Brambleman

by Jonathan Grant

  “The developers are letting him stay in the house until they have to level it.”

  “Mighty white of them,” Charlie said. “So everybody’s rich now. You get your cut yet?”

  “That’s not your business,” she said angrily, waving her finger in his face. “And I know you. You’re just trying to avoid child support. No matter what, you still have to pay.”

  “What’s Bradley Roy say about all this?”

  She bit her lip. “Daddy won’t have anything to do with the money. Mom’s threatening to leave him.”

  “I don’t understand. How is that a threat?”

  “Stop it. I know you hate her. But they’ve been together fifty years.”

  “Well, no one can say he didn’t try. He’s a saint,” Charlie said.

  “Well, I’m not.” Susan laughed drily.

  “Just curious. Why won’t he have anything to do with the money?”

  “You,” she snarled. “He says something’s fishy. Thinks you know something about Pappy, but he doesn’t know what it is. I told him you were just making up stuff.” She sighed. “He’s worked hard all his life. He should enjoy a little luxury now that he’s retired. I don’t see the problem. Uncle Stanley said whatever you were trying to accuse Pappy of got edited out because you couldn’t prove it. Because it was a lie.”

  Far from being insulted, Charlie was overjoyed to hear that the varmints thought the storm had passed, which meant they had no idea what was coming. He couldn’t help grinning, but Susan wasted no time wiping the smirk off his face. She said, “Before you get any ideas about spending the money from Flight from Forsyth, I’m entitled to half of everything you make, especially considering all you put me through the past twenty years.”

  “When it’s over, you’ll be rich one way or another, won’t you, dear?”

  “Like I said, I’m entitled.”

  “I’ll set up college funds for the kids,” Charlie said.

  She glanced back into the house, as if to gauge the children’s IQs and scholarship potential. “I’ll be the custodian.”

  “Now you’re starting to get on my nerves.”

  “C’mon, we’ve been on each other’s nerves since I opened the door.”

  “Well, you look good angry.” Charlie grinned. “Then again, that’s the only way I see you.”

  “I wonder why that is?”

  “Look, I want to get back to spending time with Beck and Ben.”

  He watched her jaw muscles bulge. Time for him to git, as Evangeline would say.

  “Mommy,” Ben hollered from inside. “Are you going out with Harold tonight?”

  “Harold?” Charlie asked.

  Susan turned to give Ben a withering look. Without changing her expression, she turned back to face Charlie. “Just be careful what you say about my family. I’ll bet all those reporters who think you’re a hero would like to know why you left that night.” She shut the door in his face.

  “I’ll be back next week,” he told the peephole.

  * * *

  Charlie’s return to Thornbriar was blocked, however. On Valentine’s Day, he received another cream-colored envelope from Cantrell, Bachman, and Gaithers. Same law firm that had threatened him before, different lawyer. In her letter, Leslie Volcker, Esq., advised him that Susan had filed for a restraining order to keep him away from Beck and Ben “due to your heavy involvement in drug trafficking.” Ms. Volcker advised him to keep his distance while the matter was pending.

  Charlie was infuriated. He resisted the impulse to tear up the letter and tore up the envelope instead. Obviously, Susan had used the money he gave her to hire an attorney. That sucked. It also meant he’d be spending his American Monster loot on lawyers, both his and hers.

  Volcker’s letter didn’t mention divorce, and that seemed odd. Charlie puzzled over this for a moment, then realized Susan didn’t want a divorce. After all, divorcing a man who was about to become rich wouldn’t make sense to a varmint, would it? No, better to wait until he actually was rich from the royalties on Flight. Clever girl. But clearly, this was war. And he was determined to win, since Susan was going to fight that way. She might not beg him to come back, but in the end, she would be on her knees, by God.

  Charlie called around and came up with the name of a suitably cutthroat divorce attorney named Richard Muncie. A few days later, Charlie met Muncie and told him the deal with Susan. The bald lawyer was both impressed and appalled when Charlie said, “In conclusion, there’s no point trying to keep this civilized.”

  “Not even for the children’s sake?” Muncie asked with a wry smile.

  “Souls, sir. We are fighting for their souls. The choice is bruised and battered on one hand, or stolen on the other. So let’s gear up for a monumental battle between good and evil. And we’ll see who’s left standing when all this is over.”

  “It’ll cost you,” Muncie said, “in ways you can’t even imagine.”

  “Whatever it takes,” Charlie replied. “Bring it on.”

  Before the ink was dry on the check he wrote to Muncie, the restraining order against Charlie had been issued and the media alerted. This time, Charlie didn’t answer reporters’ calls. Just as well. Nothing he had to say was fit to print.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Charlie woke at 4:00 a.m. from a dream about Romy. The girl was moaning and kicking off her sleeping bag in a filthy room, terribly sick and feverish, babbling about a dark angel trying to kill her. Since Charlie trusted his night visions, at least those that came at four o’clock sharp, he jumped out of bed and paced around in the dark on the loft’s cold concrete floor, worrying about the girl and fighting the urge to hop into his car and drive over to Redeemer’s church to check on her.

  He hadn’t seen her in three weeks. Why was the well-being of a street urchin—the daughter of a prostitute God apparently despised—so important to him? Maybe he was just a sucker for an underdog—or had issues with the Almighty, himself. Whenever he saw her, he’d been wounded or injured, and the little girl always seemed to take away some of the hurt. There were dangers in crashing in on a whore in the middle of the night, however, so Charlie waited.

  But not for long. At dawn he burst out the door, ran down the stairs, hopped in the Volvo, and drove to Redeemer’s Holy Way House. Tawny answered the door, opening it just a crack, then swinging it wide when she saw it was him. Her face was plain and pale, her eyes bleary.

  “Thank God you’re here,” she said, hugging his neck as he stepped inside. “You’re the only person in the world I’m glad to see right now.” He pressed his forearms against her sides in an awkward embrace. He could feel her ribs. How long had it been since she’d eaten? “Romy’s bad sick. I was going to call 911, even if the cops come and kick us out.”

  “If Redeemer says you can stay, you can stay,” he said, watching his breath in the early morning sunlight. He turned and made his way between the pews to the corner where the kids lay in their sleeping bags. That part of the sanctuary was warmed by the kerosene space heater he’d given them.

  Romy moaned pitifully. “What’s wrong, little girl?”

  She opened her eyes and pointed to her throat.

  “She can’t swallow,” Tawny said, coming up behind. “Hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning.”

  Charlie touched the girl’s forehead and drew his hand back. White-hot fever raged through her. A hundred and four, he guessed, having been there and done that. “Let’s get her to a doctor.”

  “I don’t have any insurance. I don’t have any money, either.”

  He held up his hand. “It’s all right. I’ll take care of it.”

  Wyatt, sleepy-eyed and apparently untouched by his sister’s malady, slipped on clothes and old, torn sneakers. Charlie turned off the heater, picked up Romy in her sleeping bag, and carried her out to the car. Tawny and Wyatt followed.

  Charlie drove to Childmed Group in North Atlanta, being especially careful since he didn’t have child safety seats in the car. After
Tawny filled out paperwork and the cashier verified Charlie’s credit card, Tawny took the kids back to an examination room while Charlie waited out front.

  An hour later, Tawny returned with Romy in her arms; the woman staggered under the weight. “Strep throat,” she said. “I’ll need help with the medicine.” She gave Charlie a pleading look.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” he said, and went to the counter.

  “That will be three hundred thirty-five dollars today,” the cashier said, pointing to filled-in lines on two yellow forms. “One child’s sick visit, one’s physical. And vaccinations for both.”

  Once he got over his sticker shock, Charlie signed for the expense, then carried Romy, limp as a rag doll, out to the car. Tawny put a hand on his elbow. “We need groceries, too. If we could stop on the way back to the church, I could—”

  “I can’t take you back there. You don’t even have hot water. And even with the space heater, it’s freezing there. That’s no place to get well. I’ll put you up in a motel for a few days, and I’ll see about getting the utilities turned back on.”

  Charlie slipped Romy into the back seat. Wyatt slid in beside her. Tawny turned to Charlie and looked at him plaintively. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but what about your place?”

  Interesting question. But the answer had to be No. He didn’t want to compromise his position in the war with his wife and lose his own kids. There would come an accounting someday, hopefully soon, so he’d let Susan be the one to engage in extracurricular activities.

  He struggled to come up with a simple answer. “I don’t even have a place. It’s a sublet.” He winced, knowing his excuse sounded lame.

  Disappointment spread over her face. “Oh.”

  Charlie took Tawny to Redeemer’s church so they could get their things. He saw that both hot water and heat were electric, which meant he’d only have one bill to pay. Another window had been broken, and Tawny had covered it with a blanket. He worried about squatters, burglars, and worse. He needed to secure the windows, at least.

  After stopping at Target to buy groceries, car seats, a prepaid cellphone, and Romy’s medicine—and spending nearly $300 this time—Charlie checked Tawny into a motel with weekly rates and a kitchen. When she unlocked the door to their first-floor room, Wyatt ran to the bathroom and Charlie laid Romy on a double bed. “You’re going to get well,” he told her.

  When Charlie brought in the car seats, he said, “These are yours now. For a cab, or—”

  “When you come back,” Tawny said. “I’ll keep them for you.”

  “I paid for a week,” Charlie told her. “In the meantime, I’m going to board up the broken windows at the church and get the power turned back on. Here’s some money for cab fare and whatever.” He handed her a hundred-dollar bill.

  Tawny clutched it. “This means a lot.”

  “It’s nothing, really.”

  “No, it’s a big deal. I’ve been with a lot … never mind who I’ve been with. I’ve just never …” She took a deep breath. “You don’t make this easy, you know. I don’t want to sound cheap, but I would like to, you know … I don’t just mean that. But I do mean that,” she said with a laugh, “Any time, any place.” She looked at him earnestly. “I can make you happy. I want to make you happy. Don’t you want me to?”

  “I have other plans,” he said.

  * * *

  Having decided that Flight from Forsyth was worth promoting after all, Fortress scheduled its bestselling author for a publicity tour. Finally, after all these years, Charlie had hit the big time. On February 21, he would fly to New York to meet his agent, sign the contract for American Monster, interview a writer with The New Yorker, appear on TV, sign books, and give a lecture at The New School. Then on to Boston and a speech at Northeastern University. The tour would end in Los Angeles in early March. Charlie’s booking agent had lined up eight lecture dates for him. When the tour was over, Charlie could pay cash for a new BMW, if that’s what he wanted. (It was.)

  With fame in his pocket and fortune on its way, Charlie couldn’t wait to leave Atlanta. He also wanted to escape Tyrus Bannister, who had been pestering him about HR 390. The legislator expected him to testify before the House Special Judiciary Committee and explain why reparations “for slavery and historical discrimination” were necessary. Despite his promise, Charlie had no intention of doing so. No way would he sit at a table in the state Capitol and let Rep. Stanley Cutchins (D-Cumming) grill him about his “documents” and … other stuff. Anyway, the concept of reparations was a dead end. A nonstarter. Nothing he could do about it.

  Even though he believed that it was to his advantage if the varmints thought they were home free, paradoxically, the idea that they thought they were in the clear bothered him. Still hoping to make Stanley’s and Cecil Montgomery’s lives more interesting, Charlie gave Bannister something he could use in his battle for reparations. Two days before his flight to New York, Charlie retrieved his forgery of Joshua Logan’s deathbed confession—the original having been burned in a 1953 fireplace incident—from his safety box, pausing to say hello to Riggins’s finger and again apologize for its confinement.

  He had already compared the handwriting on his work to that contained in letters he’d scanned at Lillian Scott’s house in October. Both text and signature matched Montgomery’s and Logan’s handwriting, respectively—close enough for Charlie’s purposes and government work, at least. In any case, the miracle shouted down the fraud, the way he saw it.

  When Charlie mailed Joshua Logan’s “document” to Bannister (hoping it would serve to placate the politician, too), he wondered how Montgomery would respond. Then again, what could the old third-rate historian do? Cecil’s name hadn’t been linked to the letter, so how could he claim it didn’t exist when there it was? At least it didn’t seem like he could. Anyway, Charlie didn’t care what Cecil thought—or what happened to him, for that matter. Although he wouldn’t mind causing Montgomery some embarrassment, his real purpose was to fire a shot across the varmints’ bow by connecting John Riggins and Isaac Cutchins, which the letter did nicely. And the Montgomerys and Logans would go down along with the Cutchinses when Charlie’s next book came out. In the meantime, with luck, the General Assembly would adjourn and the dust would settle before Charlie returned from Los Angeles. Consequently, there would be no need for him to testify before a bunch of politicians. That, he thought, would be an excellent way for things to work out.

  * * *

  In New York, Charlie was the toast of the town. The signing at Village Books was well-attended, the New Yorker writer was snarky yet sympathetic, and the co-hosts on Good Day America called him “our Southern Salman Rushdie,” though Charlie joked, “I might be more of a Boo Radley.”

  After the show, Charlie huddled with Barbara Asher in a Manhattan Starbucks. Outside, it was gray and sloshy. His petite agent, a sixtyish ball of energy and enthusiasm, brought him some bad news. “They’ve changed the terms,” she told him between sips of coffee minutes before their 10:00 a.m. meeting with Spence Greene, Brubaker’s publisher, and the company’s top editors. “They don’t like the secrecy we’re imposing, not with the amount of money involved. But they’ll live with it. You have to be cleared of those criminal charges before they’ll pay the advance. Spence said they’ll publish books about stalkers, but not by stalkers.” She laughed lightly.

  “No big deal,” Charlie said, his fists clenched beneath the table as he fought to conceal his irritation.

  Barbara patted the table instead of his missing hand. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your money, just as soon as—” she paused to give him the slightest of frowns “—you will be cleared of the charges, won’t you?”

  Charlie opened his mouth to respond, but Barbara bolted from her chair. She made it to the door before she stopped and returned to the table. “A three-time Pulitzer finalist just walked by outside,” she explained. “And he doesn’t have representation at present. Whew. Too fast for me. I gue
ss a younger agent will catch him.” She glanced over her shoulder. “He won’t last long on this street.”

  She took a moment to study Charlie’s face. “You really should do something about that.” She pointed to his scar, which was not only rose-shaped, but looked like it had a stem. “It doesn’t inspire confidence. It’s … like you killed a gardener in prison or something. Maybe we could cover it up with concealer.” She reached into her purse.

  “No way!” Charlie protested, pushing back from the table. “If my scar is good enough for a national television audience, it’s good enough for you.”

  She drew out an empty hand. “I just want you to take this seriously. Did you really have to send mug shots of yourself in a prison uniform for the jacket photo?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Why not?”

  “I hope that’s the last time you have to wear it. That reminds me. We’ll need a wrap-up for the criminal case.” She sighed, and seeing that Charlie’s hands had reappeared on the tabletop, patted them both. “Don’t worry. Someone will publish it even if you do end up in jail.” She took a sip of coffee. “Let’s get this done, Charles. I’m repping Britney’s makeup artist’s tell-all, and I have an auction to prepare for. I’m hoping high six figures. Nothing like yours, of course. Not unless she gets shot.”

  “I know some people.”

  “Don’t tempt me. Hmm. I may call you after I get the manuscript.” She brightened. “We should have some champagne after we sign the contract.”

  “I’m an ascetic.”

  “An ascetic?” Barbara said. “Well, you’ll soon be living in style.”

  “That’s nice,” Charlie said. “I don’t have a style right now.”

  “You do too. Militant trade unionist.” Barbara’s green eyes twinkled. “I’ve seen pictures. Oh! I know what. I’ll buy you monogrammed uniforms. In case—so everyone knows who you are.”