Chapter one

Morning—this morning—the morning of the fifth Sunday. The Sunday of relief, grief, and heartache. So much has been going on with our family, and I need it to be over. You wouldn’t understand. You weren’t there.

So let us return to the beginning.

March 1, 1942. I had just turned sixteen years old and believed myself finished growing. Independent. Responsible. Foolish in the quiet way boys often are. Everything felt steady—until the ground shifted beneath what I trusted.

There was always something uneasy about my family. Not to the town, of course. To them, we were polished and prayerful, a Black family of means in Savannah, Georgia, who knew how to carry ourselves upright. But inside our home, words were rationed. Glances lasted longer than sentences. Love lived there, yes—but it stayed behind closed doors, careful not to speak too loudly.

The bells rang before sunrise, low and measured, as though Heaven itself were counting. Their sound moved through the house like a hand across a wound.

Mama Marjie was already dressed. Perfect. Ready. She straightened my collar without looking at my face.

My great-grandmother sat at the window, the morning light catching her like a halo she never asked for. Eighty-six years old and still unbent. Still watching.

“Do you hear the bells?” she asked, her voice barely above breath.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“They ring,” she said, “because something has been weighed.”

“Weighed?” I asked.

“And found quiet,” she replied.

At church, the preacher spoke of mercy poured out like rain. People lifted their hands and shouted praise. I stayed still. The words passed over me without landing. Mercy, I thought, should feel lighter than this.

When we returned home, the house received us in silence.

My great-grandmother remained by the window.

“You’re sixteen,” she said at last. “That’s the age where eyes open faster than mouths should.”

“I’ve noticed things,” I said.

She nodded. “The fig tree notices winter before the frost arrives.”

“What does that mean?”

She turned her head just enough to meet my gaze. “It means the fruit knows when it has been spared… and when it has been postponed.”

I sat beside her.

“Will you tell me?” I asked.

She folded her hands slowly. “A sealed word keeps its power. A spoken one must answer for itself.”

“That doesn’t sound fair.”

“Neither was the blood,” she replied.

I froze.

She leaned closer, her voice dropping further, as though the walls might testify.

“Some families are built on prayer,” she whispered. “Others are built on endurance. Ours learned to survive by remembering what must never be said aloud.”

“When will I know?” I asked.

“When the bells stop calling folk to God,” she said, “and start calling God to account.”

Outside, the bells rang again—distant now, restrained, as if even they feared speaking too plainly.

That morning, I learned that silence could be an inheritance.

And faith, when bent too long, could begin to resemble fear.