Brambleman (32 page)

Charlie’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you
mean?”

“Well … I didn’t see this myself. Bobby told
me a few years later. I asked him how come Ike Cutchins … ended up
with John Riggins’ farm. He said Parkhurst told him … Ike Cutchins
went to Riggins’ house … later that day and told Riggins’ woman to
leave … Forsyth County or he’d kill her, too. And then he … made
her sign somethin’. But he wasn’t through. Then he … had his way
with her. That’s what Bobby told me.”

“Oh my God.” Charlie’s head throbbed. This
was too much.

“Then that posse of his … run her outta town
next day … burned her house down. I was just a kid,” Patterson
said. “Nuthin’ I could do.”

“Nobody did anything back then.”

“Everybody wondered why … they even bothered
livin’ here when they was the only ones for years in either
direction.” Patterson paused to catch his breath, then continued.
“More recent … in the 1960s. The civil rights movement. I remember
hearin’ Cutchins brag … about the good ol’ days and killin’
niggers. But he kept his mouth shut … about the specifics. What he
did was cold-blooded murder. And what he did after was worse … you
ask me. I hear he’s gonna sell the land for a ton of money. Special
place in hell waitin’ for him. Maybe … he made a deal with the
devil already. That’s all I know.” He took a long pause, then said,
“I’m tired a talkin’.”

Charlie let out a deep breath and slumped in
his chair. Both men were quiet for a moment. Charlie thought,
Damn, I got it
. “Thank you.” he told the old man. “This was
important, what you told me. People need to know.”

“Well … we made a deal. And I ain’t eaten in
a day. So go get me … them eggs and grits. Cup a coffee. Sugar.
Cream. Pack of Camel straights.”

This was the best deal Charlie had ever made.
“I’m on it,” he said, then stood up and wiped sweaty palms on his
pants. Before Patterson could protest, Charlie pulled out a small
camera and took a snapshot of Patterson’s age-lined face, then
grabbed his things and hustled out the door.

It took awhile to find a Pancake Hut, and
almost as long to get service. He just had incredibly bad karma
when it came to that restaurant chain. He was gone for more than an
hour, and when he came back with the food, he saw an ambulance and
a car beside the house. He passed by the driveway and turned around
a minute later. He returned in time to see a black car pull off the
road onto the shoulder right where Patterson said one had been
parked the day before. Charlie would have liked to check in on the
old man, but he knew it was best to keep moving. He’d forgotten the
Camels, anyway. He also had the feeling that Danny Patterson was
about to leave the house for the last time, poor guy. At least he’d
gotten that terrible secret off his chest. Charlie owed him a
moment of silent remembrance—when he had a spare moment, that
is.

Charlie stopped at a park in Cumming and ate
the food he’d bought for the dying man. The egg yolk and grits ran
together on the Styrofoam plate. He stirred the mess around, sopped
it up with buttered toast, and sipped lukewarm coffee. While he
ate, Charlie listened to the recording of Patterson’s faltering
voice telling the tale in both past and present, an acknowledgment
that, to those who remember, what
was, is
. And then Charlie
realized he had not told Patterson his name. All in all, he felt
luckier than he did sad, like he’d cheated death somehow—or at the
very least, eaten its lunch.

By the time he read Danny Patterson’s funeral
notice in the next morning’s paper and finally observed that
promised moment of silence, Charlie had already typed a transcript
of the conversation, made copies of the audio file, and stashed
spares in his safe deposit box. The death notice stated that
Patterson died of a lengthy illness, but Charlie’s mourning turned
to concern for his own safety when he considered the possibility
that his eyewitness had fallen prey to Black Car Syndrome. The more
he thought about it, the more he believed the man had been a victim
of foul play, not nasty habit.

After all, Forsyth folk had a history of
violence, and so did the Cutchinses: death threats on July Fourth,
Momo’s general behavior, courthouse arson, John Riggins, a thousand
blacks fleeing Forsyth for their lives (surely Pappy’s father had
scared a few out of town). Plus, there had already been a burglary,
and Charlie figured that when the evildoers found out that they’d
missed the thing they sought, they would return.

So he set up a firewall by hiding his files
and papers. If anyone searched Bayard Terrace in his absence,
they’d find only the manuscript for
Thoracic Park
, his
unpublishable novel about evil heart surgeons—but nothing
concerning his current project, unless they walked in on him or
ambushed him in his van. And then … well, publish or perish, that
was
the deal, wasn’t it?

Minerva called Charlie that afternoon and
said she’d found another of her father’s journals while cleaning a
bookcase. Then she started talking about Takira. “That girl is
going to be the death of me. She’s keeping the baby. I tell her
having it is good but keeping it isn’t, not at her age. Her family
doesn’t have insurance, so I’ll be paying a lot of the bills and
the delivery will be at Grady Hospital. Demetrious came by and told
her to get rid of it. He said if she doesn’t, he will. He got her
all upset, so I told him to leave. He gets this
attitude
,
but I encourage him to stay around—when he behaves, that is. I
don’t want to give him an excuse to leave Takira and abandon the
baby.”

Too much information
. Charlie shifted
uncomfortably in his office chair. When she paused to take a
breath, he asked, “When can I come by and look at the journal?”

“Tomorrow, if you want. How’s the book
coming?”

“Fine.”

“Do you know who killed my father?”

“Can’t say just yet.”

A moment’s silence. “Can’t say, or
won’t?”

“I still have some people to talk to.”

“I see. You’ll tell me as soon as you
can.”

“When I’ve got it nailed down, I
promise.”

Truth was, Charlie was troubled by his
newfound knowledge and didn’t know what to say to Minerva. She’d
said she was born nine months after her father died, and now he had
information that Pappy had raped her mother. He was afraid of where
this was taking him and dreaded the prospect of telling her it was
her father
who had done the killing and stealing. He also
might need her help to prove this terrible fact. It was all twisted
and ironic, the stuff that migraines are made of.

But there were other things to talk about.
“Your father’s body was never recovered, is that correct?”

“Jasper said there was a memorial service,
but there’s no grave. They had a white man go up there to find out
what happened, but no one would say anything. My mother was run out
of the county, and the house was burned. But we never got him
back.”

“OK. Well, I’ve got work to do. I’ll see you
tomorrow.”

“Tell me what you can, when you can.”

Charlie hung up. For the next few hours, he
sat at Talton’s desk, writing the death scene. John Riggins had
been murdered by a mob that made it look like a lynching (as if
that somehow justified the killing). He ended the chapter with the
body hanging from the tree. He hated the thought of Riggins rotting
in the sun, but he feared the brave man’s body had been left for
crows to eat. A thought burned in his mind:
Perhaps it’s my job
to find him.

* * *

Charlie arrived at Minerva’s house shortly
after 9:00 a.m. They briefly danced around the issue of the
identity of John Riggins’s killers, but Charlie wasn’t ready to
tell her everything—only that more than one person had been
involved.

Minerva looked him in the eye sand said, “It
was a mob, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. I can tell you that much.”

“Do you have names?”

“Yes. Nothing I can share yet.”

“Nothing you can share,” she said with a note
of disdain.

Minerva made coffee and gave him a cup,
muttering about how she wasn’t sure he deserved it, but she wasn’t
going to be inhospitable. Then she left him to work while she read
a magazine. Riggins’s journal—which he’d been filling in at the
time of his death—was great stuff. Although no poet, the murder
victim had been bright and eloquent, in a way. His college grades
showed Riggins had been more interested in math than literature,
but he also had a sense of history. A practical man, he kept close
track of his money and was determined to succeed. “Silence is
best,” he wrote after enduring catcalls in Cumming on Saturday,
April 26, 1936. “Although they want me to grin at their foolish
jokes and laugh at myself, I hold my peace and move on, careful not
to step on any toes or gaze too long at any white women.”

Riggins clearly had not suffered Isaac
Cutchins gladly. He mentioned his nemesis several times, always in
relation to a conflict: “Cutchins is abrasive and confrontational,
though cowardly when push comes to shove. He is a fool, but a
dangerous fool. Usually, when he does anything, he makes sure he
has backing.” This entry had come three months before Cutchins
assembled the lynch mob.

The day before he died, Riggins made his last
entry, writing late at night during the harvest season: “Lettie
works hard in the corn field. Jasper, fearful of white men, refuses
to come up from Atlanta to help. I told my wife this evening that I
love her, something I sometimes forget to do.” Charlie hoped
Minerva had been conceived that night, but Riggins, a gentleman,
kept such details to himself. Charlie was copying this passage when
a key turned and the door swung open.

In swaggered Demetrious Jackson,
five-foot-six and rail-thin.

“Hey, Gee-ma!” he called out cheerfully, then
did a double-take when Charlie rose to greet him. The grin
returned. “You the writah!”

“Yes,” Charlie said as he offered his
hand.

Demetrious regarded it with amusement. “Old
school,” he said, and shook it. “I’m a writah, too. I write rap
songs. Little bit a’ dis, little bit a’ dat, know what I mean?”

“Why aren’t you in school?” Minerva
asked.

“Out early today,” Demetrious mumbled. “Bomb
threat or somethin’. I’m hungry.”

“You eat some lunch and get back there, you
hear me?”

Demetrious went into the kitchen. Minerva
shook her head and told Charlie, “I hope he’s not in trouble again.
Last grade report had all F’s. I gave him a desk to study at, but
it doesn’t do him any good if he’s not here.”

“She thinks I should work at Mickey D’s!”
Demetrious shouted from the kitchen.

“I never said that. I want you to finish
school so you can get a good job. But working at McDonald’s would
be better than what you’re doing now.”

“You mean eating your food,” the teenager
responded.

“Eating my food’s fine. I mean cutting school
and staying out all night, hanging out with hoods like that one
with the handkerchief on his head, that—”

“P-Dog,” Demetrious said, returning with a
turkey sandwich and orange juice. “And it’s called a doo-rag.”

“They arrested one of the boys he runs with
for robbing a convenience store,” Minerva said.

Demetrious shrugged. “He stupid. I don’t hang
with him no more.”

“That’s good, since he’s in jail.”

The teenager ate his sandwich in quick bites,
washing the food down with juice.

“Have you talked to Takira lately?” After she
didn’t get a response, Minerva said, “You need to look after her.
She’s carrying your baby.”

“I don’t know that. We been through this. If
it was mine, I say get rid of it.”

“Don’t talk that way.” She flipped on the TV
and turned her attention to the noon news.

“Where do you go to school?” Charlie
asked.

Demetrious ignored the question. “What about
you, Book Man? I heard what you doin’. How much you payin’ us for
our story? You make a movie ’bout somebody, you gotta pay ’em.” He
nodded solemnly. “I know that’s right.”

“I’m not making a movie. I’m writing a
book.”

“Well, my name in it, I need to get some
green, ya know what I’m sayin’?”

“I hear ya,” said Charlie.

“You be thinkin’ about it.” Demetrious
emptied his glass and sauntered out the door, slamming it behind
him, leaving his dishes for someone else to clean. Minerva opened
her mouth to say something, then closed it and shook her head.

An hour later, Charlie left. As he unlocked
the van, Demetrious popped out from between two cars down the
street. “Yo, Book Man. Wait up.”

Charlie placed his laptop and scanner on the
floor behind the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.
“What?”

“It’s about my baby momma.” Demetrious was
standing close now. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I need some
money.”

“Don’t we all.”

“I’m Gee-Ma’s business agent,” he
declared.

Charlie laughed. “After the episode with the
power bill, I doubt she wants you to represent her.”

“I invested it, man. To make a rap CD.” He
shrugged. “Didn’t work out. But that’s done. I want to talk about
what’s goin’ on now. How much you get for writing the book?”

“Nothing so far. And there’s no guarantee it
will get published or that I’ll get anything.”

The teen looked at Charlie like he was
stupid. “I hear you sold a book. What you get for it?”

“The one that’s finished? About minimum wage
so far, and it’s all gone.”

“This book make you a lotta money.”

Charlie chuckled and shook his head. “Not
necessarily. Most books aren’t bestsellers.”

“Well, this be a good movie. Make a lotta
coin.”

“I wish.”