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“People around here pride themselves on their hospitality,” Henry added.
“You’re saying I was rude?”
“I didn’t say that,” Henry mumbled.
“Hmm.” Memphis couldn’t wait to get back to New York City.
The screen door creaked open. The man came out with a bucket of blue paint and a brush. He leaned a ladder up against the store, then dipped the brush into the paint and swiped it across the porch ceiling, turning it a pale robin’s-egg blue.
“Looks real nice,” Memphis said. He flashed Henry a look. The look said, Look how polite I am!
“Haint Blue. To keep the ghosts away,” the man grunted. “Been having some troubles ’round here. Folks say the nights are haunted. Like the past is rising up out its grave to make itself known. You best be careful after dark, now. Don’t go camping in these woods.” He pointed the brush at a truck coming up the path, its tires kicking up dirt. In the back were cages packed with squalling chickens. “That would be Cousin Jesse.”
In the back of Cousin Jesse’s truck, Memphis, Bill, and Henry were nestled among wire-strung cages full of agitated chickens. Their wings flicked Memphis’s and Henry’s cheeks, making them flinch. It was noisy and smelly.
“Damn,” Memphis said, waving away the smell.
“Man didn’t have to give us a ride, but he did,” Bill said.
“Don’t need a sermon,” Memphis grumbled.
“When a man’s been the beneficiary of a miracle, it changes the way he sees things,” Bill said. “How you gonna fight the King of Crows if you don’t believe there’s any goodness in this world worth saving?”
They rode in silence for some time until the truck began to slow.
“I’d take you farther, but I got business this way,” Jesse told them as he let them out on the road about ten miles from Greenville. “Y’all watch out for that river. And stay out of the woods at night.”
“We heard about the ghosts,” Henry said.
“Ghosts, nothing. It’s the Klan you got to worry about.”
It was getting toward dusk. The sun slipped down and swaddled the horizon in softer blues. Memphis was tired. At his side, Henry, too, was lagging.
“Can we find a place to sit down?” Memphis asked.
“I’m glad you said it first,” Henry said, grinning. “Hey. There’s a sign for a town, looks like.” Henry hurried toward the black-and-white marker. But when he reached it, he froze.
“‘N—’” Memphis refused to repeat the insult. “‘Don’t let the sun catch you in this town after sundown.’”
“What I tell ya?” Bill said, walking down the railroad embankment and into the cover of the impartial trees.
They camped in a copse of woods. Bill found some branches and piled them up. The wood was damp, and it smoked something awful, but at last it caught fire. They warmed their hands and Bill took out some bread and oranges they’d managed at a little stand on the road.
“Thought we weren’t supposed to stay in the woods,” Memphis said quietly.
“Don’t see that we got much choice,” Bill said.
“I’ve heard about towns like that,” Henry said.
“Sundown towns.” Bill practically spat the words. “Towns that don’t want black folks, so they post a warning sign, letting you know they’ll be coming for you if you’re there after dark.”
“Charming,” Henry said bitterly.
Memphis stared into the fire. “Why are we trying to save this country? What’s it ever done for us?” In his mind, he could still see those words on that hateful sign. “Maybe we should just let it burn. Maybe we should let the King of Crows have it all.”
Bill let the question sit for a long time. “It’s the only country we got, I reckon.”
“That’s a bullshit answer,” Memphis grumbled.
