“Can you find her?” Romy asked hopefully.
“Let’s go back to the apartment.” He scooped her up and limped to the elevator.
Wyatt was stirring when they returned.
“Mommy left us!” Romy shrieked with the door still open.
“Calm down,” Charlie said, setting her on the floor. “It’s going to be all right. I …” He couldn’t think of a proper ending for the sentence, however. “Go wash up for breakfast.”
Wyatt took the news rather well. He told Romy, “Mommy goes away all the time.”
Within a few minutes, he was slurping milk from his cereal bowl and Romy was doodling her finger in sugar that had spilled on the table. Then came a knock on the door. Charlie peered out the peephole and sighed. Cops. He opened the door a crack, bracing himself for bad news about his car and its driver.
“We had a complaint about a child in distress,” said the black patrol officer. “May I come in?”
Charlie glanced around the loft to see if everything was in order. It wasn’t. Some blood from his wounds had seeped onto the sheets.
“Hang on just a minute.” Charlie rushed over and ripped off his bedding, tossing it in a pile by the washing machine, arranging it so the blood didn’t show. He returned to the door after a suspicious interval. The officer entered, scowling at the mixture of brown kids and a white guy with a face so pulverized and swollen it was no longer recognizable as the property of Atlanta’s most notorious writer.
“I’m taking care of them while their mother’s out,” Charlie offered.
“Their mother do that to your face?”
“No.”
“What’s your relationship to these children?”
And talking gets me where? Charlie stared at the officer and said nothing.
“May I see some ID?”
Charlie produced his driver’s license. The cop glanced at it and hit a button on his radio: “This is Officer Pearson at Farm and Home Lofts. I’m gonna need backup.”
Within minutes, Charlie’s place was filled with black lawmen, seven in all, including a Fulton County deputy sheriff, a motorcycle officer, and a mounted policeman who had hitched his horse to a fire hydrant in front of La Patisserie. They milled about, talking amongst themselves, calling in on their radios, wondering aloud how a white guy ended up with two black kids. Worried that they would notice Tawny’s gun, Charlie sidled over to the bookcase and surreptitiously felt for the weapon on the top shelf. He couldn’t find it. As he groped around, Romy tapped his knee. When he bent down, she whispered, “Did they find Mommy?”
“No,” Charlie whispered back.
“Are they going to take us away from you?”
The answer had to be yes, of course. The officers were waiting on the arrival of a caseworker from Family and Children Services. But he couldn’t bear to tell her that. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t want them to.” She gazed into his good eye. “No one wants us. That’s why Mommy ran away. ’Cause I’m different.” She started crying again.
He picked up the abandoned child and without thinking, whispered, “I’ll take care of you. I promise.” He put her down and she ambled over to join Wyatt, who was engrossed in a cartoon on TV.
A cop put a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t have told her that,” he said in a husky voice. “You know DFACS is gonna to take the kids. I know the mother. She’s unfit. I bet you had a good time until her pimp got hold of you. I didn’t even know she had one. She must be moving up in the world.”
“Get away from me,” Charlie said and pushed the cop in the chest. The officer pointed a finger in his face and gave a fierce warning look, but said nothing. When he stepped away, Charlie slumped against the kitchen counter. He hadn’t meant to lie to Romy. He’d needed to say something, and that just seemed like the thing to say. He would take care of her if he could, of course, but that prospect seemed quite impossible.
When the DFACS caseworker arrived, Charlie did a double-take, certain that he’d seen her before. Wearing large spectacles and a wig, the stout African-American woman walked into the loft and appeared completely unsurprised to see Charlie there—as if she expected him to be at the center of this controversy. With a tiny smile, she glanced at the children, then looked over the assembled lawmen as she haphazardly swung her ID badge by its lanyard. “What seems to be the problem, officers?”
Pearson, the cop who had knocked on Charlie’s door, drew himself to full height to make his report. The caseworker listened and nodded. When he finished, she turned to Charlie and gave him a schoolteacher’s stare. “Mr. Sherman, are these your children?”
The question left Charlie speechless. Before he could answer, Romy marched over and planted herself in front of the caseworker. “Don’t be a fool!” the little girl shouted. “Of course he’s my Daddy!”
The cops broke out in shouts of disbelief and raucous laughter.
“Child, you best watch your tongue.” The caseworker glared at Romy. When the little girl returned the look, the woman flinched and stepped back. “I’m not messin’ with you,” she muttered. “You are way above my pay grade.” She turned her attention to Wyatt. “Boy. Is that your father?”
Wyatt glanced up at Charlie. “I don’t know. Maybe. I hope so.”
“Well,” said the caseworker. “Mr. Sherman? What say you?”
He remembered how much Trouble despised Tawny and her children. Just to spite the old trickster, then. “They’re mine,” he said, cringing at his stupid lie.
“That’s a load of crap,” Pearson said. “Their mother’s white.”
The caseworker stared at Charlie intently. “Did you adopt them, Mr. Sherman?”
“Uh—”
“Do you have their documents?”
Charlie pointed to the manila envelope on the kitchen counter. There had to be some truth in what he’d said, since he now held their paperwork. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Tawny had made a trade: Volvo for kids, straight up. Registration’s in the glove box.
The woman picked up the envelope while the cops stood by, shaking their heads and muttering in disbelief. Charlie wondered what crime he’d be charged with this time. Impersonating a parent? Or maybe just being a fool. People got arrested for that all the time.
“You would have saved us a lot of trouble if you’d just told the officers the truth from the beginning,” the caseworker lectured.
“I—”
She held up her hand. “Enough.” Clearing her throat, she turned to the lawmen. “They’re his. His name’s on the birth certificate. Shoulda known,” she said, wagging a finger at the defiant little girl who stood with her hands on her hips. “She’s just like him. Contrary.”
Pearson snatched the documents out of her hand and scrutinized them. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
“I hope not,” the caseworker said.
“But how? I don’t get it.”
“Now be a good cop and put the papers down.”
Pearson, wearing a puzzled look on his face, did as he was told.
“All a misunderstanding,” the woman said. “Move along. Show’s over.” She waved her arms and drove the surprised-looking cops toward the door. Overwhelmed by her ruthless shooing, they fled the scene. After they were gone, she stood in the open door and raised an eyebrow at Charlie as if to say How about that?
Charlie snapped his fingers. “I know you. You’re a MARTA driver.”
“Not today,” she said with a wink. “You have a blessed day and good life with these gifts that have been given you, Mr. Sherman. If that’s your real name. Hmmph.” She took off her glasses, put on a pair of shades, and slipped out the door. He thought he heard her mutter, “No cops,” as it closed behind her.
With a question on the tip of his tongue, Charlie rushed after her, but he found the hall empty. A scent of lilac lingered. He returned to the kids, who embraced his knees as he walked double peg-legged to the counter. Intensely curious, he held Wyatt’s birth certificate up
to the light, then Romy’s. His name—in crimson—was on both of them. “More red ink,” he muttered.
“Wyatt, did you hear her say I’m just like Daddy? That means he’s like me, right?”
“Dunno.” Wyatt let go of Charlie and stepped back to appraise him. “She’s special.”
“I am,” Romy agreed.
“Is that so?” Charlie asked.
“You’ll see,” the girl said.
The cellphone buzzed. Romy’s specialness would have to wait. Bradley Roy was on the line. “Hey,” Charlie said.
“You outta jail today?”
“So far.”
“At least they got you downgraded from a suspect to a ‘person of interest.’ Or is it upgraded?”
“I feel downgraded. How’s Susan?”
“Doctor just came in and said she was off the critical list. She’s going to make it.”
“Thank goodness.” Charlie breathed a sigh of relief and glanced at the clock. “When did they take her off?”
“Just a couple of minutes ago. Doc came in and said it, just like that. He looked surprised, to tell the truth.”
“Interesting.” Charlie felt a tingle run up his spine. Strange and wonderful things were happening.
“What?” Bradley Roy asked, sounding irritated. “I guess you could call it that. Anyway, they been keepin’ her asleep. Don’t know how long that’s gonna last. Sooner or later she gotta wake up and find out her back’s broken. Maybe it’s a mercy to be out cold, with the world crashing down the way it is. When you comin’ by?”
“Uh. When nobody else is there, maybe.”
“Well, look, there’s somethin’ I gotta tell you.”
“Why don’t you tell me now?”
Bradley Roy hesitated. “They don’t know about operatin’ yet. Don’t know what good it will do. Doctors are still saying ‘wait-and-see’ about removing the bullet. At least she’ll be able to use her arms, they say.”
“She hasn’t woken up at all?”
“Not while I’ve been around. I was here till midnight.” He yawned. “Came back at seven.”
“What about everybody else?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Susie’s going to need you more than ever. No matter what happens or how you feel about everything right now, you can’t desert her.”
Had this been what he’d wanted all along? Charlie gulped. “I won’t. But how things work out may not be up to me.”
“You’re the one that’s got to help her. I know it’s hard to see past your own hurt and pride. But get over it.” He paused. “She never thought you’d make it. Always thought you’d come crawling back. Now she can’t even walk, and you with two bestsellers, both of ’em carved out of Forsyth County’s hide.” He chuckled ruefully. “Can’t say we didn’t have it comin’.”
“I never wanted a divorce.”
“Hard to know what you wanted. You broke her heart when you left.”
“Mine was broken already.”
Bradley Roy scoffed. “Hell, I’m still waitin’ to see if you got one.”
“I’ve heard that before. So what you got to tell me?”
“All right.” Bradley Roy’s tone softened. “I got a phone call this morning from Jimmy Townsell. You know him?”
“Yeah,” Charlie said, recalling the check he’d written to the political candidate. “He’s running against Stanley Cutchins. Why’s he calling you?”
“Probably because I donated to his campaign. And fed him information along the way. Jimmy told me that sheriff’s deputies and the GBI are down at the property line between Pap’s farm—what used to be Pap’s farm—and the Owens farm next door.”
“Yeah?”
“They’re down at Long Creek, boy.”
Silence.
“Hell, Charlie, I’m surprised you didn’t do it yourself, knowing what you knew.”
“I get shot at when I go up there. You sayin’ they’re looking for John Riggins?”
“No, I’m sayin’ they found John Riggins. It’s a crime scene now.”
Charlie’s pulse quickened. “He’s there?”
“In a shallow grave. Of course, word about your book has been leaking out for months. I was hopin’ Pap would have to answer for what he did …”
“How’d the sheriff know where to look?”
“He was told. By someone who did some digging. That’s all you need to know.”
“OK. I won’t go there.”
“Nobody’s left to hold accountable, except the estate. You know, Susie got a share of the money. Now she’s paying for it.”
“I didn’t know. I guessed. And it looks like we’re all paying.”
Bradley Roy coughed. After a poignant silence, he said, “That woman you wrote about sounds like a good person.”
“Minerva Doe? She is.”
“And then her grandson does this to my daughter. His second cousin, turns out. Everybody up here thinks he did it ’cause he’s black. But maybe it’s because he’s got some of Pap in him.”
“That thought occurred to me, too.”
“Any way you look at it, we got ourselves a mess. And then a detective talked to me last night. They don’t think Pap killed himself, after all. They say there were signs of a struggle. And after that comes out, now there’s a story that a black gang from Atlanta came up and killed him. For ‘reparations,’ that was the word,” Bradley Roy said sarcastically. “Allegedly, the same crowd that hijacked Susie’s car.”
“The sheriff’s not saying that, is he?”
“No. It’s coming from Stanley. It’s pretty fishy. Everything is unraveling. I know it started with you workin’ on that first book. I just wonder when it’s going to end. Lord, give me strength.”
“I’ll try to get by later today. But I have … things to take care of. I have to move tomorrow. Don’t even have a place yet.”
“Susie needs you.”
“I doubt she wants to hear that.”
“She’ll be hearing it from me when she wakes up. And until she’s sick of hearing it. ’Cause I’m too old to be wheeling her around. You hear me, boy?”
Romy came over to Charlie with her shoes, wanting help to put them on.
“I hear you.”
* * *
Charlie placed the birth certificates in a watertight (and hopefully bloodtight) container, then spent the rest of the day caring for his sudden family and packing for Friday’s move. He took Wyatt and Romy shopping, but first he dropped by a storefront clinic for treatment. He received six stitches for a gash just beneath his rose scar. His cracked ribs and toes would heal on their own. Most significantly, his left eye was a ghastly mess, beyond the expertise of the staff doctor, who informed Charlie that he was lucky to be alive, referred him to an ophthalmologist, and told him to wear an eyepatch in the meantime. Charlie left with a handful of prescriptions for antibiotics, ointments, and painkillers. His two loose teeth would have to wait, since he had to find a dentist to replace Victor Blaga.
When he returned to Castlegate, Charlie sported an eyepatch but no glasses. The vision in his right eye was clear and needed no correction, an odd but welcome development. Apparently, his eyesight had been beaten back into alignment—that which hadn’t been destroyed had been restored. He was disappointed that he’d been unable to visit Susan, but he vowed to do so the next day. Exhausted and loopy from painkillers, he wanted to lie down, but Wyatt and Romy insisted that he play the new Candy Land game he’d bought for them.
Looking up from the board, Wyatt asked, “If Mommy comes back, will you marry her?”
“I already have a wife. She’s in the hospital.”
“I want to see her,” Romy said. “I’ll make her feel better.”
“That would be nice. Maybe we’ll go tomorrow,” Charlie said, grabbing her and pulling her onto his lap. Wyatt threw himself on Charlie alongside Romy. They rolled around on the floor, an activity that proved to be therapeutic for Charlie.
Later, Charlie played
a CD of piano music while he packed. Romy interrupted him, pulling his hand to dance with her. He stood and swayed unsteadily to the music while she spun around like a dervish. The boy joined in the frolic. Playing with them reminded Charlie of old times at home and made him wish he could put together the missing pieces of his life. How would he ever find his way back to Beck and Ben with Romy and Wyatt eating his breadcrumbs?
Romy stopped dancing and stared straight at his eyepatch. “Are you going to love us?” she asked.
Charlie gave her a quirky smile. “Yes, I believe I will. And as your father, in accordance with state law. I’ll take care of you, or die trying. That’s the deal, the way I understand these things.”
“You won’t ever leave us?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Just checkin’,” she said, twirling away.
It is a strange and serious business, to make a lie the truth.
* * *
When Charlie checked his voicemails, he heard this: “Charlie, Muncie here. Wanted to let you know the divorce trial is postponed, by consent of all parties. I heard Susan is paralyzed from the waist down. That’s terrible … I’m so sorry. I hope it’s not true. I do have some good news for you in the middle of all this. My guy spent the day on your case and found out a few things. Cops didn’t tell us the dead guy’s girlfriend was holding a ransom note that she was supposed to phone into Channel Six. The carjackers wanted a million dollars from you. But they got violent and screwed that plan, so they stole the car instead. Demetrious Warner claimed you took them to the bank. Which contradicts the ransom note story, of course. Then a MARTA driver came forward and told police they’d been on her bus and got off at Hanover. So there’s some things that destroy your accuser’s credibility. Who would have thought a bus driver would come to your rescue?”
Charlie looked up at the ceiling and blinked his right eye. “I have great faith in public transportation.”
Brambleman Page 54