Charlie loved the guy, and he remembered his promise to volunteer at the Hunger Palace. Until he heard Redeemer on the radio that morning, he hadn’t given the idea a second thought. Ironically, now he was as much a potential beneficiary of Redeemer’s charity as he was a donor/volunteer. Nevertheless, the idea of doing good works while cadging a meal held great appeal for a liberal with an empty belly.
After putting in a couple of hours proofing Flight’s galleys in the back of his van, Charlie drove to Memorial Drive in East Atlanta. The day was cloudy and cool. As Charlie approached his destination, he saw a crowd standing in front of the Hunger Palace, the larger of Redeemer’s two buildings, next to the Holy Way House of the Social Gospel, which paid a salary to Redeemer and listed him as its minister—another source of controversy. Once, when he’d been accused of lacking proper ordination as a preacher, Redeemer retorted: “Neither did Jesus. You gonna doubt the Bible just ’cause the Lord didn’t get a license?”
Charlie passed the Holy Way House, a dilapidated white frame church set close to the street. The gravel lot was jammed with cars, including Redeemer’s ancient, banged-up Cadillac. Charlie parked on a side street. He left his coat in the van and approached the church from the west, Atlanta’s skyline behind him. Shopping carts piled high with possessions and black garbage bags surrounded the building’s concrete stoop. The door was open, and he peeked inside. Several men and a few women were scattered throughout the pews; perhaps half were awake. At the pulpit, an enormous, dark-faced man with a booming voice demanded repentance. With a beefy paw, the preacher beckoned Charlie to enter, but the writer moved on, threading his way through the anarchy of parked cars in the gravel lot toward the Hunger Palace.
Charlie stopped to watch the bearded civil rights lion holding court in front of the building’s double doors, greeting his shabbily dressed flock. At least twenty people surrounded Redeemer while a perky blonde from Channel Six interviewed him. Flanked by her cameraman, she was asking him about his latest run-in with the law: Redeemer had been found passed out in his car in the middle of an intersection, and DUI charges were pending. (Charges were always pending, but Redeemer hadn’t spent a night in jail since the 1960s.)
“Why we talkin’ about this? That’s not what this day is about. We have a desperate and continual need for donations large and small, but especially large,” Redeemer declared, pausing to shake hands with an insistent admirer, a bearded black man in an army jacket and watch cap. When he turned back to the camera, he said, “And don’t forget to send your donations to Reverend Redeemer Wilson’s Feed the Needy Food Fund in time for Christmas. Give until it hurts!” He flashed a grin.
“Are you saying you’re innocent?” the reporter asked, returning to her line of questioning.
Redeemer’s eyes bugged out. “Well, scandalize my name! After all these years, I gotta put up with that?” he yelled. “I never claim I’m innocent. Been through too much to say that. But I paid my dues. Now you’re tryin’ to make me look bad on Thanksgiving. Can you believe that?” He held out his arms to implore the crowd to action; its members took the cue, booing and jeering the reporter. She cringed under the weight of public disapproval. Redeemer lowered his hands like a quarterback calling signals in his home stadium. His supporters hushed.
“Come back Monday morning, you wanna make me look bad,” Redeemer continued. “We came up short this year, and we may not even be around next year. I’m eighty-two years old, so you can’t do nuthin’ to hurt me. It’s these people that come here you’ll be hurtin’.” He swept his arm to include the crowd. Its members, unsure what sound effect to produce, let out a collective grumble.
“Just doing my job,” the reporter said.
“And I’m just doin’ mine. Tellin’ you to BACK OFF!” He then returned his attention to his flock. The reporter did as she was told and went inside. Charlie wanted to say hello, but Redeemer was too busy being adored to notice him at first. Volunteers and vagrants pressed in on their hero. Charlie stood on the edge of the crowd debating how to proceed. A minute later, Redeemer looked at him and shouted, “Hey, I know you!”
“Yes, I—”
“The writer. I’m gonna put you to work for a change.” Redeemer glanced around until he found the person he was looking for, right behind him. He gently pushed a young blonde woman holding a small black girl in her arms toward Charlie. “Take her and the kids in and get them fed.”
The woman wore heavy makeup, a black miniskirt, high-heeled boots and a denim jacket. She was striking, with an aura of seedy glamour—and an overdose of mascara. A down-on-her-luck stripper, Charlie guessed, though she wasn’t large-breasted. For some reason, she looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her. She drew leers from men in the crowd. One shouted, “I’ll take care of her, all right!”
Redeemer gave the offender a sharp look and said, “You ain’t trustworthy. You can look at this man,” he said, pointing at Charlie, “and know he loves children. Ain’t that right?”
Surprised by the question, Charlie quickly bobbed his head.
A boy about Ben’s age with an Afro stepped forward wearing a dirty jacket. Like the girl, he was black, or rather mixed-race. The girl’s frizzy hair was bound in a ponytail. No more than three years old, she wore a sweater over a gown that looked like a Halloween princess costume.
The woman handed Charlie the girl, who smelled like she could use a bath. He held her easily in his right arm. She put her hands around his neck and gazed at him with impossibly green eyes.
“What’s your name?” Charlie asked.
“Romy.”
“Romy? I like that. I’m Charlie.”
“I’m Tawny,” the woman said. She hugged the boy’s shoulder. “This is Wyatt.”
“Hey,” Charlie said.
“You work in a factory?” Tawny asked, taking in Charlie’s rumpled clothes.
“No, no. Just poor.” He stepped to the door and pulled it open. Tawny and Wyatt walked in; Charlie followed. Inside, they paused, momentarily stunned by the size of the crowd. It seemed like a thousand people were jammed into the Hunger Palace’s main hall. Tables were crowded with people; the queue was so long it had quit being a line and turned into a blob.
“What the fuck,” the woman said. “We’ll never get any goddamn food.”
“I’m hungry,” said Romy.
Charlie looked down. Wyatt had a fierce grip on his right leg. “Come on,” he told the boy. “We’ll get you something to eat.” Still holding Romy, he bulled his way toward the head of the line, repeatedly muttering, “’Scuse us, hungry kids coming through.”
The little girl pointed at people and said, “Pop, pop, pop.” Charlie was amazed when they turned and not only smiled at the girl, but stepped aside. In just a few seconds, the four of them stood at the head of the serving line. “It’s a miracle,” Charlie said, staring into the face of Charlene Guy, Channel Six morning anchor, who stood behind the steam table wearing a white apron and a Braves baseball cap.
“I suppose it is,” said Charlene. “But children always move to the head of the line here.” The news personality turned and smiled for her station’s camera as she dished out dressing.
A stout black woman appeared behind Charlene and stared out at the crowd, then turned toward the kitchen and shouted, “We ain’t got enough food!”
Charlie skipped dinner for the time being, not out of altruism, but because he didn’t have an extra arm to carry two meals and Romy. They moved through the line and got turkey, dressing, sweet potato soufflé, green beans, cranberry sauce, rolls, cans of Coke, and pumpkin pie slapped on foam plates. They were served by a team of three news anchors, a rich white woman with her silver hair done just so, and a couple of everyday people—the ones who knew what they were doing. Romy grabbed her roll and stuffed it into her mouth as Charlie, already despairing of finding a place to sit, led Wyatt and Tawny to the dining area. Lo and behold, two shabbily dressed black men rose as the four approached the first row of
tables, sweeping their arms gallantly to offer the family their places. When Charlie set Romy down, she kneeled on her chair to eat.
Charlie looked around and realized he and Tawny were sprinkles of salt in a sea of pepper. “Get us some paper towels or a rag or something,” she commanded him. “This table’s filthy.”
He moved toward the kitchen to look for rags. His path was cut off by the large woman he’d seen before. “Tell me you just drove up a truck with five hundred meals on it,” she said, not looking like she would take No for an answer. Reluctantly, Charlie shook his head.
“We gonna run out of food before we run out of people. Gets worse every year.”
“Sorry,” Charlie said. “I’m just lookin’ for some rags to wipe tables.”
“You here to volunteer? Cause if you are, then volunteer to wash pots and pans. That’s where we need help. Gettin’ nuthin’ but lip from the back of the kitchen. My name’s Lucinda. Lucinda Persons. If you need anything, just keep working.” She chuckled, then widened her eyes and snapped, “I mean it.”
“Yes ma’am,” Charlie said, backing away to avoid her wrath.
Lucinda stormed off to find another volunteer/victim. Charlie looked back wistfully at Tawny, who was already drawing the attention of several men. And then he caught a whiff of a familiar and most unwelcome odor. He surveyed the dining hall but didn’t see Trouble.
Charlie walked through double doors into the kitchen, past the cooks working at stoves and a six-year-old inspection notice on the wall with a “71” score, which was barely passing—and probably a charitable grade, at that. Beyond an old, broken-down Hobart dishwasher, an emaciated figure in a ratty T-shirt and tan corduroy pants with his back to Charlie was scrubbing a large pot in the middle trough of a deep triple sink. As Charlie approached, the drudge reached over with his free hand, scooped out a handful of dressing from a smaller pot on a shelf, and stuffed it in his mouth.
“Heard you need some help,” Charlie said to the back of the dishwasher’s head. He felt a crackle of static when he grabbed a green scrubbing pad from the metal shelf overhanging the sink. When the fellow turned to face him, Charlie rocked back on his heels, took a deep breath, choked on the smell, and yelled, “You son of a bitch, you nearly got me killed! I was thrown out of the house and there are warrants for my arrest. You’re—”
“Trouble?” The dishwasher grinned and stripped off his plastic apron, offering it to Charlie. “Told you so. Here. Your turn. About time my replacement got here. I’m not cut out for this kind of work.” He wiped food from his face and gestured to the pots and pans stacked up on the counter and the floor beside the sink. “Here,” he said, flipping a wet rag, hitting Charlie in the face. “If you’ll excuse me, I gotta keep Redeemer away from that whore.” Trouble snarled the last word.
“I’m not through with you!” Charlie shouted, but Trouble was already halfway across the kitchen’s red-tiled floor. Charlie followed, talking to the back of his head. “Why is this shit happening to me? I want to know.” In frustration, he cried out, “You made me homeless!”
Trouble turned and laughed contemptuously. “No, I didn’t. And welcome to the club. Rest assured, you belong here. You’re just too stupid to know it. Get to work and quit messing up my plans.”
“I had a home,” Charlie said, his face forlorn.
“No, you were out in the rain. If I had to do it over again, I wouldn’t rescue your ass!”
“Rescue my ass! Some rescue.” Charlie looked around. “Is this where you stay? How long have you been working for Redeemer? If you call what you do working, that is.”
“You got it wrong about who works for who.”
“Are you saying he works for you?”
“Not that, either. He’s just contrary. Not good at following orders.”
“Just like me, right?”
“Hardly. You work for yourself, asshole. That’s why we had to have a contract. And even that doesn’t seem to be working. Fair warning: You’re in violation, home boy.” Trouble pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re lucky I don’t smoke your ass right now.”
Charlie sneered at him. “Do it.”
“Won’t.”
“You mean can’t … bitch,” Charlie added, being in a somewhat self-destructive mood.
“I’ll ignore that. Usually, no one talks to me that way and lives. I guess you know something the other assholes don’t, is that it?” He snorted. “Consider yourself fortunate.”
“That would be a stretch right now. Anyway, I’m not afraid of you.”
“Figured that much.” Trouble started to saunter away, almost making it to the dining hall door before stopping. He turned and regarded Charlie critically. “You’re not even close to fulfilling the contract. So just do your job and stay away from the whore. She’s filthy, nothing but bad news.”
“Wait! I need to talk to you about the book, about—”
Trouble walked out. Charlie tried to follow, but when he touched the swinging metal door, a jolt of electricity knocked him back two steps. He tried again. A bigger shock this time. But not fatal. Charlie narrowed his eyes. Trouble wasn’t fully charged. He might have a chance to beat the shit out of the old asshole, consequences be damned. The third time, Charlie touched the door with his elbow. Zap. He cried out in pain. He tried a fourth time. A pan fell off a rack and hit him on the head. “OK,” he grumbled, his hair standing on end. “I’ll wash dishes.”
Mumbling obscenities, Charlie returned to the sink and slipped on the dirty apron. He drained filthy water from the tubs and refilled them, squirting soap into the middle tank. Then he started scrubbing. There was a mountain of dirty pots and pans—several hours’ worth of work. He struggled to find places for clean cookware, hanging some up on an overhead rack, stacking others on vacant counters and stove tops.
No one came to help, and everyone else in the kitchen ignored him. When the food was all gone, cooks and servers brought more pans, trays, and utensils for Charlie to wash, making a pile on the floor larger than the one he’d started on.
Afternoon faded into evening. The dull roar of the crowd on the other side of the double doors died down. By the time Charlie dried off the last pot and hung it on a rack above a butcher block table, he was alone in the kitchen. While he was draining and wiping down the sinks, the lights went off. “Hey!” he hollered, groping around in the darkness. “I’m not through back here!”
Trouble’s voice rang out. “Hey back atcha. I think the circuit breaker tripped. Give me a hand getting it back on. I’ll hold the flashlight.”
“You do it,” Charlie said, ripping off his apron and putting it on the sink. “I’m outta here.”
“There’s people trippin’ over themselves. Sure, we’ve got our differences, but we all gotta do what we gotta do to keep this place workin’. Come on,” Trouble wheedled. “Do the right thing.”
Charlie hesitated, unable to see well enough to make an exit. “Where is it?”
“Back this way, I think.”
Trouble shone a beam on the floor as he walked into a pantry. Charlie followed him and heard the click of a metal door latch. “I’ll hold the light,” Trouble said. “Looks like the main breaker tripped. Flip it. Be careful.” The flashlight beam danced over the switches. As Charlie pushed it back into place, a hand clamped down on his. “Take that, sucker!” Trouble screamed in his ear.
Charlie’s body spasmed as electricity surged through it. When Trouble released his hand, Charlie went flying against a wire rack on the opposite wall. The lights came back on, but he was blinded by the universe of dancing red spots that dominated his vision. He felt like he was having a heart attack. Through ringing ears he heard Trouble say, “That’s what you get for consorting with the whore and her bastard child.”
Charlie had no idea what that meant, but he still wanted to kick Trouble’s ass. He tried to rise to his feet with a vague idea of striking back, but he seemed to be paralyzed.
“That whore is the source of
all your problems, and you’re too stupid to know it!” Trouble screamed. “Not that it matters what I say. You aren’t capable of learning.”
“Gah,” said Charlie, drooling.
“You’re the stupidest prick I’ve ever worked with. You’re lucky you’re still alive.” Trouble looked to the ceiling and muttered. “You picked one blind bastard. Absolutely useless. Can’t I just enforce the contract? I’m tired of looking at him. Why, I oughta just enforce the contract right now. Really. Let me do him.” He held his ear as if listening to a distant voice. “Might have to, anyway. Ah, c’mon. You’ll be sor-ry,” Trouble sang. “Truly you will.”
The next thing Charlie knew, Trouble was huffing and panting, dragging him by the feet from the pantry across the kitchen floor. He wanted to resist, but his limbs were useless. He tried to call out, but his voice made no sound. A trickle of electricity continued to course through his body. Trouble grunted as he pulled Charlie out the rear door of the kitchen onto the loading dock. After stealing Charlie’s boots, Trouble left him lying on the concrete face-down, drooling.
At that point, Charlie passed out.
When he came to, it was dark outside. A yellow light burned overhead. He tried to remember where he was. “Redeemer’s,” he muttered. He struggled to get up. The cold concrete was trying to tell him something. He looked down at his shoeless feet. “We was robbed,” he moaned, falling sideways against the wall. He patted his pants pockets. He still had his keys and his wallet. A cold wind hit him, and he realized he’d pissed himself or gotten dishwater on his pants.
He stumbled around in a circle and then tried to get inside, but the steel door was locked against him. This seemed to present an insurmountable problem. Then he turned around and faced the night. Walk around the building, dumbshit. He shuffled down the dock steps onto the empty rear lot and staggered around the building, leaning on it for guidance and support, since he was still dizzy and blurry-eyed. He rounded the front corner and faced the gravel lot, which he dreaded crossing without shoes.
Brambleman Page 30