Brambleman (28 page)

Minerva looked out the window. “People need
to know their past. Too many lies have been spread. Everybody talks
about 1954 and ‘I have a dream.’ Well, I’d been teaching ten years
before I saw white children in my classroom. Some poor kids from
Cabbagetown in 1970. That’s history. So … what do you want to
know?”

“Everything. You married?”

“My husband’s gone. Never found another man.”
She paused, as she did frequently. “I met James Doe after I started
teaching.” She chuckled lightly. “My car broke down one day and he
rescued me. He was a mechanic by trade, and he pulled his car over
and helped me. Went to a store and came back with a fan belt.
Replaced it right there on the side of the road. Within a year, we
were married even though he was a few years younger than me. He was
drafted and went to Vietnam. Didn’t come back. We had a baby girl,
but he never saw her.”

“What year did he die?”

“I don’t know that he’s dead. Haven’t heard
from him in forty years.”

“Oh.”
Awkward
. Charlie drove into
downtown Decatur. He pulled into a parking space in front of the
Georgia Power office and asked, “Do you want me to go with
you?”

“No, I’m fine.”

While she was inside, Charlie furiously
scribbled notes on his legal pad.

She returned, clutching a receipt. “They say
the lights will be back on by the end of the day.”

“Good. Glad that’s taken care of.”

After a side trip to pay the phone bill, he
drove her home. Meanwhile, Minerva continued her story. “I was
expecting Shaundra—my daughter—when James went off to basic
training. I raised her the best I could, but she was always finding
trouble.” She watched a cop making a traffic stop, then turned back
to Charlie. “Shaundra got pregnant with Demetrious and claimed she
didn’t know who the father was.” Minerva shook her head. “She was
an adult by then, but she couldn’t take care of herself, let alone
a child, so it’s been up to me to raise him, old as I am. He was
doing all right until high school. Held back his freshman year. Now
he cuts class so much he’s not going to graduate. Running with bad
people, too. My house is supposed to be his address, but I don’t
know. He stays with his mother sometimes, but she keeps
moving.”

She flipped her hands up. “Honestly, I don’t
know where else he ends up some nights. Comes and goes as he
pleases. I didn’t think he’d do that with the power company money,
though. I’m afraid he’s gotten mixed up with gangs. So, Mr.
Sherman, that’s my life. I spend a lot of time worrying about where
my daughter and grandson are and what they’re doing, and … well, I
can’t say that has much to do with your story, but I do have some
things that might help you out. Letters, pictures, and such.”

“I’d like to see them. Anything that would
help me get to know your parents.”

When they returned to her house, she invited
him inside. The place was neat, its furnishings modest. A throw rug
covered the living room’s worn wooden floor. An old TV equipped
with rabbit ears sat on a cart in the corner. Jesus pictures and
needlepoint adorned the walls. Minerva pointed to a framed picture
among the bric-a-brac on an end table. The photo showed a smiling
youth in a black suit and tie. “That’s Demetrious in his
go-to-meeting clothes. He doesn’t dress that way now, oh no. He
dresses like a
gangsta
.” It took her awhile to say the last
word, one she obviously despised.

Minerva directed Charlie to retrieve a
footlocker from her bedroom closet and carry it into the living
room. “Don’t slide my treasure chest on the floor,” she warned him.
She opened the shades and blinds so they could see and started
digging through it as he booted up his computer on battery power.
The strong scent of mothballs reminded him of his grandmother’s
dark closet back in Missouri.

“Can we open the windows?” he asked. “I think
I may be part moth.”

“Go ahead.”

After Charlie caught a breath of fresh air,
Minerva showed him her family memorabilia: a Bible with the family
tree filled in back to 1840; a diploma from Savannah State College,
where John Riggins had graduated in 1934 with a degree in
agriculture; photos of John and his bride Lettie and their
correspondence. Best of all, a journal Riggins had kept. Charlie
was ecstatic. “I’d like to make copies,” he said.

Minerva glanced over the papers. “You can do
that, but they’re not leaving my eyesight.”

Charlie nodded, recalling Kathleen’s
possessive attitude toward Thurwood’s manuscript. He read through
the journal and took notes on his pad, which was bathed in the
western light that cut through the living room window and fell on
the coffee table.

When the power came on just after five
o’clock, Minerva offered him dinner. “Nothing much, just what I’m
having,” she said.

“That’s fine.”

Soon after that, he was staring at a small
plate containing kid-sized portions of Chef Boyardee ravioli and
canned peaches—exactly what he fed Ben and Beck when he was in a
hurry. Karmic payback, he reckoned.

“Thanks,” he said. After eating quickly, he
returned to the task of getting to know John Riggins, a lanky,
dark-skinned man, and Lettie, short, plump and slightly fairer.
Charlie surreptitiously held the photo up while watching Minerva
rock her way through the evening news.
Hmm
. Perhaps the old
photos had darkened over the decades.

“It’s getting late,” Charlie said when he
realized the sun was setting. “I don’t want to bother you anymore
today, but I’d like to come back. This stuff is fascinating.” He
shut down the computer.

“That would be all right.”

As he slipped his laptop into its case, he
heard a car squeal to a stop. Then arguing and yelping, the sounds
of a scuffle, a thump on metal, a car pulling away, and a long wail
of anguish.

“Oh Lord, please don’t let it be what I think
it is,” Minerva said, choking back a sob. “I’m afraid they just
dumped him out there. You look. I can’t bear it.”

Charlie inched toward the living room window,
fearing a shotgun blast or automatic weapons fire. When he peered
out, he saw a girl standing on the sidewalk in front of the house.
A middle-school student, he guessed, maybe five feet tall, thin and
knock-kneed, her short hair pulled in tight pigtails with ragged
ends. Her face may have been pretty, but it was puffy from
crying—and maybe a beating. She wore blue jeans, a T-shirt, and
windbreaker, with a backpack slung across her shoulder. She looked
lost. “It’s a girl.”

“What?” Minerva got up and brushed away a
lace curtain to look out. “Oh dear Lord.”

“Do you know her?”

Wearing a worried look, she shook her head.
“No. Don’t think so.”

When Minerva opened the door, the girl called
out, “Are you D’s grandma?”

The old woman made a face. “Who is
D
?”

‘Demetrious.”

“Yes. Who are you?”

“Takira. I heard he stay here. I need to talk
to him.”

“Haven’t seen him.” Minerva started to close
the door, then paused. “Baby girl, what’s wrong?”

“D won’t talk to me. And I need some
money.”

“What you need money for, child?”

“I missed my period. I need a pregnancy test
and I don’t got a place to stay. They’ll beat me if I go back
home.” This all poured out in a plaintive, rapid-fire delivery. It
was the most eloquent and succinct description of a living hell
Charlie had ever heard.

Minerva looked wide-eyed at Charlie, whose
mouth was hanging open.

“Come in, girl. Mr. Sherman, looks like we’re
through for the day.”

“So, I’ll come back, and—”

“You can bring a copier or something if you
want.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Monday,” she said firmly.

The girl trudged in and slumped on the sofa.
Charlie left, giving her a sympathetic smile. She averted her gaze
and stared at the floor. As Charlie drove off, he saw two teenage
boys walking in the street. He couldn’t make out their faces in the
darkness, but fear crept into his gut. All kids in this part of
town looked sketchy, if not downright dangerous. And these two had
predators’ eyes. He shuddered, glad he had a metal frame and 170
horsepower between his hide and them.

He turned the corner and sped off, his mood
improving immediately. After all, this was a major accomplishment.
John Riggins was no longer unknowable (which would have made him
the deal-breaker in the contract), but a real-live dead human
being, someone Charlie could write about with authority and
confidence, since his subject had possessed the good grace to tell
so much about himself in his journal.

Yes, a good day overall.

* * *

Later that evening, Charlie called Susan to
tell her he’d completed
Flight from Forsyth
. She
congratulated him, and then quickly changed the subject, saying he
could either cough up $150 a week for after-school care or go back
to picking up the kids. He chose the latter, since he missed Beck
and Ben—and had more time than money. Also, she was willing to give
him a key to Thornbriar, indicating a further thawing—but without
mention of icing or licking.

Meanwhile, there was other work to do. On
Saturday, Charlie started building a deck near Little Five Points,
so his return to Minerva’s house was delayed by several days. He
knocked on her door Thursday morning, balancing his computer atop a
new scanner still in its box. Minerva answered, her expression
grim. “Something wrong?” he asked as he stepped inside.

“We did the test, and now we know. The girl
is pregnant,” she said, closing the door. “Claims D is the father.
Lord, now
I’m
calling him that.”

“The father?”

“No,” she said, irritated. “D.”

“What does he say?”

“He came by after you left the other night.
He called her all sorts of names and stormed out. I haven’t seen
him since.”

He fidgeted. This was all very terrible, and
furthermore, he needed to get to work.

“Eighth grade,” Minerva said. “Fourteen.
She’s staying with me now, since her mama kicked her out. I want to
turn that hateful woman in for child abuse and neglect, but I’m
afraid she could get Demetrious arrested for statutory rape. I
don’t believe in abortion, or in babies having babies, either.” She
sighed. “This is like Shaundra all over again. Worse by ten years.
And if Demetrious is …”

She waved her hands helplessly in the air.
Charlie waited for her to finish her thought, but she didn’t, so he
busied himself pulling the scanner out of its box.

After a minute, Minerva spoke again. “He
brought back the money Friday. Most of it, anyway. Said he didn’t
get a chance to get to the power company. I hate to think what all
he did … I’m lucky I got any of it back. Lucky he’s alive. I’m
afraid
of
him and
for
him. The people he associates
with.” She growled in disgust. “That friend of his he brought by
the other night is nothing but bad news. You can see it in his
eyes. He got beat up in a fight and talks about getting a gun and
killing the other boy. D said he’d help him. They both spend all
their time playing the fool.”

“Oh really,” said Charlie, scrutinizing the
scanner’s instructions.

“My grandson’s no bigger than me and talks
about killing people. Too much anger and hatred inside. It’s all
messed up. I don’t want to trouble you with that.” She waved her
hand as if she was shooing away her problems, but they hung in the
air like thick smoke over a fire in a valley.

Charlie looked up. “Where’s Takira now?”

“I got her back in school. She’ll be doing
well if she makes it through this semester. She’ll be showing
pretty soon, skinny as she is. But you go ahead and work on your
book.”

He set up his scanner in the living room
while she cleaned up in the kitchen. He felt guilty about using her
precious electricity. When she came out to check on him, he said,
“If there’s some way I could, uh, reimburse you—”

She tut-tutted him. “Just give me some copies
of your book when it’s published. I don’t want people claiming I
made up a story and sold it to you. What’s that called? Checkbook
journalism?”

“Yes. No. We don’t want that. I don’t have
much of a checkbook, anyway.”

“You do the work. You get paid. That’s the
way it should be.”

Minerva went into the kitchen and worked
noisily for an hour. Then she came into the living room and started
energetically dusting around him, wondering aloud how long he would
take, asking why anyone would care about something that happened so
long ago. He looked up from a letter he was copying. “You having
second thoughts? Don’t you want to know what happened?”

She picked a piece of lint from the sofa arm.
“Maybe not. I was just thinking there’s a reason the past should
stay buried.”

Unsure how long Minerva would let him stay,
Charlie picked up his pace.

Her mood improved after Charlie offered to
buy her lunch. They ate in a diner called Café Max near Little Five
Points. After they returned, Minerva got a phone call, which she
took in her bedroom. She came back into the living room and rolled
her eyes. “That was the high school attendance office. Demetrious
has gone missing from school again. He was out most of last week. I
quit signing excuses for him two years ago. Now he doesn’t even
bother. He’s out roaming the streets.”

To Charlie, the boy seemed not so much a
troubled teenager as a storm building to critical mass. He glanced
at the photo of the truant, gangsta wannabe, and statutory rapist.
He didn’t want to deal with Hurricane Demetrious, but he could
sense the manchild bulging out of the picture frame, pushing
against the fabric of Charlie’s universe.

* * *

Charlie showed up at Minerva’s house the next
morning, hoping to finish copying Riggins’s papers. She was in a
better mood, cheerfully serving him coffee and cinnamon rolls. He
found papers in the bottom of the chest that quickened his pulse—a
title deed to a farm in Forsyth County, along with tax records. The
Holy Grail, if what Jasper had said was true: John Riggins had been
lynched for his land. Charlie recalled the 1987 biracial
commission’s report and its white-led disparagement of claims for
reparations.
Suck on this, biracial commission bitches
!