Brambleman (15 page)

Charlie pulled the contract from the wire
in-basket and glanced over it again. It smelled funky-bad and—this
was truly weird—his signature was wet. He shuddered in horror.
The damned thing was bleeding
! He borrowed an old pot from
the kitchen and tossed the contract in it, then clamped on the lid.
He made a mental note: Buy resealable container and have contract
tested for DNA.

* * *

At dawn, Charlie awoke consumed with the
brilliant idea that he should be promoted from editor to coauthor.
After all, it would take a mighty struggle on his part to save the
book from oblivion. Besides, due to its grotesque and seemingly
supernatural flaw, the stinking contract, with its bloody clause,
was rapidly approaching illegibility. He figured this might work to
his advantage, since the original terms were dissolving, and he who
remembers best …

He proposed this change to Kathleen over
morning coffee. She was not impressed. “No way,” she said. “You’re
not coming in and taking Thurwood’s place.” She gave him a look
that caused him to back off quickly, just in case she still had
some mojo left.

“OK, OK. I was merely—”

“Thurwood put ten thousand hours into the
book. All you’ve done is cash a check.”

“Sorry I brought it up.”

Chastened, Charlie retreated to the study and
got to work. Due to a recent fortuitous development, certain
matters were more time-sensitive than others. Hank Sherrill had
told a reporter named Bill Crenshaw at the
Atlanta
Journal-Constitution
about Talton’s book, and Crenshaw had
called Charlie to set up an interview. Charlie wanted to contact
Forsyth County sources for information before they read about him
in
the lyin’ Atlanta newspaper
, labeled him a meddlesome
outsider, and refused to help, as so many had done with Talton.
After all, folks up there were still sensitive about having the
county’s ultraviolent history dredged up. Charlie had seen this
aversion to the past in 1987 with his in-laws, and he suspected
that older butt cheeks would tighten all over Forsyth when word got
out that a Yankee named Sherman was coming to town to finish the
Commie professor’s book.

Hoping to make some headway, Charlie called
Cecil Montgomery, longtime chairman of the Forsyth County Heritage
Foundation. Once, when he was bored to tears up at Varmintville,
Charlie had read the man’s “View from Mount Montgomery” column in
the
Forsyth County Sentinel
. He remembered a picture of a
dapper fellow with curly hair and a bow tie. Montgomery was more a
genealogist than a historian, but Charlie hoped the man could put
him in touch with someone whose ancestors had letters or first-hand
accounts of events in 1912. It was worth a try.

Montgomery answered the phone pleasantly, but
when Charlie told him what he was doing, the man’s tone turned
frosty: “I met Talton. Never cared for the man. I rather hoped his
book died with him.”

“Ah, c’mon, that’s harsh,” Charlie said,
trying to sound jovial. “It doesn’t deserve to die. Besides, it
could be a good thing for the county.”

“I don’t see how.”

Desperate to salvage the conversation,
Charlie blurted out, “I’ve got Forsyth connections, you know. I
married Susan Cutchins. State Representative Cutchins is my
uncle.”

“Why would someone who’s kin to the
Cutchinses have
anything
to do with a history book?”

Ignoring this slap at his in-law’s lack of
intellectual curiosity, Charlie pressed on. When he asked
Montgomery about the correspondence of a man named Horton Anderson,
the man’s tone dropped from frosty to one best measured on the
Kelvin scale.

“Those are private records, and no one will
open them up to you,” Montgomery told him.

Before Charlie could ask if they could have a
cup of coffee and talk about county history in general, Montgomery
cut him off: “I’m sorry. I won’t be able to help you on this. It’s
just not something I care to do. However, I’d be happy to look over
what you’ve got.”

I’ll bet you would, you plagiarizing old
fool
. “Great. Thanks for the offer. I’ll be sure to send you a
copy of the book when it’s published.” Charlie hung up and
muttered, “If you pay full price, bitch.”

Twenty minutes later, his cellphone trilled.
Someone calling from a number he didn’t recognize. “Hello,” he
said.

“Charlie. How ya been? That’s good, that’s
good.”

Charlie hadn’t said how he was doing, but he
knew the caller didn’t care. It was State Rep. Stanley Cutchins,
a.k.a. Uncle Stanley. The old Reagan Republican barely tried to get
along with Charlie, and for the record, hated reporters. He’d
grunted in disgust when he first met Charlie back in 1986 and
learned his niece’s bridegroom worked for a newspaper that had won
a Pulitzer for exposing pork-barrel spending—$3 million of it in
Cutchins’s district.

“Hey, Uncle Stanley. That didn’t take long.
How’s the view from Mount Montgomery?”

“I ain’t mounted Montgomery, but yer welcome
to try.”

“Oh, he doesn’t like me. Not one little
bit.”

“That’s what I hear. I guess you’re wondering
why I called.”

“Not really.”

“Cecil called me, sayin’ you’re stirrin’ up
trouble, mixin’ the family into it.”

Time for a brush-off, since Uncle Stanley’s
twang hurt his ears. Speaking quickly, Charlie said, “Oops, I left
something on the stove. Gotta go. Say hey to Aunt Liz.”

“Wait a minute. What you got? What years you
coverin’ anyway?”

“It’s Forsyth County. I think you can figure
it out.”

“Don’t start a war you can’t finish.”
Stanley’s tone was ominous, even threatening.

“War’s over.”

“That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell ya. What’s
done is done. Don’t go diggin’ up what’s laid to rest.”

“We’ll talk. Come see us,” Charlie said,
though he certainly didn’t mean it, just like Uncle Stanley never
did when he invited Charlie to his house on the lake.

* * *

Montgomery not only called Uncle Stanley but
also apparently warned everyone in the county who might have
assisted Charlie. Over the next two days, the increasingly
frustrated writer was told, “Sorry, can’t help you”; “It’s just not
something I care to do”; and “Those are private records, and I’d
rather not open them up.” Others simply hung up. After a dozen
calls, Charlie quit his solicitations. No sense being a damn fool
about it.

Still, if Uncle Stanley and the other white
folks up there didn’t like what he was up to, then it must be worth
doing. Actually, their opposition made Charlie’s mission seem even
more intriguing and important, rejuvenating him and giving him
heart just when his will was flagging. That’s just the way he
was—at heart a contrary sort, who thought that finishing a dead
professor’s book about a county that didn’t want the publicity
seemed like a right contrary thing to do. Besides, he’d die if he
didn’t do it. There was always that.

* * *

Beck and Ben fought all the way back to
Thornbriar from the supermarket. Charlie, busy herding them into
separate time-outs, didn’t notice Susan standing in the darkened
front hall, hands on hips, glaring at him with eyes afire. He
bumped into her. “Oh, excuse me. Bought groceries. Gotta get them
out of the van.”

She followed him outside. “You didn’t tell me
the thing was about Forsyth.”

“
Thing
? You didn’t ask.”

“Uncle Stanley called Mom all riled up
because you’re trying to finish some dead professor’s book about
what happened way back when. I guess they’re talking about
1910.”

“1912. See, you’re from there and you got the
year wrong.”

“Anyway, they both called me. They want me to
look at it, see what it says.” Her expression suggested that she
knew it was an unreasonable request but he should grant it, anyway.
He’d always liked that look. Feisty as hell. The sex was very
energetic when it started with that look, but this time she wasn’t
being the least bit friendly.

“It’s a hefty piece of work, so it says a
lot. There’s the murder.”

“It was a rape and murder.” As a native
Forsyth Countian, she was duty-bound to point that out.

“Yes, but Dr. Talton focuses on the
anti-black terrorism.”

“Terrorism?”

“Yeah. White folks do it, too, darlin’,” he
drawled.

She gave him her
I don’t like talking to
you
wince. “What about since then? That’s what they want to
know about, what you’re going to write about between then and now.
Uncle Stanley has a position in the community to protect, you
know.”

He shrugged. “I guess I have to write an
update. Why do they care? They got something to hide? You got
something you need to tell me?”

“No,” she said loudly. “I assume they’re
worried you’ll put in Momo’s 1987 arrest.”

“Hey, that’s a good idea. Thanks for
reminding me.”

“Oh no you don’t. Don’t pin that on me. I
just figured it’s what you’d do. You know, re-fight the Civil War,
go through the Fourth of July again and show everybody how evil
your in-laws are.”

“Fortunately for them, I’ve got to cut the
book, not turn it into an encyclopedia of white folks
misbehaving.”

The kids were sneaking away from their
time-out spaces like jungle guerrillas. Charlie caught a fleeting
glimpse of Beck as she darted into the dining room to hide behind
the china cabinet. She giggled when he spotted her. Ben was
crawling on his belly up the hall from the family room. Charlie
walked over and planted his foot on his son’s back, then yelled
like Tarzan and beat his chest.

“You da man,” Ben said, laughing as he rolled
over and grabbed Charlie’s shoe.

“No, you da man,” Charlie replied, bracing
himself against the wall so Ben wouldn’t pull him down and break
his glasses again. Ben refused to let go. Charlie dragged him
along, peg-leg style, until he made it to the kitchen counter, then
dug out a family-sized Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese from a
grocery bag and hoisted it for Ben to see. “Let go, boy. I’ve got
to fix dinner.”

Being hungry, Ben relented. Charlie fell into
the routine of fixing dinner, all the while wondering why the
Cutchins family cared so much about his Forsyth saga. Pappy had
been alive—barely—back in 1912. He’d told Charlie a couple of
things. “That was the year of the Titanic,” he’d said on Easter
Sunday in 1987 after Charlie mentioned the subject. “Year I was
born. That’s when we ran the niggers out. Some of ’em needed extry
persuadin’.” With a spark in his coal-dark eyes, Pappy had gone on
to boast he’d once “chunked rocks at a darkie.” That didn’t make
sense, now that Charlie thought about it, since Pappy would have
been an infant at the time. All the more reason to talk to the old
man. The way things were going, made-up memories would have to
do.

He hoped Uncle Stanley hadn’t already warned
his father not to talk. But there were two things in Charlie’s
favor: One, Pappy wouldn’t listen to anyone telling him what to do.
Also, no one would think Charlie was stupid enough to go back
there. But Charlie was way past stupid; he was
chosen
, and
the voice inside his head told him to go forth and interview the
old coot. He was about to mention this to Susan when he had a
better idea:
Don’t
.

* * *

Wednesday morning, the wind bit Charlie’s
face as he gassed up Kathleen’s car at E-Z Go on Briarcliff. He was
taking the Volvo in hopes he could sneak up on Pappy, since a
stranger’s vehicle would be less unwelcome than his red Caravan.
While talking to Pappy was likely to be an unpleasant waste of
time, it wasn’t the only reason for the trip. Charlie also wanted
to understand the geography of events before his newspaper
interview. Then, he could speak with authority as he pitched
Talton’s tale. Charlie also believed it was necessary to make a
pilgrimage to Martha Jean Rankin’s grave. Talton had shortchanged
her in his narrative. Charlie wanted to reach beyond the cold, hard
text and touch her world. Make it
real
—something Talton
hadn’t done.

Charlie took I-85, then traveled on I-285 to
Georgia 400 and headed north. He listened to jazz on WCLK until the
signal became a buzzing crackle. He clicked off the radio and
grabbed the wheel tightly when a strong wind buffeted the car,
slapping the Volvo as if to knock him off course. This made him
wonder if there was more than one supernatural force at work. What
if he was in a proxy war and it was the other side’s turn to move?
That would explain why the contract was such a bloody mess—and why
he constantly despaired of his task. After all, depression was the
devil’s favorite tool. Then again, he wasn’t exactly sure who he
was working for, but he wasn’t doing anything wrong, so he’d
continue on this path.

* * *

Born on August 28, 1912, Isaac “Ike” Cutchins
was a short, rail-thin, unsmiling man with big ears on a small
head, a bashed-in nose, and coal-black eyes that held a deep-seated
animosity. He looked permanently pissed off, and proud of it.

Charlie first met Pappy on July 4, 1986, a
month after his wedding to Susan, which Pappy had boycotted. At the
time, Evangeline was still furious at Charlie for marrying her
twenty-year-old daughter in Macon rather than Cumming … and for
showing up hungover at the altar.

Independence Day meant a cookout, with
Bradley Roy manning the grill. Women brought casseroles filled with
cheese, Jell-O molds, and cakes and pies for dessert.

Charlie ate in the living room with Jerry
Bancroft, Sheila’s first husband. Charlie’s mullet-headed
brother-in-law was wearing an aptly named wife-beater shirt and
watching a NASCAR race on TV. Jerry’s days were numbered. Within
two months, he would be killed in an act of justifiable homicide
outside a Gainesville bar. According to police, he pulled a knife
on a man with a concealed-carry permit after attempting to pick up
the guy’s girlfriend. There would be a fistfight at Jerry’s
funeral—a fitting tribute to the man.