Brambleman

by Jonathan Grant

  Trust no one. “Oh,” he said. “I meant to do that. Are you saying it’s too late?”

  Her voice turned shrill. “I said you didn’t have time, and he died the day after I talked to you.”

  Charlie groaned. “I knew I should have gone out to see him. Shoot.”

  “He’s the only one I know of that could tell you about it. That would, anyway.” He could see her slumping in her chair, her hopes of vengeance thwarted. “Hope you can find out somehow.”

  He sighed. “Not sure I can go ahead with the project now. Maybe I should hang it up.”

  “No. Don’t do that. There is somebody you could talk to, but I’m not sure she knows about the killing.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The missing Cutchins.”

  That was a bolt from the blue. “Are you talking about Shirley? I don’t know how to reach her.”

  “Now her name is Cartier. Arlene Cartier.” She pronounced it “Cart-ee-er.”

  “Arlene?” That didn’t make sense. “Is she married?”

  “Doubt it. Changed it legally. Didn’t want to be a Cutchins. Can you blame her?”

  “No. How do you know this?”

  “I worked with her in a restaurant in Kennesaw back in the 1980s. She got drunk one night and told me a lot more about her family than anyone would ever want to know.”

  “You seen her lately?”

  “A year ago. She was living in a trailer park near Kennesaw named Shady something. She keeps moving. Maybe she’s still there. Go see for yourself.”

  “I will. Keep in touch.”

  “I got your number.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  * * *

  On November 2, Charlie drove to Kennesaw with some burning questions to ask Arlene Cartier about her days as Shirley Cutchins. He hadn’t found an address or phone number for either person, so he followed his only lead. Regretting his failure to capture Danny Patterson’s account on video, this time he took a tripod and camcorder borrowed from Thornbriar while Susan wasn’t looking.

  North of Marietta but still part of Atlanta’s suburban sprawl, Kennesaw had achieved notoriety in the 1980s for legally requiring residents to own guns. Charlie wondered if that’s why the missing Cutchins had moved there—to become part of an armed camp. He exited I-75 and took Old Highway 41 north toward Lake Allatoona until he reached Shady Haven Trailer Park. Just before noon, he stopped by the office, also a mobile home. The frowsy middle-aged blonde who answered the door told him to look for an old trailer near the Dumpsters. She closed the door before Charlie could ask her where those were. He sniffed, but the cool breeze gave no clues.

  Charlie drove along the perimeter gravel drive until he saw the trash bins, and beside them, a ramshackle little trailer on the smallest lot in the park. It shared the tiny triangular space (which seemed to be an afterthought) with a battered old white Toyota, some spindly young pines, and utility feeds. He skidded to a stop on the gravel and opened the door. He slammed it as gray dust and the sour smell of garbage drifted toward the van.

  The trailer was nothing more than a camper, easily towed by a pickup truck—not that anyone would want to take it anywhere. It looked like it had come there to die. Ancient and round, with a porthole window near the rear, it was painted primer gray and sported copious amounts of rust around rivets and along seams. Two bent poles held up a faded and tattered green awning. A flower bed was filled with the dried husks of weeds, candy wrappers, and plastic grocery bags.

  He carried his camcorder and tripod to the door, banging on it twice with his elbow before a gruff, raspy voice cried out, “Hold on, I’m acomin’.”

  The door opened. The first thing Charlie noticed was the gun, a big, Dirty Harry-looking automatic. “And I know how to use it,” the woman said by way of introduction. Cigarette smoke seeped out of the door from behind her. He set down the camcorder case, rubbed his eyes and blinked. The woman looked so much like Pappy he thought for a second he’d walked into a trap. Courtesy and a sense of self-preservation would keep him from mentioning the resemblance, however. Although she wasn’t aiming at him, she seemed a bit twitchy. Her arms were folded across her chest, and the gun was pointing haphazardly toward the crows in a pine tree by the fence. With a moment to adjust, he saw differences: She was shorter than Pappy and had ear-length, imperfectly chopped, greasy black-gray hair. Like her father, she wore blue jeans and a work shirt.

  “I’m Charles Sherman. Are you Arlene Cartier?” He pronounced her last name like the jeweler’s.

  “You here for the lawsuit?” He gave her a blank look. “The blow-dryer that caught on fire. I called that eight hundred number on the TV and left a message. I figured Chad Armstrong would take my case. You don’t work for him?”

  “No, I’m a writer.”

  “So this ain’t about the dryer.” Her weary tone suggested disappointment came often. “What’s it about, then?”

  “I’m working on a history book.”

  “A history book.” This seemed to make as much sense to her as the blow-dryer lawsuit did to him.

  “About Forsyth County. I heard you were from there.” She conceded nothing, so he continued. “I’m doing a story about a man named Cutchins.”

  Silence followed, but Charlie was determined to wait for an answer. Eventually, the woman spoke: “I used to have that name, but I got rid of it and do not care to hear it anymore, thank you.” Her formal twang was unmistakably familiar.

  “I thought you could give me some background on your father.”

  “Don’t call him that.” She looked like she regretted not shooting him to begin with.

  “The son of a bitch, then.”

  “That’s better.”

  “May I come in?” He started up the rickety wooden step to the door and stopped, watching her gun hand. The rank smell of countless cigarette butts assaulted him; this was like stepping into an ashtray. “Or we could sit outside.”

  “Too cold for that.”

  She stepped back from the door but didn’t close it, so he walked in, bracing himself for a secondhand headache. She slipped the gun into a cabinet drawer in the trailer’s micro-kitchen and sat down at a table, across from a thirteen-inch TV tuned to Judge Maybelline Mayhew.

  She was a bit on the thin side, though slightly disproportioned, as if the load of her body had settled awkwardly on her frame. She sat with her legs bowed, knees wide apart. When she yawned, he saw that she was missing a few teeth—though not many, and not in front. She either had a palsy of some sort or was nervous; her left hand trembled slightly. Her cigarette hand was much steadier. “Charles Sherman,” she said. “The name rings a bell.”

  She didn’t object as he set up the camera in the cramped quarters, though if she was anything like her father she’d let him go through the trouble of doing the work before declaring, “I never said you could.”

  “We’ve never met, but for purposes of disclosure, I should tell you I married—”

  “My youngest niece.”

  Younger, actually. That entire generation consisted of only three people (that he knew of): Sheila, Susan, and Momo. “Yes! How’d you know?”

  “Wedding picture in the paper. You were a reporter or some such. You plucked her when she was young. Nowadays young, anyway.”

  “That was a long time ago. Were you at the wedding?”

  “No, just saw the announcement.” She nodded toward a discolored white album on a nearby shelf.

  Charlie didn’t know what to say. Apparently, she watched her family from a distance and only threatened relatives on special occasions, like funerals. He turned on the camera. “My wife said the only time she saw you was at the mall, but she didn’t get to meet you.”

  “That’s because I saw them first. I ain’t got no use for her mother.”

  “Me neither.” He gave her a sympathetic grimace. “I’ve got to admit I don’t know much about you. No one likes to talk.”

  “I doubt they would. They ain
’t got nuthin’ to be proud of.”

  “I’ve been learning a lot about Ike Cutchins, though.”

  “That he’s the devil?” She snorted in contempt. “That’s the only thing you need to know.”

  He looked one way, then the other, then right into her eyes. “I’ve seen evidence to that effect. And now I want to talk to you about it.”

  “What did you find out that made you wanna talk to me?”

  “I was working on a book about what happened in Forsyth County in 1912, but then I stumbled across something else. I thought you might be able to help me with it.” Her face went pallid. She lit a Salem, took a drag, and looked out the window toward the trailer park’s fence and the shedding trees. Charlie continued. “It happened in 1937. Your father—”

  “I told you, don’t call him that. I don’t have one.”

  “—killed a black man and stole his land.”

  “Go on.”

  Now Charlie had her full attention. He told her a few details of the crime and said Danny Patterson had lived just long enough to tell the tale.

  “I remember Danny. He was several years older. He always avoided me. Now I reckon I know why.”

  When Charlie mentioned his suspicions about Minerva’s lineage, she slapped both palms on the table. Staring into Charlie’s eyes, she said, “Well, I give you credit. You told me something I didn’t know. Not that I wanted to. I wasn’t much more than a baby then, but I don’t doubt for a second he did that. He hated black people worse than anybody else I ever knew. And there weren’t any black people around, because of him and people like him. I’ll bet that man Riggins worked harder and did better for himself and that devil couldn’t tolerate it, because he can’t stand to see other people do well. And especially not no black man. He was always filled with spite. Piss and vinegar.” She returned her gaze to the window. After a moment, her eyes took on a bright, malevolent cast. “I stole it off a dead nigger,” she crowed softly.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “That’s what he told me once, when I asked him how he got the farm. I thought it was a joke. Thought he was just bein’ ugly. Shows what I know.” She stared into his eyes. “So nobody knows about this? But that’s fixin’ to change. Ha.” She finished with more of a snort than a laugh.

  Charlie nodded. “A lot of people knew, but nobody’s talked about it. Seems like they’re afraid.”

  “He’s a monster. He ain’t gonna die, not of natural causes. I thought about going up there and killing him myself. Still do, from time to time, when I’m bored and lookin’ for somethin’ to do.”

  Charlie laughed.

  “Think I wouldn’t? Well, I would.”

  He decided not to tell her about the pending land sale, lest he become an accomplice to murder. He glanced around at her pathetic little home, not knowing what to say. As if reading his mind, she said, “I never had a chance.”

  “I’m sorry. What do you mean?”

  “You’re writing a book about the bad he did. But you don’t know everything.”

  “No ma’am, I don’t. That’s why I’m here. I heard you could shed some light—”

  “You know about ! this?” She rolled up her sleeve to expose an ugly scar on her arm.

  “No. Ouch.” He squinched his face sympathetically. “What happened?”

  “Punishment for tryin’ to kill him,” she said. She looked around and took a deep breath. “It was after the first time he raped me, when I was thirteen. I was the oldest, by two years. He waited till I … till … I came of age. I wanted to kill myself ’cause of what he done, but something in me had enough sense to say I wasn’t the problem. So I snuck into his room that night with a butcher knife. Only she cried out. I froze. Then he woke up and grabbed my arm and hit me in the face. He dragged me out of the room and threatened to do it again right there. Only I knew he wouldn’t because the others were around. I spit in his face and he slapped me, then pushed me back in the room with the others—there was just two rooms, so all the kids slept together. I remember lying on my mattress on the floor, thinkin’ it ain’t over, it ain’t over. Sure enough, it wasn’t. Next day, I was doing the ironing, alone—”

  “Did your mother know that he’d molested you?”

  “She was fine with what happened so long as it didn’t happen to her. She just had her youngest and didn’t want to be bothered. Now let me tell you. He grabbed the iron—it was one of those old ones you had to put on the stove to heat up—and pressed it on my arm. Says, ‘You’re mine now, you little bitch.’ He branded me.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “And he said if I ever told anyone what was going on, he’d kill me. So I didn’t.”

  “That’s awful.” Charlie reached toward her. She gave him a warning look, and he pulled back his hand.

  “That was just the beginning. I wish I’d run, just run away back then. But I stayed. It went on for three years. Every week. He bought this car. Saturday afternoons he gave her some money to take the other three out for ice cream. I had to stay home. To keep him company.” Her lip curled in disgust. “So I didn’t get any ice cream. No, I got raped by that hillbilly. And they’d come back and she would always honk her horn as she drove up, give him time to pull up his britches.”

  Charlie’s head reeled as he tried to figure out how the family dynamic had functioned. Or dysfunctioned. Gram, Pappy’s wife/cousin/sister/whatever, was worn down from his hatred and abuse, as well as haggard from producing four babies. Tired of her, he’d turned to a younger, fresher version. What had kept him from treating his younger daughters the same way? Or had he? They both idolized Stanley. Perhaps their brother had protected his younger sisters, after allowing Shirley to be sacrificed to the devil. With this messed-up family, who knew?

  “So you never told anyone? You never went to the law?”

  “He was the law. People were afraid of him. And now you tell me he got away with murder.” She shook her head. “Make a long story short, I got pregnant and ran off when I was sixteen. They didn’t none of ’em come after me. Weren’t no rescue, just good riddance.”

  “Was he—”

  “Yes.”

  “The father? My God.”

  “God didn’t have anything to do with it. And I wanted to get rid of it. I went to a black woman in Atlanta. I hadn’t never seen a black person but in pictures up till then. Everything they taught me about ’em was wrong. She saved my life. Don’t know what I would have done, having to carry a baby around. Probably starved myself to death, just to kill it, knowing whose it was. Whole family’s that way. Can’t keep their things in their pants around family. I bet you know that much.”

  It was true. He remembered how Momo and Stanley kissed Susan and Sheila on the lips when they hugged at family gatherings. Cutchins blood loves itself. The woman gave him a wicked smile. She sure knew how to look ugly when she wanted to. A family thing, Charlie supposed.

  He silently cursed Pappy for getting away with all these terrible crimes as he thought about Lettie Riggins, rest her soul, as well as Shirley/Arlene, ruined, waiting to die in a little white ghetto while those proud of their Cutchins blood—fattened on ice cream—now stood to become rich.

  She gave him a crooked smile. “Some family you married into, eh?”

  “Yeah. But my marriage isn’t working out.”

  “So now you know the deep dark secrets. Though with that crowd, there may be more.” She chuckled drily. “You gone too far to stop now.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “On your book. You better be careful. They don’t take criticism too kindly. They went and put one of their own in the government to protect themselves.”

  “You talk like it’s a conspiracy.”

  Again, the wicked smile. “It is a conspiracy. But you aim to bring it all down, right?”

  “I aim to tell the truth, and if that brings him down, so be it.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “You get the bastard. Get him good. That’s what you need to do,” she whee
zed. “It’s bigger than you know. I prayed for something like this to happen, that his own would do him in. I reckon you’re close enough.”

  Charlie sat back in his chair and thought: No. I can’t be the answer to her prayers, too. Surely they would be too dark, too damaged in transit, to make it through. Otherwise, Pappy would already be in hell.

  “Don’t tell him where I am.” She stubbed out the third cigarette she’d smoked since his arrival. “He’ll send somebody if he knows where I live.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Promise. Blood oath.”

  “No problem on that,” Charlie said.

  In return for the promise, Charlie got as much dirt as an investigative reporter could hope for from one source—a cold, hard, gritty, and hateful firsthand account of life with Isaac Cutchins. He learned that after she’d run away, the high school dropout had worked in factories and restaurants, bouncing from job to job, never finding anyone to love, having grown tired of men before she ever had a chance to know a decent one, if he knew what she meant. And now she lived on Social Security.

  As he loaded his equipment into the van, he remembered Evangeline talking about going out for ice cream every Saturday. It was her fondest childhood memory. Could he put it in the book? Hell, yes. Maybe he’d follow up and ask her if she’d known what was going on while she went out for happy time. He’d ask her: What flavor did Shirley always get? But first he’d talk to Pappy. That monster.

  And there it was, his title: American Monster.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Charlie stepped out from the dungeon into the back yard and paused to bask in the afternoon sunshine, but his mood on this mid-November day was grim. A most unpleasant task lay ahead. He had finished the rest of his research, and it was time to ask Pappy a question: “Did you kill John Riggins, rape his wife, and steal their land?” Face to face, man to monster. Charlie had cleared his schedule for the confrontation. Beck and Ben were staying at friends’ houses, and Susan would retrieve them. Kathleen would nap.