were four main buildings: the Green Goods Grocery Store, Kleinstein’s Feed and Seed, the All-County Bank, and the Lucky Star Liquor Joint. All the black folks lived around the inner edges of town in what was called Downtown’s downtown. The whites lived farther out, on the vestiges of what used to be plantations and farms. They came into town to stop at the All-County Bank, to shop for food, or to get supplies for their livestock from Kleinstein’s.

  Downtown had been Downtown for over a hundred years. Billy Varnessy went to New York with his cousins in 1854. Every weekend his cousins would go downtown in the big city. Since Billy Varnessy was from up in the hills of Tennessee, he figured that downtown New York was called downtown because it was flat. He remained in New York for five years, made a decent chunk of money in land development, and returned to Tennessee. He married Betty Carbunkle from Hohenwald and they settled a little town. His wife wanted to name it Varnessyville. Billy decided to call it Downtown, because he hoped that it would one day become his version of New York. There was no area of land in that part of Tennessee that was flat. Billy Varnessy’s Downtown was very hilly.

  During the week, many of the black folks worked the farms and homes of white landowners in the surrounding areas, and hung out in the evenings at the Lucky Star Liquor Joint. The Lucky Star was perched on top of one of the four hills that made up Downtown. At the top of the inclined dirt road, there was a big green house with a makeshift sign of Christmas lights in the shape of a star. More Christmas lights adorned a sign with the words LUCKY STAR LIQUOR JOINT painted in bright red letters. It flashed on and off twenty-four hours a day. Over the years someone had painted an F over the L in LUCKY, and someone else had tried to take it off with paint thinner. It never came all the way off, so to a stranger passing through town, it looked like the FUCKY STAR LIQUOR JOINT. Caesar Bucksport was the owner.

  Caesar, with his big, greasy, processed pompadour, would walk around the Lucky Star drinking peach Nehi, dressed in shiny black pants, a crisp white cotton shirt with broad black stripes that was always too tight over his very potbelly, and white Stacy Adams shoes. He strutted back and forth across the room “shooting the shit,” as he put it, with the patrons.

  He wore the same outfit every day. Folks figured he either had a whole lot of black pants and white cotton shirts with broad black stripes, or he had a woman stashed away who washed them every single night. No one knew. Caesar could leave the Lucky Star at five A.M. after juking all night and return at seven A.M. to reopen the liquor store, and the shiny black pants and white cotton shirt with broad black stripes would still be intact, pants creased, shirt crisp. He was never musky.

  No matter what time of day it was, he always had a peach Nehi in hand. And he never had a stain on his shirt.

  As he paraded around the store, not even sweating in the afternoon heat, he sucked on a cold bottle.

  “Y’all done heard ’bout that Boten baby and the fire?” he said to no one in particular. He belched a bouquet of peaches as he turned a chair around and sat down.

  “Yeah, but you know who baby that was, don’t you?”

  A short, fat red woman with moles all over her face and neck talked out of the side of her mouth as she chawed on a chicken leg. Caesar nodded at her, gulping the soda.

  “Uh-huh. I done heard it’s that boy Lay’s baby. That’s why they done shipped him off to Dee-troit like that, tryna be slick. Them folks ain’t foolin’ nobody. They think folks don’t know ’bout him and his sister.”

  He belched again. This time it was loud.

  The fat red woman was sucking the marrow out of her chicken bone. The suction noises of the marrow coming up from inside the bone were audible throughout the room.

  “All them Botens got something wrong with ’em,” she said. “I’on know what it is, but they’s all a little quirky.”

  “Not all of ’em. Just Grace and her family.”

  Caesar and the fat woman stopped talking and turned around toward the back of the room. In the corner sat Sukie, hidden in the shadows. There was a warm glass of gin in front of her and a half-empty bottle. Her burnt-orange hair was wound in a big ball and piled high atop her head.

  The natives in general were terrified of Sukie. People had heard talk for years that she was into roots. No one ever saw her do them, but they knew she was capable of laying down a serious mojo. It was obvious that once she had been very beautiful. Her hair was long and silky, her skin soft and smooth. And her eyes were an exotic blue-green-gray. No one had ever seen eyes like hers on a Negro in Downtown. A number of men made attempts to seduce her when she first arrived, even though she was married to Walter Martin. They knew she was from Louisiana. The men were excited to have a Creole in their midst.

  Not long after she married Walter, Sukie caught him cheating with an eighteen-year-old girl from a neighboring town. The next day Walter’s eyes swelled up big and red, then closed shut for a week. The doctor was called in, but he could offer no clear explanation. Walter worked with Big Daddy as a ranch hand. He was unable to work for days until the swelling just up and went away on its own. The girl he was caught with met a similar fate. Word spread that her breasts turned hard as rocks. Everyone concluded this was the work of Sukie. The cryptic smile she wore gave it all away.

  None of the people in town could understand why Walter stayed married to her. It was as though he were under her spell.

  “Y’all ain’t got to stop talking just ’cause I’m here,” Sukie said to Caesar and the woman.

  She picked up the glass of gin and sipped it. Sukie drank like a man but never showed her liquor. Caesar eased up with his peach Nehi and went back to the bar. The woman kept chawing on her chicken bone.

  “Just as well that baby died,” Sukie said. “Couldn’t no good come from a child like that. God took it. Got his reasons, too. He don’t reco’nize sin. Won’t stand for it. That baby dyin’ was the best thing that could happen. That baby was the devil, he wasn’t no child of God.”

  She picked up the bottle of gin and poured more into the glass.

  “You want some ice in that, Miss Sukie?” Caesar asked.

  He high-stepped over from the bar with a chilled lowball glass filled with ice. Sukie cocked a blue-green-gray eye at him like a parrot. She watched as he put the glass down on the table and filled it with the gin from the other warm glass.

  “That baby wasn’t no child of God,” she repeated.

  Caesar raced around the rest of the bar while everybody acted as though Sukie wasn’t there. No one wanted to say anything more to set her off. A tall black boy with a clubfoot and nappy hair got up and put some money in the jukebox. The sounds of Dinah Washington filled the room as he cripped over to the pool table and started a game.

  Sukie finished her gin and pushed her chair back from the table.

  “Y’all ain’t had to stop talking ’cause of me. Ain’t my family you talking ’bout nohow. She the one got them fool chillun.”

  Caesar was doing his best impression of a barnyard rooster trying to be a gamecock. He rushed across the room, grinning with yellow teeth.

  “You sho’ you don’t want nuthin’ else, Miss Sukie?”

  Sukie got up and gave him an evil eye. He turned around and stepped over to the next table.

  “They ain’t my chillun. They ain’t none of mine,” she said and left the Lucky Star, still mumbling under her breath. Everyone watched from the windows as she made her way down the winding dirt road to the bottom of the hill. When she was way out of earshot, the tall black boy with the clubfoot and nappy hair began to dance.

  So did everyone else.

  PART II

  1945–1949

  SUKIE

  Woe to the house where the hen crows and the rooster keeps still.

  —SPANISH PROVERB

  CHAPTER THREE

  Grace’s children were fascinated with Aunt Sukie. She was a mystery to them, with her beautiful burnt-orange hair and her strange blue-green-gray eyes.

  When they were v
ery young, they didn’t know to fear her. Sukie’s ways seemed magical, as did the air around her. Every morning after breakfast, before they headed to school, they rushed across the yard to her house to eat the thick slices of cake and fresh cookies she would leave for them.

  Sukie was always making something in her kitchen. If it wasn’t food, she was boiling and drying leaves for the strange, fragrant concoctions that crowded her cabinets and countertops. The house always smelled of cinnamon. The spice’s keen scent matched the color of her hair.

  Lay adored her. From the moment he could speak, his first words were “Susu.” It became his pet name for her.

  • • •

  Even though Lay was the middle child, his older sister Ophelia and kid brother Polo deferred to his authority. He was a wiry, athletic boy with strong features and a confident, aggressive bearing. His eyes were dark and penetrating, and when he stared at folks, often they couldn’t hold his gaze without being unnerved. He was a natural bully. He reveled in taunting the other children in town. He took toys, bikes, candy. He didn’t steal them. Kids surrendered when he asked. No one ever challenged him. That always disappointed him, because Lay relished a good fight.

  He had a penchant for things dark, often dragging his brother and sister down to the banks of the creek to hunt small animals and fish for the sheer thrill of dissecting them. Ophelia never enjoyed these jaunts. She preferred hanging back, away from the water’s edge, reading books as her brothers toyed with their kill. She was a soft-spoken girl with a delicate demeanor, smooth brown skin, and thick plaits that hung past her shoulders.

  Grace was very protective of the girl, sheltering her from the other children in town. Ophelia began school late, when Lay was big enough to go. She was two years older than her brother, but Grace didn’t want her to attend school alone.

  “What do you get out of doing that?” Ophelia asked her brothers as they gutted a small squirrel near the bank. “Why you want to kill innocent animals? It’s not like we’re taking them home to eat.”