Brambleman (11 page)

Zap
. He yelped at the shock. His hand
flew from the metal as he heard a tremendous
Crack
! The
house shook like it had been hit with a wrecking ball. He felt a
strong charge of static coming from the doorknob, and then he saw a
thin, jagged white bolt of electricity leap out, arcing …
searching
. But not for him. It retreated. A second later,
Charlie heard loud, bizarre, guttural sounds coming from upstairs
that sounded like an audio tape running backwards—or aliens
slaughtering pigs. Absolutely horrific. Then there was silence.
Curiosity and dread mixed in his gut. He crept up the stairs. Smoke
and ozone filled the kitchen. No flames, though. He looked out the
dining room window. Sunshine fell in shafts through rapidly
dissipating purple clouds.

In the living room, Kathleen sat stiffly on
the couch, staring at the blank TV screen. The wall directly behind
the old set was freshly blackened. “Kathleen.”

She turned and looked at him blankly. “Are
you my son?”

“No. I came here to work on your husband’s
book.”

“Thurwood? Is he here?”

“No ma’am. He died. Do you know what just
happened?”

“Did something happen? It’s smoky. Was there
a fire?”

Charlie looked into her eyes. They were
mournful, not cruel. The malice he’d seen moments ago was gone.
Some kind of operation had been performed on her.

“I think lightning hit the house. I’ll check
outside.”

He went outside and walked around the house.
There were no signs of damage. When he returned, Kathleen looked at
him with friendly interest. “Who are you?”

“Charlie Sherman. I’m an editor. I live in
the basement.”

She nodded, as if this made perfect sense.
“I’d like to rest.”

“Fine, yes. If you need anything, let me
know.”

“I wonder if you’d make me some tea. I feel
empty-headed.”

“Sure.” Charlie went into the kitchen and
turned on the burner under her brass teakettle. As the water came
to a boil, he wondered what all the fire and brimstone was about.
Flight from Forsyth
was just a book, voluminous and not
particularly well-written, about events that happened long ago. Why
would its completion have such cosmic importance?

Charlie helped Kathleen up and persuaded her
to sit at the kitchen table while she drank a cup of Earl Grey. He
went to the living room and looked out the window. He prayed for a
rainbow. Just as a little test.

A crow flew by, circled low, cawed twice, and
shit on his van’s windshield.

* * *

Kathleen gently slurped chicken noodle soup
and then sat on the sofa listening to public radio. She didn’t seem
capable of any more mischief. If she wasn’t herself tomorrow—her
good self, because there were definitely two versions of
her—Charlie would call Angela and see about taking her to a doctor.
Or maybe the two of them could carpool to the hospital.

At 10:00 p.m. Charlie helped Kathleen to bed.
He hoped whatever damage she’d sustained would be repaired by a
good night’s sleep.

After that, he called Thornbriar, but Susan
wasn’t picking up.

As he walked down the stairs to the dungeon,
his phone trilled. “Hello.”

“It’s late. Are you sober?” Susan asked.

“For six years, seven months and … eight
days,” he guessed.

“You at that woman’s house?”

“In the basement.”

“I’ll have to check it out.”

“Sure. Any time. Bring the kids. Are they up,
by any chance?”

“Probably. But they’re not here, They’re
still—”

“No! No! Don’t say it!”

“Stop,” she said. “So why’d you call me?”

“To wish you a happy new year. Happy New
Year!”

“Happy New Year. And good night.”

He’d expected a longer conversation than
that. Why, he couldn’t say.

Charlie climbed into his sleeping bag and
waited for sleep, but it didn’t come. He kept thinking about how a
higher power had hunted down a loser named Charlie Sherman and
given him a place to stay and a job to do. And protected him—or at
least spared him. Other than that, he didn’t have a clue to this
mystery. For some unexplainable reason, it was imperative that
he
bring some old dead book to life.

A few minutes later, Kathleen cried out.
Charlie rose and padded upstairs in his mocs, sweat pants, and blue
thermal shirt. He knocked on her bedroom door. No answer, just
sounds of anguish. He tiptoed into her room and stood beside the
bed, watching her toss and turn. A look of distress was etched on
her face. “Help me,” she moaned.

He was sure she was still asleep. In the
distance, a string of firecrackers exploded:
pop-pop-pop-pop
. Then came the whistle and bang of a bottle
rocket. She whimpered again. He reached over and held her hand. A
smile crossed her face and she fell quiet. He wondered who she
thought he was, but since she took comfort from his touch, it
really didn’t matter.

* * *

On New Year’s Day, Charlie kicked his way out
of his sleeping bag and slipped on his mocs. A squeak from a dark
corner told him he wasn’t alone. “Happy New Year,” he called out
even as he plotted to kill his roommate. When he examined his face
in the mirror, he noticed that he looked
younger
. The
wrinkles on his forehead had disappeared. He felt better, too. He
would credit his increased vigor to workouts at the Y, although
he’d only had three so far.

Still dressed in his sweat pants and thermal
shirt, Charlie stepped out the dungeon’s back door, circled around
the house, and retrieved the newspaper, which leaned
picture-perfect against the second concrete step at the edge of the
yard. The sky was pale blue, with a few cottony wisps directly
overhead. The air was chill, the grass dew-sparkled. Feeling
strong, he took porch steps two at a time. He unlocked the front
door, went into the kitchen, and started a pot of coffee. He pulled
the paper from its wrap and laid it on the table. The front page
headline declared, “Lawyer Killed by MARTA Bus.” Upon seeing the
woman’s name, he jumped up, knocking the wooden chair back against
a cabinet, and rushed to the dark cherry secretary in the living
room. He grabbed the letter Angela had delivered Tuesday, raced
back into the kitchen, and slammed it on the table next to the
newspaper. Same name: Bethany Campbell.

He looked up and saw Kathleen approaching.
Her hair stood out in all directions and her eyes were blank. She
zombie-walked toward him like an extra in a George Romero movie,
her bathrobe open with nothing on underneath. Stifling a yelp, he
looked away. She collapsed on a chair and gazed at him with those
unfathomable blue eyes. “Coffee,” she croaked.

That seemed somewhat human. He breathed a
sigh of relief. “It’ll be ready in a minute. You’re going to catch
a chill dressed that way. Go on, pull that robe closed. That’s
better. Do you know what happened yesterday?”

Kathleen shook her head. “I don’t feel good.
It’s like I drank a bottle of wine. I rarely drink, and I only have
a glass of sherry when I have trouble sleeping.” She groaned. “My
head hurts.”

“We should visit your daughter. Make sure
she’s OK.”

“I’m sure she’s fine.”

“I’m not.” He poured her a cup of coffee.

“Milk please, and sugar. Is there something I
don’t know?”

“Her attorney was killed yesterday.”

Kathleen pursed her lips and wrinkled her
brows. “Oh. That’s too bad.” She dumped two teaspoons of sugar in
her cup and stirred. “I didn’t know the woman.”

“Did you pray for that?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Did you put a curse on your daughter’s
attorney?”

She eyed him like he was crazy. “Why would
you say such a horrible thing? I never hurt anyone.”

He saw that her hands were trembling.
“Sorry,” he said. “My bad.”

Figuring an ascetic doesn’t take holidays,
Charlie started working on the manuscript.

A while later, Kathleen walked into the study
and said, “Angela called. She’s been under the weather. She’s
feeling better now, but she wants company. A friend of hers died.
Could you drive me over?”

“Sure.”

“What a run of bad luck she’s been having. I
can’t believe her girlfriend dumped her when she got sick. That’s
horrible, don’t you think?”

Charlie bit his lip. “I suppose.”

“I do so much for Angela,” Kathleen mumbled
as she left.

“To Angela, you mean.”

Kathleen came back. “What did you just
say?”

“Nothing.”

* * *

Kathleen emerged from Angela’s house after
staying thirty minutes. Charlie jumped out and opened the car door
for her, shooting her a questioning look. “Well?”

“Her attorney died,” Kathleen said. “She
doesn’t know if she’s going to get another one. She said she’ll see
how this goes. I think it helped that you brought me to see her. I
told her it was your idea. I figured you need her good will more
than I do. I’m her mother. Nothing either she or I can do about
that now.”

“True. But what about Angela’s …
condition?”

“It’s clearing up, whatever it was. Bad acne,
I think. Probably brought on by self-induced stress. She gets all
worked up over things. Who knows?” Kathleen shook her head at the
mysteries of life. “Oh, by the way. I think my TV is on the
fritz.”

“I checked. It’s dead. Lightning hit it.”

“Oh, dear. Maybe I should get another one.
Could you help me get one and set it up?”

“In time for football? You bet.”

* * *

Friday morning, Charlie drove to Thornbriar
and made coffee, relieved to see that Evangeline wasn’t there and
his favorite blue cup was. Susan entered the kitchen dressed in a
dark gray suit and found a cup already prepared the way she liked
it, with milk and Equal. “I’ve only got a minute,” she said,
glancing at her watch, then taking a sip. “So what are your plans
for today?”

“I’m taking the kids to Kathleen’s.”

“Really?”

“We talked about this. You said you’d pick
them up.”

“Oh. Is that today? So I get to meet the
mystery woman. Is she as old as you say?”

“Older.”

“I guess I’ll see for myself soon
enough.”

“I guess you will.”

She took a long gulp of coffee. “Well, time
to go.”

Susan hugged the kids and gave Charlie a
limp-wristed wave on her way out the door.

“We’re having a tea party!” Charlie announced
as the garage door rattled closed.

“Like
Alice in Wonderland
?” Beck
asked.

“Along the same lines,” Charlie said,
blinking rapidly. “But better.”

On their roundabout way to Bayard Terrace,
they dropped by the library and checked out picture books, then
stopped at a market to pick up snacks and items on Kathleen’s
grocery list.

Thrilled to have company, Kathleen gushed
over the children when they arrived. She insisted on reimbursing
Charlie for the groceries and went to get her checkbook, then
returned to the kitchen with a troubled look on her face. “Oh my. I
spent three hundred dollars on flowers. In the middle of winter?
How is that possible?”

“Let me see.” Charlie looked at the entry and
laughed. “Hyacinth is a
person
.”

“Is she a friend?”

“You paid her not to be.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Never mind, then.”

He showed the kids his living quarters after
their loud, insistent pleas began to bother their hostess. This
worried Charlie, since an unnerved Kathleen could be a smiteful
Kathleen.

“You’re right. This
is
a dungeon,” Ben
marveled as they creaked down the steps.

“I see a rat!” Beck shrieked and ran
upstairs. Ben, jealous of her discovery, kept exploring.

“Don’t go into any dark corners or reach
under anything,” Charlie commanded.

“All the corners are dark. And the bathroom
is icky.”

“I know,” Charlie said, stretching the word.
“I shower at the Y.”

After a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches,
Beck sat with Kathleen on the sofa and looked through old photo
albums and scrapbooks while Ben played with Legos at the dining
room table. Charlie seized the chance to work on the book. When he
heard sobbing, he came out of the study and saw Kathleen weeping,
with Beck’s arms wrapped around her. The scrapbook was open to
pictures of Gary as a little boy, and Beck was assuring her that
her son was in heaven.

“I don’t know about that,” Kathleen said,
dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex.

“Sure he is,” Beck said. “He didn’t kill
anyone, did he?”

“He was a soldier.”

After a thoughtful pause, Beck said, “That’s
what soldiers do, so it’s not so bad.”

“He didn’t want to be a soldier. He wanted to
build things.”

“That might help.”

Kathleen pulled herself together, and after a
while she declared it was time for the party. Beck dressed up in a
borrowed red shawl, floppy hat, and loads of beaded necklaces.
Kathleen wore her blue dress. Ben and Charlie came as they were.
Ben didn’t like tea, so he got cocoa. When she heard he was getting
cocoa, Beck insisted on tea
and
cocoa. Kathleen fixed both
drinks. The kids found her shortbread cookies acceptable, though
Ben asked if they could have chocolate chip cookies next time.
Kathleen sniffed at the idea, saying, “Those aren’t cultured and
refined enough.”

“Sure they are,” Ben said. “They’ve got
chips.”

Kathleen squinted at the boy in disapproval.
“Don’t contradict me, young man.”

Charlie steered the conversation away from
the dispute, fearing that if she started smiting the children, he’d
have to go woodsman on her ass. Some tea party
that
would
be. Fortunately, the moment passed without further incident, and
the controversy over cookies ended with no fatalities to
report.