Brambleman (8 page)

A hand unfastened the hasp. Charlie opened
the door and blinked in the light. Kathleen stood by the sink,
wearing a pink and white floral-print shift with yesterday’s
cardigan. Next to him stood Angela, a slightly rotund, middle-aged
woman with salt-and-pepper, close-cropped hair, black framed
glasses, and an owlish face that made the glare she gave him almost
comical. She wore Doc Martens, blue jeans, and a black sweatshirt
underneath a denim barn coat. She was holding the contract.

“Hi, I’m Charles Sherman. I guess you heard
I’m editing your father’s book.” He held out his hand. When she
regarded it with disdain, he made a point of closely examining it
for cooties.

“I understand my mother wrote you a check for
twenty-five hundred dollars,” she said, enunciating the amount as
if she were addressing a jury, “on the recommendation of someone
whose name she can’t recall. Please return the money and
leave.”

Angela might be in the right, but she had to
be stopped. “Is it your money?” he asked.

“It’s my money,” Kathleen snapped. “And my
house.”

“Do you have power of attorney over your
mother’s affairs?” Charlie asked.

“No, she doesn’t,” Kathleen said firmly. “I
won’t give it to her. I can take care of myself.”

“I’ve been trying to since Mom gave five
hundred dollars to the Southern Law Foundation.”

“I thought it was a civil rights group,”
Kathleen said.

“It’s a homophobic group, Mom! They were
behind Georgia’s gay marriage ban. Now they’ve got more money to
deny me my rights, thanks to you.”

Kathleen stage-whispered, “My daughter’s a
lesbian.” Then to Angela, who was rolling her eyes, she said, “I
thought they fought the Klan. I just got confused, that’s all.”

“Exactly. And this is the latest, most
egregious example of your confusion.” Angela turned to Charlie.
“You’re taking advantage of a helpless old woman.”

“I’m not helpless,” Kathleen said. “How dare
you!”

“Look,” Charlie said. “I agreed to do a job,
and I’m staying in the basement because it puts me closer to the
manuscript and Dr. Talton’s papers.”

“How long have you been working on Dad’s
book? What stage are you at?”

“I started reading Friday night. I brought a
computer and I’m converting files from his old word processing
program so I can edit.”

“Why are you here, though? Really? You know
what I mean.”

“I need a place to stay,” he confessed with a
shrug.

“Are you an alcoholic? Do you have a drug
problem?” She glanced at his wedding band. “Don’t you have a
family?”

“My wife and I are estranged,” he said,
instantly liking the exotic-sounding term. “Look, the manuscript
needs work, but it’s publishable.” He had to say that, even if he
wasn’t exactly sure that this was true.

“What are your credentials?”

“I’m a writer. I was an editor with the Macon
newspaper.”

She sneered. “Macon?”

“It’s a good paper,” he said defensively.
“Since then, I’ve written freelance articles.” He didn’t mention
his PR work, sensing she might be hostile to the concept. Actually,
he was hostile to the concept, which was why he’d quit to raise
babies and write novels.

“What makes you an expert on Forsyth
County?”

“I’m not. Your father was.”

“He comes with the highest recommendation,”
Kathleen said. “And he fixed my bathroom faucet. The one that’s
been leaking for ten years.”

“Just needed a new washer,” Charlie said
modestly.

“Great. Look, nothing against you,” Angela
said, “but I’m a sociology professor, and I—”

“You never looked at the manuscript or showed
an interest in your father’s work,” Kathleen said. “So don’t come
in and pull that.”

Angela sighed. “Mom, I was going up to
Forsyth that day, remember?”

“Dr. Talton, I—”

“Ms. Talton,” Kathleen corrected. “She
teaches at Perimeter College. Unlike Thurwood, she doesn’t have a
PhD.”

Charlie was starting to sympathize with
Angela, but expressing any such sentiment wouldn’t help his case.
“Professor Talton,” he said. “It’s a great story. And it’s tragic
that your father died without getting it published. It would be
worse if it never got into print. I’m committed to making it
happen. If you want someone to review the contract and my
credentials, that’s fine. I understand. I want everything open and
aboveboard. But we’ll get it done.”

“So don’t you come in here messing up the
only chance I’ve got at getting Thurwood’s book published!”
Kathleen cried out, ignoring Charlie’s conciliatory tone. “Not
after you refused to do it. I don’t have much longer, and I
know
this man can do the job. He was sent here for that
purpose.”

Angela turned to Charlie. “Ah, yes. That
mysterious stranger she talks about. What’s his name?”

“Trouble,” Kathleen said.

“Trouble,” Charlie agreed.

“Double Trouble,” Kathleen said, then
giggled.

Angela shook her head. “I’m not buying it.
I’m going to do some investigating. Meanwhile, Mr. Sherman, I want
a curriculum vitae, writing samples,
and
a detailed proposal
on your plan to get this book published. But you can’t stay
here.”

“It will take a couple of days to work up a
marketing proposal, and I don’t have a
curriculum vitae
,” he
said, pronouncing the term like it was an intestinal disorder. “The
résumé and writing samples I can give you. Hang on.”

He went to the study. He was reviewing his
six-year employment gap when Angela stuck her head in the door. He
printed the single sheet and handed it to her. “This project means
as much to me as it does to your mother,” he said. “I can do it.
And I’m not a bad person. I just … fell down.”

Her expression softened. She glanced over her
shoulder. “Are your parents still alive?”

“No. My father disappeared a long time ago.
Eventually, he was declared dead. My mother got cancer. She hung on
long enough to see me graduate from college.”

“Where’d you go?”

“University of Missouri. Where I’m from.”

“Good journalism school.”

“I know. I graduated from it.”

She raised her eyebrows appreciatively. “Any
brothers or sisters?”

“A brother who died before I was born. I was
a replacement part,” he added, marveling that he would tell her
such a thing. He blew air through his lips in a gentle
huff
and gave her a wan smile.

Angela whispered, “Sometimes I think I’m a
replacement part, too. It’s hard for me to help her when she’s like
this.”

“I heard that!” Kathleen said, sidling past
Angela into the room.

“You did not,” Angela said. “She always says
that. Just trying to keep me quiet.”

Charlie grinned. “Look, I gotta go take care
of my kids. You two talk. Angela, I assure you that all I want is
to get the book published. I’ll be gone soon. Your mother’s
basement is not exactly prime living quarters.”

When he left, he grabbed a trash bag from the
kitchen and put it in a wheeled garbage can behind the house. It
was partially overcast and the sun was playing peek-a-boo.
Charlie’s breath clouded the air. He inhaled deeply and told
himself not to worry. After all, things could be worse. While
Angela might dislike him, at least she didn’t call the cops or
shoot at him. Then again, that’s what family was for. When he
rolled the waste bin down the driveway to the street, he made a
racket, not wanting his good deed to go unnoticed.

* * *

Charlie glanced at his watch as he pulled off
Hanover Drive onto Thornbriar. He was running late; Susan would be
stressed. She had a meeting scheduled with bank attorneys to
discuss a class-action lawsuit filed by black employees. She’d been
nervous about the case for weeks. “What can I tell them?” she’d
asked Charlie in early December. “I don’t discriminate. All I know
is that a couple of blacks were passed over for promotions. This
started with a woman at the branch too busy polishing the chip on
her shoulder to do her job. Now attorneys are coaching branch
managers to cover their asses. I hope they’re not looking for a
scapegoat.”

“Don’t tell them you’re from Forsyth County,”
Charlie had suggested.

“I’m not. I mean, I won’t.”

He’d given her the benefit of the doubt back
then, having always assumed she was a moderate like her father.
Bradley Roy Powell, while a Forsyth County native, was no varmint.
In fact, he was Charlie’s hero. But now Charlie could no longer
ignore the fact that Susan was half-varmint, and therefore capable
of poor behavior on issues of race. Not that she’d ever admit
it.

When he pulled into the driveway, the garage
door was closed. He unlocked the front door. Inside, he was shocked
to see his mother-in-law sitting at the kitchen table sipping
coffee from his favorite blue cup.
How did she know
?
Evangeline Powell, a stocky woman with a dyed brown mini-bouffant,
pulled her white cardigan close around her neck, as if he’d brought
in a draft. She set to the task of watching Charlie with bright,
beady eyes like mall security would a shoplifter. An impish grin
lit her round face as she blew her coffee to cool it. The instant
Susan’s dryer fell silent, Evangeline shouted, “Hon! You need to
change them locks!”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Susan yelled
back.

Evangeline smirked. “Hey, Charles.”

He sat down across from her. “Hey,
Evangeline. What are you doing here?”

“Taking care of my grandbabies.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Didn’t Susan tell you? Bradley Roy won’t
pick me up until six. Lord, I don’t know what he’ll do with himself
now that he’s sold the auto parts store to Phil and retired.
Probably make a nuisance of himself.”

“Bradley Roy’s a saint,” said Charlie,
intending to piss her off.

It worked. Evangeline raised her voice to
say, “He’s a man, that’s what he is. But I’ll not get into it with
you.”

Susan walked into the kitchen dressed for
work, looking ready to kill someone without caring who.

“What’s going on?” Charlie asked.

“Mom dropped in.”

Like a bomb
, Charlie thought.

“Sheila drove me down,” Evangeline said.

Charlie was confused. “I thought Bradley
Roy—”

“He’s picking me up. People will do anything
for me ’cause I do right by ’em. Something you wouldn’t know a
thing about.”

Charlie turned to his wife. “Didn’t you tell
Sheila that I was taking care—”

“Sheila didn’t come in,” Susan snapped.

“Everything just falls into place, doesn’t
it?” Charlie punctuated his remark with a derisive snort.

“Don’t you worry none. Everything’s under
control,” Evangeline declared. “We’re not going to let what he did
hurt the children.”

“
He
?” Charlie asked.

“I didn’t know this was going to happen,”
Susan told Charlie semi-apologetically. When he gave her a look of
disbelief, she threw up her hands. “I called your cellphone and the
number you gave me to tell you not to come over, but you didn’t
answer, and the woman there said you’d already left.”

“
The woman
,” Evangeline said.

“Well, here I am,” Charlie said. “So there’s
no need—”

“I was here first,” said Evangeline, making
it sound like a playground game.

“But I’m taking care of the kids.”

“They don’t need you to babysit ’em. They got
me.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m not a
babysitter. I’m their primary—”

“Look,” Susan interjected. “I’m sorry it’s
working out this way, but I gotta go.”

Charlie shook his head. “I’m amazed you let
this happen.”

Evangeline sat smugly while man and wife
fought over her undeniably brilliant three-point plan: She was
there, she was staying, and that was that. The battle was won. On
behalf of her daughter, grandchildren, and all things good, holy,
and Cutchins.

“You’ve got a job now,” Susan wheedled. “This
will free up your time.”

“Bradley Roy and me gonna take the kids up to
Cumming for the rest of the week.”

“Mom, we haven’t talked about that.”

“We just did, right before he came.”

“I said I needed to talk to Charlie about
it.”

Evangeline was a cruel and powerful enemy,
and Charlie knew that victory over her was unlikely. Just being
around her was giving him a headache. Clearly, compromise was
called for. With his temples throbbing, he tried to do a
cost-benefit analysis. He didn’t want to leave his kids alone with
her, for fear they’d wind up sounding like hillbillies and filled
with Evangeline’s spitefulness, saying “
You got that right
,”
or “
Lord, look what the cat drug in
.”

But their visit to the land of varmints would
only last a few days. After that, what could Evangeline do, besides
hang around Gresham Elementary School every afternoon? If she did,
he could have her arrested for stalking. He had to admit that
Evangeline’s power grab would give him time to work on the book. He
cleared his throat. “So you take them tonight. I’ll come and get
them Wednesday afternoon.”

“No, we keep ’em all week. Susan can pick
Becky and Ben up Sunday. We’ll take ’em to church.”

Alarm bells sounded in his head.
Not the
First Church of Varmintville
! Evangeline’s Baptist congregation
was so primitive the preacher spent more time talking about hell
than heaven. Charlie refused to let Ben and Beck set foot in the
building. As an adult, Susan had become a Methodist. This tilt
toward godlessness still rankled her mother, whose faith placed
Catholics in hell, along with
those who did not accept Jesus as
their personal savior
—meaning Jews, Muslims, “them” in general,
and Charlie in particular.

Susan wore a pained expression. “Mom, I’m
going with Charlie on this.”