Brambleman (40 page)

“Heard you need some help,” Charlie said to
the back of the dishwasher’s head. He felt a crackle of static when
he grabbed a green scrubbing pad from the metal shelf overhanging
the sink. When the fellow turned to face him, Charlie rocked back
on his heels, took a deep breath, choked on the smell, and yelled,
“You son of a bitch, you nearly got me killed! I was thrown out of
the house and there are warrants for my arrest. You’re—”

“Trouble?” The dishwasher grinned and
stripped off his plastic apron, offering it to Charlie. “Told you
so. Here. Your turn. About time my replacement got here. I’m not
cut out for this kind of work.” He wiped food from his face and
gestured to the pots and pans stacked up on the counter and the
floor beside the sink. “Here,” he said, flipping a wet rag, hitting
Charlie in the face. “If you’ll excuse me, I gotta keep Redeemer
away from that
whore
.” Trouble snarled the last word.

“I’m not through with you!” Charlie shouted,
but Trouble was already halfway across the kitchen’s red-tiled
floor. Charlie followed, talking to the back of his head. “Why is
this shit happening to me? I want to know.” In frustration, he
cried out, “You made me homeless!”

Trouble turned and laughed contemptuously.
“No, I didn’t. And welcome to the club. Rest assured, you belong
here. You’re just too stupid to know it. Get to work and quit
messing up my plans.”

“I had a home,” Charlie said, his face
forlorn.

“No, you were out in the rain. If I had to do
it over again, I wouldn’t rescue your ass!”

“Rescue
my
ass! Some rescue.” Charlie
looked around. “Is this where you stay? How long have you been
working for Redeemer? If you call what you do working, that
is.”

“You got it wrong about who works for
who.”

“Are you saying he works for
you
?”

“Not that, either. He’s just contrary. Not
good at following orders.”

“Just like me, right?”

“Hardly. You work for yourself, asshole.
That’s why we had to have a contract. And even that doesn’t seem to
be working. Fair warning: You’re in violation, home boy.” Trouble
pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re lucky I don’t smoke your
ass right now.”

Charlie sneered at him. “Do it.”

“Won’t.”

“You mean
can’t
…
bitch
,”
Charlie added, being in a somewhat self-destructive mood.

“I’ll ignore that. Usually, no one talks to
me that way and lives. I guess you know something the other
assholes don’t, is that it?” He snorted. “Consider yourself
fortunate.”

“That would be a stretch right now. Anyway,
I’m not afraid of you.”

“Figured that much.” Trouble started to
saunter away, almost making it to the dining hall door before
stopping. He turned and regarded Charlie critically. “You’re not
even close to fulfilling the contract. So just do your job and stay
away from the whore. She’s filthy, nothing but bad news.”

“Wait! I need to talk to you about the book,
about—”

Trouble walked out. Charlie tried to follow,
but when he touched the swinging metal door, a jolt of electricity
knocked him back two steps. He tried again. A bigger shock this
time.
But not fatal
. Charlie narrowed his eyes.
Trouble
wasn’t fully charged
. He might have a chance to beat the shit
out of the old asshole, consequences be damned. The third time,
Charlie touched the door with his elbow.
Zap
. He cried out
in pain. He tried a fourth time. A pan fell off a rack and hit him
on the head. “OK,” he grumbled, his hair standing on end. “I’ll
wash dishes.”

Mumbling obscenities, Charlie returned to the
sink and slipped on the dirty apron. He drained filthy water from
the tubs and refilled them, squirting soap into the middle tank.
Then he started scrubbing. There was a mountain of dirty pots and
pans—several hours’ worth of work. He struggled to find places for
clean cookware, hanging some up on an overhead rack, stacking
others on vacant counters and stove tops.

No one came to help, and everyone else in the
kitchen ignored him. When the food was all gone, cooks and servers
brought more pans, trays, and utensils for Charlie to wash, making
a pile on the floor larger than the one he’d started on.

Afternoon faded into evening. The dull roar
of the crowd on the other side of the double doors died down. By
the time Charlie dried off the last pot and hung it on a rack above
a butcher block table, he was alone in the kitchen. While he was
draining and wiping down the sinks, the lights went off. “Hey!” he
hollered, groping around in the darkness. “I’m not through back
here!”

Trouble’s voice rang out. “Hey back atcha. I
think the circuit breaker tripped. Give me a hand getting it back
on. I’ll hold the flashlight.”

“You do it,” Charlie said, ripping off his
apron and putting it on the sink. “I’m outta here.”

“There’s people trippin’ over themselves.
Sure, we’ve got our differences, but we all gotta do what we gotta
do to keep this place workin’. Come on,” Trouble wheedled. “Do the
right thing.”

Charlie hesitated, unable to see well enough
to make an exit. “Where is it?”

“Back this way, I think.”

Trouble shone a beam on the floor as he
walked into a pantry. Charlie followed him and heard the click of a
metal door latch. “I’ll hold the light,” Trouble said. “Looks like
the main breaker tripped. Flip it. Be careful.” The flashlight beam
danced over the switches. As Charlie pushed it back into place, a
hand clamped down on his. “Take that, sucker!” Trouble screamed in
his ear.

Charlie’s body spasmed as electricity surged
through it. When Trouble released his hand, Charlie went flying
against a wire rack on the opposite wall. The lights came back on,
but he was blinded by the universe of dancing red spots that
dominated his vision. He felt like he was having a heart attack.
Through ringing ears he heard Trouble say, “That’s what you get for
consorting with the whore and her bastard child.”

Charlie had no idea what that meant, but he
still wanted to kick Trouble’s ass. He tried to rise to his feet
with a vague idea of striking back, but he seemed to be
paralyzed.

“That whore is the source of all your
problems, and you’re too stupid to know it!” Trouble screamed. “Not
that it matters what I say. You aren’t capable of learning.”

“Gah,” said Charlie, drooling.

“You’re the stupidest prick I’ve ever worked
with. You’re lucky you’re still alive.” Trouble looked to the
ceiling and muttered. “You picked one blind bastard. Absolutely
useless. Can’t I just enforce the contract? I’m tired of looking at
him. Why, I oughta just enforce the contract right now. Really. Let
me do him.” He held his ear as if listening to a distant voice.
“Might have to, anyway. Ah, c’mon. You’ll be
sor-ry
,”
Trouble sang. “
Truly you will
.”

The next thing Charlie knew, Trouble was
huffing and panting, dragging him by the feet from the pantry
across the kitchen floor. He wanted to resist, but his limbs were
useless. He tried to call out, but his voice made no sound. A
trickle of electricity continued to course through his body.
Trouble grunted as he pulled Charlie out the rear door of the
kitchen onto the loading dock. After stealing Charlie’s boots,
Trouble left him lying on the concrete face-down, drooling.

At that point, Charlie passed out.

When he came to, it was dark outside. A
yellow light burned overhead. He tried to remember where he was.
“Redeemer’s,” he muttered. He struggled to get up. The cold
concrete was trying to tell him something. He looked down at his
shoeless feet. “We was robbed,” he moaned, falling sideways against
the wall. He patted his pants pockets. He still had his keys and
his wallet. A cold wind hit him, and he realized he’d pissed
himself or gotten dishwater on his pants.

He stumbled around in a circle and then tried
to get inside, but the steel door was locked against him. This
seemed to present an insurmountable problem. Then he turned around
and faced the night.
Walk around the building, dumbshit
. He
shuffled down the dock steps onto the empty rear lot and staggered
around the building, leaning on it for guidance and support, since
he was still dizzy and blurry-eyed. He rounded the front corner and
faced the gravel lot, which he dreaded crossing without shoes.

Nearly all the cars were gone, but two
children sat in the open side door of a cargo van. He blinked and
tried to focus his eyes. Those were the kids he’d helped. The tiny
girl saw him and called out, “Hi, Charlie. Are you hurt?”

“Hey,” he mumbled, unable to remember her
name. He was about to say he had been injured when he realized he
was beginning to feel better. He took a step toward the van, then
saw it wasn’t the seedy enchantress who’d been with them before.
This woman was black. Older and rounder. Ah, of course. “Are you
their mother?”

“No, their momma went out with Redeemer,” she
said. “There they are, coming back.” She pointed toward Memorial
Drive just as the red Cadillac came barreling into the lot.

Charlie stood dumbly as Tawny exited the car
with a bag of groceries and sang out to the kids, “We got food for
tomorrow.” She stood in a halo underneath a streetlight by the
building’s corner.

Redeemer climbed out of the driver’s side and
said, “You can’t keep doing it the way you been. Here, take this.”
He handed Tawny something small. “What I promised.”

Tawny glanced Charlie’s way but didn’t seem
to notice him. She turned and walked over to her kids.

“She’s a whore,” said a grimy whitish-gray
man through a faceful of hair. He was sitting down, his back
against the building. “Not judgin’, just sayin’. She works the
stoplight down the street. Bunch of ’em do.”

Charlie turned to stare at the guy. “Have you
seen … Trouble?”

“Nuthin’ but,” the man responded. Charlie
turned back to watch the family for a moment. Weird: That little
girl was the only person who cared what had happened to him. He
couldn’t remember her name, but he knew that she deserved saving
from this terrible world she lived in. Not that he could do
anything about it, since he was no better off. He left, gingerly
stepping and ouching his way across the gravel, taking the shortest
route to the sidewalk.

Once he had escaped the torturous parking
lot, Charlie cast a backward glance at the woman named Tawny, the
one Trouble had been screaming about.
The whore
. He felt
like his mind had been poisoned against her, but he was also filled
with desire for the woman underneath the mascara. Anyway, if
Trouble hated her, she couldn’t be all bad.

The side street was empty when Charlie
climbed into the Caravan. His crotch was wet and cold, and he could
smell the taint of homelessness upon himself. Since the Y was
closed and he couldn’t afford a motel room, there was no shower in
his immediate future, so he did what he would be forced to do more
and more frequently in the days to come—change into dirty but dry
clothes, put on secondhand sneakers, and wipe down his body with
moist towelettes. Pantless, he crouched low as a cop car passed
by.

Charlie drove off and stopped at a service
station to use the restroom. He recoiled in horror when he saw his
face in the mirror. Tracks of dried blood ran down each cheek. His
eyes were beyond bloodshot. They were pools of red. The bastard had
nearly blinded him. Correction:
had
blinded him, but he’d
recovered, somehow. He wanted to kill Trouble, if such a thing were
possible.

He ran water and splashed his face with both
hands, then looked around and realized there were no paper towels,
only a hand dryer. He left the restroom shaking his head like a wet
dog.

Having missed two meals already, Charlie
looked for a place to eat. The supermarkets he drove by were
closed; so were the restaurants he passed. Finally he saw a Pancake
Hut and despite his misgivings, pulled into the lot. He sat at the
counter of the otherwise empty diner and waited. Fifteen minutes
later, he realized the waitress, like Lil Bit, was intent on
ignoring him. He left without getting so much as a glass of water.
As he departed, the cook hollered, “Thanks for taking the hint, you
homeless fuck.”

November 30: DNA Day. According to lab
results, there was a 99.989 percent certainty that Demetrious
Jackson was related to Isaac Cutchins. Charlie attributed the .011
percent (one ten-thousandth) ambiguity to incest-related mutation.
He put the results in his safe deposit box alongside the Mason jar
containing Riggins’s finger, which spent its days circling
endlessly in its dark prison. It was a sad, awkward moment. Before
locking the door on his box, Charlie apologized to the lonely digit
for breaking the news that way. “Sorry, John. Sooner or later, you
had to know.”

That afternoon, Charlie checked his mail in
Decatur. The only piece was his dreaded credit card bill. He hadn’t
kept track of expenses, and his fingers trembled as he opened the
envelope. When he saw the total, he despaired, slumping against the
wall of the store and sliding to the floor. Nearly thirty-two
hundred dollars! Shocking! There it was, his life on paper: Fast
food, gas, coffee, the first DNA test, camping gear, a duster coat
and wide-brim hat to keep off the rain—all of it piled onto the
previous balance. Being homeless was more expensive than he’d
realized. He’d have to get a cash advance on his card and buy a
money order to make a payment, putting off the day of reckoning for
another month. Unfortunately, he was close to his credit limit; he
wouldn’t make it to the end of the year unless he signed up for
another card—or two. But one blood-soaked contract was enough. He’d
left Bayard Terrace without getting paid for his past month of
caretaking for Kathleen, but in truth he’d done little to earn it,
so he didn’t press the issue.