Ravens

by George Dawes Green

“There’s a press conference in the morning. Eleven o’clock, at the Plantation House Inn. That pimped-out sleazy dump on Gloucester? You know the one I’m talking about? Right off 17?”

  “Wait. A press conference?”

  Shaw could hear his fear. “Uh-huh. You win the jackpot, you have to do a press conference.”

  “With cameras and shit? And you’re going?”

  “Of course. Why not?”

  “Why not?” Romeo sounded stunned.

  Shaw softened his voice, brought it down close to a purr, and said, “It’ll be good for us.” That was how you had to talk to Romeo. You had to cosset and coddle him, and tell him you understood his fearfulness, and never let him see how much it pissed you off. “This is the way we’ve got to do this, Romeo. Everything out in the open. No secrets, no skulking around. You know?”

  “I think it’s insane,” said Romeo. “Who’s going?”

  “Everybody.”

  “The whole family?”

  “So I’m told.”

  “Cousin Alfred? Vanessa and Henry?”

  “I guess.”

  “Shelby and Miriam and the kids?”

  “So I’m told.”

  “What about their friends? They’re coming too?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then who’ve I got?” said Romeo. “If everybody’s at that press conference and the place is filled with pork, I can’t touch any of ’em. Who’s our hostage? Who’ve I got?”

  “You’ve got Nell. Nell doesn’t care for crowds, so she won’t be coming.”

  “Just Nell?”

  “That’s all we need.”

  “Shaw, they’ll fuck us!” Sounding panicky.

  “No they won’t,” Shaw murmured. “We’re fine. The Boatwrights are fine. They’re making their adjustments. They don’t want trouble, Romeo. And I’ve got a little surprise planned for this event which’ll be beautiful. You need to trust me on this one.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Just keep close to Nell. And don’t worry so much. Have some faith.”

  SATURDAY

  Romeo, early in the morning, went to Trudy’s Café and got himself a fried-egg sandwich.

  The place was brimful of pork. One big booth against the wall was nothing but bacon. Even that paunchy old cop was here — the one who had confronted him yesterday about the burial. Looking kind of hangdog though. Sitting there all by himself, while the cops at the big booth were joking and laughing with each other. Romeo thought of going over and joining the poor guy, but didn’t. Talk to a cop? Shaw would have a fit.

  Instead he got his egg sandwich to go and drove to Nell’s house. He parked a hundred yards down Egmont Street, tilted his seat back, and tuned to WICK 103.9. Hoping for news of the upcoming press conference. What he got was a steady stream of treacle: “Ebony and Ivory.” “You Light Up My Life.” “Sometimes when we touch, the honesty’s too much.” And the egg sandwich was just as greasy and unpalatable as the music: he ate three bites and put it aside.

  Thinking, if I start driving now, I could be five hundred miles from this town before dark.

  Back in Piqua before morning. Mom’ll make me breakfast. Eggs and hash browns. No more scum-colored grits for as long as I live. Call Carla, tell her I’m really sorry for what I said, how would she like to spend the weekend at Lake Loramie? Borrow Burchie’s cabin. We’re pretending it’s Trinidad and dancing calypso by the lake, under the moon which is so fat it looks pregnant. Carla, laughing at my two left feet. God, look at that moon!

  Then he opened his eyes. He’d fallen asleep — and when he looked up he saw that Nell was right out there on the street, getting into her car. She was dressed in a pantsuit and wore earrings, and Romeo knew, instantly, that she was going to the press conference. From the chambers of his heart, terror came shooting up. I knew it. I could have told you. I did tell you, Shaw. They’re gonna fuck us.

  Shaw was so excited he felt light in the head. Riding to the press conference, he wore his faded brown corduroy jacket — the only one he owned — and a tie he’d borrowed from Mitch. He had the .32 tucked into the thunderbelt behind his back. Prepared for whatever comes. This is the way to live, he thought. Been trying to live some other way, but this is the only way: everything into the fire. He was in the passenger seat of the Boatwrights’ SUV — a battered ’02 Jeep Liberty — and Tara was driving, and the others were in the back. Tara’s expression was grim but determined. Shaw was sure she’d be all right. And she’d lead the others through as well. We’re all going to soldier through this.

  But then his phone buzzed, and when he answered Romeo barked at him, “Nell’s going to your press conference!”

  “What?”

  “She’s heading there now!”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She’s all dressed up and she’s in her car. Where else would she be going?”

  “Hold on,” said Shaw, and he looked to Mitch. “You said Nell wasn’t coming.”

  Mitch said, “I thought she wasn’t. She changes her mind a lot.”

  Shaw told Romeo, “Mitch says she changes her mind.”

  “She changes her mind? Shaw, if she’s at the press conference I can’t touch her! I can’t touch anyone! They can fuck us at will!”

  “OK. Try to calm down.”

  “This is a mutiny! They’re gonna kill us!”

  “I really can’t talk now. I’m in the car.”

  “We’re dead!”

  “We’re fine, Romeo. Let me go.”

  He snapped his phone shut just as they pulled into the parking lot of the Plantation House Inn. A Georgia Lottery guy, Mr. Creave, eyes as small as jumping-beans, greeted them and briskly escorted them through the swarm of reporters and into the hotel by way of a side entrance. Took them to a kind of greenroom. Tara and Patsy were installed in aluminum folding chairs, where a couple of local beauticians applied their makeup. Jase sat in a corner and cut down the enemy hordes. Creave kept chattering away. “The Announcement will take place in the Vince Dooley Room! The local Savannah TV station is covering us live, and so is Jax, and there’ll be feeds for CNN and Fox! This one’s going around the world, folks! So it’s not just the biggest day of your lives — it’s the biggest thing ever to happen to this city! Since Brunswick stew!”

  Nobody answered him.

  Shaw was trying to think: could Romeo be right about the Boatwrights? No sign of them plotting — no whispering, no meaningful glances between them. They all just looked exhausted. And they knew he had a gun. They knew if they tried anything, they were all going down: they knew that. They weren’t insane.

  But when he looked at Mitch, and saw his fat lip hanging sullenly, he thought, well, maybe a little insane.

  He took Mitch off to a corner of the room, straightened his tie for him. “Everything all right?”

  “Oh sure.”

  Creave called out, “Five minutes! How we doing? Five minutes! Lives are going to change!”

  Tara led her mother to the bathroom, and Shaw let them go. I have to, he thought. I believe in this family now. He whispered to Mitch, “All right, my friend, when did you save me?”

  “March of ’03.”

  “And where were we at the time?”

  “Greenville, South Carolina.”

  “And what were you doing the night we met?”

  “Working the crisis line at the church.”

  “What was I doing?”

  “Passing through.”

  “All right.”

  But Mitch kept staring straight ahead, at nothing. Stupid man, thought Shaw. I’m putting my fate into the hands of an idiot. “Look elated, Mitch. Don’t look glum.”

  “OK.”

  “Everyone’s well-being depends on you looking elated.”

  Tara went to the Ladies with Mom, and there she pulled a Diet Coke bottle from her handbag, and said quietly, “Gin. Take a sip.”

  Mom waved her off. “Oh pumpkin, that’s sweet of you, but you know I n
ever drink at this hour.”

  Tara shut her eyes. Just drink it. Don’t pose now. We don’t have time.

  She said, “Mom. Gotta make sure you’re relaxed up there. You can’t seem frightened or nervous or worried at all.”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine.”

  “Take a sip.”

  Mom looked off to one side. Then gave a little one-shoulder shrug, and brought the bottle to her lips and neatly polished off a shot and a half. Afterward she drew her chin back the way she always did after her first drink of the day, that smug-turtle look. She resisted a little when Tara took the bottle back. But Tara said firmly, as she led her back out into the storm, “Just keep thinking of how rich we’re gonna be, Mom. Rich. Really rich. That’s all you have to think about.”

  Burris and a couple of other cops were turning cars away at the entrance, trying to keep control of the chaos. But people kept pulling rank. The mayor arrived with a limo full of councilmen. Some bloated bullying congressman showed up; then some guy who said he was the Secretary of State for the State of Georgia — whatever that meant. A crush of praying-mantis satellite trucks. Burris was in too black a mood to contend with any of them. He hung back and let the young cops take charge. Truth was, he didn’t give a damn who got to park and who didn’t — why should he?

  The hotel manager came out and scolded: “There’s no more room! Make ’em park on Bartow!” Came out again and said, “Make ’em park on G Street!” Came out two minutes later and said, “Make ’em park on Goodyear!” In opposition to him was this Lottery guy who kept wailing, “That’s the congressman! Let the congressman in!” Or, “That’s WICK 103.9! Let WICK 103.9 in!” Or, “That’s the president of the Sea Island Company! For God’s sake! Let him come in!”

  Burris didn’t give a rat’s ass about any of it. Horns, curses, bedlam — none of it touched him. He was just trying to stay out of everybody’s way.

  In the midst of all this, Nell appeared.

  In her old white Cadillac. She was out on Gloucester Street, wanting to turn into the lot. One of the young cops tried to shoo her away.

  But then Burris stepped up. “It’s OK! Nell! Come on through.”

  The young cop was miffed at the interference. He started to bitch but Burris cut him off: “I said let her in.”

  Nell heard this. She laughed, and called, “That’s the way I like to be treated!”

  Burris told her, “You can park by the front entrance over there. You see where my cruiser is? Park right there.”

  She said, “Thank you, Burris. I love you, darlin’.”

  She said it skimmingly and carelessly, but still.

  Burris knew that Nell wasn’t beautiful, nor had she ever been. She had the haircut of a schoolboy playing hooky, and the shoulders of a stevedore. But her laugh was so musical it could melt iron; in fact long ago it had melted the chains that bound him to the codes of propriety and proportion. He didn’t give a shit about the young cop who was now glaring at him. He didn’t care about the Lottery guy complaining, “There’s no room! You can’t let just anybody in here.” He didn’t try to explain himself. He didn’t say, “That’s the mother of the winner,” or anything like that. He just stood there gazing moonily after Nell as she pulled into the special place he’d saved for her.

  Romeo was in the Tercel right behind Nell. He’d followed her here to the inn, and watched her pull in. They wouldn’t let him in of course, so he drove to the next street and made a right, and went one block to G Street and found parking at a dentist’s office. He leaped out of the car and started running toward the hotel. The air was so damp he felt he was kicking through water, and by the time he reached the rear of the hotel he was wiped out. There was a hurricane fence covered in morning glory. He jumped up and gripped the wire and pulled himself to the top. On his way over, he scraped a pair of parallel gouges into his wrist, but he felt this only distantly. He dropped and rolled, and as he rose he was already into a sprint again.

  Around the swimming pool. Trying doors one after another till he found an open one. It led to a laundry room. Old woman roosting amid dunes of unwashed sheets. She squinted up at him. “I’m lost,” he said. “You know where they’re having the press conference?”

  She kept squinting. Clearly she didn’t understand a word.

  He said, “Jackpot?”

  That worked. She led him to a narrow hallway and pointed out a door. As he approached, he heard a clamor beyond. He opened the door and found himself in a big conference room full of people. He was near the front, by the stage. No one cared about his entrance — there was too much going on. Lights ablaze, cameras whirring. On the stage was a microphone stand and two outsized checks, one made out to The Boat wright Family, one to Mr. Shaw McBride. The amount on each of them, written in folksy slapdash cursive, was One Hundred and Fifty-Nine Million Dollars.

  Romeo scanned the faces of the audience. Who was here? They all were. Old cousin Alfred, looking distinguished. Patsy’s brother Shelby and his wife Miriam. Vanessa and Henry. And up front was Nell — ensconced in her folding chair as though upon a throne. Romeo saw a small patch of standing room by the wall near her, and he went and claimed it.

  Nell was the star here. Everyone wanted to be close to her. Folks kept coming up to pay their respects, and she’d smile and call out, “Well, hel-lo!” or, “Hello, ba-by!” or “Drew Wilson, I been looking for you!” She kept reaching to touch their hands. Once, when she noticed a camera aimed her way, she posed and batted her eyes, and said, “I’m ready for my close-up now, Mr. DeMille.”

  Someone asked, “Nell, how come you’re not up on that stage?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I guess they’re trying to cut poor Grandma out of the deal. Ungrateful wretches!”

  She turned to a nearby matron. “Anita, you got kids?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’d advise against it,” she said, and cackled. She had no worries, no baggage. If there was an insurrection brewing, she wasn’t in on it.

  Suddenly the room erupted into applause. The Boatwrights were marching onto the stage from the wings. The kid first, then Tara and Patsy and Mitch. Lastly here came Shaw with a great sunny grin on his face.

  Tara looked down at the crowd. Everyone was cheering — even the TV crews, even the policemen and the reporters: all whistling and woof-woofing shamelessly, and melting before the radiance of her family’s good fortune.

  Then Mr. Creave stepped up to the lectern, settled the audience, and introduced some congressman, who gave a long dull speech about American values and reward for hard work. Nell, up near the front, said aloud to a friend, “Work? What is he talking about?” That got a big laugh. The congressman chuckled as though he were truly amused — then went right back to his thudding bromides. Tara stole a glance at her mom. She seemed all right now. The drink had done her a world of good. Her eyes were glossy, bright; she was lapping up the attention. She’ll keep, Tara thought, for an hour or so — long enough to get us out of here. And Jase was afloat in his usual dream world but so what? — so long as he keeps his mouth shut.

  But then Tara turned to her right and saw Dad’s little clenched smile. That scared her. The muscles twitching in his jaw. She took his hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back, too hard. The congressman was getting down to business now, the moment everyone had been waiting for: the presentation of the mock checks. Flashbulbs sputtered. The applause was renewed. Creave summoned Shaw up to the mike.

  Shaw’s jacket was too small and his tie didn’t match his shirt, and he stood there looking kind of embarrassed, as silence took hold around the room. Finally he leaned into the mike:

  “Well, are you, um, I guess you’re wondering how I got cut into this deal?”

  A swell of laughter.

  Shaw turned to Dad. “Mitch, maybe, maybe you could tell it?”

  Dad went up to the mike. He seemed to totter. Running two fingers under his shirt collar. He said, “Well. I guess, um. What happened? Is that a couple of years ago, I. W
as, um, doing some business training in Greenville? Up in South Carolina? And the church I went to, it had a crisis line? And, well, I was working in there one day, and this young man comes in, and that’s, um, this young man here. And well —”

  He ground to a stop. He turned to Shaw.

  “You should tell it.”

  Tara was terrified. But the audience seemed to see nothing amiss. They were laughing; they loved watching these two shy yokels passing the baton back and forth.

  Shaw came up to the mike again. He said, “Well, I guess, I guess the rest of the story is that I was sort of nuts.” This won him an immense laugh. “I was having some troubles with the law, and I guess I was doing too many drugs. Well. For sure I was doing too many drugs. And this was, um, ’03?”

  He looked at Dad. Dad nodded.

  “And I was driving one night and I was in a strange city, in Greenville, South Carolina, and I was kind of lonely and I, I was, well, I have to say it: I was thinking about ending my life. Because I was, just, in despair. And I went past this church, and it had a sign, that said, if you needed help? So I, I went in, and there was a guy in there. I tell you what, I didn’t think I was gonna like this guy. I mean at first he seemed kind of, well, kind of mean.”

  He had to wait for the laughter to fade.

  “ ’Cause you know why? ’Cause he wouldn’t put up with any bull from me. None of my, I guess you’d say, evasions? And. So I, like I wrestled with him. I mean, I put up a fight. Like, you know how a smallie will fight you? Well, I know you guys down here get bigger bass than we do up north, but I like the way our bronzebacks won’t ever give up. They’ll fight all day, they really will. You’re in a boat, they’ll pull you. And that’s what I was doing — I was fighting with all my might, but Mitch here, Mr. Boatwright, he just held on. Till he kind of reeled me in. Through the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ. And saved my life.”

  The crowd was still. Tara glanced down again at Nell: her eyes were glistening. She was the farthest thing from sentimental but Shaw was being so plain and straightforward and unadorned in his delivery, that she was on the verge of tears. So was the whole room. The stillness they were offering up to Shaw stoked his confidence, and Tara felt a deep relief, a moment of warmth in her veins. She thought: he’s OK. He knows what he’s doing. Maybe he even believes in what he’s doing: that he’s some kind of Lamp of Redemption sent to shine upon a benighted world. But the important thing is: they all believe.