You appear rightly scared, and contrite, so we accept Jo-Jo’s bargain. Your sentence is twofold. You are banished from the Holler and the town, allowed back only for holidays and funerals.
A hand motion from Mount Rushmore. A quick conference.
Okay. So you can come back for weddings. We’re not stalling.
Another whispered conference with Rushmore.
Okay. We’re not Stalinists, so weddings are in. You are also to deliver Jo-Jo’s punishment. This is his wish.
It was only seven A.M. Daron was reminded of an old joke. How did it go? We do more before eight A.M. than most people do all day. That was true at the lodge. At Berzerkeley, at this hour, he’d usually be sleeping. Sometimes he would get up early for the pleasure of being among the first in the dining hall, when the breakfast bar is fresh and steaming and really does look like the photos. Then, return to the dorm and sleep for a few more hours. Here, he had already eaten oatmeal, witnessed a trial, been tried himself, and now stood behind the barn, watching two yellow rails play tag, all bright bulging buff breasts in the brush, dark wings spotted white in flight. A tree not far away had been felled by lightning, and from the stump new shoots pushed skyward, and under its crumbling trunk, tiered shrooms sprouted from wicked moss. He examined the grounds, wondering who cut the grass, recited the Greek alphabet, and visualized the periodic chart, anything to take his mind off Jo-Jo, who was at that moment being lashed to a pole centered in a ten-foot dirt circle bordered by blue painted rocks, Jo-Jo who was calling to him, Be quick now, when it starts, just be quick.
I can’t do it, whispered Daron.
You gotta. Think about it, D. The poor fella was all made up in blackface and that wig and I thought it was you up there. It wasn’t until he was kicking and choking and sweating off the makeup. It was too late by then. I could tell he was Mongoloid Chinese or had that syndrome or something. But it was your girl. And it was your wig.
That was middle school. And just one night in high school.
And? And? Jo-Jo’s speech was swallowed by sobbing.
No, you don’t, warned Lou, pointing.
Daron had moved closer to Jo-Jo while talking. Two men-at-arms repositioned him a few paces farther away, the distance stepped out by Lou.
The bailiff read the decree. According to statute, for his behavior during the Patriot Days Festival, John-John could be stripped of his rank, but in lieu of that he elects hereby to receive twenty yards of leather, or twenty lashes. This sentence of flogging was unanimously rendered by the tribunal and unopposed by the brethren. Said flagellation is to be delivered by one D’aron Little May Davenport, who delivers said lashes as part of his punishment, said sentence which includes conditional banishment.
Flagellation, Candice liked to say. Oh, yes she did.
Someone pressed the whip into Daron’s hand. The handle was heavy braided leather, eight feet later the tip tapering into little more than a shoestring. All it needed was an aglet, he mused, to make me believe we can tie this all together. I won’t do it. Daron dropped the whip. It coiled at his feet like a dead snake—dead, but daring him to tread on it nonetheless, like the T-shirt popular with soldiers, like the motto on the first U.S. Navy maritime flag. The hashtags mashed. #ZombieDickSlap and #BraggsvilleDickSlap at last came together.
You gotta do it, D, you got to. It’s twenty from you or fifty from them, Jo-Jo whispered. And my rank.
Someone pressed the whip back into his palm, closing his hand around Daron’s. That someone stood close behind, close quartered, close as he’d once wished Kaya would, and then Candice. That someone said, You gotta own this one. That someone said, I ain’t much for philosophy, especially other men’s, but as the Boss said once, You got to learn to live with what you can’t rise above. That someone sounded so much like Quint, so much that Daron couldn’t turn around.
Shaking, he delivered the first lash.
The bailiff walked out to John-John, poked at his back. Not even so much as a welt. Try again.
Harder, yelled John-John, harder goddammit, D, harder please.
The next one cuts. Jo-Jo, shaking and shivering, says, I’m okay. Candice had said, Delight in his eyes. Daron imagined John-John Kelly whipping Louis—Lenny Bruce Lee, swinging harder each time, the whip unfurling like an extension of his arm, starting the strikes at the wrist, but soon swinging from the shoulder, then the hips, leaning into each blow like Michael Jackson in Smooth Criminal, his self-reproach diminishing by the yard, every lick a neat slice, the skin parting like broad petals. By the ninth, John-John Kelly passed out, his back torn like an old sail, the waist of his stonewashed jeans pink with sweat and blood, one sneaker, the clay kicked clean, upside down a few yards away, in the shadow of that stump. Candice said he had delight in his eyes. Daron felt the nettling in his chest that had plagued him on the drive from the morgue finally begin to unwind.
The bailiff nodded and two men wheeled out a cart bearing a coffin with iron bars in place of the hinge lips. The satin bedding was ripped out and replaced with slimy river rocks and black snakes. The men-at-arms lifted Pvt. John-John Kelly VI’s limp figure, and sympathy and repulsion assailed Daron in equal measure as he watched Pvt. Kelly’s body droop, and he saw the hand with the cross tattoo dangle, and he saw Pvt. Kelly’s head loll like Christ carried down from the cross, and he heard the liquid sloshing in Pvt. Kelly’s stomach as they tossed him into the coffin and locked a metal gate across the top. About five minutes later, muffled screams could be heard from everywhere, it seemed. Daron heard them even from the gate, when he was being driven back into town, the gray, aged wood of the hunting lodge fading in the side mirror to his right, his cousin whistling in the seat to his left.
Flagellation, Candice loved to say. Oh, yes she did. Flagellation. It sounds so much like sexiness.
FOR LUNCH, HIS FAVORITE: meatloaf with sweet onions, jalapeños, and extra ketchup, and his mother even remembered to fry apples on the side. Kissing him on the head every time she passed his chair was only the beginning. For dinner, Out! Out? Out! Hell yeah! Outside the house? Outside the backyard, even. An early dinner, when it’s still broad, bright, cave-man naked daylight?
And why not? his father asked. Not even those second-string Katy-catch-ups are across from City Hall anymore, and there’s an antijournalism barricade up the way.
Daron hadn’t noticed.
At the end of their street, Sheriff had now stationed a deputy, who waved them through, giving Daron, he could have sworn, a conspiratorial nod. Didn’t he? On the ride through town, Young Tanner, David First, Greg Keen, Ellen Ray. All at their windows or porches, all waving for a parade. His father drove at a leisurely clip, in no rush tonight, no longer on graveyards.
At Lou’s they were greeted with smiles. Rheanne gave him a little wink, and there was even extra whipped cream on his pie that he didn’t ask for. After dinner his father pushed back from the table and rubbed his stomach, drawing his middle finger in a circle around his belly button. His mom burped once, demurely. Excuse me, she giggled.
I told you about being flirtatious in public. His dad winked.
His mother placed one hand on his father’s forearm. With the other, she tightly clasped Daron’s fingers. Eyes watering, she said, My men, my men. My little piggies. What would I do without you?
I wonder that myself, agreed his father.
She sniffed and sank a foot deeper into her sentimental abyss.
No. I mean that’s a good question. What would you do without me? asked his father.
I don’t know, but I know what you won’t do with me. She reached across the table and took his father’s cake. I shouldn’t have let you order this. No one over twenty needs a second dessert.
When his father objected, she explained, You’ll thank me for this one day.
That was what Quint had said on the way home. Those were in fact the only words they had exchanged, or ever would again.
Chapter Next
Agent Denver had warned them
that it wasn’t over, though they tried to live otherwise. It was twelve months after Louis’s death and the Incident at Braggsville. D’aron had transferred to Loyola University of New Orleans to be with Candice, and both were on track to graduate with honors. Charlie was living at home, attending Northwestern. The Incident at Braggsville had been too much for his mother to bear, though she did let him travel (by train only) to Nola to visit his friends (for a weekend only). The occasional laugh sounded, but when the 3 Little Indians bid adieu at the station Sunday night, tears couldn’t mask their relief. Charlie promised, via text, to be back, He!!a soon!!! All three agreed that would be, S+upendous!!! Daron was therefore shocked when, some thin months later, Candice skipped in clapping and singing about Charlie spring breaking in Nola.
Since that visit, Daron had entertained very few thoughts of Charlie. Fewer than few, he had to admit, turning his mind over and finding himself to have been agitated by only one query. Idée fixe. This constancy of theme was of no solace. No, not at all, not when it traveled brothers-in-arms with a rabid and merciless frequency, tugging at his hems, cuffs, collars like a child with a limited vocabulary who will have his chocolate bar or, oxygen be damned, return to the womb. (That’s crazy, D!) Likewise, erudition be damned, so D’aron’s mind assaulted him with this artless inquiry. And explanation be damned, he ignored the incessant reiterations, attributing them to—horror!!—ego!!. ego!!? [And that horror paled, appalled as it was by guilt of C/catholic—yes, both majuscule and minuscule—guilt of C/catholic dimensions (with apologies to Louis ten-times-hella-ten-times over. For we were to shed Freud like diapers, were we not? For we were to transcend the institution’s attendant psychic impositions, were we not? For we were to walk upright, were we not? Or we were to be slapped straight up in the dick with this hefty textbook, to, Give us something to motherfucking crouch about!) LeggoMyego!!, No!!, EgoLeggoMe!!, LeggoMe!!, dammit!]
Certainly, it was ego!!, which, like yet another awful waffle, was mostly empty space inexplicably generously outfitted with fluffy deep pockets for your favorite toppings—misinterpretations and defense mechanisms and neuroses, inherited and congenital. In his case, Daron mused, a double dose of contradiction. For how else could D’aron come to ask Daron if Charlie ever had a crush on him? How else could he have come to house such anguish and alarm when imagining Charlie laughing at that inquiry? And what if he said no? Would D’aron be relieved or offended? When Maylene’s boyfriend had claimed that Charlie was a three-way-caller, Daron had dismissed said claim, said implications, said sentence as neatly as . . . as . . . as Lou enacting his role as sergeant-at-arms. Oh, no, he’d said to himself, Charlie’s sexuality is NOT BEING REVIEWED. When Charlie had admitted it himself, Daron still hadn’t believed it. Oh, no, he’d said to himself, A surreptitious-smooch-shared-amid-middle-schoolers-at-summer-camp-in-a-split-second-of-adolescent-uncertainty-to-alleviate-a-hormonal-headache-exacerbated-exotic-by-de-facto-segregation was NOT FUCKING BEING REVIEWED! Not to mention that (don’t worry, he won’t) D’aron had once touched his own cinnamon bun—as Nana called it—while shooting his goobers to the moon—as Nana called it; Daron had admitted, sober, that Bruno Mars was an aw-ite-looking fellow; Daron had taken an interest in matching clothes; and knew none of that made him a three-penny nickel. Despite this, Daron watched in amazement as D’aron reminded Candice that it wasn’t spring break for everyone, and that he was carrying an exceptionally ambitious course load in anticipation of early graduation, and that they’d promised themselves a romantic weekend in Gulfport, Mississippi (We’re open for business and geared for a good time!). Finally, he prepared the doomsday device: Our spring breaks don’t end well! Fortunately, before tearing into the launch codes for that one, the spirit of curiosity possessed him because Candice added, And guess what? He’s bringing his new boyfriend!
As Charlie’s arrival neared, regret plagued Daron. Charlie and his beau—D’aron preferred beau over boyfriend—would sleep in the living room, making D’aron a detainee, and indeed the first night of Charlie’s visit D’aron remained trapped in the bedroom, a political prisoner in his own home, thirsty and anxious to piss, mourning the wee-wee hours of the morning but afraid to walk in on, as Maylene’s boyfriend described a scene in vo-tech, Two wet bears in a wrestling match.
Surprisingly, though, he mostly liked Frederick. The only thing gay about him—and it took Daron far more than a gander to gather even this—was that he smelled nice, as D’aron imagined French cologne would smell. (Don’t worry. Candice lectured him about that.) Frederick was half-Tunisian, half-Vietnamese, wore a Bruno Mars pompadour, and donned a blazer daily. His open face and wide-set cow eyes provoked and projected sympathy. Freddie— that’s I and E, please—as he liked to be called, was slimmer than Charlie, but also graced with enviable athletic definition. That’s not why Daron liked him, though. Frederick’s parents had guessed his sexuality when he was young (The now legendary King Holiday fifth-grade dress-up day fiasco, was all he would say), and enrolled him immediately in karate classes, Not to change you, to protect you, and he’d gone on to earn a black belt. That’s not why D’aron didn’t like him, though. He had an intense stare, more intense than Louis’s had been, and he played cards, drank everything that could be poured, complained the moment too much air invaded his glass, cursed, and talked about growing up in a rough Bronx neighborhood where fathering a kid in high school was a badge of honor and where men tossed about Faggot! like confetti (some, he added, more like dollars to fire up skank strippers), where he had to fight every day, and did so successfully and not entirely regretfully. By the time he was fifteen, his roundhouse kick kept the teasing to side talk, and those who didn’t know him would back off once he quietly issued the standard warning: Your sorry tail is about to slither home and confess that RuPaul kicked your ass. That’s not why Daron liked him, though.
Why was Charlie with a mixed guy instead of a black dude; who was the man in the relationship? He could draw no conclusions based on observation. They shared duties as he and Candice did, still Daron found it hard to picture himself one-half of a two-pants partnership. Quelle différence?
Charlie sat the same, erect, but an air of relaxation had settled over him. He ran each morning at a pace that accommodated Candice and Frederick, and his legs no longer bounced as he laced his shoes, and when waiting for his nuked burritos, he didn’t pace. A few days into his visit, they ran out of vodka (okay, really it was day two, more specifically the first morning—but it was Nola, prudence be damned) and Candice dragged Frederick along to the store to buy more, leaving Charlie and Daron alone. On Charlie’s first visit, whenever Candice had announced an errand, Daron offered to go, or suggested that all three travel together and treat it like a tourist excursion, which was not hard: even making groceries was an adventure in Nola. Candice had always relented. This time, though—Operation Vodka—she and Frederick tweeted their departure from the parking lot, leaving Daron flush with sympathy for his mom, who threw a fit blacker than a striped hat if she received an electronic message from anyone within shouting range: No texting in shouting distance. Birds are real! Tweets are real! Twitters are not! had echoed through the house often enough that he couldn’t be angry at Candice, even though he suspected she’d planned it.
Nice apartment. Charlie looked around.
Thanks. That was nice of him, because it wasn’t all that great an apartment, another tenement in the undergrad ghetto, Daron first thought. Actually, that’s weird, Daron second thought. Is this what they would do now? Should he compliment Charlie’s new skids—custom double-tongue Converse with a black cap—or would that be a snide swipe, a cat slap?
I like that you have a picture of Louis up. I do, too. Freddie was jealous. Jay-lous! He laughed. Do you love Candice?
Uh . . . I don’t know. I think so, but I don’t know. The sporadic insomnia he’d suffered following the visit to the morgue, which worsened something awful after the inquest and went downright feral after the trial, had abated sinc
e they’d moved in together, but he didn’t know if that meant they were in full-on love finer than frog’s hair. Do you love Freddie?
I think so, shifting in his seat, letting his hand flop over his knee like a rag.
They compared notes, for the hundred-and-seventh time, on the differences between their new schools and Berzerkeley. They were loath to admit as much, but the latter won out. Diversity, weather, alien technology: chillation nation. All the while, Daron found himself studying Charlie. Had his carriage, his facial expressions changed? As D’aron watched, Daron was aware of the observer’s paradox. Daron was aware that Charlie might be monitoring his behavior because he was aware that D’aron was watching him. Daron was aware that he might see only what he was looking for. To top that pyramid of gothic cheerleaders, D’aron was hyperaware that, as Maylene’s boyfriend did say, Those theories and shit can zap your bug, scramble your egg real bad, make it hard for you to connect to people.
They reminisced about Louis. Charlie had assured Daron that his mother did not hate Daron. Daron had assured Charlie that his mom did not hate Charlie. Neither could assure the other of anything regarding the Changs. In the twelve months since Louis’s death, he and Candice had mentioned Louis only seldom, but for the first few days of this trip, talking about the absent was easier than talking about the present. At least for Daron.
Again, he was curious. When the skin of masculinity was shed, as one professor put it, the psychic constrictor evaded, as another professor put it, the full humanity of all beings embraced, as another professor put it, what was left but equality? Daron had cracked his walnut on that idea. He knew it meant that somewhere out there existed a freestanding entity, an island called Equality that was obscured by a fog of prejudice that was slowly burning off, being licked clean by light, being evaporated—as it were—by the rising sun of enlightenment and social justice, as one professor put it. As Daron thought of it, though, it was as if someone cut an East Coast massive fart, and until it cleared no one could smell the roses. Or, maybe it was like eating a hamburger in a bus station bathroom. By his reckoning, if there was that much damn fog, how did anyone know that the fog wasn’t real and that the island wasn’t an illusion, that the fog wouldn’t burn off to reveal yet more fog? (No one liked Mondays!)
Welcome to Braggsville Page 30