I shift the car into gear and loop around by Rosalie, where the French settled Natchez back in 1716. “He’ll make it through the trial,” I say, sounding like I’m trying to persuade myself. “This is his swan song.”

Serenity nods, but she doesn’t look convinced.

As I turn left into traffic on Canal Street, she lays her hand over mine where it rests on the emergency brake lever. She squeezes lightly, then lifts her hand and puts it back in her lap.

A shiver goes through me at her touch, but upon reflection her gesture didn’t seem sexual in any way. It was more an unspoken acknowledgment of something we both sense. Bad times coming. Beyond that, she might have meant to add, And I’m here with you. But who knows?

The moment’s passed.

Chapter 19

By eight p.m. we’ve still heard nothing from Cleotha Booker. An hour ago, Serenity retired to her room to make some calls, which meant reaching out to friends in Detroit to have them ask their elders about any Dolores who got married in the 1960s and moved to Mississippi for a while, then returned. This kind of effort sounded absurd to me, but Serenity told me I might be surprised by the way information moved in the black community—even in a large city like Detroit. While she put out her feelers up north, I watched television with Annie and my mother. I paid no attention to the programs, and Mom didn’t, either. But sitting there served to begin the process of our coming back together as a family before the trial starts tomorrow.

During a commercial break, Annie muted the volume to raise the question of whether she’ll be allowed to go to court. I’m open to the idea, but Mom is dead set against it. She told Annie she doesn’t want her hearing any of the “scandalous lies” that will doubtless be told about her grandfather. Annie reluctantly accepted this—for the time being—but I know the real reason for my mother’s resistance. She doesn’t want Annie hearing the truth about her grandfather.

About eight thirty, I decide to walk the three blocks down to the courthouse and get a look at the field of battle. Tim walks with me through the darkness, and he’s perceptive enough not to talk beyond the first twenty steps. The scent of flowers is on the air: azaleas, Confederate jasmine, and my favorite—sweet olive—but the sweetness only serves to remind me how transitory all happiness tends to be.