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chapter one

Note:

Formatting in this excerpt is not the exact layout of the book.

In Her First Life — Life in the ‘Sticks’ - Reedville, Arkansas, 1974

"I’m runnin’ a bid’ness here..."

It usually killed old folk first.

   Especially poor ones—"The Disposables:" poor, feeble, often lonely, living alone. Infants were likely next—"Poorborns:" newborns, mostly poor, mostly black. Proof, to many, that even the gods favor the rich.
   Then, stray dogs. Mangy mongrels with heads down, ears drooping, tongues hanging, tails dragging. But not cats. Never cats. Could be cats are way too cool and arguably smarter. They always managed to avoid the killer: heat.
   Heat rained down, then back up, like invisible hellfire. Hundred ‘n four, not a hint of rain. Kind of Arkansas heat that parched throats, dimmed vision, sapped strength, slowed speech. It was brain-baking heat, akin to inhaling furnace blast, minus singed brows and lashes.
   It was only May, for God’s sake, not August. Yet, the ‘Sticks’ were already blistering. But then, the Sticks always seemed to get more of everything nobody sane ever prayed for. More sweltering heat; more flash

floods; more twisters...hurricanes; more mosquitoes; more DDT; more poverty; more garbage dumps; more rut-ravaged, unpaved roads; more broken sewers, more malevolent neglect. One could surely blame God for the heat, the bad weather, even the mosquitoes, but not the rest.

   Precious few souls in the Sticks, a.k.a. Oakwood Manor, owned window-unit air-conditioning, let alone central air. For most, central air meant opening the front and back doors and allowing the wind to race through the center of their rented ‘shotgun’ houses. Those fortunate enough to have ‘store-bought’ air frequently found themselves visited by neighbors who just happened by, and were in no hurry to leave.
  Coolest place around was Mr. Bryson Peabo’s pool hall and juke joint. His was a well-patronized, ‘round the clock hot spot near Miss Ruby’s Café and backroom whorehouse. Both establishments dominated the western end of poorly paved Oak Street, the only thoroughfare in the Sticks’ red light district, not counting backalleys and trails.
   Ol’ man Peabo–a grumpy, tattooed, bald, six foot-four ex-Marine with one leg and one fairly good eye–did not allow for ‘hangers around’ and ‘lookers-on.’ If you were not spending cold cash, he would toss your ass out into the hot sun, whether you were friend or foe, Jew or Gentile. "Nothin’ personal. I’m runnin’ a bid’ness here, not the YMCA," he would say, with no hint of a smile, and just before the heavy wooden door slammed closed.

   Miss Ruby’s was even more popular. Ruby Jean Dandridge was an aging, though still vivacious, vixen who had the natural ability to wow and woo a crowd. True, her café offered unsurpassed, mouth-watering, soul-food fare, but ‘after-hours’ drew her most devoted patronage.
   The fiery, eldest daughter of a Mississippi sharecropper, the Rubenesque Miss Ruby possessed an entrepreneurial spirit and genius to rival that of the wiliest Wall Street wizard. Her place was a cash cow. She knew how to pack ‘em in. Her southern cuisine drew widespread praise, and garnered nearly as much addiction as did other ‘unwritten menu items’ she offered. Of course, few ever admitted to being more than café customers. Then...

chapter two

In Her First Life - May 15, 1974 Rural Reedville, Arkansas.

Fear seized her like a claw.

‘Bout a mile from The Sticks,

three miles from Reedville, proper, Jonathan Jefferson Reed’s old ‘62 Ford pickup just set there—a rusting hulk held together with baling wire and a prayer. The sun-bleached, blue heap hugged the edge of a large circular clearing, nearly surrounded by a sentry of towering Arkansas pine. Nothing moved. Nothing. Damn truck looked downright abandoned. Always did, moving or not. The old wreck was an unlikely means of transportation for the son of one of the most powerful families in Arkansas. Not surprising, since Jonathan’s parents discouraged him from flaunting his wealth in the face of those who had so little.

   Just then, his scrawny, naked, pale-white backside—with nearly protruding vertebrae—appeared in the lowered driver’s window. Inside the seedy truck cab, carpeted with fast food wrappers and the decomposed remains of unidentifiable crawling critters, the thick, hot air reeked of musty sneakers, sweaty private parts, and unshaved armpits...

   Jonathan kicked open the creaky door and backed himself out onto the parched ground. His wet skin sizzled in the unforgiving heat. He drew the back of his right hand across his dripping brow, swiped it on his right pant leg.
   Sixteen year-old Jonathan, whose middle name was given to honor the only President of the Confederacy, was nearly six feet two, barely a hundred thirty pounds, brains and all. Like a soiled mop turned upside down, his stringy, rusty blond hair fell past a pimply face to just above sloping shoulders.    
   Jonathan closed the door, yanked up his faded Levi’s and tucked ‘himself’ back inside. He zipped his fly; slipped his white, Harley Davidson T-shirt over his hairless, sunken chest; then buckled his overlapping belt. He paused, glanced back at the beautiful, sweat-soaked black girl. She sat slouched in the passenger seat, breathing heavily, staring into her lap with vacant eyes. Her bra was back in place now, but much of her taut, flawless, creamy-brown skin was still exposed.
   At 12 years old, Deborah Yvonne Davis had the sweet, innocent face of a young girl, but the fetching body of a woman, years older. It was her blessing and her curse.
    Jonathan stared long and hard, savoring the sight of her. His bowed erection was still at full bore. A look of self-satisfaction covered his pockmarked face. With a cocky swagger, he reached through the open window, touched Deborah’s shoulder with unsure fingertips. She flinched, leaned away. Her smile was gone. Deep frowns etched her glistening brow.
    Deborah was in complete disarray. With her chin pressed against her chest, she slowly arched her supple back, raised her bare bottom, snaked up her white panties and forced down her brown, flower print skirt. Never did look up. The heat-brewed stench rose in nearly visible waves. She appeared ready to puke.
   

chapter three

In Her First Life—Seven Years Earlier - Reedville, Arkansas,—Summer ‘67

She stared in stunned surprise, then...

Her eyes were first to answer.

A telling glow. A fluttering of long, thick lashes. A deepening of well-earned lines. A face that beamed like August sun.
   The question, softly spoken, fetched a lingering smile. The youthful inquisitor—her own eyes gleaming—waited with head tilted, a thick, curly, black braid grasped between tiny thumb and forefinger. A soft breath exhaled. Silence.
    Gram d’lena looked away for a time. She stroked her furrowed brow then paused to allow the sudden swell of emotion to retreat. With her left forearm pressed down against the timeworn tabletop, she leaned forward, gently caressed her granddaughter’s upturned face. And while exuding the sort of warming love that can only come from grandmothers, Gram gazed into expectant young eyes and loosed a warm smile.
   "Kinda caught me off guard, babygirl. Wasn’t expectin’ you to ask me such a question right out. Needed a minute to collect myself...let my heart slow down a bit. But, all that aside, the answer is yes. Yes, I still love your granddaddy...love him with all my heart."

   Gram’s voice grew wispy. Her eyes glistened with a hint of mist. Through the tiny kitchen’s open French window, dawn’s early light caressed her dimpled face, revealing every twitch and twinkle. The delicate, soft-white, handmade, English lace curtains—drawn but untied—danced in cool, gentle, country breeze.
   "And I’ll love him the longest day I live. Reckon love is ‘bout the most important, most wonderful thing you can give or receive. Can’t be bought or sold, only freely given. It’s the one gift that leaves giver and receiver...richer. I must sound like a Hallmark card or somethin,’ huh?"
   "You make all that up, Gram d’lena?" asked Deborah, more in awe than doubt. Never doubt.
    "Wish I could take the credit, babygirl. But your granddaddy used to say that all the time. And I believe it with all my heart…made his words my own. I always say, for somebody who barely finished the ninth grade, that man sure had a way with words. Words flowed from his mouth like honey. Like warm, sweet honey. And I still love him...much as I ever did. There’s a peace that comes over me, whenever I speak of him. I feel it down to my marrow."
   Gram’s unsteady voice trailed like a wreath of smoke in the wind. A lone tear spilled. She hesitated wiping it away, determined to not draw attention to it.
   "Are you crying, Gram d’lena? You crying? Please, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to make you cry."
  "Must be my hayfever, baby. Gets real bad, come summertime."
    Deborah’s own eyes began to tear. She reached for ‘Marie,’ her hand-painted doll with the big brown eyes, brown face and long, shiny black hair. Gram had ordered it ‘special’ from New York for her grandbaby’s fourth birthday. Marie was Deborah’s constant companion, a faithful friend who never betrayed a confidence, never awakened her during the night, and never wet her diaper.
   "You miss him, Gram? You miss Pa-Pa?"