Baby Brother's Blues (3 page)

Less than five years later, he had burned every bridge almost before he crossed it and found himself in the middle of a war he didn’t understand any better than he had understood his life back in the States. He shivered in the cold wind.
When the hell was he going to catch a damn break?
Awash in self-pity, he didn’t even see the man who walked by him, turned around, and then called his name.

“Wes Jamerson?”

Baby Brother turned around and saw the grinning face of a buddy he hadn’t seen since the lucky motherfucker finally got shipped home for good. He grinned back.

“Is that really Jive Time Jason Harris, the ladies’ pet and the punk’s regret?”

“Live and in the flesh.” Jason laughed and embraced Baby Brother with real affection.

Baby Brother clocked his friend’s expensive shoes and stylish overcoat. He couldn’t remember what Jason’s job had been before the war. Whatever it was, he must be good at it. Jason looked like a businessman or a highly placed political operative.

“What are you doing here, man? When the hell you get out?”

“I didn’t. I just came home to bury my mother.”

“Oh, hey, man, I’m sorry to hear it. Rest in peace and all that, you know?”

“Thanks, man. It’s cool, but thanks.” Baby Brother didn’t want to talk about his mother. He wanted to see if Jason could put him up for the night, point him toward some pussy, and front him the money to buy it, but he didn’t know how to ask. Squatting on an Iraqi rooftop, waiting for a homemade rocket to light your ass up, you can ask a nigga for anything, Baby Brother thought, and if he can, he’ll give it to you. But back in the world, things were different. Saying hello on the street was one thing. A few drinks to catch up was expected. But an overnight guest who had probably seen you at your worst—violent and kill crazy, or crying like a little bitch—that was a judgment call. Only time would tell if the brotherly bonds they’d forged under fire would hold up a few blocks from DuPont Circle.

“So you already been to the church or whatever?” Jason said, sounding restrained out of respect.

“That’s where I’m coming from,” Baby Brother lied. “She was cremated.”

He didn’t know why he added the unnecessary embellishment, except the moment seemed to require a little more detail to be convincing. The wind was kicking up again and the chill went through his uniform like a thousand tiny knives. He shivered again and Jason saw it.

“Hey, man, you been walking around all day without a coat on?”

“I’m out of the habit,” Baby Brother said.

“I heard that! What was it over there when you left?”

“One hundred and fourteen.”

“Damn!” Jason winced and shook his head. “That’s brutal!”

“Almost as brutal as this hawk whistling up my ass,” Baby Brother said with another shiver. “Listen, it’s good to see you, man, but I’m looking for a warm bar with a cold beer.”

“Fuck that,” Jason said, suddenly animated again. “I live two blocks from here. I got beer and a little weed left over from New Year’s Eve.”

“Now you’re talkin’,” Baby Brother said, relief flooding his body. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be smoking. You look like a damn congressman or some shit.”

“Don’t knock it,” Jason said, leading the way. “If that idiot we got in the White House can be elected president, all things are possible.”

“Yeah, well, you better get in line behind that African nigga from Chicago. You know the white folks ain’t got room for both y’all!”

“Fuck you, nigga.” Jason laughed. “You ain’t changed a damn bit.”

And I hope you haven’t either,
Baby Brother thought.
I hope you haven’t either.

3

A
bbie Allen Browning needed a world atlas. She had to find Prestonpans. She needed to see it on a map to believe that it really existed. She had been reading a news account in the Atlanta paper of a town in Scotland that had decided to mark Halloween by officially pardoning eighty-one people—
and their cats—
executed centuries ago for being witches. The town, the name of which was Prestonpans, had recorded the largest number of witch executions in all of Scotland, which had a grand total of more than three thousand five hundred, mainly women and children, not to mention countless cats, usually black.

The report quoted a historian who presented evidence in support of the pardons by saying, “It’s too late to apologize, but it’s sort of symbolic recognition that these people were put to death for hysterical ignorance and paranoia.”

The words leaped out at Abbie. Reading them, she couldn’t help but recognize that these same two emotions were visible everywhere in her own country these days. Hate crimes were on the rise from sea to shining sea as frightened, angry people took out their frustrations on anybody who didn’t look, talk, think, eat, or have sex in what was deemed an acceptable fashion. In Prestonpans, they had called them witches and burned them alive or tied heavy stones to their feet and drowned them or hanged them by the neck until they died and the community could breath a sigh of relief that evil had been defeated, at least in their small, Scottish corner of the world.

That’s why Abbie had to see it on the map. She needed some information about the town’s topography, its climate, its crops. She needed some specifics in order to convince herself that it must have been something in the water or the air that made the people of Prestonpans act in such barbarous fashion toward their neighbors. She needed to convince herself that the hysterical ignorance and paranoia were theirs alone and could never manifest themselves in Washington, where she lived, or Atlanta, where her niece Regina lived with her husband, or here on Tybee Island, where she was a frequent guest at their beach house and where she was now rummaging more and more frantically through the bookshelves looking for an atlas.

How could Blue overlook such a household necessity? Abbie thought maybe she should call her friend Peachy and see if he had one, but then he’d think she expected him to bring it out to the island, and he’d already been by that morning with a bag of oranges, which were her favorite fruit, a dozen green Granny Smith apples, and a bunch of ripe bananas that couldn’t have looked fresher if he’d picked them in his garden like he did the tomatoes he’d brought the day before.

Abbie enjoyed Peachy. He was a regular visitor, but he never just hung around. He respected her need for solitude and, by doing so, increased her pleasure in his company. There had always been strong sexual energy between Abbie and Peachy, from the first time they met in D.C. right before Blue and Regina’s wedding, but after five years of celibacy, Abbie was not in any hurry to initiate sex. She really liked Peachy, and if there was any possibility that sex would tip some invisible balance toward weirdness, it was fine with her if they continued to be what they were—good friends.

She decided not to call and ask him to find her an atlas. She’d thought enough about the fate of the Scottish witches for one day. She stood up and stretched. It felt good to relieve some of the tension in her back. She brought her arms down slowly and rolled forward until her palms were resting on the floor in front of her. She smiled to herself. Abbie worked hard to maintain her strength and flexibility. Most sixty-year-old women hadn’t touched their toes in thirty years. Abbie did it every day at least twice.
Sixty ain’t twenty,
she thought, smiling to herself,
but it ain’t half-bad.

She had just put the last of the scattered books back in place and decided to watch the sunset from the widow’s walk at the top of house, when the phone rang. The caller ID showed Peachy’s number.

“I was just thinking about you,” she said, skipping hello. “Were your ears burning?”

“I thought that only happened if you were talking about me.”

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” she said. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I was thinking?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re about to tell me.”

“I was wondering if you had a world atlas.”

“Planning a trip?”

She was pleased to hear concern about the edges of his voice. “I’ve been reading about witches,” she said. “Do you know there’s a town in Scotland where they killed eighty-one people for being
witches.
I want to look the place up, but there are no maps over here.”

“Witches?”

“Witches. Killed their cats, too.”

“Their cats? For what?”

“For being witches.”

“Can cats be witches?”

“Can
people
?”

“Is that a trick question?” There was a smile in his voice.

“I’m not a witch!”

“I didn’t say you were,” he said gently, “but you admit that you’re different. You got magic. You see visions. You brought Blue and Regina together across at least two past lifetimes that we know of and you can read people’s minds.”

He was right. If she had lived in Prestonpans, she would almost certainly have been branded a witch, cat or no cat.

“What’s the name of that town again?”

“Prestonpans,” she said. “It’s in Scotland.”

“Well, they sound like some pretty stupid people to me. Let’s never go there.”

She laughed at the practicality of his suggestion. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because then you wouldn’t need me.” He didn’t wait for her to confirm that. “I went fishing this afternoon. I’ve got a pretty little sea bass in the cooler that’s too big for me to eat alone. I’d be prepared to cook it if you’re open to some company for dinner.”

“I’d love some company,” she said. “If you hurry, you can catch the sunset.”

“Where are you going to watch it?”

Sometimes she walked to the curve in the beach where the freighters turn up into the mouth of the Savannah River, but not today. “On the roof. Come on up when you get here.”

“I’m on my way.”

She went to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of champagne, and filled a silver bucket with ice. She placed it on a tray with two glasses and carried it upstairs and out the door that led to the house’s uppermost deck. It was really too big to be called a widow’s walk, but that’s what they called it anyway. She guessed it was just tradition, but the sound of it always made her a little sad. Abbie was glad Peachy was coming. She needed some company to help her stop thinking about witches and widows.

Putting the tray down on a small table between a pair of white wicker rockers, Abbie went back inside to wash her face and slip into one of the ankle-length skirts she favored these days. They tended to be made of colorful, gauzy fabrics that rippled in the breezes off the ocean like they had just fluttered in from the Caribbean and smelled, of course, of patchouli, her favorite scent. She chose a lime-green skirt and a bright yellow top, slipped on a pair of small silver hoop earrings, unlocked the sliding-glass door downstairs, and went back outside to wait for Peachy.

Sitting down in one of the rockers, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and made a decision. It was time to talk to Peachy about sex. After all, she had never intended to be celibate. Menopause had driven her to it. She found the hot flashes distressingly public manifestations of a very private rite of passage. She hated being in the midst of a discussion concerning something totally nonmenopause-related and feeling her face flush bright pink as rivulets of sweat rolled down her scalp like she was walking in the rain.

The person with whom she had been engaged in conversation would suddenly look concerned or embarrassed and then ask if she was feeling all right. At that point, she’d mop her brow and say something like: “It’s just a hot flash. Please go on with what you were saying about the role of the full moon in the tomb architecture of ancient Egypt.” But the moment was gone. And that was only the tip of the iceberg. There were also drenching night sweats, unexpected weight gain, and vaginal dryness, which was every bit as unappealing as it sounded.

After several embarrassing exchanges, Abbie realized her gentlemen friends were simply not up to the complex task of making love to a post-menopausal woman. They were, in fact, responding like frightened schoolboys, terrified of the mirror her body provided to their post-middle-aged mortality. Sex became an awkward exchange of compromises, denials, and fallback positions that bore little resemblance to the sweat-drenched, passion-filled exchanges she was used to. Distressed and confused, she finally made a conscious decision to be celibate until she could figure it all out. Now, five years later, she wasn’t sure she was ready to sleep with Peachy yet, but she was ready to admit she had been
thinking
about it.
One small step for womankind…

She heard him turn into the driveway just as she was about to resign herself to the fact that he was going to miss the sunset. She smiled to herself.
Who was she talking about anyway?
Peachy Nolan was famous for being in the right place at the right time. He had once done sixty-eight one-nighters in a row and never been late to a single gig.
Why would he start now?

4

G
eneral Richardson glanced in the rearview mirror at his friend sitting in the backseat of the car as they sped through the Georgia night. In all the years of their association, he had kept only one secret from Blue. In principle, he knew it was wrong, but he didn’t feel like anybody could hold this one lapse against him once they heard the whole story. How are you supposed to tell a man you started having sex with his mama when you were eighteen and that the two of you kept doing it until she died twenty years later, and neither one of you ever told a living soul? General and Blue were like brothers, but even brotherly love goes only so far.

He had wanted to tell Blue. They had both wanted to, but Juanita had been so nervous about how her son might react that she could never quite bring herself to do it. Then she got sick and all bets were off. He had still wanted to tell Blue what had been going on, but Juanita begged him to respect her wishes and keep their secret, and General said he would. He was still keeping it.

Not long before she died, they had the house at Tybee to themselves for a few days. They had been sitting on the deck, holding hands while they watched the tide coming in, when he asked her if she believed in the past lives Blue was always talking about. She smiled and turned her face to him. She was so thin now. General could carry her in his arms like a child.

“I hope it’s true, you know?” she said. “I’d love to bump up on you again next time around.”

He grinned and squeezed her hand.

“Do you believe it?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said,
wanting
to believe it, but not sure he really did. “Blue ain’t been wrong about much else I can remember.”

She laughed softly. “He was always so sure about everything. Even when he was a little kid, remember? He just
knew.
”

“I don’t know what to believe,” General said. “But how about if it’s true, you send me a sign?”

“A sign?”

He nodded. “You know, from
over there,
so I’ll know you’re okay and that you miss me.”

She closed her eyes. “I already miss you, baby.”

“That’s why you’ve got to send me a sign,” he said, terrified he had depressed or frightened her. They had talked frankly about death enough for him to know she wasn’t scared of it. Just not quite ready to go yet, that’s all. He touched Juanita’s cheek. “What do you say, sweet thing?”

She opened her eyes then and turned back to him, her smile the only thing in her face that hadn’t changed. It was as radiant as ever. Her eyes were as bright.

“All right,” she said. “You got a deal.”

He smiled back. “So what kind of sign are you going to send me?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “Does it matter?”

“Sure it does,” he said. “What if I don’t recognize you?”

“You’ll recognize me. You just keep looking until you find me.”

He promised he would. Later, when the cancer had taken everything she had and then some, Juanita reminded him of that promise. She made him swear he wouldn’t dismiss or ignore any sign that seemed to mean she was calling to him from
out there.

“If you think it’s me,
it’s me,
” she said urgently. “Even if it’s something weird,
it’s me
!”

He promised never to ignore a sign. He would have promised her anything,
done
anything, to soothe her pain for a minute. He had never seen a person who wanted to live as badly as Juanita did. She fought so long and so hard, he had started to believe it when she said she might still beat the cancer. But she didn’t.

General and Blue had no need to try to articulate their loss to each other. They simply said their private good-byes and scattered her ashes at sea on a day as beautiful as she was. As they headed the boat back in, General sat alone in the bow, already watching for any sign of her return. That was ten years ago.

For the first few years after her death, General had driven himself crazy. Juanita’s death left a hole in his life so big he was afraid he might fall in and die of loneliness. He searched for any clue that their love lived on. He dreamed about her, and even in his dreams, he begged her to come back. But during all those terrible years, there was nothing he could really claim as a sign. He never stopped looking, but deep down, he began to believe that while he had done his dying beloved a great kindness by concocting the plan for after-life contact, no communication was forthcoming.

Then tonight, in the most unlikely place imaginable,
there it was.
It was all he could do to walk away, but his commitment to Blue was absolute. How could he say,
I’m late picking you up because I saw the sign I been waiting for on a stripper’s ass and I had to check it out
?

It had been a fluke that General was even in Montre’s. He didn’t usually do business at strip joints, but the owner had been ducking him and an unexpected drop-by was always effective in bringing people to the table. Johnny had greeted General at the door with a shit-eating grin on his face and a bunch of bad explanations for equally bad behavior. General let him squirm long enough to make the point, then accepted the offer of a bottle of
real
champagne, instead of the
rotgut
they routinely offered their customers, to put the cherry on top of Johnny’s profuse apology.

As the relieved man had scurried off to fetch the bottle from his private stash, General settled himself at the owner’s table. He had about twenty minutes to kill before he was expected at Blue’s. He wouldn’t disrespect Johnny by declining a glass of Moët, but that was all. One glass, and he was out the door. He didn’t give a damn about champagne anyway. Juanita had been crazy about champagne cocktails. She had said she liked it because it was a ladies’ drink.

He didn’t want to think about Juanita sitting in a crummy joint like Montre’s. Her memory deserved better. He looked around for his reluctant host. If Johnny didn’t hurry up, he was going to have to leave without a toast to seal their deal. Just before he got up to go, a naked young woman stopped in front of his chair, smiling. She was more attractive than the girls they usually got in a place like this and something about her looked vaguely familiar. She had just come off the stage and was sweating a little.

“Lap dance?”

Her body was perfectly proportioned and her skin was smooth and unmarked. Her teeth were white and her eyes showed none of the artificial brightness of too many drugs. In a profession whose low end is full of desperate women with stretch marks, scars, and plenty of attitude, this girl was clearly different. She was fine as hell. Wishing he had more time, he glanced at his watch.

She smiled and licked her lips, showing a small pink tongue. “It ain’t got to take long if you in a hurry, baby. Best ten dollars you gonna spend tonight.”

He happened to know that a lap dance at Montre’s was only five dollars, but he admired her hustle. This girl was worth more than five bucks and she clearly knew it. He reached into his pocket and peeled off a hundred-dollar bill. Her big brown eyes widened like a child’s.

“I’m in a hurry tonight,” he said, handing her the money. “Maybe next time I come in, you can dance for me.”

“For a hundred bucks, we can dance all night,” she said, rewarding him with a big smile. “Thanks, baby.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Don’t be a stranger.” She was already heading for another table, but moving slowly to make sure he got an eyeful of her beautiful behind, of which she was justifiably proud.

She didn’t need to worry. His eyes were glued to the small, heart-shaped birthmark that she carried at the small of her back just before the billowy curve of her hips.
There it was!
A birthmark identical to the one Juanita had in exactly the same spot! He couldn’t believe his eyes, but he had to have a closer look. She was turning her smile toward a table full of men clutching five-dollar bills.

“Hey!”

She looked back over her shoulder and he beckoned to her. The table that had been eagerly anticipating her arrival protested her sudden change in direction as she headed back to General. “Hey, girl!” the boldest one called out. “You see we holdin’ good money over here, don’t you?”

“You ain’t holding much of it,” she said, knowing whatever General wanted would be more interesting and certainly more lucrative than anything those guys had in mind.

General watched her heading back his way slowly, taking her time. Her breasts swayed provocatively, but what he wanted to see was behind her.

“Change your mind about that dance?”

“What’s that on your back?” he said, his voice gruff with emotions he didn’t want to share.

“It’s a birthmark,” she said. “You want to touch it?”

She turned her back to him again, bent over slightly at the waist, and jiggled her behind at an alarming rate of speed. He couldn’t take his eyes off the birthmark. It was exactly like Juanita’s, but this girl’s energetic shaking of her rump made it impossible to look as closely as he wanted to, even though he was staring.

“You can kiss it if you want,” she whispered over her shoulder.

“What?”

“Go on and kiss it if you want.”

Blue’s voice spoke sharply from the front seat and startled General out of the memory.

“That’s our turn coming up!”

General realized he had been flying down the two-lane blacktop. The speedometer said sixty, and in these little towns around Atlanta, that was a guaranteed ticket. With all the emphasis on homeland security, maybe even a search. He eased his foot off the gas and made the turn, still going faster than he should have.

“You with me, brother?” Blue said quietly. General knew it was a serious question. This was no time to be distracted. He had promised Juanita he’d keep an eye out for signs, but he’d also promised to look out for her only son, especially on nights like this.

“I’m cool,” General said. “Let’s do this.”