Brambleman

by Jonathan Grant

  “Dear God.”

  “When I was young, my father got this great notion to jump in the river and drown. Gravity has not been our friend.”

  “Hmm. Like my momma.” She rubbed her chin and regarded him carefully. “Perhaps your father couldn’t live with his regret over what happened.”

  Charlie shrugged. “He lived with it for nine years. That’s all I know.”

  “You’re a very lonely man, aren’t you?”

  Charlie didn’t see what that had to do with anything. “I have a job to do.”

  “And you’re going to do it no matter what your wife’s people think.”

  “I have no choice.”

  “There’s always a choice.”

  “Well, then, it’s my choice to believe I have to do it.”

  “How close are you to finishing the book?”

  “I’ve collected almost everything I need,” he said, stretching out his arms to indicate the size of his task—or the fish he planned to catch. “I’ve got to get comments from some people. I’ve identified members of the lynching party and I want to talk to their children. There is something you can do to help.”

  “What’s that?”

  He drew a deep breath and said, “I need a DNA sample from you. Probably just hair.”

  She regarded him suspiciously. “Why do you need that?”

  “There’s no gentle way to say this, so I’m just going to put it out there. There’s evidence to suggest that Isaac Cutchins—”

  She gave him a look that told him to shut up. But he was God’s Own Fool and therefore had to say what he had to say.

  “—is your father.”

  “No. You did not just say that.”

  “When I went to see Pap—Cutchins, he denied killing Riggins, but I caught him in a lie about whether or not he even knew the man. More importantly, I got a DNA sample from him–”

  Minerva gave him a look of disbelief. “And he went along with this?”

  “Not exactly. He spit it at me.”

  “He spit it at you?” She looked like she’d just swallowed poison. Her eyes were wide. Her nostrils flared. Then she exploded, yelling, “Where do you get off coming here trying to tell me I’m not me based on an old white man’s spit?” She appeared ready to do what Pappy had done.

  “No, I—”

  She popped out of her rocking chair and wagged a finger at Charlie. “John Riggins is my father. I am the daughter of the man I believe in. I would be less of a person if it was any other way. There’s science, and then there’s foolishness. I’m not a fool, I can look at the photographs and see what I see. But what that man did—if that’s what he did—doesn’t make him my father.” She took a breath and continued. “No. John Riggins is my father. That’s the way I grew up. That’s what I’ve believed all my life. I made something of myself just like my father did and his father before him. I’m not going to let you come in and change that. I am who I am, a combination of what God made me, what I do with my life, and who I choose to be. You can tell me that I’ve got … those genes in me, but that’s not my soul. I know who I am. No sir, you are not coming here and convincing me at my age that I’m somebody else.”

  Charlie didn’t want to argue. He threw up his hands.

  “Don’t look at me that way,” she snapped. “God gives us our souls, Mr. Sherman. I have the soul of the daughter of John Riggins. If you write anything about me, make sure you get that down. My father was a brave man and he died for it. That’s what I always knew. This other, there’s none of him in me. John Riggins is my father. Says so on my birth certificate.” She fretted with the front of her dress. “No. I won’t help you on this. Write what you will. I’m done with you.” She scowled and gave him a dismissive wave of her hand.

  Charlie stared at her, resentment smoldering in his eyes. He wasn’t so much hurt by the rejection as he was pissed. Damn right he’d tell it his way. Why did she think she could deny the truth? The truth—that’s what this was about. She needed him more than he needed her. Actually, he didn’t need her at all. Would be nice to be on good terms with her, but it wasn’t necessary, not now. He had a job to do. The idea that she owned the story and could make the truth a lie—that was just ridiculous.

  Sensing his antagonism, she took a step away, then turned back toward him. “I want that land back. Maybe not even for myself, but that’s not your business. I’m not helping prove John Riggins is not my father. Do you understand?”

  He stared down at the steps. “I understand how you see things and I understand the big picture.”

  “I’ll thank you to go now. And don’t come back.”

  He swallowed his shock at the banishment and said, “I’m sorry if you’re offended, but maybe you shouldn’t be so upset.”

  “Apologize for what you’ve done wrong, not how people take it. Now get gone!”

  Charlie held up his hands. He was done with her, too. However, he did want to giver her a piece of advice. “Fine, I’ll go. But you should get an attorney and put a lien on that property.”

  She stood with her arms on her hips, waiting for him to leave.

  He stepped down onto the sidewalk. She stormed inside, slamming the door behind her. On his way to the van, he saw Takira approaching, talking with her friend. He waited for her, and when she was a few feet away, said, “Takira, can you do me a favor, please?”

  “OK.”

  He wrote a note on his legal pad: Demetrious, I have a lucrative proposition for you. He signed it and included his cell number. He tore off the sheet and handed it to the girl. “Have D call me. There’s some money in it for him, but don’t tell Minerva. She’ll kill the deal.”

  * * *

  Charlie figured the varmints wouldn’t look for him in Scarlett O’Hara country, so he shifted operations south to Clayton County. As the wind blew the last reluctant leaves off the oak tree above him, Charlie sat on a picnic bench in Jesters Creek Park with his much-abused clipboard next to the laptop. It was chilly; he wore fingerless cotton gloves as he keyed in the changes he’d made on a hard copy of Chapter Fourteen. His cellphone buzzed—an exceedingly rare occurrence. He glanced at it skeptically before answering. “Hello?”

  “Yo. Sher-Man.”

  It was the call he’d been waiting for. “Demetrious, where you been?”

  “In ’n out. Heah ’n theah. Heard you wanted to deal.”

  “Yeah, I do. I want somethin’ you got.”

  “I ain’t believin’ this,” he said. “Man want to part-ee.”

  “No, no. Not that. I want to do a DNA test on you.”

  “I already told the bitch.”

  “This isn’t about Takira. It’s about the book I’m writing. I need a sample. Your blood is required.” While saliva would do, he thought Demetrious should bleed for the cause. A prick for a prick.

  “My blood.” Demetrious made it sound like the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “You a vampire?”

  “I need to prove something.”

  “What?”

  “I need to see if you’re related by blood to someone.”

  “Who? Gee-Ma’s daddy? I heard ’bout that. Whew.”

  This was too easy, Charlie thought. It doesn’t even require lying. “In a word, yes. It could be worth a lot of money down the road. Way down the road. As for right now, I can give you … a hundred dollars.” Charlie winced, doubly embarrassed at practicing checkbook journalism and hoping he could do so on the cheap.

  “Humph.”

  “You can’t tell your grandma. She’ll cut you off if she knows you’re doing this.”

  “Like she did you.”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Bet it worth a lot more’n a hundred dollars to you.”

  “Well, that’s the offer.”

  A beat passed. “A thousand.”

  Charlie laughed in disbelief. “I don’t have a thousand!”

  “Well, I ain’t got no extra blood then. We through.”

  “Wait. Wai
t. I’ll give you three hundred. Final offer.” Demetrious didn’t say no, so Charlie added, “Meet me tomorrow. Noon. Edgewood-Candler Park station. If you’re not there, deal’s off.”

  “I might be there.”

  “Show up on time, playah,” Charlie said, but he was talking to himself. Demetrious had already hung up.

  * * *

  Demetrious sauntered out of the Edgewood-Candler Park MARTA station a half-hour late. His smaller companion gazed intently at the old, beat-up van parked in a Kiss-Ride spot. Charlie reached over and opened the passenger door. “Hop in, Demetrious.”

  “P-Dog needs to go, too.”

  Charlie gazed impassively past D’s companion, who gave him a malevolent glare. This was not part of the deal. Furthermore, P-Dog was bad news. “No, he doesn’t. I don’t have room for him. Don’t have a place for him to sit.”

  “He can ride in back.”

  “No he can’t.”

  Demetrious peered inside the van, then looked to his friend and shrugged. He gave Charlie a sour look. “You got the money?”

  Charlie noticed what looked like the hammer of a black automatic pistol sticking out of the friend’s back pocket. “I’ll get the money after you’ve done your part. Get in, Demetrious. Just you.”

  Demetrious weighed his options. “I ain’t goin’ without homey.”

  His friend stood behind him, glowering and acting twitchy. A bus stopped fifty feet away. The driver, a round black woman, opened the doors and stared at them. A flock of crows descended from the west, landing tumultuously in a bare-limbed oak nearby.

  “Fine,” Charlie said. “Sorry for the inconvenience.” He started to pull away.

  Demetrious banged the side of the van. Charlie stopped and the teenager opened the door. “P-Dog say he cool. He wait here for me.”

  “What’s the ‘P’ stand for?”

  “Punkass,” Demetrious said, laughing. P-Dog gave them the finger.

  “Hop in.” Demetrious climbed in and tuned the radio to a rap station; Charlie tolerated it as long as he could—ten seconds. “That stuff’s offensive,” he said, hitting WCLK’s preset. Jazz. Better.

  “What, you don’t like niggas?” Demetrious laughed at him.

  “I don’t think Gee-Ma wants to hear you talk that way. And buckle up. I want the blood sample in the lab, not all over the windshield.”

  “Gee-Ma been tryin’ all her life not to be a nigga.” Demetrious looked around. “This is embarrassin’, driving around in this piece a shit van. Smells bad, too. He pivoted his head and looked in back, furrowing his brows, giving Charlie a piercing gaze. “You sleep in here? You homeless motherfucker.” He broke out laughing long and loud.

  “I got some things going on,” Charlie said. “Money’s coming in. Don’t you worry about me.”

  “I ain’t worried about you. ’Cept the part about payin’ me.”

  A half hour later, the sixteen-year-old manchild was sitting in a plastic chair with a needle in his arm. Fortunately for Charlie (and he hadn’t thought about this), the kid had a fake ID saying he was eighteen. The same lab technician who had served Charlie previously said results should be in by the following Monday, but Charlie already knew Demetrious and Pappy had to be kin, because they were both such assholes.

  Afterward, Charlie drove to a bank and got a cash advance on his credit card. When he handed Demetrious an envelope with $300 in it, the teenager took it without a word of acknowledgment.

  As Charlie drove to the MARTA station, Demetrious asked, “You think we can get the land back?”

  Charlie was thrown off guard by the attempt at civil conversation. He took a moment before saying, “I don’t know. Your grandmother has an excellent claim.”

  “That means we need a lawyer and go through the courts and shit, right?”

  “Yes. But don’t tell her about what we did today. If you do, I’ll tell her I gave you enough money to pay her back for the Georgia Power bill.”

  “Our little secret,” Demetrious said, patting his pocket. “This mean I’m gonna be in the book.”

  “Oh yeah, you’ll be famous.”

  “Famous,” he snorted. “Hell, I’ll be notorious.”

  “Notorious DNA,” Charlie said.

  “I like that, man.” He held out his knuckles, and Charlie punched them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Charlie stuck to his simple plan: charge all purchases, even coffee, and keep moving. As dusk came earlier and nights grew colder, he divided his time between three libraries, two YMCAs, and four coffeehouses that provided free refills and electricity. Shut off from his family and having no comforts of home, he had nothing to do but write. He had to finish quickly, since he was running out of money and the time that it bought. To make matters worse, his mental state was deteriorating due to lack of sleep and malnutrition, along with fears of lightning strikes, Trouble’s static cling, and assassination. He dreamed of shotgun blasts and woke to their echoes.

  Having burrowed to the lowest level of a Sandy Springs parking garage, Charlie woke in darkness on the day before Thanksgiving. He fumbled for his watch, cursed when he saw the time, slipped on work boots, and catapulted himself into the driver’s seat. He raced out an open exit gate, passing the glaring attendant who trudged up the sidewalk to start the day shift. Scratch off another place from the list of places he could stay.

  After downing three sample cups of coffee at the nearest Kroger, Charlie went to the Dunwoody YMCA. He changed into grungy workout clothes and pedaled thirty minutes on a stationary bike, then lifted weights. He showered, brushed his teeth, shaved, and put on his last set of clean clothes.

  He was the first patron of the day at the Dunwoody library. The matronly blonde who unlocked the door smiled approvingly as he walked in. He picked a table in the rear corner of the main reading room and plugged in his laptop, writing for two hours about Aunt Shirley/Arlene—“Shirlene” as he now called her—before quitting for lunch. He ate a bagel with peanut butter, then drove to Decatur. Desperately hoping for a check from Fortress, he opened his box to find junk mail—how did these people find him?—and a note to ask at the counter for a package. He handed it to the slacker clerk, who disappeared into the back and returned with an oversized brown envelope: galleys for Flight. A handwritten note from Tracy, whoever she was, told him: “Correct and return within 10 days WITH INDEX, otherwise cost of indexing will be charged to you. HAVE FUN!”

  He lugged the galleys and his laptop across the street to Java Joe’s. He checked his e-mail, with typically disappointing results. No one he knew wished to communicate with him, just “Herb Tarkania” offering to increase his penis size. Depression loomed. He shook it off. He had work to do. He spent two hours reading and correcting page proofs for Flight. The first thing he did was remove all mention of Joshua Logan. He didn’t want to tip his hand to Cecil Montgomery until the time was right. Logan, as one of Pappy’s fellow lynchers and land thieves, would get special treatment in American Monster.

  The nomad moved on to another of his favorite spots, the Decatur Library’s special collections room. He worked on Monster until it was time for supper: a bagel and cream cheese with juice. How long before he was sick of bagels? After this modest repast, he migrated to a nearby Starbucks and used the bathroom to brush his teeth, since he didn’t want them falling out on his book tour. Charlie marked galleys until the coffeehouse closed, then drove through an open gate into a bank garage, parking beside an SUV. He climbed into the rear and leaned against the back of the passenger seat to begin the tedious work of compiling the index, working until his mind faded out.

  Around midnight he left the garage to take a leak. A Decatur cop noticed him just before he committed a crime upon some bushes, so he kept walking, changing direction and going to a nightclub he hadn’t been to in years. He walked past the folk singer onstage on his way to the men’s room. When Charlie exited the restroom, the bartender told him he’d missed last call. Charlie shrugged apologetically and left, t
hen circled back to the garage, making sure the cop wasn’t staking out the place. He darted to his van and slid fully clothed into his sleeping bag.

  When he woke up Thursday morning, Charlie tuned to the news and heard a familiar voice. “Every year, it’s a struggle,” Redeemer Wilson rasped through the van’s radio speakers. “But somehow we make it. People open their hearts and we have enough to go ’round on this, one of our humblest and holiest of days. So, if you’re cold and alone and need a good meal and some fellowship, come see me at the Hunger Palace today. And if you got money, don’t forget to donate to the Holy Way House and Hunger Palace Foundation Christmas Feast Fund!”

  On this day, Redeemer would be the media’s designated hero, of course. Reporters weren’t always so kind. They often went “looking for my human flaws,” as the civil rights icon so aptly put it. Charlie recalled a few, though nothing could outweigh Redeemer’s courage and service to the cause of justice—and for the last thirty-some years, his noble attempt to keep street people from starving. To hell with his critics. That’s how Charlie felt.

  In late 1987, Redeemer purchased a Pentecostal church on Memorial Drive along with an adjacent lot, using money from his Feed the Neediest charity, which had prospered in the aftermath of the Forsyth County marches. He then built the Hunger Palace as a community center next door. According to one investigative report, the equipment used to set up its kitchen in 1988 should have been delivered to an Atlanta public elementary school, although the school’s needs were eventually taken care of and no charges were ever filed. Redeemer also bought a red Cadillac around the same time. This fact had been covered ad nauseam by the media, because everyone knows that black preacher + red Cadillac = scandal.

  With defiant good humor, Redeemer endured bad press over his interlocking charitable funds. “I’m bloody but unbowed,” he’d told Charlie during their July interview. “Unbossed and unbought. And on the holidays, these TV stations that been tryin’ to rip me a new one all year send their anchors to work in my kitchen for an hour and get their pictures taken with me. Go figure.”