Brambleman (25 page)

That night, Beck called. Ben spoke to him,
too. They told him about their new playmates and said they missed
him. “Mommy said you could see us on weekends,” Beck said. “Are you
in jail?”

“No,” Charlie said, though he wasn’t so sure
this was true. After he hung up, he wept quietly, then quit when he
remembered one of his mother’s favorite sayings: “Tears are
weakness leaving the body.” The sort of thing one says after a
spouse jumps off a bridge.

* * *

The next morning, Charlie was in his office
when his cellphone rang. He eagerly answered, hoping he’d land a
job that would let him use his hands and keep his mind from
wandering. “Hello, Charlie here.”

“Joshua Furst at Fortress. We want to publish
Ethnic Cleansing
. Is it still available?”

“Do what?” Charlie was blown away. “
Flight
from Forsyth
? Great. What’d you just say? Yes!” He took a step
forward and jumped for joy, coming down so hard the house shook.
“Oh. By the way, I now have full rights to the manuscript as
coauthor. I can send you the contract I signed with Dr. Talton’s
daughter, who has power of attorney. Uh, so what are you
offering?”

“We’re still developing the offer.” There was
an awkward pause before the editor continued. “It’s a worthwhile
book. But we don’t see it as a blockbuster.”

“There were twenty thousand marchers in
Forsyth County that day.”

“Yes, we want the book out for the
anniversary of the march next year, to give it a publicity boost.
We need a clean manuscript by the end of September at the latest,
and that’s pushing it. Can you give us that?”

“Sure. Fifty grand would be a good offer,”
Charlie suggested.

“We’ll see.”

After the call, Charlie stared at the phone,
wondering if he should get an agent or send the book to another
publisher. After so many years of failure, this was a nice dilemma
to have. But he needed quick money, so Furst things first. He
drummed the desk with his fingers. A narrow shaft of sunlight cut
through the window and behind the blind to warm his hand. This
almost—

Wait. It did! Of course! This was all part of
the plan. He felt the burden on his heart lighten. Life seemed
bearable. Caring for the kids every day was a barrier to success,
and it had been lifted. Now he could meet the deadline. Yes, he was
better off locked out of Thornbriar, forbidden from that house of
pain. He went into the kitchen and told Kathleen what had just
happened.

“That’s wonderful, Gary!” she exclaimed.

He didn’t correct her or mention that Angela
had given away her rights to the book. Why spoil a celebration?

They celebrated with tea. After a couple of
heavily sugared cups, Kathleen was puttering happily around the
house, doing tasks Angela had assigned to Charlie. Meanwhile, he
was busy daydreaming about shooting to the top of the bestseller
list.

* * *

Shortly after noon on May 15, a mailman in
Bermuda shorts and long dark socks folded a manila envelope from
Fortress Publishing into the black mailbox by the door at 432
Bayard Terrace. In it were two copies of a contract that would pay
Charles T. Sherman a $20,000 advance—roughly a dollar for each 1987
marcher. (Charlie wished he’d told Furst there had been 25,000.)
His deadline for completing the book was September 30, and Fortress
planned to put it in bookstores on MLK Day.

Charlie signed the contracts with a flourish.
After he mailed the documents at the post office, he crossed the
alley to the coffeehouse and told Jean about his accomplishment.
She seemed almost as happy as he was. They shared a toast, he with
a double espresso, she with a bottle of spring water. Now that he
was successful, Charlie thought that maybe she was attainable after
all. But he was afraid of losing his only friend. Who would he
celebrate with, then? After downing his drink, Charlie bid
adieu.

He walked out into the sunshine, thinking
about his kids, wondering how much he’d spend on attorney’s fees to
win them back. When he returned to Bayard Terrace, he told
Kathleen, “I signed the contracts on Thurwood’s book and mailed
them.”

“That’s wonderful! Do I owe you any
money?”

“No. It’s between the publisher and me
now.”

She patted his arm and he saw adoration in
her eyes. “Thank you, Charles.”

“You’re welcome, Kathleen.”

* * *

Summer brought a thaw and more mixed signals
from Susan. When the school term ended, Susan agreed to let Beck
and Ben attend YMCA day camp, if Charlie paid for it. Every weekday
morning, Susan dropped off the kids and every afternoon, Charlie
picked them up. He brought them to Thornbriar after Susan got home,
but rarely stayed more than a few minutes.

On June 26, the Shermans celebrated Ben’s
birthday together with a trip to White Water amusement park.
Charlie had another reason to rejoice. He’d just received
$10,000—the first portion of his author’s advance. He’d given half
that amount to Susan for child support, and she grew increasingly
friendly throughout the day—laughing, joking, and even wiggling a
little in her black tank suit. She complimented him on his
appearance. Months of steady workouts and eating light had produced
a salutary effect. He’d lost thirty pounds. While they were sitting
on lounge chairs by the wave pool, she reached over and rubbed sun
block on his heavily muscled, hairless chest. “After we get back to
Thornbriar, we’re having cake,” she said. “Maybe you could stay and
lick the icing.”

She blushed and looked away, then fumbled in
her canvas beach bag, seeking something she couldn’t find. Even
though Susan had told him she was no longer seeing Bryan Speeler,
Charlie suspected some kind of feminine trickery. If he tried to
kick the football, she might pull it away at the last instant.
Besides, he’d been doing so well, succeeding as a writer despite
her, not because of her, that he had another reason to be wary.
Like a boxer who believes sex will make him soft, he reasoned that
going back to her would make him weak just when he needed to be
strong. And when he was successful, he would have …
options
.

Besides, she hadn’t apologized. Or begged him
to return.

That evening, they had cake at Thornbriar.
Her coy invitation was not repeated, and Charlie left before the
children went to bed, pausing in the driveway to shuffle his feet
and shadow-box. A
contenduh
. That’s what he was.

* * *

Charlie began work on the epilogue to
Flight from Forsyth
and scheduled an interview with Redeemer
Wilson, which ended up costing $300 in the form of a contribution
to Wilson’s Holy Way House and Hunger Palace Foundation. Charlie
met Redeemer at Thelma’s Soul Food Kitchen near the Inman Park
MARTA station for lunch on a hot July day. The writer wore his
shipping uniform; the civil rights movement’s working-class hero
showed up in trademark overalls and blue work shirt, his
salt-and-pepper hair in a mini-Afro. When the ancient warhorse
walked into the restaurant, people rose to greet him, hugging, and
kissing Redeemer as he playfully struggled to make his way to a
back booth.

They ordered lunch, which was on the house
for Redeemer. For two hours—and through constant interruptions from
old friends, well-wishers, and admirers—the barrel-chested World
War II veteran talked in a hoarse voice about fighting Germans,
coming home and getting beaten for drinking out of the wrong water
fountain (“It was a beating I had to take,” he said), leading
marches in his hometown, and later joining forces with the Reverend
Martin Luther King Jr.

“I was the shock trooper. I’d go into these
racist towns and wear ’em down. After a week of me, the town
fathers were ready to negotiate,” he said with a throaty laugh. “I
got shot at four times, hit with clubs, bats, and bottles, beaten
with fists fairly regularly, and arrested
one-hundred-and-eighty-nine times,” he boasted. “They needed
someone to do that, and I was their man. Then they killed the dream
in Memphis.” Sadness etched Redeemer’s weary face as he talked
about “the wilderness,” those years after King’s death, but his
eyes lit up when Charlie talked about Thurwood’s book.

“Oh, yes, I knew Doc Talton well. I was
lookin’ for him for that second march in 1987. Had a place for him
right up front. He was walking the walk back in the sixties, you
know. There were some days we’d have an event, and he was the only
white man there. The only one.” Redeemer let that sink in. “Didn’t
find out he’d passed until somebody called me the next day about
his obituary. So sad.”

The old lion shook his head. “He told me
about the book, but I figured it died with him. Now here comes you,
and got him a publisher. So, I guess you want to know about the
marches up in Forsyth. First time, it was just a local thing with
Dan Greene from Gainesville. The Klan and their friends ran us out
of town. Nearly killed us. Well, I didn’t go through what I went
through to take that as an answer. So we came back twenty-five
thousand strong. It was a sight to behold, a line miles long on a
nasty winter’s day. We told the world that you can’t just hide
yourself away and say you got your own laws to keep people out, no
sir. Nothing like it since. Think of it, man! This was 1987, a
generation after Selma. All those white folks in Forsyth told
reporters, ‘I didn’t do nothing wrong to nobody, so I don’t
understand what they protesting about.’ Well, if they didn’t do
nothing, what exactly did they do?”

“I’ve heard that, too,” Charlie said. “They
never did much for anybody, either, as far as I can tell.”

“Exactly!” Redeemer said, thumping the table.
“Twenty years passed since then, and it’s no different now, is
it?”

After the interview, Charlie took a photo of
the grizzled old civil rights hero and they parted with a hug, new
best friends. Charlie promised to come down and work at the Hunger
Palace, Redeemer’s soup kitchen on Memorial Drive in Atlanta. “On
any day
but
Christmas or Thanksgiving,” Redeemer admonished.
“That’s when all the fakers come down. We need for you to be real,
Brother. Especially these days. You gotta be the man who’s down
there at six on a Monday mornin’, knowin’ what to do and doin’ it.
Just remember this,” he said, peering intently into Charlie’s eyes.
“It’s not just what
they did
that matters. What
you
do matters more. And like I always tell my marchers: ‘Look up when
you walk.’”

* * *

The final stretch: In mid-September, Charlie
was polishing
Flight
’s next-to-last chapter. Fueled by
coffee and Gatorade, he worked fourteen hours a day while watching
over Kathleen haphazardly, ensuring her cooperation by telling her
he’d quit editing her beloved Thurwood’s book if she failed to take
even one of her meds. She was fine most of the time, and they
conspired to keep Angela in the dark about the true nature of their
relationship, which boiled down to Kathleen helping Charlie help
Thurwood get published. She was quite proud of the fact that they’d
found a way to flip that nasty old “publish or perish” rule on its
head. Charlie, being a contrary sort, was rather pleased about it,
too.

He took his breaks and slipped out for coffee
during Kathleen’s naps. On one of these afternoons, he was sitting
by the window at Bay Street Coffeehouse when an extraordinary woman
walked in. He smelled her before he saw her. Her cologne—sharp and
musky, almost industrial, a chemical compound designed to break the
laws of nature, yet still entice—distracted him from the Georgia
governor’s 1913 message to the legislature. The woman’s dark,
glossy hair was a sophisticated pageboy, and she wore a sleeveless
white-trimmed beige dress. She took off her round-rimmed sunglasses
at the counter, grabbed Jean’s shoulders, and kissed her lightly on
the lips. Charlie felt a pang of jealousy for whatever they had
going.

The woman slipped four paper cups of coffee
into a caddy and turned to look at Charlie, who happened to be
staring at her. She winked and slipped on her sunglasses, then
eased out the door with the subtlest of sashays. Charlie was
smitten. And not in a bad way.

Entranced, he ventured to the window and
watched her walk down the street and climb into the passenger seat
of a silver Porsche Carrera. He turned toward Jean, who leered at
him and said, “I know what Writer-Boy wants for Christmas.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,”
he said as he approached the counter. “So, uh … who is she?”

“As far as you’re concerned, that’s Danger
Girl,” Jean said in a hushed tone as she toweled off a white cup.
“I told her about you, and she thinks you’re
interesting
.
Her name is Dana Colescu. She owns a Midtown art gallery. Knows all
the right people.”

“Too bad for me. I have
never
been one
of the right people.”

“That may change, if your book’s a
bestseller.” She poked him in the chest. “So get to work, you.”

* * *

Charlie completed the manuscript on
Wednesday, September 26, a few days before it was due. (If he
hadn’t already believed in miracles, getting the book done on time
certainly would have changed his mind.) As the bibliography printed
out, he leaned back in the swivel chair and smiled at Talton’s
photo on the wall. Thurwood smiled back. The younger man had done
well, and the dead guy knew it. Charlie wrote a cover letter, then
signed it and put it in a box with the manuscript and a CD
containing the book’s text.

When he came out of the study, Kathleen was
napping. He decided not to disturb her, even though she’d be
overjoyed to hear the news. Anyway, this was
his
moment.