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SPENCER McDANIELS: “I took a chair and climbed into the sink and sat there. I saw all those ghosts. At first, I wanted to scream and run away, hide in bed with you and Granddaddy, but quite frankly, Nanny Farrell, I found you more frightening than the specters outside. Always did. There were definitely ghosts out in the front yard and I couldn’t figure out why, especially with Halloween being so far away. I remember four of them driving at least an 18-ft. cross into the ground. Then they took their hoods off. I thought it was so funny, couldn’t figure out why grown men would drape sheets over themselves and pretend to be ghosts when it wasn’t even Halloween. And guess whose face I saw?”

KIM WALLACE: “Whatever pain that man caused this family—whatever you’re talking about can’t be any worse…it can’t be any worse than the pain I’ve carried for all these years. You think I wanted to leave all my friends—my family—to come here…to come to this hell-hole where they still eatin’ Jim Crow off white sandwich bread—place so freaking backwards that dogs, literally, shave they backsides and walk backwards? Yes, Mama K, I looked you right in the face and told you a lie. But let’s talk about the one you told me. Let’s talk about the trick, telling me you’re dying. My real mother, Auntie Shirley, she always told me to watch out for Christians like you. She says y’all be the biggest hypocrites of all. How dare you scold me for lying plain to your face. You—what did you do? You lied behind my back…and for thirteen years!”

CONGRESSMAN McDANIELS: “In closin’, Reverend Jackson, attackin’ me and my race does nothin’ to help this state and the people you claim to love so dearly—the good people who fill your gold collection plate every Sunday. If you care so much ‘bout ‘em, Deacon, why not throw a lil’ of it back their way? Instead of always askin’ your people what would Jesus do, why don’t you ask ‘em what Congressman McDaniels will do! Gawn ask ’em what the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr.—a real Reverend—done for his people. When the pressure was on Jesus, when the people needed him most, he stayed up on ‘at cross and refused to come down. Hell, if he had just come on down, maybe we all woulda had betta lives. Ever think ‘bout ‘at? Sure, Jesus was a wonderful man who loved us dearly, but where is he now? Where’s Jesus when your people are out there standin’ in the welfare line? Where is Jesus when you get a letta in mail says your electricity gonna be shut off in two days? Where is Jesus in the midda winta when your baby comes down with some flu-bug ‘at if you only had a few bucks for medicine woulda cured it, only you didn’t, so now the flu-bug it turned into pneumonia and now she’s dyin’ in your arms? Gawn ask yourself not what Jesus woulda done, but what he gonna do? Or, if y’all tired waitin’ for ‘at answa, ask yawself what Governor McDaniels will, and already has a plan, to do. Don’t wait to inherit the earth—take it now. And for the love of Mary, don’t eva consida yourself meek!”

REVEREND LEON JACKSON: “I hold my cheers, brothas and sistas, for be weary of Devil’s rhetoric,” the Reverend shouts. “He say he wanna put us back to work. Doin’ what, Congressman? Cuttin’ yaw grass and servin’ yaw sweet tea? He say he gonna put us back to work, but tell me, brethren—when we eva stop workin’? Ain’t ‘at all we been doin’ non-stop since day we step on dis heya soil, or did we all jus’ sit back day Lincoln freed us niggas and say, ‘We done workin,’ whitey. Now it yaw turn? What you proposin’ do, Congressman? Give us back our forty acres and a mule? How about two acres and a company car, set us up with a nice 401K plan wid some dental and health insurance. ‘At the incentive package you give all ‘em black peoples be out washin’ yaw cars and rakin’ up ‘em leaves in ‘at big front yard yaws? You see, I gots me da real plan, and my peoples be knowin’ it. My plan come straight from da top, from the Divine Orda, Congressman, ‘casue I got Lord workin’ wid me. All you got be ‘at lil’ red man widdem horns. Just aks Jesus, Congressman, just aks him! What would Jesus do, peoples?”

RACHEL HONEYCUTT: “What we have to do, Quentin, is pit the two races against each other. They still have their differences right now, but they’re tolerant of each other’s presence. Sometimes I think they even respect one another. We can’t have that. They must be at each other’s throats—openly! Oh, they’re still pissed, but they’ve bottled that anger. After desegregation, most white families, the ones with any money or a semblance of education, fled the rural areas and migrated to places like Jackson and Memphis. Since new whites never moved in to replace the ones that left, businesses fell. What happened was nothing less than the creation of the rural ghetto with blacks and poor whites crammed together. The Reverend will undoubtedly win towns such as Pace, where the rural ghetto is most prevalent. I mean, what is it, something like seventy-eight percent black? He’ll get the Arcola votes as well, which is eighty-four percent black. You have to be the man who gives Arcola and Pace back to the whites. You have to give them the towns they were forced to leave because of desegregation, and the few whites remaining—the wiggers—they must help you. This election will not be won by promising tax reform, street improvements, or a new professional sports team…it’s been about us versus them all along. And I’ll be damned if the Reverend’s gangbangers-turned-political-activists, with guns in their trunks and knives in their pockets, are gonna scare away white voters and keep you and me out of that pretty white mansion…it’s a foot race, darling, between their niggas and ours.”

BOBBIE: “I know, baby, you not the warrior type. Yaw daddy he know that too. I think he jus’ feel guilty ‘cause he didn’t serve. Otha ‘en you and him, all the mens in yaw family been war heroes.” Bobbie takes over stirring the greens. “Jus’ don’t let on ‘bout yaw decision—leas’ not this week,” she continues. “Yaw daddy he need be focus. The Reverend Jackson he got ‘em real good chance winnin’ this than’.”

NANNY FARRELL: “You’d never understand what the South was like back in those days, back when it was a fine, safe, and prosperous place to live. It was a different time—a betta time. There, see,” she says, parting the curtains. “See them coloreds out working.” Five black men in overalls, their faces scrunched and forearms wiping sweat, walk the lawn, raking the freshly mowed grass. “I’m old. I’m tired. I’ll be dead soon enough. Everything heya—this estate, that family of yard monkeys—this relic of the Old South will go to your fatha. You, boy, won’t even inherit so much as my dentures. Oh, you’ll get your grandfatha’s coin and stamp collections—his War Between the States regalia—but not a dime from me. You’d turn this estate into a boarding house for the lost, dark souls of the South, wouldn’t you?”

MAMA K: “Grandmotha say they folla her ‘round kitchen like puppies, just like Kim done you. Grandmotha say she be racin’ all ‘round the kitchen, doin’ her bes’ serve Masta his suppa on time. She say that ‘bout ‘em kids when they get tangle up in her feets. She always step on one ‘em, and when she did they howl like puppies. She tell ‘em to hush-up and promise if they did, she give ’em special treat. So they hush on up and she take whateva scrap be lef’ on the taba—usually just onion skin—and she dice it up in lil’ bits. She take the onion bits and put ‘em in the cornmeal and roll it up into a fine lil’ ball then drop in the hot grease, just like you be doin’em fish. She fry ‘em balls up till they golden brown, and when they did, ‘em kids got to eat ‘em. Afta ‘at ‘em puppies ain’t bark no mo’. And if they do, all she had do be tell ‘em puppies hush on up!”

DICKSON: “See,” he says, “y’all be thankin’ dis funny cuz you young and all. You thank you be invincible cuz yaw age. But dis real serious. Y’all don’t be knowin’ it cuz you spent yo lives in diffent places. Kim, you a California girl…and Spencer, why you know you don’t be heya but ‘bout a week outta every year. But you been here plenny nuff know what I talkin’ ‘bout. Now listen me. White and black folk just don’t be mixin’ ‘less it work-related or theys playin’ ball, somethin’ like dat. And believe you me,” he continues, his voice winding down, “only time Spenca daddy want black folk ‘round when theys got tray in they hand servin’ drinks, towel in they fis’ shinin’ brass, or gloves on they hand turnin’ the steerin’ wheel. But what I know? Just don’t say I didn’t tell you so.”

UNCLE CHARLEY: “Now ole Charley he gonna give you some advice, though I ‘spect you ain’t gonna listen no-how. I want you stay ‘way from any black peoples down dey be spellin’ dem name all funny, way it sound and all, like ‘Shemekia’ or ‘Roshanda.’ And don’t you be talkin’ to no white folk say ‘I reckon.’ Dem’s bad blood.” Uncle Charley hikes up the pant legs of his overalls and takes a seat; his face turns reflective and sunny, no longer stern with apprehension. “I tell you, though, you sho gonna love da food down dey. Nuttin but fried goodies, and da bes’ catfish and hushpuppy you eva did taste.” He pauses, scratches his head and continues. “Jus’ stay strawn, girl. Donchu bends for no one,” he says, face steadfast and somber. “You keep ‘em eyes wide and ‘em ears open. If you does ‘at, you gonna learn a lot down dey. And ‘memba, Kimmy, it da sweat from our brow make da white mens cotton grow so tall. Da blood from our people’s backs make ‘em magnolia trees bloom like dey does. And when you heya da wind, I wanchu listen real close. Jus’ like dey say you can heya da ocean when you put a seashell to da ear, well, you also be hearin’ ghosts our peoples singin’ em same hymns dey sings when dey bent-douba and pickin’ Colonel cotton.”

TAZ: “I fall to pieces afta ‘at. Not soon afta, I lose my apartment and live on the streets fo’ ‘bout a year. Everythan’ I eva dream gone; my husband, my daughta, my chance for happiness. I got worse and worse. I do anythan’ with anyone get my hands on some ‘at devil-dandruff. Finally, I start breakin’ into people’s homes and businesses. That not last long. One night I got real high and thought I steal me a television set. I throwed me a garbage can through a sto’ window—one ‘em heavy metal kind. I step on in like the place be my livin’ room. I sittin’ Indian-style watchin’ me an old episode Bonanza when ‘em policemens they arrive.”

COACH: “Well, I reckon interracial datin’ back there ain’t no big deal, but down heya dey play by different set a rules. Believe me—I know. My wife is Vietnamese—but that’s jus’ a misdemeana. But two y’all togetha—well, that’s a felony in Miss’ippi. And as fer Dimitrius, stay far ‘way from him as possible. He’s the jealous type, and I don’t think he got eyes for the both ya. He’s a killa. If it weren’t fer football, God only knows how many people he woulda already done in. Hell, he woulda killed me by now if I weren’t his coach. And I reckon he still might. Y’all be careful now and keep yer noses clean. I’ll take care him in practice today.”

TIMMY: “I so scare, Reverend,” he says over his sobs. “Last night terriba. I feel so dirty, so guilty. It like…it like everywhey I go, dey be dis great big eye follow me. It like dat great big eye keep starin’ at me, and I don’t got me no courage or no strength look back at it.”

DIMITRIUS UNDERWOOD: “See, pretty California girl, it you and honkey-boy cause dis trouba in firs’ place - you and dat rude tude you be frontin’ on da bus like dat. Yaw cracka-lacka-foo’-ass boyfriend lucky he not heya today. Don’t worry, though, cuz I be gettin’ his punk-ass lata. Word up. But fo’ you and Coach, it unfortunate dat I gots to unleash my anga on da two you.”

MARIE THOMPSON: “A chide be born into da earth innocent but gawn ta his pilla hongry and cold and gawn ta his grave in humiliation and despair. Fi’ comin’ and oily rain, da wind howl and ‘cross da arid plain roll tumbleweed burnin’ orange flame. It be da bush, da burnin’ bush of Moses and it rollin’ fasta and fasta and it ain’t gonna stop but it keep on rollin’ till da Prophet he enta da tabernacle and shut fo’eva da cryin’, trumpetin’ mouth a racism and quiet dem hedonistic mouth, if not fo’ eternity den fo’ da day. And dey she stand, I see her now, one sole surviva ‘neath a blue sky God did dip His fingas in twice and draw ‘em ‘cross, and dey she gonna stand, one sole surviva Negro African American Goddess beautiful black female deity ‘neath a douba rainbow glow violet on da outside and red on da inside halleluiah praise Jesus.”

ROSEMARY WATSON: “Maybe we oughta take dat purpa robe off you, Leon. You gonna sweat death.” She reaches over the pew and lifts his robe by its gold tassels. “You got pants ‘neath dey, Leon?” His silence continues, and he looks away. “You know, Leon, lot deez church ladies say all you eva be wearin’ ‘neath dat robe be yaw birthday suit.”