The Cantaloupe Thief (7 page)

The bridge soared at least fifty feet above them, devoid of traffic at this hour, and invisible. Branigan peered into the darkness, but could see nothing past Davison in Liam's little circle of light. Still, she'd never known this site to be vacant and sensed people listening from nearby tents staked into the hard red mud, and from the girders forty-five feet up an incline.

Davison stood to hug her, and she walked into his arms silently, awkwardly. She steeled herself against the smell of dried sweat, dirt and grime, and he sensed it.

“Sorry. I haven't bathed in awhile,” he apologized, pulling away. “Liam says I can shower tomorrow at the shelter.”

Branigan nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Then clearing her throat, she fought the urge to scream a hundred questions and instead said quietly, “Tell me how you've been.”

He shrugged. “Not much to tell.”

The siblings had never been ones for chitchat. So she asked what was foremost in her mind: “Are you clean?”

He hesitated, knowing how badly she wanted him to say yes, and she presumed, wanting pretty badly for it to be true.

“No,” he said.

She exhaled and slumped, not realizing how tightly she'd been holding on to this hope until it was whisked away.

“Crack?” she asked.

He nodded. “And beer. Some meth.”

She glanced at Liam. It didn't get much worse than crystal methamphetamine, he'd once told her. The rotting teeth, the skeletal face, the aging skin. Five years and Davison would be unrecognizable.

Branigan took a shuddering breath, stopped the cries of
Why?
before they flew from her mouth. But it was as if he heard them anyway. He shrugged again, turning inward.

“I'm glad to see you,” she managed. “So glad to know you're okay.”

He gave her a sad smile.

“
Are
you okay?”

He gave a sideways wag of his head, meaning yes and no.

“I thought it was time to come and see Chan, now that he's heading to college.” She heard Liam draw a sharp breath. “But I'm having second thoughts,” he said to Liam. “I don't want him to see me like this.”

“I agree,” Liam said. “Telling him is one thing. Having him see you strung out is another.”

Branigan cringed. Liam didn't mince words. Chan knew he was adopted, had known since he was old enough to know the word. But Liam and Liz had never shared the part about his biological parents being drug addicts.

Davison hung his head. “So here's what I'm thinking. I'd like to go to rehab, then tell Chan before he leaves for Furman.”

Liam and Branigan looked at each other. She didn't know what surprised her more — rehab or that he knew where Chan was going to college.

“I need to tell him he has a royal screw-up for a father. So he can do everything in his power to be different.”

“All right,” she whispered, gripping her twin's shoulder. “Sounds like a plan.”

In the glow of the flashlight, Liam's face was expressionless. Branigan knew him well enough to know he wasn't happy.

 

Davison had been younger than Chan was now, sixteen and a junior at Grambling East, when he had his first drink. Branigan saw it happen, saw the light dawn in his eyes. She just didn't know what she was looking at.

Gran and Pa had taken their RV to visit Gran's sister in Texas. They were going to be gone for two weeks, maybe more. Pa had timed the visit to coincide with the selling of chickens, so the chicken houses were empty. Uncle Bobby would take the cattle into his adjoining pastures. That left only the dogs — Cleo's grandmother and great-uncle, to be precise.

After driving out to the farm every afternoon after school to feed and play with the German shepherds, Davison and Branigan casually told their parents it would be easier to spend the weekend there. Mrs Powers, who ran an accounting business from their house, was in the middle of tax season. She welcomed the break in cooking. “As long as you call us every morning and every night,” she said.

The twins didn't go wild, but they did invite their best friends to the farm on Friday night. Davison's swim team buddies, Brandon and Liam, brought beer, and Branigan's softball cohorts, Sandy and Alissa, sweet white Zinfandel. After sunset, they plugged in a CD player on the back porch and let their friends introduce them to alcohol.

Branigan quickly got giddy, then silly, then sick on the candy-colored wine. She was asleep by eleven, leaving the party in full swing. When their friends left around noon on Saturday, they couldn't take the alcohol back to their houses, so they left it. Branigan could no more have touched another glass of wine than she could have eaten the dead mouse Gran's shepherd proudly dumped on the porch. But Davison could hardly wait to get back to the beer.

In mid-afternoon, he pulled one from the refrigerator, popped it with a satisfying spurt and licked the foam from the can. He then settled onto the porch and began talking excitedly about his plans for senior year, then college, then law school. Her normally reticent brother talked excitedly, non-stop. In fact, he pretty near babbled.

She watched, puzzled, as he drank four beers in a row, then stretched out on Gran's couch and fell asleep.

Five years later, he mentioned that afternoon once. Just once.

It was the night he came to her dorm room to tell her he was dropping out of college. Certainly she'd heard the rumors; heard about Davison's reputation for being the hardest drinking frat man at the University of Georgia — which was saying something.

She had watched him uneasily the preceding summer, when he stayed overnight at friends' houses more often than he came home. She had heard whispered conversations between her parents, and much louder confrontations between them and Davison. She had walked into his bedroom and been stunned by the boozy smell.

But she wasn't prepared for what he was saying that fall evening in her dorm. He wasn't fully sober, though it was just past dusk. He had failed every mid-term, he said. He was giving up.

“But what about law school?” she cried, honestly bewildered.

He laughed bitterly. “No law school's going to take me.”

“But Davison, why? You're throwing away three years of school.”

He waved her words aside as if they were mosquitoes. “Do you remember the weekend we spent at Gran and Pa's that spring they went to Texas?”

She nodded.

“And you remember that was the first time I tasted a beer?”

She nodded again.

“Well, something happened that night. It was the first time I felt normal. It was the first time I felt what other people feel like all the time.”

“What are you talking about? You're not making sense.”

He sighed. “Anyway, Brani, I just wanted you to know. Mom and Dad don't get it and never will. But I'm not like you. I'm not like other people.”

He got up to leave then, even as she was attempting to argue him out of this rash plan. He quietly closed the door while she was in the middle of a sentence.

It would be two years before she saw her brother again.

CHAPTER NINE

Branigan's first stop the next morning was the house she had grown up in, two blocks from the stately Resnick home. She wanted to catch her folks before her dad left for work.

Her father was eating cereal, and her mother was drinking a glass of cranberry juice when she arrived. Her mother hugged her, and poured coffee into a mug without asking. Her dad remained seated at the breakfast table, but pulled her in for a quick hug.

“What brings you out so early?” he asked.

“I need to tell you both something.”

They glanced at each other.

“It's good. It's Davison.”

Her mom's eyes widened, and her dad's jaw tightened. Davison had caused them so much pain.

“He's back?” breathed her mom. “Davison's back?”

She nodded. “Apparently he wants to go to rehab. He got in touch with the treatment counselor at Jericho Road. Liam called me.”

“Well, I guess that
is
good,” said Mrs Powers. She'd been down this road before, knew not to get too excited. Branigan's dad only cleared his throat.

“There's one more thing,” Branigan said. “He wants to tell Chan.”

“Why?” asked her dad.

“Something about Chan going off to college. So he'll know his gene pool regarding addiction.”

“That may not be a bad thing.”

“It'll be good for you guys too,” she said. “To finally let Chan know you're his grandparents.”

As friends of the Delaneys, they knew Chan — knew him well. But with Liam and Liz's decision to keep Chan's junkie parents a secret, they hadn't known his parentage until Chan grew into his tall and loose-limbed physique. Branigan had come to them with her suspicions and they realized instantly that she must be right. But they respected the Delaneys' decision and said nothing to anyone outside the family.

Now her mom nodded, sitting down to take in this new development. She blew out a slow breath. “Tell Liz and Liam to call us when they're ready.”

Branigan's second stop was Jericho Road. She wanted to see if Malachi, the homeless man Dontegan had recommended she speak to, was there for breakfast.

Three of the shelter residents were cooking grits, bacon and eggs as she walked in. Two of them ducked their heads, but Dontegan waved a greeting.

“You have a plate, woncha?” he called.

“Sure, if you have enough.” She helped herself to a cup of steaming coffee from a battered urn, ignoring the packages of artificial sweetener. Liam once told her it was impossible to keep real sugar, because alcoholics poured entire bowls into their coffee, trying to get a mini-high.

Dontegan passed her a generously filled plate through the cafeteria window. She asked him if Malachi was around, and he pointed to a man of medium build sitting alone at the farthest table. Malachi's skin was dark black, possibly the darkest Branigan had ever seen in Georgia, a shade she associated with beleaguered Nigerians or Sudanese in the news. His cornrow braids dangled a few inches below his camouflage baseball cap. His clothes were so worn as to be colorless — threadbare shades of khaki and green.

She set her plate on his table, leaving an empty space between them.

“I'm Branigan Powers,” she said. “Is it okay if I sit here?”

He nodded politely. “You can sit anywhere,” he offered, showing no surprise at her skirt and heels.

“Are you Malachi?”

He nodded again. Branigan explained the story she was doing on Vesuvius's death, and he arched his eyebrows.
“The Rambler
doin' a story on a homeless dude?”

“Yeah, I know. Do you believe his death was an accident?”

“He sure wouldna been the first to get run over,” he said. “It happens prob'ly six times a year.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Walker versus car. Bicycle versus car. Moped versus car. Not much of a fight.”

She thought about the two- to four-inch stories the newspaper combined in a column down an inside page. Sometimes they were about a cyclist getting hit by a car. If it happened on Mrs Resnick's street, it'd be a full-length story. But west of town? Probably not.

“But Vesuvius,” she persisted. “Accidental?”

Malachi lifted his shoulders. “No way of knowin'. V wasn't all there, you know? Nice guy, but ...” Malachi tapped his head sadly.

She stabbed her eggs. “That's what I hear.”

Malachi's gaze snagged on something on the far wall. Branigan glanced over, but saw only paintings from Jericho's celebrated art room.

“There was one thin' though,” he said.

She waited.

“I let V stay with me one night when he missed curfew.” He nodded down the hallway that led to the men's rooms. “If you come in after nine at night, Pastor Liam won't let you in. V liked his room and didn' miss curfew much. But this night he had money.”

“That was unusual?”

“Oh, yeah. He said he sol' a paintin'. Like that one.”

She looked at the glowing moonscape Malachi was looking at. It depicted woods at night, moonlight streaking through tree branches but never reaching the forest floor. It was beautiful. In the lower right hand corner, she could see a large black V. So Vesuvius had been one of the Jericho Road artists.

“What's unusual about that? I thought your artists were always selling work out of here.”

“Yeah, but V said this paintin' had been bought by another dude. Someone who live on the street. But when I asked him what dude be buyin' a paintin', he clammed up. Wouldn' tell me.”

Branigan couldn't see a connection between Vesuvius selling art and getting hit on his bike, but the fact that the homeless man had been a talented artist was a good detail. She'd send a photographer to get a picture to accompany her story. She thanked Malachi and got up to leave.

“Oh, and Malachi? I need your full name.”

“Malachi Ezekiel Martin.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, is it your only name?”

A smile played at Malachi's lips. “Do I need more 'n one?”

“No,” she stumbled, flustered. “I just meant that a lot of the guys seem to have more than one, or a nickname or whatever.”

“Nope. Malachi Ezekiel Martin. It's all I got.”

Now he was openly smirking, so she thanked him hastily, threw her paper plate in the trash, and left for the newsroom.

CHAPTER TEN

“Crazy white woman.” Malachi shook his head and went for more coffee. He lingered a half-hour over two more cups and a year-old
Sports Illustrated
from the dining hall's rack. There were more articles he wanted to read, so he slid the magazine into his faded backpack. Pastor Liam didn't mind, so long as you brought it back.

He slipped his arms into the backpack's straps. He was traveling light today, having left his bedroll, duffle bag and canned food in his tent under the bridge. He wasn't sure they'd be there when he returned.