Brambleman (39 page)

He lugged the galleys and his laptop across
the street to Java Joe’s. He checked his e-mail, with typically
disappointing results. No one he knew wished to communicate with
him, just “Herb Tarkania” offering to increase his penis size.
Depression loomed. He shook it off. He had work to do. He spent two
hours reading and correcting page proofs for
Flight
. The
first thing he did was remove all mention of Joshua Logan. He
didn’t want to tip his hand to Cecil Montgomery until the time was
right. Logan, as one of Pappy’s fellow lynchers and land thieves,
would get special treatment in
American Monster
.

The nomad moved on to another of his favorite
spots, the Decatur Library’s special collections room. He worked on
Monster
until it was time for supper: a bagel and cream
cheese with juice. How long before he was sick of bagels? After
this modest repast, he migrated to a nearby Starbucks and used the
bathroom to brush his teeth, since he didn’t want them falling out
on his book tour. Charlie marked galleys until the coffeehouse
closed, then drove through an open gate into a bank garage, parking
beside an SUV. He climbed into the rear and leaned against the back
of the passenger seat to begin the tedious work of compiling the
index, working until his mind faded out.

Around midnight he left the garage to take a
leak. A Decatur cop noticed him just before he committed a crime
upon some bushes, so he kept walking, changing direction and going
to a nightclub he hadn’t been to in years. He walked past the folk
singer onstage on his way to the men’s room. When Charlie exited
the restroom, the bartender told him he’d missed last call. Charlie
shrugged apologetically and left, then circled back to the garage,
making sure the cop wasn’t staking out the place. He darted to his
van and slid fully clothed into his sleeping bag.

When he woke up Thursday morning, Charlie
tuned to the news and heard a familiar voice. “Every year, it’s a
struggle,” Redeemer Wilson rasped through the van’s radio speakers.
“But somehow we make it. People open their hearts and we have
enough to go ’round on this, one of our humblest and holiest of
days. So, if you’re cold and alone and need a good meal and some
fellowship, come see me at the Hunger Palace today. And if you got
money, don’t forget to donate to the Holy Way House and Hunger
Palace Foundation Christmas Feast Fund!”

On this day, Redeemer would be the media’s
designated hero, of course. Reporters weren’t always so kind. They
often went “looking for my human flaws,” as the civil rights icon
so aptly put it. Charlie recalled a few, though nothing could
outweigh Redeemer’s courage and service to the cause of justice—and
for the last thirty-some years, his noble attempt to keep street
people from starving. To hell with his critics. That’s how Charlie
felt.

In late 1987, Redeemer purchased a
Pentecostal church on Memorial Drive along with an adjacent lot,
using money from his Feed the Neediest charity, which had prospered
in the aftermath of the Forsyth County marches. He then built the
Hunger Palace as a community center next door. According to one
investigative report, the equipment used to set up its kitchen in
1988 should have been delivered to an Atlanta public elementary
school, although the school’s needs were eventually taken care of
and no charges were ever filed. Redeemer also bought a red Cadillac
around the same time. This fact had been covered ad nauseam by the
media, because everyone knows that black preacher + red Cadillac =
scandal.

With defiant good humor, Redeemer endured bad
press over his interlocking charitable funds. “I’m bloody but
unbowed,” he’d told Charlie during their July interview. “Unbossed
and unbought. And on the holidays, these TV stations that been
tryin’ to rip me a new one all year send their anchors to work in
my kitchen for an hour and get their pictures taken with me. Go
figure.”

Charlie loved the guy, and he remembered his
promise to volunteer at the Hunger Palace. Until he heard Redeemer
on the radio that morning, he hadn’t given the idea a second
thought. Ironically, now he was as much a potential beneficiary of
Redeemer’s charity as he was a donor/volunteer. Nevertheless, the
idea of doing good works while cadging a meal held great appeal for
a liberal with an empty belly.

After putting in a couple of hours proofing
Flight
’s galleys in the back of his van, Charlie drove to
Memorial Drive in East Atlanta. The day was cloudy and cool. As
Charlie approached his destination, he saw a crowd standing in
front of the Hunger Palace, the larger of Redeemer’s two buildings,
next to the Holy Way House of the Social Gospel, which paid a
salary to Redeemer and listed him as its minister—another source of
controversy. Once, when he’d been accused of lacking proper
ordination as a preacher, Redeemer retorted: “Neither did Jesus.
You gonna doubt the Bible just ’cause the Lord didn’t get a
license?”

Charlie passed the Holy Way House, a
dilapidated white frame church set close to the street. The gravel
lot was jammed with cars, including Redeemer’s ancient, banged-up
Cadillac. Charlie parked on a side street. He left his coat in the
van and approached the church from the west, Atlanta’s skyline
behind him. Shopping carts piled high with possessions and black
garbage bags surrounded the building’s concrete stoop. The door was
open, and he peeked inside. Several men and a few women were
scattered throughout the pews; perhaps half were awake. At the
pulpit, an enormous, dark-faced man with a booming voice demanded
repentance. With a beefy paw, the preacher beckoned Charlie to
enter, but the writer moved on, threading his way through the
anarchy of parked cars in the gravel lot toward the Hunger
Palace.

Charlie stopped to watch the bearded civil
rights lion holding court in front of the building’s double doors,
greeting his shabbily dressed flock. At least twenty people
surrounded Redeemer while a perky blonde from Channel Six
interviewed him. Flanked by her cameraman, she was asking him about
his latest run-in with the law: Redeemer had been found passed out
in his car in the middle of an intersection, and DUI charges were
pending. (Charges were always pending, but Redeemer hadn’t spent a
night in jail since the 1960s.)

“Why we talkin’ about this? That’s not what
this day is about. We have a desperate and continual need for
donations large and small, but especially large,” Redeemer
declared, pausing to shake hands with an insistent admirer, a
bearded black man in an army jacket and watch cap. When he turned
back to the camera, he said, “And don’t forget to send your
donations to Reverend Redeemer Wilson’s
Feed the Needy Food
Fund
in time for Christmas. Give until it hurts!” He flashed a
grin.

“Are you saying you’re innocent?” the
reporter asked, returning to her line of questioning.

Redeemer’s eyes bugged out. “Well, scandalize
my name! After all these years, I gotta put up with that?” he
yelled. “I
never
claim I’m innocent. Been through too much
to say that. But I paid my dues. Now you’re tryin’ to make me look
bad on Thanksgiving. Can you believe that?” He held out his arms to
implore the crowd to action; its members took the cue, booing and
jeering the reporter. She cringed under the weight of public
disapproval. Redeemer lowered his hands like a quarterback calling
signals in his home stadium. His supporters hushed.

“Come back Monday morning, you wanna make me
look bad,” Redeemer continued. “We came up short this year, and we
may not even be around next year. I’m eighty-two years old, so you
can’t do nuthin’ to hurt me. It’s these people that come here
you’ll be hurtin’.” He swept his arm to include the crowd. Its
members, unsure what sound effect to produce, let out a collective
grumble.

“Just doing my job,” the reporter said.

“And I’m just doin’ mine. Tellin’ you to BACK
OFF!” He then returned his attention to his flock. The reporter did
as she was told and went inside. Charlie wanted to say hello, but
Redeemer was too busy being adored to notice him at first.
Volunteers and vagrants pressed in on their hero. Charlie stood on
the edge of the crowd debating how to proceed. A minute later,
Redeemer looked at him and shouted, “Hey, I know you!”

“Yes, I—”

“The writer. I’m gonna put you to work for a
change.” Redeemer glanced around until he found the person he was
looking for, right behind him. He gently pushed a young blonde
woman holding a small black girl in her arms toward Charlie. “Take
her and the kids in and get them fed.”

The woman wore heavy makeup, a black
miniskirt, high-heeled boots and a denim jacket. She was striking,
with an aura of seedy glamour—and an overdose of mascara. A
down-on-her-luck stripper, Charlie guessed, though she wasn’t
large-breasted. For some reason, she looked vaguely familiar, but
he couldn’t place her. She drew leers from men in the crowd. One
shouted, “I’ll take care of her, all right!”

Redeemer gave the offender a sharp look and
said, “You ain’t trustworthy. You can look at this man,” he said,
pointing at Charlie, “and know he loves children. Ain’t that
right?”

Surprised by the question, Charlie quickly
bobbed his head.

A boy about Ben’s age with an Afro stepped
forward wearing a dirty jacket. Like the girl, he was black, or
rather mixed-race. The girl’s frizzy hair was bound in a ponytail.
No more than three years old, she wore a sweater over a gown that
looked like a Halloween princess costume.

The woman handed Charlie the girl, who
smelled like she could use a bath. He held her easily in his right
arm. She put her hands around his neck and gazed at him with
impossibly green eyes.

“What’s your name?” Charlie asked.

“Romy.”

“Romy? I like that. I’m Charlie.”

“I’m Tawny,” the woman said. She hugged the
boy’s shoulder. “This is Wyatt.”

“Hey,” Charlie said.

“You work in a factory?” Tawny asked, taking
in Charlie’s rumpled clothes.

“No, no. Just poor.” He stepped to the door
and pulled it open. Tawny and Wyatt walked in; Charlie followed.
Inside, they paused, momentarily stunned by the size of the crowd.
It seemed like a thousand people were jammed into the Hunger
Palace’s main hall. Tables were crowded with people; the queue was
so long it had quit being a line and turned into a blob.

“What the fuck,” the woman said. “We’ll never
get any goddamn food.”

“I’m hungry,” said Romy.

Charlie looked down. Wyatt had a fierce grip
on his right leg. “Come on,” he told the boy. “We’ll get you
something to eat.” Still holding Romy, he bulled his way toward the
head of the line, repeatedly muttering, “’Scuse us, hungry kids
coming through.”

The little girl pointed at people and said,
“
Pop, pop, pop
.” Charlie was amazed when they turned and not
only smiled at the girl, but stepped aside. In just a few seconds,
the four of them stood at the head of the serving line. “It’s a
miracle,” Charlie said, staring into the face of Charlene Guy,
Channel Six morning anchor, who stood behind the steam table
wearing a white apron and a Braves baseball cap.

“I suppose it is,” said Charlene. “But
children always move to the head of the line here.” The news
personality turned and smiled for her station’s camera as she
dished out dressing.

A stout black woman appeared behind Charlene
and stared out at the crowd, then turned toward the kitchen and
shouted, “We ain’t got enough food!”

Charlie skipped dinner for the time being,
not out of altruism, but because he didn’t have an extra arm to
carry two meals and Romy. They moved through the line and got
turkey, dressing, sweet potato soufflé, green beans, cranberry
sauce, rolls, cans of Coke, and pumpkin pie slapped on foam plates.
They were served by a team of three news anchors, a rich white
woman with her silver hair done just so, and a couple of everyday
people—the ones who knew what they were doing. Romy grabbed her
roll and stuffed it into her mouth as Charlie, already despairing
of finding a place to sit, led Wyatt and Tawny to the dining area.
Lo and behold, two shabbily dressed black men rose as the four
approached the first row of tables, sweeping their arms gallantly
to offer the family their places. When Charlie set Romy down, she
kneeled on her chair to eat.

Charlie looked around and realized he and
Tawny were sprinkles of salt in a sea of pepper. “Get us some paper
towels or a rag or something,” she commanded him. “This table’s
filthy.”

He moved toward the kitchen to look for rags.
His path was cut off by the large woman he’d seen before. “Tell me
you just drove up a truck with five hundred meals on it,” she said,
not looking like she would take No for an answer. Reluctantly,
Charlie shook his head.

“We gonna run out of food before we run out
of people. Gets worse every year.”

“Sorry,” Charlie said. “I’m just lookin’ for
some rags to wipe tables.”

“You here to volunteer? Cause if you are,
then volunteer to wash pots and pans. That’s where we need help.
Gettin’ nuthin’ but lip from the back of the kitchen. My name’s
Lucinda. Lucinda Persons. If you need anything, just keep working.”
She chuckled, then widened her eyes and snapped, “I mean it.”

“Yes ma’am,” Charlie said, backing away to
avoid her wrath.

Lucinda stormed off to find another
volunteer/victim. Charlie looked back wistfully at Tawny, who was
already drawing the attention of several men. And then he caught a
whiff of a familiar and most unwelcome odor. He surveyed the dining
hall but didn’t see Trouble.

Charlie walked through double doors into the
kitchen, past the cooks working at stoves and a six-year-old
inspection notice on the wall with a “71” score, which was barely
passing—and probably a charitable grade, at that. Beyond an old,
broken-down Hobart dishwasher, an emaciated figure in a ratty
T-shirt and tan corduroy pants with his back to Charlie was
scrubbing a large pot in the middle trough of a deep triple sink.
As Charlie approached, the drudge reached over with his free hand,
scooped out a handful of dressing from a smaller pot on a shelf,
and stuffed it in his mouth.