Brambleman (17 page)

* * *

Now, on a winter’s morning several months
later, Charlie crossed the Fulton County line into Forsyth. Across
the median, southbound cars and sport utilities poured into
Atlanta. Along each side of the road stood a thin line of pine
trees—a Potemkin forest that failed to hide office parks and
residential subdivisions. Forsyth’s population was 12,000 in 1910;
it had grown twelvefold since then. Charlie passed Cumming and
exited Georgia 400, driving beyond Coal Mountain on Highway 9. The
other lane was jammed with fuel tankers, dump trucks, flatbeds
pulling back hoes, and septic service trucks, as well as BMWs and
SUVs, all of them stuck behind an old clunker puttering along at
thirty miles per hour. The hills were pocked with chicken houses.
Some of their roofs were bright and shiny, while others were dull
gray and twisted, rusted reddish-brown in spots. Many were vacant,
and some of those were in a state of collapse. A survey crew worked
in a pasture near some of those ruins, which would soon be replaced
with another subdivision or shopping center. The sales prices for
these dirt farms—undeveloped parcels, in developers’ terms—had to
be astronomical. Millions of dollars, at least.

Just past Coal Mountain Church of Christ,
Charlie saw the old graveyard on a hill to the left, near the site
of an old church that had burned down in the 1920s. He parked in
the cemetery driveway and stepped out of the car. With his hands
stuck in his coat pockets, the writer strolled about the burial
ground, which was dominated by family plots: Fitzgerald, Mackey,
Kirkpatrick, MacGregor. No Cutchinses. The Rankin family plot, with
its tidy brick borders, was near the center of the well-kept
graveyard. Silk flowers were everywhere, along with withered
poinsettias left from Christmas.

When he found Martha Jean’s grave, a deep
chill colder than the winter air knifed through his bones. He stood
still for a while, reflecting somberly about what had happened,
hoping to absorb history by osmosis. He listened for a voice from
the grave. Why not? After all, his mission was shrouded in
weirdness. Wasn’t he a ghost writer, of sorts? Or maybe even a
ghost’s writer. For all he knew, the good professor was behind all
this.

When he grew tired of the wind whipping his
deaf-to-the-dead ears, Charlie returned to the car and drove east
toward Lake Lanier. According to local legend, the stone Bernie
Dent had used to beat Martha Jean was embedded in a giant white oak
on the banks of Sodder Creek not far from the lake. Charlie parked
his car near the creek and made a desultory search for it but found
neither root nor rock. The air was cold and time was short. Under
the circumstances, who was he to argue with local legend?

After he quit his search, he drove across the
bridge into Hall County. A few fishing boats dotted the lake. The
green water sparkled blue by some trick of light. He pulled into a
lakeside park to collect his thoughts. After years of drought and
Atlanta’s constant sucking need, the coves had turned to mud flats.
The boat ramp was long enough to deserve a county road number.

Back in Forsyth, he stopped at Bud’s Quikie,
a combination convenience store, bait and tackle shop, and
fast-food restaurant. Two old men played video poker in back.
Charlie bought a Diet Coke and a Baby Ruth for lunch, then sat in
the car working up the nerve to see Pappy.

He focused on how to approach the old man.
This time, he’d be non-antagonistic, and he’d let Pappy spew racist
venom all he wanted. The more, the better.

When he’d properly steeled himself for his
task, Charlie drove past Frogtown and a
Cow Crossing
sign,
then turned onto Slide Road near the landfill. To the north stood
the Blue Ridge Mountains. He passed the First Church of
Varmintville (a.k.a. the First Baptist Church of North Forsyth),
which permitted no sin. Just down the road stood the Second First
Church of Varmintville, founded by parishioners banished from the
first First Church who liked to drink, dance, and divorce, most
likely in that order.

Within a minute, Charlie was at Pappy’s
place. He rolled up the semicircular driveway, tires crunching
gravel. In the pull-off next to the house sat Pappy’s faded blue
1970 Chevy pickup. It was scary to think the old codger still
drove, but the truck was kept in good running order by auto experts
Bradley Roy and Phil McRae, Sheila’s relatively well-behaved,
raccoon-troubled second husband. The Volvo’s door squawked open,
and as soon as Charlie stepped out into the cold sunshine, the
house’s red wooden door opened and Pappy came out, dressed in his
trademark overalls and blue shirt. He stood on the stoop, forcing
Charlie to stay in the yard and look up at him.

“Hey, Pappy. Beautiful day,” Charlie
offered.

“You come all the way out here to tell me
that?”

Charlie laughed. “No, sir. Truth is, I’m
working on something. Don’t know if you heard—”

“You’re Susan’s, right?”

“Uh … right.”

“I heard you got kicked outta the house fer
lookin’ at smut.” He laughed unkindly. “Got to take care of your
own, not go looking through catalogs for somethin’ new.”

“I’ll remember that. Actually, I wanted to
talk about something else.”

Pappy spit tobacco juice, hitting a boxwood.
He stared at Charlie with remarkably clear, dark eyes. “So what’d
you come here fer?”

“I’m working on a book about Forsyth County
history, back in the day.”

A pause. “I ain’t sure I know what yer
gettin’ at.”

“You know. The rape, the lynching. Running
people off.”

Pappy’s mouth dropped open. After an instant,
he recovered and squinted at Charlie. “Wait jest a minute. You mind
tellin’ me
zactly
whatcher talkin’ about?”

“Come on, Pappy!” Charlie laughed in
exasperation. “Nineteen-twelve. Martha Jean Rankin.”

Pappy’s face returned to its normal
configuration. “Don’t know nuthin’ ’bout it. I was a baby. I can
tell you the niggers moved out after they raped and murdered a
white woman.”

“Well, not all of them did that.”

“They’s all capable. Can’t be safe with ’em
around.” He looked north, then south, as if scouting the horizon
for African-Americans. “Looks like you gettin’ your way. They
comin’ back. I seen a couple last week. They better not come near
me, if they know what’s good fer ’em.” He spat again.

“I wanted to ask—”

“Don’t let the door hitchoo on the way out.”
Pappy retreated into the house. “One other thing,” he said through
the screen. “If Susan ain’t got use for you, neither do I, so there
ain’t no need for you to come by here. And it ain’t a beautiful
day. It’s cold as hell.” He banged the door shut.

That went well
, Charlie thought as he
drove away. Casting a sullen glance at Varmintville in his rearview
mirror, he shuddered, causing his vehicle to cross the center line
before he regained control.

Charlie ditched his shipping department
uniform, choosing khaki slacks and a blue sweater for his interview
with reporter Bill Crenshaw. As he walked out the door, Kathleen
patted his shoulder, making him feel like a kid going to a job
interview. On his walk to Bay Street Coffeehouse, Charlie assured
himself that it was all right to have his picture in the newspaper,
since the police were looking for an unkempt slob in goggles, not a
smart-looking editor with specs. He arrived at his destination a
few minutes early. Jean—no longer Amazon Woman, now that he’d
properly made her acquaintance—gave him a double-take as he stepped
to the counter.

“Newspaper interview,” he said
apologetically.

She raised a sculpted brow. “So the lone wolf
is newsworthy.”

The lone wolf
. He liked that. He took
a seat in the half-full room, sipped dark-roast coffee, and started
reading a book Talton had cited frequently. Like the others he’d
looked through, it told him little about Forsyth County.

Shortly after one o’clock the thirtyish
reporter arrived. Crenshaw was tailed by a balding and bearded
photographer whose expression wavered between boredom and
amusement. Crenshaw had dark, mischievous eyes and wore a blue tie
so loosely it seemed like an afterthought. The two men introduced
themselves to Charlie, bought drinks, and then sat at his table.
Crenshaw plopped a digital recorder in front of his interview
subject and turned it on. “Tell me about the book,” he said.

“OK.” Charlie started with a short bio of
Talton, then gave some background on himself before talking about
Flight from Forsyth
. The reporter jotted notes on a skinny
pad. After taking a few pictures of Charlie, the photographer
drifted off to make a phone call.

“What do people up in Forsyth County think
about this effort to dig up their past?” Crenshaw asked.

“We wouldn’t have to dig it up if it hadn’t
been buried,” Charlie said, glancing over at Jean, who winked at
him, causing his pulse to quicken.

Crenshaw was intrigued when Charlie told him
that not only did
Flight from Forsyth
identify several black
landowners who had been forced to abandon their property, but that
Talton had obtained copies of records backing up claims of land
theft. “Of course, a lot of these records were destroyed in a
mysterious 1973 courthouse fire,” Charlie said, without mentioning
the suspected arsonist’s name. “I don’t know if you’re aware of
this, but a lack of documentation derailed claims by blacks for
reparations in 1987.”

“Little did they know the records were safely
in a dead man’s care.”

“Exactly so,” Charlie said. “Following
Redeemer’s march, local officials paid lip service to the idea of
reconciliation by forming a biracial committee. I was up at the
library in Cumming the other day and read the committee’s report.
Whites disliked any mention of reparations, and warned that
attempts to seek damages over past events—here I quote—‘could
produce widespread antagonism throughout the nation, with dangerous
consequences.’ So Forsyth folks continue the tough talk. But, like
I said, there are records to back claims for reparations.
Unfortunately, the man who held them was unable to attend those
meetings, being deceased. But with
Flight from Forsyth
’s
publication—”

“Assuming it gets published.”

“—much will be revealed. Assuming, yes. Which
I do, of course.”

“Who said dead men tell no tales?” Crenshaw
paused for a beat. “So, can I see the records?”

Charlie gave him a knowing smile and shook
his head. “That’s Dr. Talton’s story to tell.”

“Come on,” Crenshaw wheedled. “Give me a
break.”

“Sorry.” No way was Charlie giving him
that
scoop.

At Crenshaw’s request, they adjourned to
Bayard Terrace to take photos of Kathleen. She protested
unconvincingly about having her picture taken, then changed into
her blue dress and put up her hair. After she posed with the
manuscript, Charlie gave the journalists a friendly push out the
door and rushed to pick up the kids, rehearsing apologies to their
teachers for his tardiness.

Less than an hour later, Crenshaw called
Charlie’s cellphone. “My editors are putting pressure on me,” the
reporter said. “You gotta let me see the records. This is Sunday
front-page stuff.”

“Sorry,” Charlie said, fighting back a grin.
“The story will come out in due time.”

“Well, forget what I said about the Sunday
front page,” Crenshaw grumbled. “Monday back page now.”

* * *

Late Sunday night, after a weekend of
plodding through Taltonic prose, smiling through Angela’s hints of
lawyering to come, and watching a kiddie movie with Beck and Ben,
Charlie finally got around to baiting two rat traps with peanut
butter and placing them in a dark corner of the dungeon before
crashing out.

An hour later, he was awakened by a loud
SNAP! The other trap sprang seconds later. That was one badass rat.
Charlie listened closely but heard no anguished squeaks. He went
back to sleep.

He woke at dawn Monday with the realization
that he’d be in the news that day. He poured a cup of coffee before
pulling the newspaper from its wrap. He found the article next to
the obituaries. “This was supposed to be a resurrection, not a
burial!” he fumed, throwing the section on the kitchen table.

The piece wasn’t all bad, but he had mixed
feelings about seeing his picture in the paper. On the bright side,
he could use the article to convince editors and agents of
Flight
’s importance—if only he had a sample to show them.
Not Talton’s prose. God no. He needed something to persuade readers
to keep going, not to kill themselves.

While Charlie sipped coffee, Kathleen
shuffled into the kitchen wearing her robe and slippers. He knew
she’d see the story right away, since she checked obits first
thing. She squealed in delight and clutched the paper like she was
a kid with a new toy. The article included the photo of Thurwood
she’d given to Crenshaw. “Isn’t he handsome?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am.”

“It’s really going to happen, isn’t it?
Thanks to you.”

“We’ve been lucky. It’s strange how things
are falling into place. Fantastic, really.”

“Speaking of fantastic,” Kathleen said, “I
had the strangest, most vivid dream last night. I was in a
courtroom, and Thurwood sat down beside me. You were there, too.
You were the court reporter, the stenographer who takes down
everything. A good sign, don’t you think? Thurwood was happy and
thought things were going well. He said, ‘That young man is an
angel, you know.’ I said, ‘He’s the answer to my prayer,’ and he
said, ‘That’s what angels are.’”

“I’m glad he thinks we’re going to succeed.
But I’m no angel.”

“You never know.”