I. Up on the Roof

1.

If you’re driving from Columbia, South Carolina, down to Savannah, Georgia, about halfway along your trip, you’ll find yourself on Carolina Highway, the main street of Denmark, South Carolina. At its north end the street boasts a number of elegant, antebellum houses, with covered porches, balconies, wisteria climbing trellises and shading the porch, and crepe myrtles and pindo palms in the yard. But by and large the town is in a state of advanced decay. The old downtown’s brick buildings are more often empty than not, and some of them are collapsing. Denmark Furniture, once one of the town’s largest businesses, is now a ghost store, with sheets of tattered brown paper covering its windows. The storefront of Denmark Hardware looks as though the people who work inside are not adept with any of the paints or repair tools that they sell.

Only four square miles in area, the town is inhabited by a few thousand souls. Most of the residents are poor: the average family income is less than $20,000. The vast majority of them, almost 90%, are black folk, but until recently, the leading citizen of the town was a white businessman, Will Shepherd. He owned the town’s only real estate agency as well as its used car dealership, and its most popular bar, Elsie’s.

But there were rumors, rumors that his real money came from controlling the area’s drug supply: mainly weed, coke, and oxy. So when he died from snorting what was apparently some tainted coke, there were more rumors: maybe he had been poisoned.

And on a cool February night, up on the roof of Elsie’s on South Magnolia Avenue, these rumors were being discussed by two young black men, Bernie and Frankie. The discussants were seated on folding metal chairs, placed so that they could look out over the street below, and they passed a joint back-and-forth as they did so.

Bernie asked, “So you think someone took out ole Will?”

Frankie coughed a little, but managed to squeek out “Sure nuff” without exhaling.

“Who you think did it?”

Finally letting out a cloud of smoke, Frankie said, “Gotta be Forrest’s gang. They been wanna move in on Will a long time now.”

“Them lame-ass mothers from up in Norway?”

(Yes, it is true: a few miles north of Denmark, South Carolina, there is another small town named Norway. And in between the two lies Sweden, and, nearby, Finland. Some people say this was a bit of humor on the part of The South Carolina Railroad Company, which had built the rail line through the area: someone there had thought it funny to name stops in this hot, humid, swampy, and, at that time, malaria-infested country after cold Scandavian lands.)

“Man, it don’t make no sense to underestimate them. That Forrest, he mean.”

Bernie, staring up at the low-hanging clouds, asked, “Don’t they say Will done killed Forrest’s daddy?”

“Some do say… and they say he killed a whole bunch of Polacks too!”

“What the Polacks doing in Norway?”

“I dunno. Some Polish Mafia shit.”

Hearing a noise behind them, they spun around to find two other young black men, Marcus and Hiram, opening the door onto the roof.

Marcus shook his head. “Man, you boys don’t ever wanna share, do you?”

Bernie laughed, and after taking a hit, passed the joint to Marcus, who then passed it to Hiram.

Hearing a noise in the street below, Frankie looked over the parapet. “Who dat down there?”

Everyone leaned forward. Below them, a middle-aged white man walked drunkenly past the bar.

Marcus said, “Yo, dat looks like ole Will!”

Bernie replied, “Man, you fool, you know we done buried Will two months ago. You was there!”

Hiram shouted down, “Hey ole man, where you comin’ from? You from around here?”

The man looked up at the four occupants of the roof, but said nothing, then turned away and continued slowly north on the street, towards the Amtrak station at the end of the road.

(The station hosts one train per day, at 2:57 AM, and, per Amtrak’s list of “conveniences,” features:
- Unstaffed station - ATM not available - No elevator - No payphones - No Amtrak ticketing kiosks - No restrooms - Unaccompanied child travel not allowed - No vending machines - No WiFi )

The man might have been heading to the train platform, but if so, he was several hours early. However, if not to the station, where else was he going on this deserted street? Hiram shrugged, “Yo, imma go get Hampton. He gotta check this guy out: maybe he a long lost relative or something.”

2.

Meanwhile, downstairs in the bar, Will’s brother, Claude, was having a party. Claude Shepherd was a large man, about 6’4’’ and close to 300 pounds. A lot of that weight was muscle, but another good portion resided in a belly… well, Claude would tell anyone he could, “Some guys boast about a six-pack: I got the entire keg right here,” and place both his hands underneath his “keg” and shake it up and down. He had a ruddy face that perhaps once had been good looking but was now showing signs of dissipation and too much time out in the southern sun, and reddish hair now streaked with gray and receding from his forehead.

Claude was celebrating his engagement to Will’s widow, Gertie. His fifteen guests were seated at a “table” that was assembled by pushing together five of the card tables that the bar offered for the patrons’ dining, and covering them with glossy, red-checked table cloths. He addressed the gathering:

“It looks like Forrest might be planning a takeover of some new turf. And he ain’t got no proof, but he suspects that it was Will that killed his daddy. So we gotta be ready for some action from Norway.

“Therefore, Imma send Corny and Clarence up to there to see if they can talk some sense into Forrest.”

Claude paused to see if there was any reaction to his announcement. There being none, he looked over at a young, dreadlocked black man at the other end of the table.

“Ambrose, I hear you plan on headin’ back down Louisiana?”

“Yes sir. Plenty work on them oil rigs.”

“And what yo’ daddy say about this?”

Ambrose’s father, Winthrop, seated next to his boy, spoke up: “Yeah, I don’t like it, but the boy won’t stop tellin’ me how rich he gonna be, so I finally says OK.”

Claude next turned his focus to the sullen young white man sitting directly across from him, staring at him intently for a moment before addressing him.

“Hampton, you know you like a son to me. And we gonna need you if Forrest make a move against us. I know you still mourning yo’ daddy, but you gotta snap out of it.”

Gertie, from her chair next to Claude, joined in. “Yes son, why you seem so down?”

Hampton rose from his chair, offended. “Whachoo mean ‘seem’? You think I’m just putting on some show?”

Claude waved his hands back and forth as though blessing the congregation at a church service.

“Now listen, it only right you mournin’ your daddy. But boy, enough is enough. You’re not the only one who lost his daddy. You see my daddy anywhere round here? Everyone here gonna lose their daddy sooner or later, if they ain’t done so already. That just the way of things. You upset about that, you gotta take the issue up with our good Lord. And given our situation, we gotta ask you to drop your intention to head back to Georgia, and stick around here for the time being. I mean, I know you love playin’ the geetar and all, but it don’t seem you havin’ much success there in Athens?”

Hampton replied, “Unfortunately, you right about that. It seems I ain’t gonna be the next Marcus King.” Then, while giving a mock bow, he said, “Your wish is my command: I will do my duty.”

Claude ignored the sarcasm, and with a big grin, told Hampton, “Now that makes me real pleased.”

Just then, Hiram entered the bar from the back room (where the stairs to the rooftop were located), and beckoned Hampton over with a wave of his hand.

Hampton excused himself from the table, saying “My apologies, Uncle and guests, but my boy needs me.”

3.

While Claude’s party had been proceeding in the center of the barroom, Camellia, a lanky young woman with a short-cropped afro, several piercings, and a multitude of colorful tatoos, was seated at the bar itself, drinking a glass of Johnny Walker Black. Ambrose got up from the party table just after Hampton did, and beckoned Camellia, who was his sister, to join him in the back of the barroom.

When they were seated at the table furthest from the party, he asked her, “So I’m going back to Louisiana. You gonna keep texting me while I gone?”

“You know I gonna. But I can’t believe you gonna miss my exhibit next week.”

“Exhibit?”

“I told you ‘bout it! I’m showin’ some of my paintings at the library.”

“Ah, yeah, I forgot. But I gotta head back. Work calls.” Ambrose shrugged, then paused, looking up to the ceiling. He continued: “And you maybe not wanna hear this, but I gotta have a word with you about Hampton.”

“Oh brother, here we go.”

“No, you listen here girl: you know he just messing with you, right? Ain’t no white boy from the Shepherd family gonna be serious with no black girl from the hired help. And even if he be serious, his family ain’t gonna let him do the right thing by you.”

“So you giving me this advice, but I know you messin’ around with that white girl who work at the golf club… you think she serious about you?”

“Aw, we just having some fun.”

“Yeah, so don’t be giving me no advice you ain’t gonna follow yourself.”

Their father, Winthrop, shuffled away from the party and eased himself down into a chair at their table. He looked in turn at each of his children, then he addressed Ambrose: “Listen my son, you gonna be making big money down on them oil rigs. Don’t you go losing your head cause you got a few dollars to spend. I know them Louisiana folks all into their fancy French ways, but you gotta remember where you from.”

“Daddy, you ain’t got nothing to worry about.”

Ambrose sighed. “I gotta go get some rest before I leave. And Camellia, don’t you forget what I told you.”

Ambrose got up, said his goodbyes at the party table, and walked out of the bar.

After watching his son depart, Winthrop asked Camellia, “What was it he told you?”

“He told me I oughta stay clear of Hampton.”

“What going on between you and Hampton?”

“Daddy, he tell me he really wanna be with me, and not, you know…”

“And you believe him?”

“Why I wouldn’t believe him?”

“Camellia, baby, you sweet and young and innocent. You have any idea how many black girls found themselves in a whole world of trouble ’cause they believed the promises some white boy made to ’em?”

“But daddy, Hampton ain’t like that!”

“Yeah, all them girls thought they’s Hampton wasn’t like that neither.”

“Daddy…”

“Baby girl, if you love your daddy, you gotta listen to me: when he come around, you jes flat out send him packin’. No ifs, ands or buts about it. You gonna thank me in the end.”

Camellia nodded, unable to field further objections to her father’s case against Hampton. She stared desolately into her almost empty whiskey glass, swirling the remaining brown liquid around and around.

4.

As Hiram and Hampton walked away from the party table, Hiram asked, “Ain’t it kind of weird, your uncle gettin’ engaged to your mom so soon after your daddy died?”

Hampton shrugged. “Hey, it’s just a cost savin’ measure.”

“Whachoo mean?”

“There’s still a bunch of liquor and blow left over from daddy’s funeral, so they can save money by usin’ it for the engagement party.”

“Man, you cold.”

“Not as cold as somebody plannin’ to marry his own brother’s widow not two months after his brother been buried.”

“OK, you got a point there. But anyway, you gotta get a look at this man we seen.”

Hiram walked Hampton out of the bar. He looked up and down the street, and spotted the drunk, who had apparently reversed course and was now headed away from the train station.

“Brother, that man bears some ree-markable resemblance to yo’ daddy. Why you don’t go find out who he is?”

Hampton called out to the man, who was perhaps 100 feet down the street from the bar. The stranger waved to Hampton to come to him. When Hampton reached the man, he put his arm over Hampton’s shoulder, and, with gin-soaked breath, whispered, “What he did to yo daddy weren’t right.”

“Who? What who did?”

“Son, yo Uncle Claude, he ain’t straight. You mark my words, it was him that did in ole Will. He poisoned his drugs.”

“Watchoo sayin’?”

But at that very moment, the man was overwhelmed by the urge to vomit up the night’s drinking onto the sidewalk. Hampton backed away in disgust. The man slumped down with his back against a lamp post, and passed out.

Hampton walked back to where Hiram was standing outside the entrance to the bar. He asked, “They smokin’ some weed up top?”

Hiram nodded.

“OK, I gotta take a whiff and do me some thinking. That ole drunk claim it was my uncle done killed my daddy.”

Hiram shook his head: “Brother, you can’t believe what some drunk staggering down the street tell you. How he supposed to know about some damned scheme to kill yo daddy?”

“Hiram, there’s more shit that goes down in the street than your prof Tollefsen at USC could ever dream up!”

Hampton looked to Hiram for a riposte, but, receiving none, urged, “Come on, let’s git up the roof.”

The pair passed through the bar to the stairs in the back. Once up top, Hampton asked Frankie to roll another joint. As he did so, Hampton told all of the rooftop occupants about his encounter down on the street below. Then they all sat in silence as they smoked.

Finally Hampton got up and turned to look at the others. He told them, “Listen, my brothers, don’t nobody say nothin’ about this shit. I gotta check this out for myself.”

Hiram looked like he was about to respond, but just then an ominous rumble of thunder turned everyone’s attention upwards. With great rapidity, the sky to the west grew a deeper shade of black, punctuated by brilliant zigzags of lightning. The crew on the roof scrambled back down into the bar just before a torrent of rain engulfed Denmark.