But how could he not have known? He had known there was a hunting lodge back here, one you couldn’t join until eighteen, but he’d given up hunting long before then. How had Denver and Candice known more about his town than he did? He cursed his idiocy. I didn’t know there was a militia.
Again, it ain’t a militia. It’s a hunting lodge and we’re a collective, like those co-ops out west. We never burned no crosses or lynched no one here in Braggsville proper, least not until you came along. Let me show you something. He led Daron back to the classroom, which was, he now understood, also a recruitment office. They played him a couple of videos, handling the VCR cassettes with two hands, like relics.
Watch this.
Images of wounded U.S. soldiers and natural disasters in America, and local citizens’ brigades providing support services.
Now this.
People, mostly men, training for military action and taking an oath in front of a flag. The voice-over:
From many different cultures, and every country of the earth. Forged by only one common bond: the Constitution. The greatest enemies: domestic. Every culture, every color, one country. We do solemnly swear to the best of our abilities, to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States of America.
That’s all we are, D’aron, citizens. Everybody knows that this nanny state can’t last. Everybody knows that and about the Bell Curve and Dr. Watson, but all we’re saying is be prepared. He handed Daron a photo album. In it were daguerreotypes and old photos of the town founders posing in front of the hunting lodge. Some of the photos, though, were death shots. He recognized Bragg and one of his sons and several town elders from the replicas in the funeral home foyer.
Now this one.
The next album was mostly in color, and he saw his parents staring back at him, his father posing in front of the lodge in a Confederate uniform, his mother at the Green Egg in the backyard. There were also photos of the local intramural playoffs, like the softball match between Lou Davis’s Cash-n-Carry and Howard’s Hide Park, the bitterest of rivals. He recalled seeing posted in local restaurants photos of youth league teams thanking the various businesses that provided support, and the hallway in the lodge was lined with them. In fact, now that he thought of it, he had seen the lodge mentioned in photos mounted elsewhere.
On each page of the album, a surprise or pleasant memory. There was Rheanne dressed as Lady Gaga. That was the Halloween he kissed Joyce Templeton on the neck. There was his first and last football game. The debate championship in Macon. The Belle Ball, where the adults get all gussied up. It was well past sundown by the time he finished the albums.
I’m glad you finally visited. Saves us the embarrassment. The postmaster looked outside. You don’t want to walk home now. Everybody knows that, even Methuselah. Besides, now that you have finally arrived, we can have our trial. The tribunal will meet tomorrow first thing, which at least one someone should be glad to hear.
Trial? I’m being—
—Whoa, boxer. Acts one-seven. It is not for you to know times or seasons that the Father has fixed by his own authority. Your arrival is not a coincidence. He has spoken. All your questions will be answered in the morning. The postmaster again looked outside. You sure don’t want to walk home now. But we’ve dressed a bed for you.
As was often the case for youth in the South, invitation meant instruction. Daron spent the night locked in a bedroom. At least it may as well have been locked. Where could he go at midnight in the middle of the Holler? It was a small room with no window and scarcely space enough for the tube-frame twin bed. The floors were bare wood, dark from years of wear, and the walls oak faded to ash. It could have been a backdrop for an Abercrombie & Fitch ad, if it weren’t for the propaganda. With no cell phone service, there was nothing to do but read. Brochures stacked neatly on the side table. A Gideon’s Bible camped out in the nightstand drawer with The Bell Curve. The code of conduct, posted on the back of the door, where the rack rates would be:
1. Good citizens make no contact with media unless first cleared.
2. Good citizens don’t proselytize or openly recruit.
3. Good citizens make no actions representing or claiming to represent the collective.
4. Good citizens do not behave in ways that could harm the collective’s public image.
5. Good citizens don’t practice foul language or behavior.
6. Good citizens practice gun safety at all times.
7. Good citizens replace what they eat.
He sat on the edge of the bed most of the night, in a fugue, feeling, when he felt anything, self-disgust. How could he not be scared or angry? Why did he feel empowered, like he had stumbled into the base of Mount Olympus and they’d thrown down a rope? He fell asleep pondering the postman’s final words.
What about the Gully? Daron had finally asked.
They got their own thing.
I thought this was for everyone.
Don’t be a waterlog, Little D, warned the postmaster, plucking a cookie crumb off his mustache. They get work, they don’t get hassled. Don’t make that turned-up face like a stranger pinched a biscuit in your toilet. Look at all we do for other countries when our own house isn’t in order. What if we rebuilt and gave jobs to the Fort Runner folks two towns over when people right here in Braggsville, like your father, need jobs? That wouldn’t be right, would it? If your father didn’t have a job right here in our community and someone over the county line did? Someone across the river? All these special interest groups. What if we didn’t look out for our own? Who would? Who will?
Chapter Thirty-5
In the morning, oatmeal. Alone. No cinnamon or sugar. From the kitchen, Daron heard laughter often abruptly interrupted by uncanny silence, and he was glad to have feigned belly mites, to have begged off attending the liturgy and the pancake breakfast that followed it. At sunup he was led out to the barn, where men congregated by age. Under the hayloft sat Oliver Williams, Mayor K. (the previous mayor), Robert Butch Buchanan, Jim Stark, Justin Stark, and other elders. Near them stood Mark Lance, Tony Foldercap, and others from his father’s generation. Nearest the door were Josh Turner, Kevin Dole, and several of Daron’s former classmates. At the back of the barn was a long table behind which were three empty chairs, and facing the table, with his back to the crowd, stood Jo-Jo. As he was positioned, Daron could not see his hand.
Jo-Jo was a hulk, always had been, man-sized since middle school, one of the few moons rugged enough to roll with the shines. Here now, all that was gone. With his hair tangled and dread-dirty, Reeboks caked with red clay, head dog down, Jo-Jo had vanished, and the man before him was someone Daron didn’t know. Certainly, though, everyone knew that back in high school, Jo-Jo hung like handcuffs with not only Jean, but also Trayvon, a lethal Gull linebacker known as the Brown Bruiser. (He was originally the Black Bruiser because the Gull team was known for a time as the Blackjacks—as in they would knock you the fuck out—but that wasn’t well received at away games.) Certainly everyone knew that Bruiser and Jo-Jo had been as tight, as Jo-Jo’s father liked to honk, as a Jew and his shekels. Certainly everyone knew that Jo-Jo escorted Jean’s sister to the Bruiser prom, where he’d danced shamelessly according to reports, and even posed for photos, like the generous celebrity he was for that night, an eminence apparently greater even than being first string on the football team. And certainly everyone knew that he’d lost his job over that, and more. Were they still punishing him for that? He surely would not have whipped Louis.
Lou Davis entered from the back door, dressed in forest BDUs with a red patch on his shoulder and a gavel in hand. He called the hearing to order with one outstretched arm. This collective—he stressed the word—goes back to Bragg hisself. When the Northerners came, we fought for our country. We sent men off to every conflict big and little the U.S. has been involved in. Already receiving training here, they done us proud. We’ve had Rangers, Green Berets, drill sergeants, Marine Force Recon officers, plus two you-know-whos do
ing you-know-what. We fended off the Indian invaders and the French trappers that ventured too far north—Or south!, someone yelled—we fought off the redcoats and the Spanish, and we are still fighting for our country—this U.S. of A.—at this moment, in Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Bosnia [AND PLACES WE CANNOT MENTION]. In this hearing, it is that history and honor that guides our bearing and purpose. He dropped his arm and gaveled three times. Three judges in white robes, white hoods with veils over the eyelets, and white gloves entered through the back door and were seated behind the long table. Under the dim light, they were a ghostly snowcapped range against an angry sky.
Lou read from a printout:
John-John Kelly VI, known familiarly as Jo-Jo, is hereby charged with violating the official code of conduct dated 1830, updated in 1863 and 1965, and also in 1912 and 1992, specifically Codes one-point-three, two, and ten-A, said codes respectively barring members from participating in outright violent behavior or even public pantomime of said behavior unless in self-defense, from publicly pronouncing racial epithets, or from undertaking any deed which could cast the collective in a bad light. You have also committed activities considered treasonous, including reckless endangerment, being loose of tongue, and possessing questionable moral dispositions. Like a railroad stake being driven to ground, Jo-Jo’s head ratcheted down a notch with every accusation. The audience groaned at the fall of that final hammer, groaned worse than when Jo-Jo fumbled in that game against Vickstown.
Have you seen the charges?
Jo-Jo nodded. Yes, sir.
How do you plead?
Guilty, sir. I submit to the mercy and wisdom of the tribunal.
And you waive your right to meet with a senior member to discuss your plea and statement?
Yes, sir.
Lou turned to the tribunal, who conferred for a moment before flashing a hand signal. Daron had identified three so far: palm out for Stop, palm on table for Proceed, and straight hand waving, palm to the side, for Repeat. They also wrote notes, which they shared with each other.
Lou turned back to Jo-Jo. Your plea is accepted. Before sentence is delivered, you have the right to make a statement. Would you like to make a statement?
Yes, sir. Jo-Jo swallowed loudly.
Lou nodded.
Well, sir, and Your Honors, sirs. On the question of the morning, when we reached the rise up there at Old Man Donner’s—
—Old Man Donner is not being reviewed.
Yes, sir. I—
Lou held up a hand motioning for Jo-Jo to stop. Several people turned their attention to the corner of the room, where, of all things, Lee Anne was fiddling with a small green machine that resembled a miniature cash register. When she finished inserting a new roll of paper, and began typing again, Lou nodded to Jo-Jo.
Yes, sir. Well, sir, when we reached the rise, I seen the man hanging there, like did Captain Williams, who pointed first that—
—Captain Williams is not being reviewed.
Daron was reminded of middle school English. Jo-Jo was always cut off there, too. By high school he’d stopped trying, picked the pigskin over paperwork, which now made sense to Daron, though at the time he’d thought Jo-Jo just needed to try harder.
Yes, sir. I seen the man hanging there and I thought it was a joke because I knew D’aron was back in town and—
—D’aron who?
D’aron Davenport. So, I thought it was him doing—
—Why would you think that?
—He had that wig, and we’d dressed like that in middle school. And like the Jackson Five for senior prom. He paused, waiting to see if that explanation was sufficient.
Lou nodded for him to continue.
I didn’t mean it. It all seemed in fun. I thought it was part of the show. He’s got the makeup on and all. I even thought maybe it was a test of some sort. His girl was there. She was the one holding the whip. Candy.
Miss Chelsea is not being reviewed.
Daron almost couldn’t stand under the weight of shame. Candice had never stopped insisting that the man with the tattoo had delight in his eyes. He should have corrected Jo-Jo when he’d asked about the juniors and all. And if only Candice wasn’t always so fucking zealous, getting as toothsome, hot, and gorged over her playacting as a fly locked in an outhouse.
Jo-Jo continued. And Cand— his girl was standing right there, saying, How do you like this? How do you like this? How do you like this? Almost like I was supposed to be angry, like we’d finally caught him. Now to mention it, I think she said, We finally caught him. Then she handed me the whip and I just cracked it in the air. I was only playing and didn’t try to hit him, of course, but I think it might have grazed him, or I thought so ’cause he got to fidgeting and jerking and kicking his legs about, but he wasn’t saying nothing or reaching for his throat. It was only later I learned that his hands was tied behind his back. Poor fella. Jo-Jo’s heavy shoulders heaved once. Little guy didn’t have a chance. I had done swung it only once a few times, but this other guy he looked real close, must’ve knew right away that it was that Chinese fellow; he went to town, lashing and lashing—
—Some other guy is not being reviewed.
Yes, sir. Jo-Jo cleared his throat. So, I took the whip voluntarily, yes, sir, yes, sir, I did, just planning to give D’aron a scare and get in on the joke, but then I saw it wasn’t him. I thought, I’ll be damned if it’s not a Mongoloid-looking fella. Then I knew it was a joke. I just cracked the whip once or twice, but we was just having some fun, for Methuselah’s sake. That’s my statement.
The judges handed a piece of paper to Lou, who read it aloud. So, you didn’t strike the man with the whip?
Well, no, sir. Of course not. I thought it was D’aron at first.
Daron’s stomach spiked again.
You did not whip the man.
No, sir.
Anything else?
No, sir.
Louis would have called them sexy Afghanis. But when they huddled, the judges looked like Mount Rushmore, except Daron knew that underneath the white they were Gray. They must have already made up their minds because they consulted each other and a notebook for less than a minute before motioning to Lou, who motioned Jo-Jo over. You may step to the bench. Go ahead, son. Go on.
Jo-Jo approached the table for the sentence, which was delivered in a whisper. Jo-Jo looked back at Daron once and nodded yes, and looked back at him again and nodded again. Jo-Jo was led away. Daron was called to the front, where he stood before the jurors. There were gasps as he passed. There were also more than a few cross tattoos.
They couldn’t get away with this, thought Daron. The compound. The trial. Mount Rushmore. A constitution. A stenographer. A stenographer? Fuck! They weren’t getting away with jack rabbit shit. They’d already done it. He recalled again the lesson on Nagasaki, how the swimmer surfaced to find a harsh new world. Did he hold his breath to the last minute, as Daron did? Did he relent because he had to know? Were his doubtless brief remaining years irrevocably corroded by the ironic end of that now eternal kicking to the surface, the unexpected outcome of pedaling liquid in his ascent back to life? Did he even recognize his friends’ shadows? Or were they warped, autonomous silhouettes? Can a shadow be ill-fitting? What does it mean when the shadow does not suit the man? Does the man change? Or does the shadow?
You won’t get away with this. Even as he said this, though, Daron feared that he was wrong, that maybe the collective had, and were, getting away with nothing, that maybe Postmaster was right. This was simply what had been, what was, what would be. Forever. You won’t get away with this, he repeated weakly.
Mocking falsettos echoed. Someone yelled, Cut! Take one. That’s a wrap. Say it with gumption next time, son.
My father knows where I am!
Of course he does, young Davenport, of course he does, crooned Lou. We’re sovereign, you see. You tell the officer who gives you the speeding ticket, You won’t get away with it? He tells you to tell it to the judge. It’s the s
ame thing here. You can plead your own case before the tribunal. We can provide you a counselor to familiarize you with the process and the bylaws, and even sit beside you at the hearing, but you got to plead on your own—his voice dropped to a whisper—believe me, son, it’s best you plead on your own.
My father knows where I am, Daron whispered.
Of course he does, son, of course he does. Lou draped a warm, paternal arm around him, his rough hand hanging over Daron’s shoulder, his scabbed knobbly knuckles reminding Daron of the fox stole eyeing him at Hartsfield Airport in Atlanta.
I’m not guilty of anything.
You got to plead on your own, young Davenport.
I’m not guilty of anything. He muttered, unable to rouse conviction, chilled as he was after Lou again called him young Davenport, as had Otis. Chilled because he liked it, and knew he shouldn’t. And once again, that cold feeling—so cold as to feel wet—at the thought, new to him, that Lou was right: Of course he was, son, of course he was.
Lou patted Daron on the back and turned to face the audience. You, young man, are guilty of just about everything. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you set out with a plan to destroy our fine little town here. But we’re assuming you were more foolish than anything else, and led astray by all those leftists. Do you want to make a statement? Do you want a senior member to guide you?
I didn’t do nothing wrong but not be there for my friend.
That you’ll have to reckon with your maker. I take it you don’t have a statement and won’t enter a plea, so we will proceed. D’aron Little May Davenport is charged with treason, moral turpitude, and egregious actions against the state.
I’m not a member of this militia. Daron’s voice splintered. You can’t try me.
He could see Jo-Jo though a crack in the door, his head hanging low, his fingers playing his thighs, pacing back and forth and forth, more agitated with each passing, the smoke trailing behind him from a cigarette he looked to have forgotten as it hung from his split lips.
Welcome to Braggsville Page 29