Chapter Text
September 1919 — Clarksdale Depot
Clarksdale appeared in pieces.
The faded platform baking under the afternoon sun, the peeling paint of the depot building, the thin haze of late summer heat floating just above the ground.
The train eased into the station with a long, mechanical sigh. A whistle sounded, a thick puff of black smoke curling upwards into the air before spreading sideways like two outstretched arms.
Annie stepped out of the train car, bag clutched so hard to her side that her knuckles blanched around the handle. The fabric of her travel dress clung to the back of her knees, the edges damp with sweat and dust from the cramped quarters of the cabin. She took a deep breath, searching, almost desperately, for fresh air. Instead, she was greeted with the smell of industry— iron rails, coal smoke, and wood.
She was a long way from New Orleans where she grew up, a place where even the shadows had their own pulse. Walking through its narrow quarters always felt like floating. Like being tipsy —and not from liquor— but from a heightened awareness. Legend had it, New Orleans was where the veil was worn thinnest. A spiritual port of sorts.
But this town felt different.
Heavier. The air, thicker.
It pressed against her collarbones where beads of sweat lingered, beneath her blouse, and onto her shoulders, settling like the grip of a firm hand.
The station was busy. New arrivals moved through, half-folded newspapers and worn suitcases in hand. Men in work shirts and suspenders stood in small clusters by a stack of crates, women in hats and gloves speaking softly nearby. A wagon idled, its mule flicking flies away with its tail.
Annie stood in the middle of the platform for a moment, just listening. She drowned out the shuffle of old boots, the conversations around her, until she heard nothing but the quiet hum of the land. Her grandmother always said some land talked louder than people if you knew how to listen, and Annie knew better than most how to tune into the quiet language of places. But the land here didn’t just speak. It wailed with both the cries of the dead and the pain of those left on earth to witness. And the deep crimson color of the dirt reflected its sorrow.
A man sat in the corner of the train station perched on an upside-down crate, harmonica at his lips. Another stood next to him on the guitar. A third, in the middle, belted something deep and soulful. They weren’t just playing music. They were putting melody to pain.
A crowd began to gather around them, snapping their fingers and bopping their heads along. Annie listened while slowly making her way towards the waiting room, eyes darting around the scene until they landed on a man posted just outside the waiting room, one knee bent against the wall.
He was already looking at her.
His smile arrived before his words did, sunlight catching the golds on the side of his mouth.
“That’s a mighty fine dress you got on,” he said.
Annie’s eyes narrowed as they swept over him. He was tall. Broad shoulders, shirt sleeves rolled up, suspenders loose. His voice was deep, his accent thick, but his cadence was playful. And he looked just as slick as he sounded. His eyes were low under the brim of his hat, but they gleamed. Maybe from the sunlight, maybe from something more nefarious. And although they looked to be swimming with mischief, they were still sharp. Measuring.
She blinked at him slowly as she took him in. “Thank you,” she said politely.
He inclined his neck, removing the toothpick that rested between his lips. “Where you headed, sister?”
Annie looked down to the crumpled paper in her hand— a map covered in faded graphite markings. “Somewhere off of,” she squinted, “fourth street.”
“Know where you goin’?”
“Not really. No.”
The man grinned, then cleared his throat. “Head south of the railroad tracks. You’ll see a church on your left, white frame, bell lean a little. Keep walkin’. Just past the barbershop, take a left,” he said quickly, gesturing directions while he spoke.
Annie nodded. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Where you from?”
“Louisiana.”
His eyes swept over her. “North or South?”
”New Orleans.”
He tilted his head. “You Miss Della’s girl?”
Annie clutched her bag closer. “Who you ‘posed to be?”
The man grinned wider, then put the toothpick back in his mouth. “Name’s Stack.” He pushed off the wall, closing the distance between them. Then he grabbed her hand and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. “Your aunt sent me to get you. You Annie right?”
Annie nodded once, the warmth of his lips still lingering on her skin. “Nice to meet you, Stack,” she said looking around. “How you know her?”
“Everybody know everybody ‘round here. But your aunt— she a good woman. Real good. Always looked out for me and my brother. Known her since we was kids.”
“Oh,” she replied. “You right about that. She’s a really good woman.”
Stack stepped closer. “You’ll come to find out…” he said, voice dropping low. “I ain’t wrong about much.”
Annie blinked. “Mhmm.”
Stack glanced towards the bag on Annie’s shoulder as she readjusted it. “You got a trunk too?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded. “You make it up here alright?”
Annie looked down at herself, then back up. “Part of me missin’?”
Stack chuckled softly, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks. “Any trouble?”
“Ain’t no trouble I can’t handle myself.”
“Mhmm,” Stack hummed. “Well…” he said, taking Annie’s bag off her shoulders. “I guess we best be on our way then.”
The sun sat high in the sky, the sweltering afternoon heat beating down on the landscape. Stack and Annie walked in stride, dirt softening the sound of their footsteps as they got closer to a line of cars.
Annie looked beyond the depot towards the town that stretched just beyond them. A few streets branched out from the tracks, lined with wooden storefronts and dusty sidewalks. Wagons rolled slowly through the streets. Somewhere, a hammer struck metal with a steady rhythm. But beneath the ordinary sounds of small town life, that hum still reverberated.
Stack looked over to her, following her gaze. “Different from home?”
“Yeah.”
They approached a truck parked crooked like it had arrived in haste.
“This me,” Stack said, opening the passenger door and loading Annie’s things into the backseat.
The engine rattled to life as they settled into the car. Annie looked around curiously as they rolled through town. A woman hunched over a washbasin. A man stalled mid-swing of his hammer, straightened, then politely nodded at Stack. A wagon rutted by, slinging mud off the wheel spokes. Children played hopscotch on the street, stopping to whisper to each other as cars drove by. The smell of coal and steam began to fade into something more familiar. Something fried, something smoky, and something sweet.
“So, Annie,” Stack started, driving past the church on the corner. “What brings you to Mississippi? Girl like you get lost in a big city like New Orleans?”
“My grandmother sent me up here to help my aunt with the boarding house,” she replied.
Stack grunted. “For how long?”
Annie shrugged. “A while.”
Stack’s eyebrows wiggled, but he didn’t push further. “Well, welcome to Clarksdale, Miss….”
“Royal,” she said slowly. “Annie Royal.”
“Well, Miss Royal…Miss Della been waitin’ on you,” he said. “Talked ‘bout you every damn day.”
“That so?”
“Mhmm,” Stack hummed. “Said you should be ‘bout as tall as a cypress tree. Like your mama. And just as stubborn.”
Annie’s lip twitched slightly. “She would say somethin’ like that.”
“She was right ‘bout the first thing. I guess we’ll see about the second.”
“I guess so,” she hummed.
Stack turned down a narrow street with small homes stacked next to each other and trees that lined the dirt sidewalks. Aunt Della’s house sat at the end, a faded yellow shotgun with white shutters and delicate lace curtains that covered the windows. Chatter drifted from open windows, the cluck of roosters competing with the screech of cicadas from trees that shaded the clapboard siding. The screen door was already cracked, the smell of cornbread and beans drifting onto the porch, rich, warm and welcoming.
The inside of the house was cooler than the yard. The large windows in the front parlor let in a substantial amount of light, the lace curtains that dressed them breathing faintly from the occasional breeze. Aunt Della sat on the couch, legs angled towards the door like she was waiting on this very moment. Her body was slender and frail, but her gaze was sharp. Her eyes softened though, when they landed on Annie. She stood quickly, crossing the room to bring her into an embrace.
“Annie,” she said softly. Her voice was smooth, like a warmed honeycomb drizzled over fluffy cornbread.
“Tante-t,” Annie replied, letting out a sigh of relief. They hugged each other tightly, swaying side to side in each other’s arms. Aunt Della touched Annie’s chin lightly, tilting her face towards the light that seeped through the windows. Annie could see the streaks of silver at her temples, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the intensity of her eyes. They were dark but luminous, like riverwater at night when the moon reflects off it just right.
“I’m so glad you here,” she said gently.
Aunt Della pulled back, then looked over to Stack who stood next to Annie with a sly grin on his face. “Elias,” she said warmly.
Stack reached in for a hug, “Miss Dee.”
She cupped his cheek. “Thank you for bringin’ my baby home safely.”
“Anytime, Miss Dee,” Stack said, grinning.
Aunt Della motioned for them both to sit.
“How was the train?”
Annie exhaled sharply. “Cramped. Dirty. Stank.”
Stack whistled low, resting his arms above the back of the couch.
“At least you made it in one piece. You should get some rest today. Tomorrow we’ll go into town.”
“I can show her ‘round,” Stack cut in.
“Boy please, you ain’t gon’ show her nothin’ but trouble.”
Stack’s eyes widened, fingers splayed across his chest in faux outrage. “Damn, Miss Dee. Thought we was better than that.”
Annie’s eyes flicked between the pair curiously.
“I’ll bring the trunk in,” Stack said, standing to his feet.
“Set it by the stairs,” Aunt Della said without turning. “And tell your brother I’d like to see him before sundown this time.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Nice to meet you, Annie. Miss Dee,” Stack said, tipping his hat as he made his exit. The soft thud of the screen door fitting into its frame was loud in the quiet of the front room.
“Hungry?” Aunt Della asked.
“Starving.”
“Come on,” Aunt Della said, turning on her heel towards the kitchen. “Let’s get you somethin’ to eat.”
The two ladies moved towards the back of the house where the kitchen stood. It was big, large enough to feed a house of hungry boarders, but small enough to still feel intimate. Light flooded in from the large window that faced the backyard, throwing pools of golden warmth on the floorboards that were scrubbed smooth, worn by years of foot traffic. A long wooden table sat in the middle surrounded by mismatched chairs. Annie took a seat while Aunt Della made her way to the stove.
“This house been standin’ since ‘79,” Aunt Della said. “Seen floods. Sickness. Seen boys leave for war and return as men.”
She took the lid off the cast-iron pot. The smell of slow-cooked meat filled the air, along with the thick, dark, glossy aroma of red beans. The feeling struck Annie’s chest like a memory.
“You been here that long?” Annie asked.
“Just about,” Aunt Della replied. “Your uncle worked them fields ‘til his body damn near broke. Saved just enough before the union troops pulled out. Peckerwoods tried to take it from him.”
“What happened?”
“They used to come ‘round. Tried to set fire to the place a few times.”
“And?”
Aunt Della exhaled while she stirred. “They crops started dryin’ up. Cattle got sick.”
Annie’s eyebrows rose. “They still ‘round here?”
Aunt Della shrugged her shoulders. “Last I heard…they went west. Ain’t had no problems since.”
“That so?”
Aunt Della turned, looked Annie over once, then turned right back to the pot.
“You cook?” Aunt Della asked.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good. You’ll help with breakfast and supper.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Aunt Della’s mouth curved just slightly. “Don’t ma’am me,” she said, pulling Annie into her chest. “You family.”
She plated Annie’s meal with care— stewed catfish with peppers, onions, and okra, and a wedge of buttery sweet cornbread, all ladled over a bed of rice and andouille sausage.
“Eat,” Aunt Della ordered, pushing the plate towards her niece.
Annie picked up her fork and brought a scoop of food to her mouth. The smells flooded her nose and warmth spread slowly through her belly. And not just from the spice, but from the sense of familiarity. She took a bite and her eyes rolled shut. “Taste like home,” she said quietly.
“You thought I forgot?” Aunt Della asked, eyebrows lifted. “Bayou don’t leave your blood.”
Aunt Della sipped from a mug of tea as she watched her niece with steady eyes.
“You miss it yet?” Aunt Della asked.
Annie considered the question. “Kinda,” she answered finally. “I miss mama. Miss daddy. I even miss my brothers. But I don’t think I’m meant to go back for a while,” she replied.
Aunt Della studied her over the rim of her mug. “No,” she said softly. “Not for a while.”
Through bites and sips, they talked about the train ride. About family. About New Orleans. Once Annie was finished, they both rose and ascended towards the front parlor, belly full and eyes low.
“Come on,” she said as they walked towards the staircase. “Lemme show you ‘round.”
“Your room is here, in the front. Mine is in the back. Down the hall you have the wash room, and the rest of these rooms belong to boarders. Most of them work for the railroads or the sawmill. Some of them just passin’ through. I ain’t had any problems but if you do— you make sure you let me know. If any of them even look at you wrong or make you uncomfortable— I’ll have my boys take care of ‘em.”
“Your boys?” Annie asked.
“The Moore twins,” she replied, grinning slyly. “You met one of them earlier.”
Annie’s eyebrows raised. “Ah! Stack.”
She nodded. “That’s the one.”
Annie nodded. Aunt Della quieted, drawing closer to her, the floorboards groaning faintly underneath her steps. “You look so much like your mother,” she said, fitting a loose tendril behind her ear. “You know, back in the day, she had the whole Treme in a trance. She’d walk down to the docks with your daddy’s lunch. Every man within a mile couldn’t help but watch her walk.”
“Really?”
“Mhmm,” Aunt Della hummed. “She was like a siren, that woman. Your daddy stayed pullin’ her skirts.”
“He still do,” Annie said incredulously. “Bless his heart.”
Aunt Della chuckled lightly. “Unpack,” she continued. “Get rest. Supper bell ring at six. And tonight,” she said, “tonight you gon’ take you a bath. Wash this travel off you proper.”
Annie nodded once, hearing the echo of her grandmother in her great-aunt’s words.
Night baths pull things off the body that day washes can’t touch.
“You feel it yet?” Aunt Della asked suddenly.
Annie’s head rose slowly. “Feel what?”
“This place.”
Annie looked around the room. It was quaint. An iron-frame bed sat in the corner, a low wooden table by its side. A single window faced the house next door, shaded only by the branches of a magnolia tree. She looked out the window. At the rows of houses beyond the yard. At the setting sun that burned honey-gold onto the horizon.
“Yeah,” she admitted. “It’s heavy.”
“Heaviness ain’t always bad,” Aunt Della started. “Some soil heavy ‘cause it rich.”
Annie’s lip curved up slightly. “Sound just like grandma.”
A beat passed.
“She always say– you see a glass half full, you take. Half empty, you gon’ pour into it.”
Aunt Della took a step closer. “Be careful not to pour too much.”
Annie walked to the window, her fingertips brushing the sill. A breeze blew in, carrying with it a faint smell of rock salt. The lace curtains whispered against the pane.
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
“You can arrange it how you like in here,” Aunt Della said finally, changing the subject. “Long as you don’t burn my floors.”
Annie smiled faintly. “I won’t.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Aunt Della said, closing the door behind her.
The brightness of the afternoon sky had begun to fade, the colors of sunset blooming across the horizon like a bruise. Annie sighed as she sat on the bed, fiddling with the Ileke beads that laid tucked under the neckline of her dress.
Fatigue set deep in her bones, exhaustion spreading through her body as it sank further into the mattress, begging for rest. Once she laid her head back onto the pillow and closed her eyes, sleep pulled her under almost immediately.
The colors of nighttime had swallowed the sun, deepening shades of black shadowing the corners of the tiny room like an obsidian veil. Stripes of silver bled through the windows, little slivers of light the moon felt like handing over that night. Annie woke up with the taste of saltwater on her lips. Her eyes blinked open to the darkness, her ears greeted with the rhythmic chirp of crickets and the low moan of a guitar from somewhere down the street. She threw her legs over the side of the bed, the floor creaking under her footsteps. She grabbed a nightgown and made her way into the hallway, drawn towards the sounds of hushed conversation floating upwards from the parlor. Warm light drifted from downstairs, along with the smell of cigarette smoke and something heavier, with a little more bite. The house was quieter now, settling into the steady rhythm of the evening.
Downstairs, Aunt Della sat on the couch, head thrown back in laughter, enjoying the company of two men — one seated in the chair across from her, one leaning against the wall. They turned to look at Annie as she walked down the steps.
”Annie,” Aunt Della said warmly. “You get some rest suga?"
“Yes,” Annie said, looking over at the men, nodding politely. “I think I’m ready for that bath, auntie.”
Della’s eyes lit up. “That bath is ready for you,” she said, standing to her feet.
They walked together through the house and out the door leading to the backyard lean-to. Inside sat a large galvanized tub, filled with steaming hot water. Aunt Della knelt down beside it. She crushed rosemary between her firm fingers, scattered epsom salts that sat on the surface like little white stars before dissolving into the warmth, and crushed bay, the dark, fragrant leaves floating around the edges.
“To make sure nothin’ took the journey with you,” Aunt Della murmured as she stood up. “Take your time, baby,” she said simply. She closed the door with a wink, leaving her to it.
Annie undressed slowly. She peeled off her dress, the cotton still clinging to the faint layer of sweat on her chest. Her slip went next, falling into a pile on the floor. She dipped a toe in to test the temperature, then stepped in— fully submerging herself into the water. The heat climbed her calves, thighs and hips, an exhale escaping her mouth as it wrapped around her. It coaxed something open in her chest she hadn’t realized was tight. She tilted her head back, letting the warmth wash over her scalp. Her hair was styled in two thick French braids that she undid quickly, her nimble fingers working to detangle the tight coils that fell to the middle of her back.
Annie lathered a rag with soap, then took to scrubbing off the memory of her journey. The rough fabric glided over her arms, stomach, toes, and legs, the fragrant aromas of lavender and lye filled the confinement of the lean-to. She dipped her fingers beneath the surface of the water and rinsed it slowly over her shoulders, the warmth sliding down her spine in warm ribbons. When she was finished she sat upright in the tub, knees pressed to her chest.
A few minutes of silence passed. The only sounds — the gentle trickle of water as she adjusted herself and the nighttime lullaby of nature.
As she relaxed back, legs extending outwards, head resting against the rim, a hum slipped through her lips. Not loudly, just enough for her to feel her vocal cords vibrate in her chest. A low note joined a softer one as she hummed a melody from memory. One her grandmother used to sing when hanging herbs up to dry.
The surface of the bath trembled faintly, the water shivering in thin rings, spreading outward until they brushed the sides of the tub. Outside, something in the yard rustled, the wind chime on the front porch giving a faint, fluted sound.
Annie closed her eyes, the warm water loosening the tension in her muscles. She stayed just like that, enjoying the moment, indulging in it.
Twenty minutes had gone by before she opened her eyes again, the bathwater now lukewarm and cooling. It streamed down her limbs as she stood, bits of rosemary and bay leaf clinging to her skin before falling back into the tub. Annie dried off slowly, rubbing herself down with shea butter and oils before she slipped into her nightgown. She sauntered back into the house, water still dripping from the damp hair hanging loosely over her shoulder.
The house was quiet now, the oil lamps of the parlor long extinguished. A single candle lit a path through the home, the low embers of the wood stove crackling softly as she tiptoed through the kitchen. Her nightgown melded to her body, the steam heat of the bath still clinging to her skin. She followed the dim light, stopping in her tracks when she heard the slow groan of porch boards. She paused long enough to hear voices, low and muffled, drifting in from the other side of the front door.
She padded to the front window, looking through the lace curtains that hung over them, the fabric thin enough to see through if she stood close. She peeked through it to find three figures standing on the porch boards, their shapes cut in silver by the pale wash of the moon.
Aunt Della sat in her rocking chair, moving back and forth slowly as if the gentle rhythm helped her listen better.
Stack, the man who drove her from the train station earlier, leaned against the porch rail like he owned the night. His arms swung loose as he spoke, his mouth moving faster than his hands as he gestured animatedly.
She looked to the right. Stack’s twin stood just beside him. Back straight, hat low, arms folded in front of him. Moonlight caught the edges of his face, hitting the curve of his cheekbones, the straight line of his nose, the strength of his jaw. She stood there for a moment, studying him longer than she meant to, eyes fixated on the downturn of his mouth, the deep set of his eyes, the slight furrow in his brow, his energy.
Where Stack’s spirit felt restless, his twin’s held a different type of unease.
Annie leaned closer to the window, the curtain brushing softly against the swell of her cheek. She lifted her hand, the fabric whispering against her skin as her fingers gently pushed it aside just enough to clear her view.
Outside, Stack laughed at something Aunt Della said, but his twin didn’t.
Smoke stood on the porch between Stack and Miss Della, his eyes following their conversation better than his mind was. He took a drag of his cigarette, letting the tobacco blend fill his lungs.
Six months had passed since they stepped back into Clarksdale like they never left, him and his brother quickly reminding people of their reputation. He was always the quiet one, the brooder, the one with fire in his eyes and heaviness on his shoulders. The one whose presence suffocated a space. That’s why they called him Smoke.
So when he felt the air shift, his eyes naturally drifted towards it.
The house stood quietly behind them. The curtains hung motionless inside the front window, the whiteness of the lace shimmering against the darkness of the room beyond them. From the porch, the glass reflected the night sky more than the house itself. Smoke couldn’t see inside, and yet…
He straightened slightly and took another drag of his cigarette, his gaze still set on the thick glass. It was fogged at the edges, warped slightly from age. Stack and Miss Della’s conversation carried on around him, but Smoke wasn’t listening. He was trying to make out the shape of something— the ghost of an outline beyond the pane, a shift in darkness behind the curtain.
Inside, Annie watched him, their eyes drawn to each other through the thin veil of fabric.
Or at least that’s how she felt.
He didn’t waver. Didn’t blink. He just…looked. His eyes were more hooded than Stack’s. Dark with a heat behind them, like smoldering embers. He shifted where he stood, lifting his head just enough that moonlight hit his eyes, making his irises glow faintly. Annie’s breath hitched. Her thighs, still slightly damp from the bathwater, pressed together instinctively.
Everything else fell away, the moment narrowing to just the space between them. The crickets, the wind chime that trembled again with the night breeze, Stack and Aunt Della’s voices, all faded slowly into the background.
The moment stretched, their eyes holding for three seconds, five seconds, ten.
Annie hadn’t even realized she’d started to take a step back until the back of her leg bumped a sitting chair. She stumbled slightly, her hand trembling as she gripped the curtain. She exhaled shakily, putting her other hand over her chest as she recovered her balance. When she looked back out the window, his eyes held an intensity that made her gasp.
Smoke noticed it all from the porch. He was never one to give much away, his eyes narrowing only slightly at the soft flutter of the lace.
But for a moment longer, through thread, shadow, and moonlight, they let whatever was drawing them forward, keep them there.
Annie backed away first. She turned, tiptoeing up the stairs carefully. When she shut her bedroom door behind her, she could still hear the faint murmur of voices on the porch. And when she finally closed her eyes, the quilt pulled loose over her body, she could still see the steady darkness of his eyes behind the lace.
Stack clapped Smoke on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “We best get goin’.”
Smoke nodded, his eyes drifting once more towards the window before they turned to leave. But as he walked down the steps, his thoughts couldn’t help but to drift. To the quietness of the house. To the porch that settled back into silence as Miss Della stepped back inside. To the quiet certainty that someone had been there.
Watching.