Macey could not get a grip on this ancient story. How come people didn’t remember this fire? “How long was he at the junior high?” she asked.

“Just the one year. We were so incredibly lucky to have had him.”

“How old was he?”

“Twenty-two. He had just graduated from college. He changed lives. Every kid who had Mr. Sibley went on to work for civil rights in the sixties and seventies.”

Macey was impressed. “Every kid?”

“Well, that’s probably an exaggeration. In fact, that’s ridiculous. I have no idea. I’ve kept up with maybe a dozen people from school. And I guess not all of them cared about civil rights. I guess, if I’m truthful, four of us.” Bonnie laughed a little less happily. “Yes. Four of us that I know of. But still, that’s a lot, when you think of the world. He made four of us better people.”

Macey was so glad she had Aus along.

There was something scary and wrong about a nursing home; a place to stack old, infirm, unwanted people. When they turned down the hallway that would take them to Stella Miller’s room, Macey could taste the nursing home. A mixture of Clorox and old age and medicine and cooking. Old, tired cooking, cabbage or onions, hour after hour, till it hung in the air and you tasted it when you breathed. Poor, poor Stella Miller. Poor everybody in this building.

How old would Mr. Sibley be? Twenty-two in 1959 and now it was 1997, so he would be sixty. Good. If she found him, he would not be in a nursing home.

Macey had expected that a woman a hundred years old would be thin and wispy and frail and pale, but Stella Miller was immense and tanned and demanding that somebody be her bridge partner.

“I don’t play bridge,” said Macey.

“Learn,” said Stella Miller. “It’s a very important skill in adult life. Without a good game of cards, this is a difficult world.”

“Could I ask about 1959? Was that a difficult world?”

“Nineteen fifty-nine,” said Stella Miller. “Give me a hint. What was happening in 1959?”

“A family named Macey lived on Shell Road, and a family named Fent. Do you remember any of them?”

“Remember them all. Fine people.”

“And a stable burned down with the science teacher in it,” said Macey. “Do you remember that? I’m researching the fire.”

“Oh, good heavens. Of course I remember the fire. The important thing wasn’t that he taught science. The important thing was that he was the first colored teacher we had in this town. Naturally everybody hated him.”

Macey’s hair prickled. “I’m sure they didn’t hate him,” she said quickly. “They were just uncomfortable.”

“Well, you don’t burn a building down around somebody because you’re uncomfortable. It’s hate, that’s what it is. They hated him.”