Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(7)

“Some folk are saying she sold her soul to have it. That she’s down with the devil now,” he said, regretting his words the second he uttered them. Not only did he not want to bring his mama further pain, he knew she’d know “those folk” were none other than his own wife.

“Then I feel mighty sorry for Old Mr. Scratch,” she said, surprising him with a laugh, “ ’cause if she is, he’s dancing to her tune now.” She ran her hand down the back of his head, like she used to do to comfort him when he was still just a boy. Her smile flattened. “The good Lord,” she said, her voice dropping lower, growing softer. “He sees into our hearts. I don’t know. Maybe Mama did sell her soul for her magic, but if she did, she did it for good reason. I got every faith He’s gonna redeem my mama in the end.”

She reached over to his plate to retrieve the fork, which she handed to him. “Eat. I ain’t leaving till that plate is clean, and I’m going to blame you for any foolishness your aunties get up to in there while I’m gone.” She winked at him, a smile spreading across her face, and he took the fork from her calloused fingers and dug in.

“Good boy.”

The front door banged open. “May,” Miriam called out over the plaintive cry of the screen door’s hinges, “we calling all the children in out of the trees.” She was trembling as she came to a stop in front of them.

“Why, what’s wrong?” Jesse’s mama asked, pushing up from the swing.

“The older ones,” Miriam said. “They wandered too far out back, all the way to the clearing.”

“They shouldn’t be going back there.” Mama shook her head, reaching down and bracing her lower back. “My land ends just beyond the tree line. I done told you all a thousand and one times not to wander too far back. That’s buckra land beyond the trees. Those young ones are gonna get themselves shot for trespassing.”

“We done called them in,” said Jesse’s cousin Charles, joining the conversation as he came around the side of the house, steering his two boys along with him, one hand on the shoulder of each. He maneuvered them toward the porch steps, but stopped short. The younger boy seemed scared half to death, his eyes wide and moist, his wiry frame shaking. “This one,” Charles said, giving Toby, the taller of the two, a shake, “he’s the one who found him, then the dummy called his little brother over to see him, too.”

“Found who?” Jesse asked, standing and resting his plate on the swing.

“The dead boy,” Charles said, seeming surprised that word hadn’t yet reached the front porch. A swarm of relatives started to circle around the house. Those with cars began to pile their children inside; those without toted their baskets and dragged their little ones along with them, only pausing to give a quick wave of farewell.

“You found a dead boy?” Mama asked the boys.

“Yeah,” Charles answered for his sons. “I done seen the body, too. Lying there buck naked.” His forehead wrinkled. “Them who did it slit him clean open from his throat all the way down to his privates.” Charles’s lips puckered, then he turned and spat.

“It’s Rosie’s boy,” Toby said, tugging against his daddy’s grasp. Rosie was a white woman who lived out on the edge of the colored area. She made her living selling corn liquor and the spot between her legs.

Boys and girls had been disappearing around this part of town for as long as Jesse could remember. People didn’t talk about it. Not out in the open, at least. Most were deemed runaways by the law, but twice before within the span of his memory, boys had turned up butchered in the exact manner Charles was describing. Both of them colored. Rosie’s boy was white. The killings of the colored boys never got much official attention. The murder of a white child would, even if the dead boy’s mama was the town whore.

Although several years had passed between the murders and disappearances, Jesse didn’t doubt that the killer was the same man. Nana Tuesday, she may or may not have known who it was, but she sure knew the reason for the killings, and she had taken precautions to make sure Jesse would never end up like Rosie’s boy.

“Boy never was quite right,” Aunt Miriam muttered. It was true. Some folk blamed syphilis, others Rosie’s heavy drinking, but it was undeniable the boy had been left dull witted and deformed.

“Yeah, but he was still white,” Charles said, giving voice to what they were all likely thinking. Either the killer had grown more brazen or more desperate. “He wasn’t killed there. Not enough blood for that. Just dumped there.”

Jesse’s mama took a few steps toward the porch stairs. “Tell me,” her voice was low, “did they leave any kind of marks on him?”

Charles nodded. “Lines and squiggles.” The school board had just approved yet another school for the white children, but Savannah only had a couple of schools for the colored. These buildings were dilapidated—one of them had even been condemned—and they lacked light and sufficient seats. Even though both schools offered two shifts of classes per day, half of the black children in town never got the chance to attend, and out of those who did, most never got to go further than the second or third grade. Charles had enrolled his boys, but Jesse wasn’t sure Charles himself had received the same opportunity. He wasn’t even sure this cousin from his father’s side of the family could read.