THEY went to the cemetery first, to pay their respects to the dead. It covered two small hills on the edge of Clanton, one lined with elaborate tombstones and monuments where prominent families had buried themselves together, over time, and had their names carved in heavy granite. The second hill was for the newer graves, and as time had passed in Mississippi the tombstones had grown smaller. Stately oaks and elms shaded most of the cemetery. The grass was trimmed low and the shrubs were neat. Azaleas were in every corner. Clanton placed a priority on its memories.

It was a lovely Saturday, with no clouds and a slight breeze that had started during the night and chased away the humidity. The rains were gone for a while, and the hillsides were lush with greenery and wild-flowers. Lee knelt by her mother's headstone and placed a small bouquet of flowers under her name. She closed her eyes as Adam stood behind her and stared at the grave. Anna Gates Cayhall, September 3, 1922 - September 18, 1977. She was fifty-five when she died, Adam calculated, so he was thirteen, still living in blissful ignorance somewhere in Southern California.

She was buried alone, under a single headstone, and this in itself had presented some problems. Mates for life are usually buried side by side, at least in the South, with the first one occupying the first slot under a double headstone. Upon each visit to the deceased, the survivor gets to see his or her name already carved and just waiting.

"Daddy was fifty-six when Mother died," Lee explained as she took Adam's hand and inched away from the grave. "I wanted him to bury her in a plot where he could one day join her, but he refused. I guess he figured he still had a few years left, and he might remarry."

"You told me once that she didn't like Sam."

"I'm sure she loved him in a way, they were together for almost forty years. But they were never close. As I grew older I realized she didn't like to be around him. She confided in me at times. She was a simple country girl who married young, had babies, stayed home with them, and was expected to obey her husband. And this was not unusual for those times. I think she was a very frustrated woman."

"Maybe she didn't want Sam next to her for eternity."

"I thought about that. In fact, Eddie wanted them separated and buried at opposite ends of the cemetery."

"Good for Eddie."

"He wasn't joking either."

"How much did she know about Sam and the Klan?"

"I have no idea. It was not something we discussed. I remember she was humiliated after his arrest. She even stayed with Eddie and you guys for a while because the reporters were bothering her."

"And she didn't attend any of his trials."

"No. He didn't want her to watch. She had a problem with high blood pressure, and Sam used that as an excuse to keep her away from it."

They turned and walked along a narrow lane through the old section of the cemetery. They held hands and looked at the passing tombstones. Lee pointed to a row of trees across the street on another hill. "That's where the blacks are buried," she said. "Under those trees. It's a small cemetery."

"You're kidding? Even today?"

"Sure, you know, keep 'em in their place. These people couldn't stand the idea of a Negro lying amongst their ancestors."

Adam shook his head in disbelief. They climbed the hill and rested under an oak. The rows of graves spread peacefully beneath them. The dome of the Ford County Courthouse glittered in the sun a few blocks away.

"I played here as a little girl," she said quietly. She pointed to her right, to the north. "Every Fourth of July the city celebrates with a fireworks display, and the best seats in the house are here in the cemetery. There's a park down there, and that's where they shoot from. We'd load up our bikes and come to town to watch the parade and swim in the city pool and play with our friends. And right after dark, we'd all gather around here, in the midst of the dead, and sit on these tombstones to watch the fireworks. The men would stay by their trucks where the beer and whiskey were hidden, and the women would lie on quilts and tend to the babies. We would run and romp and ride bikes all over the place."

"Eddie?"

"Of course. Eddie was just a normal little brother, pesky as hell sometimes, but very much a boy. I miss him, you know. I miss him very much. We weren't close for many years, but when I come back to this town I think of my little brother."

"I miss him too."

"He and I came here, to this very spot, the night he graduated from high school. I had been in Nashville for two years, and I came back because he wanted me to watch him graduate. We had a bottle of cheap wine, and I think it was his first drink. I'll never forget it. We sat here on Emil Jacob's tombstone and sipped wine until the bottle was empty."

"What year was it?"

"Nineteen sixty-one, I think. He wanted to join the Army so he could leave Clanton and get away from Sam. I didn't want my little brother in the Army, and we discussed it until the sun came up."

"He was pretty confused?"

"He was eighteen, probably as confused as most kids who've just finished high school. Eddie was terrified that if he stayed in Clanton something would happen to him, some mysterious genetic flaw would surface and he'd become another Sam. Another Cayhall with a hood. He was desperate to run from this place."

"But you ran as soon as you could."

"I know, but I was tougher than Eddie, at least at the age of eighteen. I couldn't see him leaving home so young. So we sipped wine and tried to get a handle on life."

"Did my father ever have a handle on life?"

"I doubt it, Adam. We were both tormented by our father and his family's hatred. There are things I hope you never learn, stories that I pray remain untold. I guess I pushed them away, while Eddie couldn't."

She took his hand again and they strolled into the sunlight and down a dirt path toward the newer section of the cemetery. She stopped and pointed to a row of small headstones. "Here are your great-grandparents, along with aunts, uncles, and other assorted Cayhalls."

Adam counted eight in all. He read the names and dates, and spoke aloud the poetry and Scriptures and farewells inscribed in granite.

"There are lots more out in the country," Lee said. "Most of the Cayhalls originated around Karaway, fifteen miles from here. They were country people, and they're buried behind rural churches."

"Did you come here for these burials?"

"A few. It's not a close family, Adam. Some of these people had been dead for years before I knew about it."

"Why wasn't your mother buried here?"

"Because she didn't want to be. She knew she was about to die, and she picked the spot. She never considered herself a Cayhall. She was a Gates."

"Smart woman."

Lee pulled a handful of weeds from her grandmother's grave, and rubbed her fingers over the name of Lydia Newsome Cayhall, who died in 1961 at the age of seventy-two. "I remember her well," Lee said, kneeling on the grass. "A fine, Christian woman. She'd roll over in her grave if she knew her third son was on death row."

"What about him?" Adam asked, pointing to Lydia's husband, Nathaniel Lucas Cayhall, who died in 1952 at the age of sixty-four. The fondness left Lee's face. "A mean old man," she said. "I'm sure he'd be proud of Sam. Nat, as he was known, was killed at a funeral."

"A funeral?"

"Yes. Traditionally, funerals were social occasions around here. They were preceded by long wakes with lots of visiting and eating. And drinking. Life was hard in the rural South, and often the funerals turned into drunken brawls. Nat was very violent, and he picked a fight with the wrong men just after a funeral service. They beat him to death with a stick of wood."

"Where was Sam?"

"Right in the middle of it. He was beaten too, but survived. I was a little girl, and I remember Nat's funeral. Sam was in the hospital and couldn't attend."

"Did he get retribution?"

"Of course."

"How?"

"Nothing was ever proven, but several years later the two men who'd beaten Nat were released from prison. They surfaced briefly around here, then disappeared. One body was found months later next door in Milburn County. Beaten, of course. The other man was never found. The police questioned Sam and his brothers, but there was no proof."

"Do you think he did it?"

"Sure he did. Nobody messed with the Cayhalls back then. They were known to be half-crazy and mean as hell."

They left the family gravesites and continued along the path. "So, Adam, the question for us is, where do we bury Sam?"

"I think we should bury him over there, with the blacks. That would serve him right."

"What makes you think they'd want him?"

"Good point."

"Seriously."

"Sam and I have not reached that point yet."

"Do you think he'll want to be buried here? In Ford County?"

"I don't know. We haven't discussed it, for obvious reasons. There's still hope."

"How much hope?"

"A trace. Enough to keep fighting."

They left the cemetery on foot, and walked along a tranquil street with worn sidewalks and ancient oaks. The homes were old and well painted, with long porches and cats resting on the front steps. Children raced by on bikes and skateboards, and old people rocked in their porch swings and waved slowly. "These are my old stomping grounds, Adam," Lee said as they walked aimlessly along. Her hands were stuck deep in denim pockets, her eyes moistened with memories that were at once sad and pleasant. She looked at each house as if she'd stayed there as a child and could remember the little girls who'd been her friends. She could hear the giggles and laughs, the silly games and the serious fights of ten-year-olds.

"Were those happy times?" Adam asked.

"I don't know. We never lived in town, so we were known as country kids. I always longed for one of these houses, with friends all around and stores a few blocks away. The town kids considered themselves to be a bit better than us, but it wasn't much of a problem. My best friends lived here, and I spent many hours playing in these streets, climbing these trees. Those were good times, I guess. The memories from the house in the country are not pleasant."

"Because of Sam?"

An elderly lady in a flowered dress and large straw hat was sweeping around her front steps as they approached. She glanced at them, then she froze and stared. Lee slowed then stopped near the walkway to the house. She looked at the old woman, and the old woman looked at Lee. "Mornin', Mrs. Langston," Lee said in a friendly drawl.

Mrs. Langston gripped the broom handle and stiffened her back, and seemed content to stare.

"I'm Lee Cayhall. You remember me," Lee drawled again.

As the name Cayhall drifted across the tiny lawn, Adam caught himself glancing around to see if anyone else heard it. He was prepared to be embarrassed if the name fell on other ears. If Mrs. Langston remembered Lee, it was not apparent. She managed a polite nod of the head, just a quick up and down motion, rather awkward as if to say, "Good morning to you. Now move along."

"Nice to see you again," Lee said and began walking away. Mrs. Langston scurried up the steps and disappeared inside. "I dated her son in high school," Lee said, shaking her head in disbelief.

"She was thrilled to see you."

"She was always sort of wacky," Lee said without conviction. "Or maybe she's afraid to talk to a Cayhall. Afraid of what the neighbors might say."

"I think it might be best if we go incognito for the rest of the day. What about it?"

"It's a deal."

They passed other folks puttering in their flower beds and waiting for the mailman, but they said nothing. Lee covered her eyes with sun shades. They zigzagged through the neighborhood in the general direction of the central square, chatting about Lee's old friends and where they were now. She kept in touch with two of them, one in Clanton and one in Texas. They avoided family history until they were on a street with smaller, wood-framed houses stacked tightly together. They stopped at the corner, and Lee nodded at something down the street.

"You see the third house on the right, the little brown one there?"

"Yes."

"That's where you lived. We could walk down there but I see people moving about."

Two small children played with toy guns in the front yard and someone was swinging on the narrow front porch. It was a square house, small, neat, perfect for a young couple having babies.

Adam had been almost three when Eddie and Evelyn disappeared, and as he stood on the corner he tried desperately to remember something about the house. He couldn't.

"It was painted white back then, and of course the trees were smaller. Eddie rented it from a local real estate agent."

"Was it nice?"

"Nice enough. They hadn't been married long. They were just kids with a new child. Eddie worked in an auto parts store, then he worked for the state highway department. Then he took another job."

"Sounds familiar."

"Evelyn worked part-time in a jewelry store on the square. I think they were happy. She was not from here, you know, and so she didn't know a lot of people. They kept to themselves."

They walked by the house and one of the children aimed an orange machine gun at Adam. There were no memories of the place to be evoked at that moment. He smiled at the child and looked away. They were soon on another street with the square in sight.

Lee was suddenly a tour guide and historian.

The Yankees had burned Clanton in 1863, the bastards, and after the war, General Clanton, a Confederate hero whose family owned the county, returned, with only one leg, the other one lost somewhere on the battlefield at Shiloh, and designed the new courthouse and the streets around it. His original drawings were on the wall upstairs in the courthouse. He wanted lots of shade so he planted oaks in perfect rows around the new courthouse. He was a man of vision who could see the small town rising from the ashes and prospering, so he designed the streets in an exact square around the courthouse common. They had walked by the great man's grave, she said, just a moment ago, and she would show it to him later.

There was a struggling mall north of town and a row of discount supermarkets to the east, but the people of Ford County still enjoyed shopping around the square on Saturday morning, she explained as they strolled along the sidewalk next to Washington Street. Traffic was slow and the pedestrians were even slower. The buildings were old and adjoining, filled with lawyers and insurance agents, banks and cafes, hardware stores and dress shops. The sidewalk was covered with canopies, awnings, and verandas from the offices and stores. Creaky fans hung low and spun sluggishly. They stopped in front of an ancient pharmacy, and Lee removed her sunglasses. "This was a hangout," she explained. "There was a soda fountain in the back with a jukebox and racks of comic books. You could buy an enormous cherry sundae for a nickel, and it took hours to eat it. It took even longer if the boys were here."

Like something from a movie, Adam thought. They stopped in front of a hardware store, and for some reason examined the shovels and hoes and rakes leaning against the window. Lee looked at the battered double doors, opened and held in place by bricks, and thought of something from her childhood. But she kept it to herself.

They crossed the street, hand in hand, and passed a group of old men whittling wood and chewing tobacco around the war memorial. She nodded at a statue and informed him quietly that this was General Clanton, with both legs. The courthouse was not open for business on Saturdays. They bought colas from a machine outside and sipped them in a gazebo on the front lawn. She told the story of the most famous trial in the history of Ford County, the murder trial of Carl Lee Hailey in 1984. He was a black man who shot and killed two rednecks who'd raped his little daughter. There were marches and protests by blacks on one side and Klansmen on the other, and the National Guard actually camped out here, around the courthouse, to keep the peace. Lee had driven down from Memphis one day to watch the spectacle. He was acquitted by an all-white jury.

Adam remembered the trial. He'd been a junior at Pepperdine, and had followed it in the papers because it was happening in the town of his birth.

When she was a child, entertainment was scarce, and trials were always well attended. Sam had brought her and Eddie here once to watch the trial of a man accused of killing a hunting dog. He was found guilty and spent a year in prison. The county was split -the city folks were against the conviction for such a lowly crime, while the country folks placed a higher value on good beagles. Sam had been particularly happy to see the man sent away.

Lee wanted to show him something. They walked around the courthouse to the rear door where two water fountains stood ten feet apart. Neither had been used in years. One had been for whites, the other for blacks. She remembered the story of Rosia Alfie Gatewood, Miss Allie as she was known, the first black person to drink from the white fountain and escape without injury. Not long after that, the water lines were disconnected.

They found a table in a crowded cafe known simply as The Tea Shoppe, on the west side of the square. She told stories, all of them pleasant and most of them funny, as they ate BLT's and french fries. She kept her sunglasses on, and Adam caught her watching the people.

They left Clanton after lunch, and after a leisurely walk back to the cemetery. Adam drove, and Lee pointed this way and that until they were on a county highway running through small, neat farms with cows grazing the hillsides. They passed occasional pockets of white trash - dilapidated double-wide trailers with junk cars strewn about - and they passed run-down shotgun houses still inhabited by poor blacks. But the hilly countryside was pretty, for the most part, and the day was beautiful.

She pointed again, and they turned onto a smaller, paved road that snaked its way deeper into the sticks. They finally stopped in front of an abandoned white frame house with weeds shooting from the porch and ivy swarming into the windows. It was fifty yards from the road, and the gravel drive leading to it was gullied and impassable. The front lawn was overgrown with Johnsongrass and cocklebur. The mailbox was barely visible in the ditch beside the road.

"The Cayhall estate," she mumbled, and they sat for a long time in the car and looked at the sad little house.

"What happened to it?" Adam finally asked.

"Oh, it was a good house. Didn't have much of a chance, though. The people were a disappointment." She slowly removed her sunglasses and wiped her eyes. "I lived here for eighteen years, and I couldn't wait to leave it."

"Why is it abandoned?"

She took a deep breath, and tried to arrange the story. "I think it was paid for many years ago, but Daddy mortgaged it to pay the lawyers for his last trial. He, of course, never came home again, and at some point the bank foreclosed. There are eighty acres around it, and everything was lost. I haven't been back here since the foreclosure. I asked Phelps to buy it, and he said no. I couldn't blame him. I really didn't want to own it myself. I heard later from some friends here that it was rented several times, and I guess eventually abandoned. I didn't know if the house was still standing."

"What happened to the personal belongings?"

"The day before the foreclosure, the bank allowed me to go in and box up anything I wanted. I saved some things - photo albums, keepsakes, yearbooks, Bibles, some of Mother's valuables. They're in storage in Memphis."

"I'd like to see them."

"The furniture was not worth saving, not a decent piece of anything. My mother was dead, my brother had just committed suicide, and my father had just been sent to death row, and I was not in the mood to keep a lot of memorabilia. It was a horrible experience, going through that dirty little house and trying to salvage objects that might one day bring a smile. Hell, I wanted to burn everything. Almost did."

"You're not serious."

"Of course I am. After I'd been here for a couple of hours, I decided to just burn the damned house and everything in it. Happens all the time, right? I found an old lantern with some kerosene in it, and I sat it on the kitchen table and talked to it as I boxed stuff up. It would've been easy."

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know. I wish I'd had the guts to do it, but I remember worrying about the bank and the foreclosure and, well, arson is a crime, isn't it? I remember laughing at the idea of going off to prison where I'd be with Sam. That's why I didn't strike a match. I was afraid I'd get in trouble and go to prison."

The car was hot now, and Adam opened his door. "I want to look around," he said, getting out. They picked their way down the gravel drive, stepping over gullies two feet wide. They stopped at the front porch and looked at the rotting boards.

"I'm not going in there," she said firmly and pulled her hand away from his. Adam studied the decaying porch and decided against stepping on it. He walked along the front of the house, looking at the broken windows with vines disappearing inside. He followed the drive around the house, and Lee tagged along.

The backyard was shaded by old oaks and maples, and the ground was bare in places where the sun was kept out. It stretched for an eighth of a mile down a slight incline until it stopped at a thicket. The plot was surrounded by woods in the distance.

She took his hand again, and they walked to a tree beside a wooden shed that, for some reason, was in much better condition than the house. "This was my tree," she said, looking up at the branches. "My own pecan tree." Her voice had a slight quiver.

"It's a great tree."

"Wonderful for climbing. I'd spend hours here, sitting in those branches, swinging my feet and resting my chin on a limb. In the spring and summer, I'd climb about halfway up, and no one could see me. I had my own little world up there."

She suddenly closed her eyes and covered her mouth with a hand. Her shoulders trembled. Adam placed his arm around her and tried to think of something to say.

"This is where it happened," she said after a moment. She bit her lip and fought back tears. Adam said nothing.

"You asked me once about a story," she said with clenched teeth as she wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands. "The story of Daddy killing a black man." She nodded toward the house. Her hands shook so she stuck them in her pockets.

A minute passed as they stared at the house, neither wanting to speak. The only rear door opened onto a small, square porch with a railing around it. A delicate breeze ruffled the leaves above them and made the only sound.

She took a deep breath, then said, "His name was Joe Lincoln, and he lived down the road there with his family." She nodded at the remnants of a dirt trail that ran along the edge of a field then disappeared into the woods. "He had about a dozen kids."

"Quince Lincoln?" Adam asked.

"Yeah. How'd you know about him?"

"Sam mentioned his name the other day when we were talking about Eddie. He said Quince and Eddie were good friends when they were kids."

"He didn't talk about Quince's father, did he?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. Joe worked here on the farm for us, and his family lived in a shotgun house that we also owned. He was a good man with a big family, and like most poor blacks back then they just barely survived. I knew a couple of his kids, but we weren't friends like Quince and Eddie. One day the boys were playing here in the backyard, it was summertime and we weren't in school. They got into an argument over a small toy, a Confederate Army soldier, and Eddie accused Quince of stealing it. Typical boy stuff, you know. I think they were eight or nine years old. Daddy happened to walk by, over there, and Eddie ran to him and told how Quince had stolen the toy. Quince emphatically denied it. Both boys were really mad and on the verge of tears. Sam, typically, flew into a rage and cursed Quince, calling him all sorts of names like `thieving little nigger' and `sorry little nigger bastard.' Sam demanded the soldier, and Quince started crying. He kept saying he didn't have it, and Eddie kept saying he did. Sam grabbed the boy, shook him real hard, and started slapping him on the butt. Sam was yelling and screaming and cursing, and Quince was crying and pleading. They went around the yard a few times with Sam shaking him and hitting him. Quince finally pulled free, and ran home. Eddie ran into our house, and Daddy followed him inside. A moment later, Sam stepped through the door there, with a walking cane, which he carefully laid on the porch. He then sat on the steps and waited patiently. He smoked a cigarette and watched the dirt road. The Lincoln house was not far away, and, sure enough, within a few minutes Joe came running out of the trees there with Quince right behind him. As he got close to the house, he saw Daddy waiting on him, and he slowed to a walk. Daddy yelled over his shoulder, 'Eddie! Come here! Watch me whip this nigger!"'

She began walking very slowly to the house, then stopped a few feet from the porch. "When Joe was right about here, he stopped and looked at Sam. He said something like, `Quince says you hit him, Mr. Sam.' To which my father replied something like, `Quince is a thieving little nigger, Joe. You should teach your kids not to steal.' They began to argue, and it was obvious there was going to be a fight. Sam suddenly jumped from the porch, and threw the first punch. They fell to the ground, right about here, and fought like cats. Joe was a few years younger and stronger, but Daddy was so mean and angry that the fight was pretty even. They .struck each other in the face and cursed and kicked like a couple of animals." She stopped the narrative and looked around the yard, then she pointed to the back door. "At some point, Eddie stepped onto the porch to watch it. Quince was standing a few feet away, yelling at his father. Sam made a dash for the porch and grabbed the walking cane, and the matter got out of hand. He beat Joe in the face and head until he fell to his knees, and he poked him in the stomach and groin until he could barely move. Joe looked at Quince and yelled for him to run get the shotgun. Quince took off. Sam stopped the beating, and turned to Eddie. `Go get my shotgun,' he said. Eddie froze, and Daddy yelled at him again. Joe was on the ground, on all fours, trying to collect himself, and just as he was about to stand, Sam beat him again and knocked him down. Eddie went inside and Sam walked to the porch. Eddie returned in a matter of seconds with a shotgun, and Daddy made him go inside. The door closed."

Lee walked to the porch and sat on the edge of it. She buried her face in her hands, and cried for a long time. Adam stood a few feet away, staring at the ground, listening to the sobs. When she finally looked at him, her eyes were glazed, her mascara was running, her nose dripped. She wiped her face with her hands, then rubbed them on her jeans. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Finish it, please," he said quickly.

She breathed deeply for a moment, then wiped her eyes some more. "Joe was just over there," she said, pointing to a spot in the grass not far from Adam. "He'd made it to his feet, and he turned and saw Daddy with the gun. He glanced around in the direction of his house, but there was no sign of Quince and his gun. He turned back to Daddy, who was standing right here, on the edge of the porch. Then my dear sweet father slowly raised the gun, hesitated for a second, looked around to see if anyone was watching, and pulled the trigger. Just like that. Joe fell hard and never moved."

"You saw this happen, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did."

"Where were you?"

"Over there," she nodded, but didn't point. "In my pecan tree. Hidden from the world."

"Sam couldn't see you?"

"No one could see me. I watched the whole thing." She covered her eyes again and fought back tears. Adam eased onto the porch and sat beside her.

She cleared her throat and looked away. "He watched Joe for a minute, ready to shoot again if necessary. But Joe never moved. He was quite dead. There was some blood around his head on the grass, and I could see it from the tree. I remember digging my fingernails into the bark to keep from falling, and I remember wanting to cry but being too scared. I didn't want him to hear me. Quince appeared after a few minutes. He'd heard the shot, and he was crying by the time I saw him. Just running like crazy and crying, and when he saw his father on the ground he started screaming like any child would've done. My father raised the gun again, and for a second I knew he was about to shoot the boy. But Quince threw Joe's shotgun to the ground and ran to his father. He was bawling and wailing. He wore a light-colored shirt, and soon it was covered with blood. Sam eased to the side and picked up Joe's shotgun, then he went inside with both guns."

She stood slowly and took several measured steps. "Quince and Joe were right about here," she said, marking the spot with her heel. "Quince held his father's head next to his stomach, blood was everywhere, and he made this strange moaning sound, like the whimper of a dying animal." She turned and looked at her tree. "And there I was sitting up there like a little bird, crying too. I hated my father so badly at that moment."

"Where was Eddie?"

"Inside the house, in his room with the door locked." She pointed to a window with broken panes and a shutter missing. "That was his room. He told me later that he looked outside when he heard the shot, and he saw Quince clutching his father. Within minutes, Ruby Lincoln came running up with a string of children behind her. They all collapsed around Quince and Joe, and, God, it was horrible. They were screaming and weeping and yelling at Joe to get up, to please not die on them.

"Sam went inside and called an ambulance. He also called one of his brothers, Albert, and a couple of neighbors. Pretty soon there was a crowd in the backyard. Sam and his gang stood on the porch with their guns and watched the mourners, who dragged the body under that tree over there." .She pointed to a large oak. "The ambulance arrived after an eternity, and took the body away. Ruby and her children walked back to their house, and my father and his buddies had a good laugh on the porch."

"How long did you stay in the tree?"

"I don't know. As soon as everybody was gone, I climbed down and ran into the woods. Eddie and I had a favorite place down by a creek, and I knew he would come looking for me. He did. He was scared and out of breath; told me all about the shooting, and I told him that I'd seen it. He didn't believe me at first, but I gave him the details. We were both scared to death. He reached in his pocket and pulled out something. It was the little Confederate soldier he and Quince had fought over. He'd found it under his bed, and so he decided on the spot that everything was his fault. We swore each other to secrecy. He promised he would never tell anyone that I had witnessed the killing, and I promised I would never tell anyone that he'd found the soldier. He threw it in the creek."

"Did either of you ever tell?"

She shook her head for a long time.

"Sam never knew you were in the tree?" Adam asked.

"Nope. I never told my mother. Eddie and I talked about it occasionally over the years, and as time passed we just sort of buried it away. When we returned to the house, our parents were in the middle of a huge fight. She was hysterical and he was wild-eyed and crazy. I think he'd hit her a few times. She grabbed us and told us to get in the car. As we were backing out of the driveway, the sheriff pulled up. We drove around for a while, Mother in the front seat, and Eddie and I in the back, both of us too scared to talk. She didn't know what to say. We assumed he would be taken to jail,- but when we parked in the driveway he was sitting on the front porch as if nothing had happened."

"What did the sheriff do?"

"Nothing, really. He and Sam talked for a bit.

Sam showed him Joe's shotgun and explained how it was a simple matter of self-defense. Just another dead nigger."

"He wasn't arrested?"

"No, Adam. This was Mississippi in the early fifties. I'm sure the sheriff had a good laugh about it, patted Sam on the back, and told him to be a good boy, and then left. He even allowed Sam to keep Joe's shotgun."

"That's incredible."

"We were hoping he'd go to jail for a few years."

"What did the Lincolns do?"

"What could they do? Who would listen to them? Sam forbade Eddie from seeing Quince, and to make sure the boys didn't get together, he evicted them from their house."

"Good God!"

"He gave them one week to get out, and the sheriff arrived to fulfill his sworn duties by forcing them out of the house. The eviction was legal and proper, Sam assured Mother. It was the only time I thought she might leave him. I wish she had."

"Did Eddie ever see Quince?"

"Years later. When Eddie started driving, he started looking for the Lincolns. They had moved to a small community on the other side of Clanton, and Eddie found them there. He apologized and said he was sorry a hundred times. But they were never friends again. Ruby asked him to leave. He told me they .lived in a run-down shack with no electricity."

She walked to her pecan tree and sat against its trunk. Adam followed and leaned against it. He looked down at her, and thought of all the years she'd been carrying this burden. And he thought of his father, of his anguish and torment, of the indelible scars he'd bome to his death. Adam now had the first clue to his father's destruction, and he wondered if the pieces might someday fit together. He thought of Sam, and as he glanced at the porch he could see a younger man with a gun and hatred in his face. Lee was sobbing quietly.

"What did Sam do afterward?"

She struggled to control herself. "The house was so quiet for a week, maybe a month, I don't know. But it seemed like years before anyone spoke over dinner. Eddie stayed in his room with the door locked. I would hear him crying at night, and he told me again and again how much he hated his father. He wanted him dead. He wanted to run away from home. He blamed himself for everything. Mother became concerned, and she spent a lot of time with him. As for me, they thought I was off playing in the woods when it happened. Shortly after Phelps and I married, I secretly began seeing a psychiatrist. I tried to work it out in therapy, and I wanted Eddie to do the same. But he wouldn't listen. The last time I talked to Eddie before he died, he mentioned the killing. He never got over it."

"And you got over it?"

"I didn't say that. Therapy helped, but I still wonder what would've happened if I had screamed at Daddy before he pulled the trigger.

Would he have killed Joe with his daughter watching? I don't think so."

"Come on, Lee. That was forty years ago. You can't blame yourself"

"Eddie blamed me. And he blamed himself, and we blamed each other until we were grown. We were children when it happened, and we couldn't run to our parents. We were helpless."

Adam could think of a hundred questions about the killing of Joe Lincoln. The subject was not likely to be raised again with Lee, and he wanted to know everything that happened, every small detail. Where was Joe buried? What happened to his shotgun? Was the shooting reported in the local paper? Was the case presented to a grand jury? Did Sam ever mention it to his children? Where was her mother during the fight? Did she hear the argument and the gunshot? What happened to Joe's family? Did they still live in Ford County?

"Let's burn it, Adam," she said strongly, wiping her face and glaring at him.

"You're not serious."

"Yes I am! Let's burn the whole damned place, the house, the shed, this tree, the grass and weeds. It won't take much. Just a couple of matches here and there. Come on."

"No, Lee."

"Come on."

Adam bent over gently and took her by the arm. "Let's go, Lee. I've heard enough for one day."

She didn't resist. She too had had enough for one day. He helped her through the weeds, around the house, over the ruins of the driveway, and back to the car.

They left the Cayhall estate without a word. The road turned to gravel, then stopped at the intersection of a highway. Lee pointed to the left, then closed her eyes as if trying to nap. They bypassed Clanton and stopped at a country store near Holly Springs. Lee said she needed a cola, and insisted on getting it herself. She returned to the car with a six-pack of beer and offered a bottle to Adam. "What's this?" he asked.

"Just a couple," she said. "My nerves are shot. Don't let me drink more than two, okay. Only two."

"I don't think you should, Lee."

"I'm okay," she insisted with a frown, and took a drink.

Adam declined and sped away from the store. She drained two bottles in fifteen minutes, then went to sleep. Adam placed the sack in the backseat, and concentrated on the road.

He had a sudden desire to leave Mississippi, and longed for the lights of Memphis.