Brambleman (34 page)

Trust no one
. “Oh,” he said. “I meant
to do that. Are you saying it’s too late?”

Her voice turned shrill. “I said you didn’t
have time, and he died the day after I talked to you.”

Charlie groaned. “I
knew
I should have
gone out to see him. Shoot.”

“He’s the only one I know of that could tell
you about it. That would, anyway.” He could see her slumping in her
chair, her hopes of vengeance thwarted. “Hope you can find out
somehow.”

He sighed. “Not sure I can go ahead with the
project now. Maybe I should hang it up.”

“No. Don’t do that. There is somebody you
could talk to, but I’m not sure she knows about the killing.”

“Who’s that?”

“The missing Cutchins.”

That was a bolt from the blue. “Are you
talking about Shirley? I don’t know how to reach her.”

“Now her name is Cartier. Arlene Cartier.”
She pronounced it “Cart-ee-er.”

“Arlene?” That didn’t make sense. “Is she
married?”

“Doubt it. Changed it legally. Didn’t want to
be a Cutchins. Can you blame her?”

“No. How do you know this?”

“I worked with her in a restaurant in
Kennesaw back in the 1980s. She got drunk one night and told me a
lot more about her family than anyone would ever want to know.”

“You seen her lately?”

“A year ago. She was living in a trailer park
near Kennesaw named Shady something. She keeps moving. Maybe she’s
still there. Go see for yourself.”

“I will. Keep in touch.”

“I got your number.”

“You’re not the only one.”

* * *

On November 2, Charlie drove to Kennesaw with
some burning questions to ask Arlene Cartier about her days as
Shirley Cutchins. He hadn’t found an address or phone number for
either person, so he followed his only lead. Regretting his failure
to capture Danny Patterson’s account on video, this time he took a
tripod and camcorder borrowed from Thornbriar while Susan wasn’t
looking.

North of Marietta but still part of Atlanta’s
suburban sprawl, Kennesaw had achieved notoriety in the 1980s for
legally requiring residents to own guns. Charlie wondered if that’s
why the missing Cutchins had moved there—to become part of an armed
camp. He exited I-75 and took Old Highway 41 north toward Lake
Allatoona until he reached Shady Haven Trailer Park. Just before
noon, he stopped by the office, also a mobile home. The frowsy
middle-aged blonde who answered the door told him to look for an
old trailer near the Dumpsters. She closed the door before Charlie
could ask her where those were. He sniffed, but the cool breeze
gave no clues.

Charlie drove along the perimeter gravel
drive until he saw the trash bins, and beside them, a ramshackle
little trailer on the smallest lot in the park. It shared the tiny
triangular space (which seemed to be an afterthought) with a
battered old white Toyota, some spindly young pines, and utility
feeds. He skidded to a stop on the gravel and opened the door. He
slammed it as gray dust and the sour smell of garbage drifted
toward the van.

The trailer was nothing more than a camper,
easily towed by a pickup truck—not that anyone would want to take
it anywhere. It looked like it had come there to die. Ancient and
round, with a porthole window near the rear, it was painted primer
gray and sported copious amounts of rust around rivets and along
seams. Two bent poles held up a faded and tattered green awning. A
flower bed was filled with the dried husks of weeds, candy
wrappers, and plastic grocery bags.

He carried his camcorder and tripod to the
door, banging on it twice with his elbow before a gruff, raspy
voice cried out, “Hold on, I’m acomin’.”

The door opened. The first thing Charlie
noticed was the gun, a big, Dirty Harry-looking automatic. “And I
know how to use it,” the woman said by way of introduction.
Cigarette smoke seeped out of the door from behind her. He set down
the camcorder case, rubbed his eyes and blinked. The woman looked
so much like Pappy he thought for a second he’d walked into a trap.
Courtesy and a sense of self-preservation would keep him from
mentioning the resemblance, however. Although she wasn’t aiming at
him, she seemed a bit twitchy. Her arms were folded across her
chest, and the gun was pointing haphazardly toward the crows in a
pine tree by the fence. With a moment to adjust, he saw
differences: She was shorter than Pappy and had ear-length,
imperfectly chopped, greasy black-gray hair. Like her father, she
wore blue jeans and a work shirt.

“I’m Charles Sherman. Are you Arlene
Cartier?” He pronounced her last name like the jeweler’s.

“You here for the lawsuit?” He gave her a
blank look. “The blow-dryer that caught on fire. I called that
eight hundred number on the TV and left a message. I figured Chad
Armstrong would take my case. You don’t work for him?”

“No, I’m a writer.”

“So this ain’t about the dryer.” Her weary
tone suggested disappointment came often. “What’s it about,
then?”

“I’m working on a history book.”

“A history book.” This seemed to make as much
sense to her as the blow-dryer lawsuit did to him.

“About Forsyth County. I heard you were from
there.” She conceded nothing, so he continued. “I’m doing a story
about a man named Cutchins.”

Silence followed, but Charlie was determined
to wait for an answer. Eventually, the woman spoke: “I used to have
that name, but I got rid of it and do not care to hear it anymore,
thank you.” Her formal twang was unmistakably familiar.

“I thought you could give me some background
on your father.”

“Don’t call him that.” She looked like she
regretted not shooting him to begin with.

“The son of a bitch, then.”

“That’s better.”

“May I come in?” He started up the rickety
wooden step to the door and stopped, watching her gun hand. The
rank smell of countless cigarette butts assaulted him; this was
like stepping into an ashtray. “Or we could sit outside.”

“Too cold for that.”

She stepped back from the door but didn’t
close it, so he walked in, bracing himself for a secondhand
headache. She slipped the gun into a cabinet drawer in the
trailer’s micro-kitchen and sat down at a table, across from a
thirteen-inch TV tuned to
Judge Maybelline Mayhew
.

She was a bit on the thin side, though
slightly disproportioned, as if the load of her body had settled
awkwardly on her frame. She sat with her legs bowed, knees wide
apart. When she yawned, he saw that she was missing a few
teeth—though not many, and not in front. She either had a palsy of
some sort or was nervous; her left hand trembled slightly. Her
cigarette hand was much steadier. “Charles Sherman,” she said. “The
name rings a bell.”

She didn’t object as he set up the camera in
the cramped quarters, though if she was anything like her father
she’d let him go through the trouble of doing the work before
declaring, “I never said you could.”

“We’ve never met, but for purposes of
disclosure, I should tell you I married—”

“My youngest niece.”

Younger, actually. That entire generation
consisted of only three people (that he knew of): Sheila, Susan,
and Momo. “Yes! How’d you know?”

“Wedding picture in the paper. You were a
reporter or some such. You plucked her when she was young. Nowadays
young, anyway.”

“That was a long time ago. Were you at the
wedding?”

“No, just saw the announcement.” She nodded
toward a discolored white album on a nearby shelf.

Charlie didn’t know what to say. Apparently,
she watched her family from a distance and only threatened
relatives on special occasions, like funerals. He turned on the
camera. “My wife said the only time she saw you was at the mall,
but she didn’t get to meet you.”

“That’s because I saw them first. I ain’t got
no use for her mother.”

“Me neither.” He gave her a sympathetic
grimace. “I’ve got to admit I don’t know much about you. No one
likes to talk.”

“I doubt they would. They ain’t got nuthin’
to be proud of.”

“I’ve been learning a lot about Ike Cutchins,
though.”

“That he’s the devil?” She snorted in
contempt. “That’s the only thing you need to know.”

He looked one way, then the other, then right
into her eyes. “I’ve seen evidence to that effect. And now I want
to talk to you about it.”

“What did you find out that made you wanna
talk to me?”

“I was working on a book about what happened
in Forsyth County in 1912, but then I stumbled across something
else. I thought you might be able to help me with it.” Her face
went pallid. She lit a Salem, took a drag, and looked out the
window toward the trailer park’s fence and the shedding trees.
Charlie continued. “It happened in 1937. Your father—”

“I told you, don’t call him that. I don’t
have one.”

“—killed a black man and stole his land.”

“Go on.”

Now Charlie had her full attention. He told
her a few details of the crime and said Danny Patterson had lived
just long enough to tell the tale.

“I remember Danny. He was several years
older. He always avoided me. Now I reckon I know why.”

When Charlie mentioned his suspicions about
Minerva’s lineage, she slapped both palms on the table. Staring
into Charlie’s eyes, she said, “Well, I give you credit. You told
me something I didn’t know. Not that I wanted to. I wasn’t much
more than a baby then, but I don’t doubt for a second he did that.
He hated black people worse than anybody else I ever knew. And
there weren’t any black people around, because of him and people
like him. I’ll bet that man Riggins worked harder and did better
for himself and that devil couldn’t tolerate it, because he can’t
stand to see other people do well. And especially not no black man.
He was always filled with spite. Piss and vinegar.” She returned
her gaze to the window. After a moment, her eyes took on a bright,
malevolent cast. “I stole it off a dead nigger,” she crowed
softly.

“Beg pardon?”

“That’s what he told me once, when I asked
him how he got the farm. I thought it was a joke. Thought he was
just bein’ ugly. Shows what I know.” She stared into his eyes. “So
nobody knows about this? But that’s fixin’ to change. Ha.” She
finished with more of a snort than a laugh.

Charlie nodded. “A lot of people knew, but
nobody’s talked about it. Seems like they’re afraid.”

“He’s a monster. He ain’t gonna die, not of
natural causes. I thought about going up there and killing him
myself. Still do, from time to time, when I’m bored and lookin’ for
somethin’ to do.”

Charlie laughed.

“Think I wouldn’t? Well, I would.”

He decided not to tell her about the pending
land sale, lest he become an accomplice to murder. He glanced
around at her pathetic little home, not knowing what to say. As if
reading his mind, she said, “I never had a chance.”

“I’m sorry. What do you mean?”

“You’re writing a book about the bad he did.
But you don’t know everything.”

“No ma’am, I don’t. That’s why I’m here. I
heard you could shed some light—”

“You know about !
this
?” She rolled up
her sleeve to expose an ugly scar on her arm.

“No.
Ouch
.” He squinched his face
sympathetically. “What happened?”

“Punishment for tryin’ to kill him,” she
said. She looked around and took a deep breath. “It was after the
first time he raped me, when I was thirteen. I was the oldest, by
two years. He waited till I … till … I came of age. I wanted to
kill myself ’cause of what he done, but something in me had enough
sense to say I wasn’t the problem. So I snuck into his room that
night with a butcher knife. Only she cried out. I froze. Then he
woke up and grabbed my arm and hit me in the face. He dragged me
out of the room and threatened to do it again right there. Only I
knew he wouldn’t because the others were around. I spit in his face
and he slapped me, then pushed me back in the room with the
others—there was just two rooms, so all the kids slept together. I
remember lying on my mattress on the floor, thinkin’ it ain’t over,
it ain’t over. Sure enough, it wasn’t. Next day, I was doing the
ironing, alone—”

“Did your mother know that he’d molested
you?”

“She was fine with what happened so long as
it didn’t happen to her. She just had her youngest and didn’t want
to be bothered. Now let me tell you. He grabbed the iron—it was one
of those old ones you had to put on the stove to heat up—and
pressed it on my arm. Says, ‘You’re mine now, you little bitch.’ He
branded me.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “And he said if I ever told
anyone what was going on, he’d kill me. So I didn’t.”

“That’s awful.” Charlie reached toward her.
She gave him a warning look, and he pulled back his hand.

“That was just the beginning. I wish I’d run,
just run away back then. But I stayed. It went on for three years.
Every week. He bought this car. Saturday afternoons he gave her
some money to take the other three out for ice cream. I had to stay
home.
To keep him company
.” Her lip curled in disgust. “So I
didn’t get any ice cream. No, I got raped by that hillbilly. And
they’d come back and she would always honk her horn as she drove
up, give him time to pull up his britches.”

Charlie’s head reeled as he tried to figure
out how the family dynamic had functioned. Or dysfunctioned. Gram,
Pappy’s wife/cousin/sister/whatever, was worn down from his hatred
and abuse, as well as haggard from producing four babies. Tired of
her, he’d turned to a younger, fresher version. What had kept him
from treating his younger daughters the same way? Or had he? They
both idolized Stanley. Perhaps their brother had protected his
younger sisters, after allowing Shirley to be sacrificed to the
devil. With this messed-up family, who knew?