TWO
Savannah, Georgia, is one of the oldest cities in the United States,’ ” I read out loud from the travel guide on my phone.
“ ‘Millions of visitors are attracted to its historic homes, cobblestone streets, and parks. Tourists especially love River Street. The waterfront promenade is home to some of the world’s best restaurants, bars, shops, and cafés—’ ”
“River Street’s where the club’s at,” Daddy says from behind the wheel of our SUV. “On the top floor of a barbecue spot. They got some meannnn ribs and hush puppies up in that joint. Now, get off that phone before you miss this view!”
Daddy drives across a long gray-white bridge with cables that look like violin strings hovering over a murky river. I roll down the window and let the breeze in. It’s early June and hot, but the air has a crispness to it.
“So, you’re gonna be playing there every night?” I ask.
“Got a few lunchtime shows too. It’s good business here, love. We’re gonna like it.”
Daddy plays guitar for a blues band. They call themselves the Remedies. His guitar is one of those old-fashioned kinds that real blues players play on. Or that’s what he likes to say.
Once off the bridge, we drive straight into downtown Savannah.
That travel guide wasn’t playing—this place is real pretty!
The streets are narrow, with tall houses that remind me of brownstones back home, except these are painted blue, white, green, orange, and gold.
Some have iron balconies, like the ones I saw in New Orleans, and real fire lanterns that are probably older than the Civil War.
Horse-drawn carriages click-clack through the streets, and the sidewalks are crowded with tourists.
And the trees! They’re so tall and wide, branches all twisted and tangled, bowing into the roads. It feels like we’re driving under a ceiling of fuzzy moss streamers. I take out my camera and start clicking. Everything is so green, like the entire city is shaded by a forest that’s still growing.
“What the …”
Daddy’s confused voice makes my head snap in his direction.
At an intersection, a black hearse slowly crosses in front of us.
Except in the back, where the casket would be, the roof is cut open.
People are sitting in it like it’s a double-decker tour bus going through Times Square.
I read the red writing on the car’s side: HEARSE GHOST TOURS.
A ghost tour!
“Oh boy,” Daddy mumbles as I whip out my phone and Google.
“ ‘Savannah, Georgia, is widely considered to be one of the most haunted cities in the United States,’ ” I read out loud. “ ‘Many visitors and locals have had paranormal experiences in historic buildings and cemeteries …’ ”
There’s a long list of ghost tours. I click on each one, hoping to find a tour available, but most of them are booked up solid for the week.
All except one called Orbs and More. With Daddy’s permission, I make myself a reservation for tonight. I can’t wait!
The longer Daddy drives, the more homes we see, but not like the ones downtown. We’re in a more normal neighborhood now, with regular stores, way more Black people, and zero tourists.
Daddy turns down a quiet street and pulls up in front of a redbrick house with a white porch.
“What’s this?” I ask as I tip up my glasses. “We’re staying … here?”
Daddy smooths his eyebrows in the mirror. “Since we gonna be in Savannah for six weeks, I figured we might as well get comfortable and stay in a home. It’ll be like our own place.”
Daddy opens the car door before I have a chance to ask another question. Grandma would say, “When Daddy can’t look you in the eye, he’s up to something.”
What is he hiding?
But then I see it. On the porch, there’s a woman standing at the steps.
She’s thin and pretty, brown-skinned with a sprinkle of black moles on her cheeks, her hair in short coil curls like my aunt Peggy used to get.
Next to her is a little boy wearing a yellow Marvel T-shirt and jean shorts.
He’s like her twin in glasses. The woman waves at us, a little hesitantly.
I watch Daddy greet the woman with a type of hug that says they haven’t seen each other in a really long time.
The woman looks … upset, wiping away tears.
I wonder what that’s about. Daddy talks softly to her as if he’s trying to comfort her the way he did me at Grandma’s funeral.
I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath while watching them.
Don’t bug out, I tell myself. She could be cool.
But can anything be cool in this heat? Without the breeze from the river, I now feel how hot it really is in Savannah. Stay out here too long and it’ll feel like we’re baking on the sidewalk.
“Harmony,” Daddy says as I join him. “This is my friend Lena.”
“Hey, Harmony,” Lena says with a sniff. “Real nice to meet you.”
Don’t seem like it’s too nice.
“And this little man is Robert,” Daddy says, motioning to the boy. “What’s up, Robert!”
“I go by Robby,” the boy says, all matter-of-fact.
“Oh, my bad!”
“That’s okay.” Robby turns to me. “Mama said you’re twelve. I’m ten, but I don’t really act like it, so we’re kind of mentally the same.”
“Oh.” I chuckle. “Uh, hey. What’s up?”
I look from Lena to Dad and back, waiting for someone to explain what’s going on.
Lena takes a deep breath, wiping her face. “I’m so sorry. I hate meeting you in this condition. But … we just got some awful news.”
“Mr. Truman was found dead yesterday,” Robby says with a straight face. Lena nudges his shoulder.
I feel a lurch in my stomach. What?
“Who’s Mr. Truman?” I ask.
“Mr. Truman was a friend of the family,” Daddy explains. “Lena knew him through work.”
“I’m so sorry,” I mumble. I feel awkward enough being at this house with these people I don’t know—but they’re mourning a friend who died? This is kinda intense. “Um, what happened?”
Lena sniffs and shakes her head. “It’s horrible.” She glances at Robby like she doesn’t want him to hear. “We’ll talk about it later. Now, where are my manners?” she adds, opening the front door. “Please come in. Dinner’s almost ready, and the guesthouse out back is all set up for you.”
We walk into a small living room with a burgundy sofa and cream armchairs, the TV set to the local news.
To the right is a hall leading to bedrooms. Ahead is a round wooden dining table next to an old kitchen with green cabinets and a white fridge.
Something that smells delicious is simmering on the stove.
Through the back window, I see a small yellow guesthouse in the middle of a narrow, fenced-in yard.
“That’s where we’ll be staying,” Dad tells me, pointing to the guesthouse. Whew. At least we’ll be in a separate place.
“You sure you can fit in there, Daddy?” I joke.
Dad smiles and tickles my neck. “I can live in a shoebox if I wanted to. You’re the one that wants five-star everything and room service.”
I laugh and shake my head.
I see Lena watching me with a small smile. “You look just like your mother, Harmony. A beauty!”
“Thanks,” I say, my shoulders easing and my face warming. It’s a compliment I get sometimes. I never met the woman, but people say I stole her face.
I don’t remember Dad ever mentioning anyone named Lena. And she knew my mom. How? I want to ask her, but then Lena says she’ll be back and heads into the kitchen.
“Do you want to see something cool?” Robby asks.
He proudly shows off a robot the shape of a flattened oval sitting on the coffee table.
It looks like one of those robot vacuums Grandma always said she wanted but swore probably didn’t clean too good.
“I won a competition last week with this. It can sense fires in other rooms around a house.”
“Whoaaaa,” Dad says. “Hey, man, that’s cool. Mony, you see all this?”
It’s hard to miss. Robby’s mini robots are spread out all over the living room like a collection of trophies.
Some are made of LEGOs. Other of shiny metal and plastic.
Around Robby’s stuff, Lena’s is in there, with Black art paintings, African statues, straw baskets, and family photos hung on the peach-colored walls.
Grandma had albums full of old family photos like these.
Her albums looked like thick Bibles, the spines worn down and fraying.
Photos were pasted on the pages inside, then layered with crunchy plastic that crinkled whenever you touched it.
I loved flipping through the books, seeing pictures of my dad when he was little, and then when he was in high school with my mom, the two of them going to prom together.
And even older pictures, like of Grandma’s parents growing up in the South, and then of Grandma from her modeling days.
My grandma was a for real model, like for shopping catalogs you get from Macy’s, Kohl’s, and JCPenney.
Grandma learned about angles and how to take a good picture from all the photo shoots she did.
That’s what made her fall in love with photography.
She used to say that photos tell stories the same way books do except you get to see people the moment they are living their history.
That’s why I want to be a photographer someday.
“Dinner’s ready,” Lena calls, placing a bright red pot on the table. Inside is steaming shrimp, corn, sausage, crabmeat, and red potatoes.
Dad claps his hands together as we sit. “Mmm. My favorite.”
“Harmony, you ever been to a boil before?” Lena asks, dishing spoonfuls into my bowl. I shake my head. “It’s a low country specialty. We usually just spread it out on newspaper and go at it, but I’m trying to keep it cute for your first night.”
Dad is eating like he’s starving, like the shrimp is made of gold, like he’d never had Grandma’s fried chicken and honey corn bread before. He called it heaven on earth.
“So, Harmony,” Lena starts. “What do you think about Savannah so far?”
“It’s really pretty. The trees are cool. Willows?”
“Nope,” Robby says. “They’re called live oaks. They’re the official state tree of Georgia. The long plants hanging off their branches are Spanish moss, which are full of chiggers, red ants, and spider mites, so DON’T touch them.”
“Oh,” I say, holding in a laugh. “Good to know.”
Lena reaches across the table to touch Robby’s arm. “My baby is a bit of a boy genius. He gets it from his father’s side of the family ’cause I can’t remember what I had for dinner last night, but he could remember just about anything you put in front of him.”
“I’m skipping two grades and starting middle school next year,” he announces proudly. “And I homeschool right now.”
“Skipping grades? Homeschooling?” Dad laughs. “But what about playing ball and kicking it with the homies?”
Robby scoffs. “That’s kid stuff.”
Lena shakes her head and laughs too. As we eat, she and Daddy talk about music, from jazz to hip-hop to rock and roll. It’s like being around music historians.
“Are you a musician?” I ask Lena.
“No. I’m the director of event planning for the Savannah Historical Society,” she explains. “They host a gala every year, raising money for different programming.”
“Mom gets really dressed up for it,” Robby adds.
“I’ve been busy running around like a chicken with my head cut off trying to sell as many tickets as I can. I even roped your father into performing.”
I look at Dad, who stares down into his bowl. He never mentioned that gig. “Is the whole band performing?” I ask him.
“Nah. Just me,” he says with a shrug. “A little mood music. Gotta break out my suit and tie for this one.”
Does he even have his suit and tie? When we were packing, he said we could only bring a bag and a half, since we had to carry so much gear. I left most of my stuff behind, including Grandma’s photo albums.
I’m about to ask him when Lena gasps loudly, her attention on the TV behind us.
“They’re talking about Mr. Truman!” Robby says, pointing to the screen.
Lena grabs the remote and turns up the volume on the news.
“There are still no leads on the murder of a local business owner Tim Truman, whose body was found yesterday morning on a side street near Colonial Park Cemetery …”
Murder? I think, feeling a chill down my back. No wonder Lena didn’t want Robby to hear about this. But now he’s watching the report with the rest of us, hearing words like blunt-force trauma as a cause of death.
A photo of Tim Truman pops up on the screen. He was about Dad’s age—tall, bald, lean, with a wide smile and ears that stuck out a touch. Lena covers her mouth as if to keep in a sob.
“… Mr. Truman’s death is presumed to be a robbery gone wrong. His young nephew Jabari Robinson, who he was last seen with, is still missing. Police are asking for any leads.”
The four of us sit silent, staring at the TV, the ceiling fan clicking as it spins above. The news report switches to the weather and Lena shuts off the TV. Nobody really feels like eating now.
Lena brushes away a tear. “I’m sorry y’all are arriving at such a terrible time,” she says to me and Dad.
Her hands clench into fists. “I have no idea who would want to”—she glances at Robby, who looks worried—“hurt Tim Truman. He was a good man. He really believed in community and loved Savannah. And his little nephew Jabari was staying with him for a few weeks while his mother and brother toured colleges. The police have been searching everywhere and can’t find the boy.
They’re thinking he might’ve been kidnapped. Could you imagine? His poor mother!”
I bite my lip, gripping my arms. This sounds really bad.
“How, um, did you know Mr. Truman?” I ask Lena, because I’m not sure what else to say.
“He ran the Black History Tours here in Savannah, so we worked together a bunch,” Lena explains. “He always stayed on the historical society’s neck, making sure we had an accurate account of history. I just can’t believe he’s gone.”
I feel a twitch of sadness seep in. ’Cause I know all about not believing when someone is gone.
It took me months to believe Grandma was gone.
Dad gives me a look as if reading my mind.
Or maybe he’s having the same thought. Anytime Grandma comes up, it’s like the air is stolen out of our lungs, our hearts stop for a second and start back up again. Unlike her heart, that just stopped.
“The community’s having a little memorial for Tim in a few days,” Lena adds. “I’ll be going to pay my respects.”
“We could join you if you’d like,” Dad tells her supportively.
A memorial? I think with a slight quiver. After Grandma’s funeral, I’ve been to enough services to last a lifetime. I don’t think I can take another.