The Trees

by Percival Everett

“Oh, Gawd Jesus, I knows you have a plan, but us poor White mortals is scared to death down here with this strange nigger you keep sending. Is he an omen, oh Lawd, a sign, or is he the devil, and should we dismember him and burn his body right away? Jesus Gawd Almighty, it’s clear that you ain’t aimed to take the best of us, givin’ you chose to take Wheat and Junior Junior, but still we’re all terrified down here. So, a clear sign would be greatly appreciated. Thank you, Lawd, for yer time and consideration. Amen.”

“Do you believe any of these folks are lying to us?” Jim asked. “That’s the weird thing. I don’t think so. I think they’re all telling the truth. Even Jethro with his ghost theory.” Jim rubbed the back of his neck. “It always helps when somebody lies.”

“You know it was a nigger who killed him. I got every right to be scared of you. I could shoot you if I wanted. Could say you scared me real bad and I had to shoot you. You hear what I’m sayin’?” “I wish you wouldn’t,” Jim said. “Don’t you think there’s been enough killing around here?” Ed asked. “Enough killin’? What kinda crazy talk is that?”

“He’s harmless,” Gertrude said. “I’ve heard that before,” Ed said. “Tell me, just what do you think of the esteemed sheriff?” “He’s okay. He tries to not be the racist asshole he can’t help being. It’s a sincere effort, I think. Sometimes he’s a racist, sometimes he’s an asshole, and every now and then he’s both,” Gertrude said.

“Anything we need to know about this Mama Z?” Ed asked. “She calls herself a witch. What else do you need to know? She’s kinda odd, kinda scary.” “How do you know her?” Jim asked. “She’s my great-grandmother.” The

“I’ll tell you what, though: if the spirits are out for revenge, there’s going to be a lot more killing around here. Those spirits are going to have a field day around here. Every White person in this county, if they didn’t lynch somebody themselves, then somebody in their family tree did. If you believe anything, you can believe that.”

“This is Mississippi,” Ed said. “Somebody Black had better watch these White folks down here. Because for a lot of these crazy folks, it’s still nineteen fifty.” “Shit, eighteen fifty,” Jim said. “Not just here,” Hind said.

“Let me ask you a question,” she said. Damon looked at her. “Have you ever been called a nigger?” “No, as a matter of fact. You?” “Not personally,” she said. “What’s that mean, ‘not personally’?” Gertrude attended to the road, seeming to make a point of not looking at her friend. “Every time anybody gets called a nigger, I get called a nigger.” “What is that? A bumper sticker slogan?” “Yeah, you like it? I’ve got more. How about this one: Once you go Black, you die. Or, Dead is the new Black.” “I wish you would just tell me what’s going

The body of Julius Lynch was claimed by his brother, John Lynch. The body was picked up by the Pierce Funeral Parlor. No one was interviewed. No suspects were identified. No one was arrested. No one was charged. No one cared.

“I have chronicled the work of the devil.” “The devil?” “I don’t believe in a god, Mr. Thruff. You can’t sit here in this room, touch all of these folders, read all of these pages, and believe in a god. I do, however, and I’m certain you do too, believe in the devil.” “And hell?” Damon asked. “And hell. This is hell, Mr. Thruff. Haven’t you been watching?

“Is she now? I didn’t know the FBI investigated murders,” Mama Z said. “I thought such things were matters for local authorities.” “There might be some civil rights violations involved,” Hind said. “Whose civil rights?” “I don’t know yet.” “I ask because you have to have civil rights in order for the them to be violated.” Mama Z let that hang in the air. “I’m sorry. Forgive my manners.

“Well, you know Carolyn Bryant was the woman who accused Emmett Till of saying things to her.” “Things she later recanted, I read,” Hind said. “You can’t unfire a gun.” Hind nodded. “What that woman did to that child might not be forgivable even by one of them Christians or their god.” “You’re not a Christian?” Hind said as a question. “Not forgiving enough.

Do you trust me?” Mama Z said nothing. “Why not?” Hind asked. “You’re from the FBI.” “I’m also a Black woman,” Hind said. “So you see my problem.” “But I take it you don’t have a problem with Agents Morgan and Jones.” “They’re not FBI.” Hind sighed. “No, but they’re MBI. It’s all just letters, right?” Mama Z looked at Hind for a couple of seconds, then called back into the house. “More hot water!” “Is there reason for you to fear the FBI?” “Is that rhetorical?” “I suppose it is.” “My father was lynched.” “I’m sorry,” Hind said. “Is that an official apology from the United States government?” “From a Black woman.” “Again,” Mama Z said, “you see my problem. That’s practically nothing. I’ve heard nothing, and it sounds just like that.”

“Don’t you think there should be some of us in places like the FBI, CIA, Congress?” Hind said. “No.” “Why not?” “Bad company. I don’t keep bad company.”

was too much.” “No, it wasn’t. It isn’t. Too much is coming.”

“One would like to think that payment is rendered on judgment day.” “You don’t believe that.” “Even if I believed there was a god I wouldn’t believe that. Less than 1 percent of lynchers were ever convicted of a crime. Only a fraction of those ever served a sentence. Teddy Roosevelt claimed the main cause of lynching was Black men raping White women. You know what? That didn’t happen.” “Why do you think White people are so afraid of that?” “Who knows. Sexual inadequacy, maybe. An amplification of their own desire to rape, which they did.” Mama Z puffed out smoke. “But I think rape was just an excuse.” “You think Whites are just afraid of Black men?” “I think it’s sport.”

“I just looked at those pasty white faces and got mad. Hickory-fucking-Spit. Fuck all of them. They’re huddled in a room waiting for us to give them permission to shoot at somebody. And you know what somebodies they want to shoot at.”

“Everybody talks about genocides around the world, but when the killing is slow and spread over a hundred years, no one notices. Where there are no mass graves, no one notices. American outrage is always for show. It has a shelf life. If that Griffin book had been Lynched Like Me, America might have looked up from dinner or baseball or whatever they do now. Twitter?”