Brambleman (37 page)

In the silence that followed, Charlie
realized that a momentous change had occurred. By snatching that
Mason jar, he’d inserted himself into the story. Ergo,
American
Monster
was now a memoir. And so he started rewriting, from
page one: “
On the night after Christmas I met Kathleen Talton. I
was newly destitute, trudging through the rain with a man whose
name I still don’t know. She had prayed for a miracle. What she got
was me
.” He would keep out the story’s supernatural elements,
however. (He knew that some people would argue that if he was the
answer to someone’s prayers, then there was no God.)

After a few minutes of tapping away, his
thoughts drifted to the jar. He pulled it from the duffel and
placed it on the table. In the lamplight, the formaldehyde seemed
to take on a radioactive glow. When he picked up the jar, the
finger touched bottom and moved as if tracing an answer on a Ouija
board. Charlie watched it, entranced. In a less-than-lucid moment,
he said, “What is it, John? Is the story trapped in a well?”

He shuddered, realizing that his mental
hygiene (as Susan called it) was slipping.

Never mind that. There were decisions to
make. Being dispossessed, exiled, and hunted, Charlie figured that
pulling a disappearing act was the best thing to do. He couldn’t go
to jail. He’d lose his stuff
1
—and what was left of John Riggins. To avoid that,
he would stay underground until the book was finished.
Unfortunately, he had no cash, and if he didn’t get the second half
of the publisher’s advance soon, his house of credit cards would
collapse. When he got the money from Fortress, he’d rent an
apartment. And where the hell was that check, anyway? He reached
into a pocket for his cellphone, then remembered he’d killed it to
elude capture.

So be it. If the world conspired to keep him
holed up in a motel with John Riggins’s finger and his computer,
then he had nothing better—and little else—to do than work on the
book. He returned to his task, writing
American Monster
at a
furious pace, without regard to time or creature comforts, of which
he had much and few, respectively.

At 4:00 a.m., the prostitute next door and
her client broke the bed with a mighty crash. Charlie paused to
listen to their laughter, then resumed his writing.

* * *

For three days, Charlie stayed in his room
and pounded the laptop’s keyboard, recasting
American
Monster
as his own story, sticking his head out the door only
for Papa John’s pizza and Mongolian beef from the Hungry Wok. By
the time he called the body shop and learned that his van was
ready, he’d completely rewritten the first ten chapters.

Charlie stashed away his valuables and
stepped outside, blinking in the sunshine. He crossed the street to
wait for the bus. It appeared immediately. He accepted his good
fortune with a nod to the sky as he boarded the vehicle. The female
bus driver, who nodded at him, looked just like the one that had
picked him up with Trouble that night outside the Pancake. Then
again, the motel was on the same route. Still, his life was weird.
No doubt about it.

He picked up the van
1
—now unblemished, repainted royal blue,
and boasting a new rear window
1
—and charged the repair, whistling at the cost. He
drove back to the motel and checked out. At Southern Trust Bank, he
smuggled the Mason jar under his jacket into the vault and placed
it inside his safety deposit box, which was, fortunately, the
largest available. Still, there was barely room for the purloined
digit.

Not a proper burial, but at least John was
secure for now.

He’d spent a couple of nights out on the
street after Kathleen had pulled a knife on him, but that now
seemed like some kind of urban camping trip. This time, Charlie
fully embraced his homelessness. He rented a post office box at
Mailbox Decatur, then went to Cellular USA and bought a prepaid
phone with a new number. He immediately used it to call his editor
at Fortress.

“Where have you
been
?” Joshua Furst
asked, his voice hitting a high note on the last word. “I’ve been
trying to reach you all week. People are
threatening
me.”

“I’m hiding out. I’ve been shot, burglarized,
shadowed, threatened, and, to top it all off, maligned—by my wife,
of all people.”
The unkindest cut of all
.

“I called your cellphone and there was no
answer.”

“It died a violent death in a motel parking
lot. As so many of them do.”

“Then I tried
another
number. They
said you were evicted. What gives? Where are you now?”

Charlie gave him his cellphone number and his
new address.

“You live in a post office box?”

“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”

“Anyway, some attorney calls and tells us
he’s going to get a cease and desist order and prevent us from
publishing your book. His name is, hang on a minute … Stanley
Cutchins.”

Charlie broke out laughing. “He’s an
insurance agent! He’s a legislator, but I assure you that he is
not
burdened by a knowledge of the law.”

“What is his problem? This stuff happened a
hundred years ago. It’s like somebody getting pissed off at a book
about the
Titanic
. I searched through the manuscript and the
only thing about a Cutchins I found was a quote from some guy born
in 1912.”

“They’ve got the book confused with something
I’m working on now. Uncle Stanley will have plenty to yelp about
later.”

“
Uncle
Stanley?”

“By marriage. Long story … and I’m not proud
of it, OK? Let me just point out that if they’re trying to block
publication, well, you simply cannot
buy
publicity like
that.”

“I agree. Sadly, Legal says we must have
threats in writing before we can advertise them.”

“By the way, I’ve got another manuscript to
show you.”

“Oh. Hmm. Another book, eh? I should warn
you: Things are in flux.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have a new publisher. Now isn’t the time
to approach him with another book.”

“Who’s the new publisher?”

“Evans Barclay, of the Las Vegas casino
Barclays. I think he may have won us in a poker game. He says we
paid too much for
Flight
. Called it a bad bet. He’s looking
to cut losses. Know when to fold ’em—”

“Wait a minute!” Charlie struggled to control
his anger.

“Don’t worry. We’re going to publish
Flight
. I got the galleys in, and I need to send them to you
for proofing. And you need to compile an index.”

“If you’ve got the galleys, I should have
been paid already!”

“I’ll send them. You get them proofed. Gotta
go. There’s a call on the other line.”

“When am I gonna get paid?” Charlie demanded.
“
Am
I gonna get paid?”

But Joshua had already hung up.

At least Charlie now knew he needed to find a
different publisher for
American Monster
. But there was a
bright side. Hopefully, Uncle Stanley would keep harassing
Fortress, barking up the wrong tree. The critter that Cutchins
wanted to kill would come crashing down on him from a completely
different direction.

Charlie then drove to Store-All, where he
rented a closet-sized unit and stowed away his stuff: tools,
bicycle, spare clothes, cot, boombox, papers, even the van’s two
bench seats, and the vat (nearly full of blood), keeping only a few
days’ worth of clothes and what he needed to write, including his
printer. That night he went to a multiplex cinema and after
watching a movie, camped out in the van at the periphery of its
parking lot.

He slept fitfully until daybreak, waking with
a stiff back. He washed up in a nearby supermarket’s restroom, then
bought a cup of coffee, bagels, cold cuts, fruit, bottled water and
a bag of ice for the cooler. He still wasn’t ready to write because
his van was not yet home—or office. He drove to the Store-All and
got his tools, then to Home Depot for lumber, hinges, and a lock,
putting all the purchases on his credit card. There would be hell
to pay when the bill came, but he pushed that thought out of his
mind. He built a locker and shelves for the van, along with a frame
to secure the cooler. After eating turkey on a bagel for lunch, he
bought an air mattress at Target. He inflated it in the back of the
van and laid his sleeping bag atop it, then admired his work.
Van sweet van
.

To throw his enemies off his trail, Charlie
did something sketchy. When he saw a red Caravan that looked like
his in a shopping center parking lot, he switched license plates
with it while repeatedly murmuring his mantra:
No cops
. The
next day, he came across a similar vehicle and repeated the
process. If they wanted to swear out warrants and try to tail him
in a black car, then he’d play Three-Van Monte with them. His new
motto:
Drive safely, damn it.

Then he shifted his operations to the north
side of town. The next morning, he exercised and showered at the
Dunwoody Y. He worked in the local library branch until closing,
then set up shop in a coffeehouse, enduring the raucous
conversations of rival high school cliques. After the shop closed,
he drove away and found a secluded place to park in a strip mall.
He sat in the rear of the van, resting his back against the
passenger seat, and typed away on his laptop until the battery
died.

The next day he bought a car charger for his
laptop battery. Now he could write until he maxed out his
MasterCard and ran out of gas.

* * *

Charlie arrived at Minerva’s house while she
was cooking supper—fish, mashed potatoes, and green beans—and she
invited him to eat. Takira was there; Charlie noticed the girl
wasn’t showing yet. He shuddered to think that the poor child was
carrying Pappy’s great-great-grandchild in her womb—if she was
still pregnant, that is. Charlie didn’t mention Pappy or her
pregnancy while they ate. Instead, he listened to Takira talk about
school. Apparently, her middle school was a hellpit, but he’d heard
from other parents that most of them were.

After dinner, Takira left to see a new friend
in the neighborhood. Minerva and Charlie stepped out on the front
stoop. It was a clear, cool evening. Minerva sat in the rocker
bundled in a sweater, and Charlie, wearing a tan jacket, leaned
against a wrought iron support as they watched the girl walk down
the street. Recalling Demetrious’s habit of lurking, Charlie
scouted the shadows. “You seen your grandson lately?”

“Not for a couple of days. Sometimes he comes
by to eat. That’s why there was extra tonight.”

“It was good,” Charlie said. “Thanks
again.”

“You’re welcome.”

A minute passed before she sighed and said,
“Well, I know you didn’t show up just to eat my food. I tried
calling you, but your number didn’t work.”

“I got a new phone.” He wrote down his new
number and gave it to her.

“Some woman said you didn’t live there
anymore.”

He laughed. “Which woman?”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Men.
They’re all the same. What’s your new address?”

“Actually, I’m looking for a place.”

“Where are you staying now?”

“Here and there.”

“Hmm, as Arsenio used to say. So, are you
going to give me the news about my father?” She clucked her tongue.
“Seventy years ago, and it’s the news.”

Charlie cleared his throat. “There were eight
men involved in the murder of John Riggins, and it was over the
land.”

“I’d always heard that he was lynched by a
mob.”

“I’d say that’s true. One of them is still
alive. He owns the land your family held.”

She leaned forward, her good ear cocked
toward him. “Go on.”

“The sale’s on record, with John Riggins’
signature, but it’s bogus, since it was dated after his death.”

“My father’s death,” she said. “So the man
stole it.”

“I know the man who did it, the main one.” He
stepped off the porch, then stepped back up, since the small stoop
offered little room for pacing. “His name is Isaac Cutchins. He’s
the one who’s still alive.”

“What do you mean, you know him?”

“I married his granddaughter.”

She looked like she’d been slapped in the
face. “Ain’t that a revelation,” she said, putting her palms to her
temples. “He and you are mixed in your children.”

“Yes,” he said, feeling a pang of longing for
the little varmints.

“My Lord, he must be nearly a hundred years
old.”

“He is nearly that. And spry.” Charlie looked
across the street, recalling how close he’d come to being shot by
the old man. Twice.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re still going
ahead with it, though?”

“Yes.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I never
liked him, anyway. The whole family is going to try to stop the
book.” Charlie sighed. “It’s gotten quite ugly.”

“But it’s your family. The blood is all mixed
up.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m estranged from
all of them. I’m an exile now, and I have a job to do. One of those
‘die trying’ things.”

She narrowed her eyes, but then a look of
pity crossed her face. “What about your own people? Your parents
still around? Brothers and sisters?”

“All gone. I’m an only child of only
children. Well, I had a brother, but he died before I was born. He
fell off a cliff when he was with Dad, out in the woods. My mother
died of cancer right after I graduated from college.”

“Dear God.”

“When I was young, my father got this great
notion to jump in the river and drown. Gravity has not been our
friend.”

“Hmm. Like my momma.” She rubbed her chin and
regarded him carefully. “Perhaps your father couldn’t live with his
regret over what happened.”