Brambleman

by Jonathan Grant

  Charlie gently took his wife’s hand and held it, cruelly aware he couldn’t have done this if she was awake. Looking at her now, he knew she didn’t deserve this. If things had worked out differently on that winter’s night so long ago, the children would be sleeping in their beds right now, Susan would be stepping out of the shower, and Charlie would be leering at her. If.

  Bradley Roy stirred, half-opened an eye, then came fully awake. He sat up straight, blinked, and stood. The old man hitched up his pants and gave Charlie the evil eye. “You.”

  “Me.”

  “I don’t want to believe the things I’m hearing. But if they’re true,” he said, sighting down a pointed finger at his son-in-law, “I will for certain kill you myself.”

  “Fair enough. But you’ll have to get in line.”

  “I heard that.” Bradley Roy nodded. “Suppose you tell me what happened with the police.”

  “I’ll tell you, but first I want to know about Susan.” Charlie brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. The frown straightened out. She never could stand for her hair to be mussed.

  Bradley Roy scratched day-old stubble and shook his head. “She’s not out of the woods yet.”

  “The one who shot her is dead.”

  “Can’t say I’m sorry about that.” Bradley Roy cleared his throat. “She was in surgery for three hours. They didn’t take out the slug. It was small, at least, a twenty-two, but it’s lodged in her spine and she’s got a cracked vertebra. They don’t know … if she’s paralyzed. But it doesn’t look good.” He choked a sob, then composed himself. “They’re keeping her in a coma so she don’t try to move.”

  “Have you seen Beck and Ben? How are they doing?”

  “Sheila’s got them. She’s puttin’ ’em in Bible Camp.”

  “Not at First Baptist, I hope.”

  Bradley Roy shrugged. “Best place for ’em right now. I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you.”

  “They should be with me.”

  “Leave ’em be. They’re in good hands. Away from this.” He gestured weakly toward the bed, then checked the silver watch he’d worn as long as Charlie had known him.

  “Do they know what happened?”

  “Lord, I hope not. They know she’s hurt. Or maybe that she’s sick. I don’t know exactly what Sheila told them.” The old man gave him a penetrating stare. “All right, I gave you what you wanted. Now you tell me. Why did this happen?”

  Bradley Roy was no varmint—in fact, he was the only in-law Charlie felt he could speak to honestly. “I can’t say why it happened, but I can make a guess, since I know the people who did it.”

  Bradley Roy turned and reached down to pluck a newspaper section from the floor beside his chair. He leaned over the bed and shoved the headline in Charlie’s face: Author Implicated in Wife’s Shooting. “So what’s this about?”

  Charlie shook his head vigorously and held up his hands. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “How’d they find her, then?”

  “Hell, Bradley Roy, you can use my name to look her up. And then she was on the news Monday night standing right where the carjacking took place. Even showed her car. Shouldn’t have gone on TV.”

  “She was mad at you.”

  “She’s always mad at me.”

  “Well, this time for cheating on her with that foreign woman that got arrested.” Bradley Roy paused. “She was a looker, I’ll give you that.”

  “Don’t see why Susan was jealous,” Charlie muttered.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re a fool. She loved you.”

  “Come on. You expect me to believe that?”

  “Well, she’s a Cutchins,” Bradley Roy said. “She’s just got a contrary way of showing it. So tell me what else you know about what happened yesterday.”

  “The one that died, I only met once or twice. The one that’s still alive, Demetrious, is Minerva Doe’s grandson.”

  “Shit. That wasn’t in the paper.”

  “I don’t know how much you know about this, but that makes him Pappy’s great-grandson.”

  “I’m followin’ you. Go on.”

  “He told police I gave him money to do it. Which is exactly opposite what happened. A week ago, I took a copy of the book to Minerva and while I was driving away, he ran up to my car and told me he needed money to help out his mother.”

  “How much?”

  “How much?” Charlie wrinkled his face. “Twenty grand.”

  “You ever give him money before?”

  Charlie hesitated. “I paid him for a blood sample. I needed it for the book.”

  “The book. Damn thing’s been a tornado rippin’ through the family. Made everyone crazy, includin’ you. You got like a million dollars, didn’t you? So why didn’t you give him the money?”

  Charlie wore a look of disbelief. “Why didn’t I give him the money?”

  “Yes. Why. Didn’t. You. Give. Him. The. Money. You took advantage of those people’s story—I mean, it is their story, and hell, everybody else is profiting off what happened. If it was a movie about their lives, you’d have to pay them, right?”

  “Hold on. It’s not a movie, and Minerva doesn’t want my money. Doesn’t want anything to do with the book. She’s suing over the farm sale, though, so I don’t want to taint the case.”

  “Phooey.” Bradley Roy gestured toward Susan. “You tellin’ me there was a way to avoid this and all it took was money? I am sick and tired of being surrounded by greed. That’s what broke up my marriage. You aren’t in the clear. There’s blood on your hands.”

  “I told you, I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Just because you wash your hands of it, doesn’t mean you’re clean. You’re in this nastiness along with everybody else, and it ain’t over, not by a long shot. Well, all right. You been here. You found out what you needed to find out. And now I’ll kindly ask you to leave. So go.”

  When Charlie hesitated, Bradley glanced at his watch and said, “They’ll be here soon, anyway, and I’ll not have the lot of you screaming at each other like it’s some damned TV show while my daughter lies here …”

  He choked up, unable to continue. Charlie reached over to touch his shoulder. Bradley Roy swatted the hand away. “You’re a prick.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “My feelings are the least thing you need to feel sorry about.”

  Charlie turned to leave, his face burning with shame.

  “Wait. There’s something I was going to tell you,” Bradley Roy said, his features softening. “I owe you that much, I suppose. They took half of Pap’s money after the sale and split it up. Vange moved out with her money and got a fancy house by the lake. I ain’t had much to do with her or any of ’em lately. I bought a copy of your book. I’m reading it now, and I gotta admit, it makes sense.”

  Bradley Roy paused to reflect, then continued. “Way back before your time, I said something Pap didn’t like, because, well you know how I feel about the N-word. He looked at me across the table—this was in his old house—and he said, ‘I don’t need you telling me about niggers.’” Bradley Roy whispered the last word. “He said, ‘We ran ’em all out and there was one too stupid to leave, so we took care of it, and I’ll damn well not put up with any shit from you about it.’ I’d come back from Korea owing a black man my life.”

  Charlie nodded. “I know. So he as much as said he got rid of John Riggins.”

  “Seems like it now, don’t it?”

  “Maybe you should tell that to the family.”

  “I think they know. I think they knew all along and kept it a secret. That’s the real shame of it. All right. You go on, then.”

  Charlie cast one last glance at Susan before he left. As he approached the elevator, the doors opened and Evangeline stepped out, gazing at her shoes. When she looked up and saw Charlie, she yelped and lurched backward, throwing up her hands. Charlie wa
lked past her as she inched along the wall, glaring at him with fear and hatred. “Don’t you touch me!” she warned, then pulled her cellphone from her purse.

  Charlie took the stairs, exiting before she could have him arrested again. He crossed the drive to the parking lot and saw Stanley giving a television interview. The Channel Six crew broke away from the politician in mid-sentence and chased after the elusive author. Charlie had too much of a head start on the overweight cameraman and the blonde in high heels, however, and thereby made his escape.

  * * *

  Back at the loft, Charlie called his sister-in-law to check on the kids but got no answer. Then he called Muncie, who said the private investigator had been reassigned from “Harold Watch” to find out what the police had on him. After that, Charlie sat on the sofa, occasionally glancing at the wall mirror to see if he was still there, and tried to convince himself that Susan’s paralysis wasn’t his fault. He skipped breakfast and ate a piece of dried bread for lunch. He ignored knocks on the door and refused to turn on the TV or computer. The news could rage; he would stay in his safe place. Every hour on the hour, he turned on his cellphone and called the hospital for a condition report. Susan remained critical.

  Time’s passage was glacial. That afternoon, he sat on the bare concrete floor with his legs sprawled out, contemplating the nature of his suffering. His work was a failure. His reputation as a human being was destroyed. Everything he should have accomplished, all the things that should have been his, had slipped away like sand through his fingers. He was alone in the world. His children would be taken from him and turned into Cutchinses, becoming as distant as stars in the sky—the dim ones, at that.

  He didn’t belong in this place or any other. Well, maybe on a bridge.

  The sun set. The otherworldly fire in his mirrored doppelganger’s eyes faded. He cast yesterday’s newspaper on the floor beside him and put his face in his hands. He wanted to cry but couldn’t, because he was a dry and hollow man.

  When it was time to make his hourly call to the hospital, he turned on the phone. Before he could press the “send” button, it buzzed. He pinched his chin fiercely, enough to hurt. The number looked familiar. “Be a man,” he told himself. “Answer the phone.” He took a deep breath. “Hello.”

  “Charles.” It was a deep schoolteacher’s voice. Minerva.

  “Hey.”

  After a minute, she said, “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I heard about your wife. And Demetrious. It’s terrible in so many ways. How is she doing?”

  “She may never walk again. But she’s got to survive before we even worry about that.”

  “It’s that little gangsta Demetrious hung around with. I realize this is no consolation, but he’s the one who did the shooting.”

  “I know. And you’re right. It isn’t.”

  “That boy was a shark. But Demetrious went along with it. He believed everybody owed him something, and he was going to take it. Now they’re charging him with the other boy’s death, that’s what I hear. He’s being held without bond. I’m afraid he’ll never see the light of day again.”

  Minerva continued in a halting voice. “I took no joy in that man Cutchins’ death. If I could change things, I’d drop the suit in a minute. Tell me. Would you do what you did if you had it to do over again?”

  “It’s beyond that now,” Charlie said, his voice etched with weariness.

  “Takira’s baby won’t have a father.”

  “Do you need somebody to talk to? I’m not the best person for conversation right now.”

  She laughed derisively. “If I need somebody to talk to now, I talk to Jesus. No, that’s not why I called. I need you to give me a ride. Please.”

  “Well, I—”

  “I know you’ve got other things on your mind, but you need to see this.”

  He was tired of the other things on his mind. “All right. When?”

  “Sooner rather than later. Now would be good.”

  “Is it an emergency?”

  “It’s beyond that now,” she said, either mimicking him or simply matching his world-weariness.

  “You’re not talking about going to see Demetrious, because—”

  “It’s too late for him. Too late for a lot of things.”

  “OK. So where are we going?”

  “I want you to see something. I want you to understand.”

  “I already know.”

  “You know nothing.” Her tone was flat and cold as ice. “I’m at my house.”

  * * *

  Minerva was rocking on her stoop when Charlie arrived in the Volvo. She stood up and strolled slowly down the sidewalk in heels. Charlie had never seen her dressed up and figured she wanted to go to church, although it seemed awfully late for Wednesday evening services. He got out and opened the passenger door for her. She was wearing makeup and a floral print dress.

  “You look nice,” he said. She waved off the compliment like a bug in the summer night. He hopped in, eyeing her anxiously. “Where to?”

  “The morgue. It’s on Pryor Street, off Memorial downtown. They want me to identify a body,” she said, sounding empty and defeated.

  “Oh. Oh. I’m sorry.” Charlie concentrated on starting the car. A minute later, he pulled up to the stop sign where he’d last seen Demetrious.

  “They think it’s my daughter.”

  “D’s mother?” The news hit him like a brick. He gulped nervously and said, “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “She was killed. Probably over drugs or money.” She waved her hands hopelessly in the air.

  “It may not be her,” Charlie said.

  “It’s her,” Minnie Doe said, and stared out the window at the gutter, absently picking at a loose thread on her dress. “Lord, I’m gonna have to pay for the funeral. I should have gone to Atlanta Life and got a policy on her. We used to get these policies. Small ones. The agents would come by and collect premiums. We called it life insurance, but it was just burial insurance. Nicest thing some folks ever had was a coffin. Seems a shame, but there was dignity to it.”

  He pulled onto Memorial. “I’m sorry. I don’t recall her name.”

  “That’s right. You don’t. She didn’t merit a mention in your book. Her name is Shaundra. Shaundra Warner. And now she’s gone. I read a brief in the paper this morning about some no-name murder and didn’t even know it was her. Police found the body yesterday. Beaten to death and thrown in a Dumpster. That one, I think,” she said, pointing at the trash bin behind Redeemer’s church as they drove by. “Somebody killed her and just threw her away. Oh my Lord,” she wailed. Violent sobs wracked her body as she wept.

  Charlie reached over to touch her arm, but she drew away and squeezed herself against the door. She produced a white handkerchief to wipe her face. Charlie stared straight ahead as he drove.

  “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. But what good are promises?” She honked her nose and sniffled. “Oh, what would you know? You keep a tight control on your emotions. Sometimes I wonder if you’re even human.”

  After that, they rode in silence. Charlie turned left onto Pryor Street, driving by the pillars supporting the western edge of the huge interchange of the Downtown Connector and I-20, at the core of Atlanta. The Braves were out of town, and traffic was light.

  The Fulton County Medical Examiner’s Center was a new building, its parking lot bordered by a wrought-iron fence. Charlie parked under the yellow glow of a streetlight. They entered the front door. Minerva was stone-faced and silent as they approached the desk. A dark-skinned man closed a copy of Sports Illustrated and placed a call. Moments later, an even darker man in a white polo shirt came out. A surgical mask dangled from his neck. “Ms. Doe. Thanks for coming.”

  Minerva pushed Charlie away with her hand like she was a swimmer and he was the pool wall. She and the man spoke quietly as Charlie stood off to the side. The two of them walked toward the back. Minerva turned, looking peeved, and be
ckoned Charlie to follow. They entered a large room and walked through a corridor into an adjoining building. Here was a room like ones Charlie had seen in movies, with autopsy tables in the middle. Along the wall stood a bank of metal lockers. The place gave no sign of recent activity except for the strong scent of industrial disinfectant.

  The man went straight to the middle section of lockers, opened a door, and slid out a corpse on a tray. Minerva staggered and grabbed Charlie’s arm, bracing herself for a shock. The stench was subtle, due to the low temperature, but Charlie could smell garbage mixed with death’s decay.

  “She came in about this time last night.” The attendant spoke gently, with an accent. Nigerian, perhaps. “We believe she died during the weekend. There will be an autopsy to tell us such things.”

  He pulled a sheet back to reveal the head. Charlie and Minerva studied the brutalized face, which showed neither horror nor peace. The woman’s visage was puffed up and purplish, her eyes swollen shut, as if she had been holding her breath. There were puncture wounds and welts all over her head. Her skull, shattered and misshapen, rested flat like a deflated basketball. Its back had been crushed.

  Charlie stepped backward, his stomach churning. He swallowed hard, trying to keep from puking. The attendant glanced at him and nodded toward a white bucket. “Do it in that.”

  “That’s Shaundra Warner,” Minerva said. “My daughter. That’s her tattoo.” She pointed at a red serpent on the corpse’s left arm. Charlie felt dizzy, having also recognized the marking. This was the woman he’d seen in Max’s Place, the one who chased after him, shouting that he owed her something.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” the man said. “Unless you want to stay for a time, we will leave this place.”