Brambleman Read online

  “Yes, but Dr. Talton focuses on the anti-black terrorism.”

  “Terrorism?”

  “Yeah. White folks do it, too, darlin’,” he drawled.

  She gave him her I don’t like talking to you wince. “What about since then? That’s what they want to know about, what you’re going to write about between then and now. Uncle Stanley has a position in the community to protect, you know.”

  He shrugged. “I guess I have to write an update. Why do they care? They got something to hide? You got something you need to tell me?”

  “No,” she said loudly. “I assume they’re worried you’ll put in Momo’s 1987 arrest.”

  “Hey, that’s a good idea. Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Oh no you don’t. Don’t pin that on me. I just figured it’s what you’d do. You know, re-fight the Civil War, go through the Fourth of July again and show everybody how evil your in-laws are.”

  “Fortunately for them, I’ve got to cut the book, not turn it into an encyclopedia of white folks misbehaving.”

  The kids were sneaking away from their time-out spaces like jungle guerrillas. Charlie caught a fleeting glimpse of Beck as she darted into the dining room to hide behind the china cabinet. She giggled when he spotted her. Ben was crawling on his belly up the hall from the family room. Charlie walked over and planted his foot on his son’s back, then yelled like Tarzan and beat his chest.

  “You da man,” Ben said, laughing as he rolled over and grabbed Charlie’s shoe.

  “No, you da man,” Charlie replied, bracing himself against the wall so Ben wouldn’t pull him down and break his glasses again. Ben refused to let go. Charlie dragged him along, peg-leg style, until he made it to the kitchen counter, then dug out a family-sized Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese from a grocery bag and hoisted it for Ben to see. “Let go, boy. I’ve got to fix dinner.”

  Being hungry, Ben relented. Charlie fell into the routine of fixing dinner, all the while wondering why the Cutchins family cared so much about his Forsyth saga. Pappy had been alive—barely—back in 1912. He’d told Charlie a couple of things. “That was the year of the Titanic,” he’d said on Easter Sunday in 1987 after Charlie mentioned the subject. “Year I was born. That’s when we ran the niggers out. Some of ’em needed extry persuadin’.” With a spark in his coal-dark eyes, Pappy had gone on to boast he’d once “chunked rocks at a darkie.” That didn’t make sense, now that Charlie thought about it, since Pappy would have been an infant at the time. All the more reason to talk to the old man. The way things were going, made-up memories would have to do.

  He hoped Uncle Stanley hadn’t already warned his father not to talk. But there were two things in Charlie’s favor: One, Pappy wouldn’t listen to anyone telling him what to do. Also, no one would think Charlie was stupid enough to go back there. But Charlie was way past stupid; he was chosen, and the voice inside his head told him to go forth and interview the old coot. He was about to mention this to Susan when he had a better idea: Don’t.

  * * *

  Wednesday morning, the wind bit Charlie’s face as he gassed up Kathleen’s car at E-Z Go on Briarcliff. He was taking the Volvo in hopes he could sneak up on Pappy, since a stranger’s vehicle would be less unwelcome than his red Caravan. While talking to Pappy was likely to be an unpleasant waste of time, it wasn’t the only reason for the trip. Charlie also wanted to understand the geography of events before his newspaper interview. Then, he could speak with authority as he pitched Talton’s tale. Charlie also believed it was necessary to make a pilgrimage to Martha Jean Rankin’s grave. Talton had shortchanged her in his narrative. Charlie wanted to reach beyond the cold, hard text and touch her world. Make it real—something Talton hadn’t done.

  Charlie took I-85, then traveled on I-285 to Georgia 400 and headed north. He listened to jazz on WCLK until the signal became a buzzing crackle. He clicked off the radio and grabbed the wheel tightly when a strong wind buffeted the car, slapping the Volvo as if to knock him off course. This made him wonder if there was more than one supernatural force at work. What if he was in a proxy war and it was the other side’s turn to move? That would explain why the contract was such a bloody mess—and why he constantly despaired of his task. After all, depression was the devil’s favorite tool. Then again, he wasn’t exactly sure who he was working for, but he wasn’t doing anything wrong, so he’d continue on this path.

  * * *

  Born on August 28, 1912, Isaac “Ike” Cutchins was a short, rail-thin, unsmiling man with big ears on a small head, a bashed-in nose, and coal-black eyes that held a deep-seated animosity. He looked permanently pissed off, and proud of it.

  Charlie first met Pappy on July 4, 1986, a month after his wedding to Susan, which Pappy had boycotted. At the time, Evangeline was still furious at Charlie for marrying her twenty-year-old daughter in Macon rather than Cumming … and for showing up hungover at the altar.

  Independence Day meant a cookout, with Bradley Roy manning the grill. Women brought casseroles filled with cheese, Jell-O molds, and cakes and pies for dessert.

  Charlie ate in the living room with Jerry Bancroft, Sheila’s first husband. Charlie’s mullet-headed brother-in-law was wearing an aptly named wife-beater shirt and watching a NASCAR race on TV. Jerry’s days were numbered. Within two months, he would be killed in an act of justifiable homicide outside a Gainesville bar. According to police, he pulled a knife on a man with a concealed-carry permit after attempting to pick up the guy’s girlfriend. There would be a fistfight at Jerry’s funeral—a fitting tribute to the man.

  “Anything else on?” Charlie asked, hoping for a Braves game.

  “Rasslin, maybe,” Jerry said.

  “Oh no,” Charlie said quickly, waving his hands emphatically. “Believe me. Racing’s fine.”

  That’s when Charlie saw Momo for the first time. Susan’s gargantuan cousin came through the front door into the living room, shaking the floor with each step. As tall as Charlie, Momo outweighed him by more than a hundred pounds; a mop of brown hair sat atop his pumpkin-sized head. He scowled at Jerry, ignoring Charlie. “Rasslin’s on. Why ain’t you watchin’?” Momo switched channels.

  “Hey, asshole,” Jerry said.

  “Fuck you,” Momo retorted. “If rasslin’s on, rasslin’s on. House rules.”

  Charlie winced and glanced at his watch. How much longer did he have to stay before he could leave? Momo checked all the channels but couldn’t find Hulk Hogan or Rowdy Roddy Piper. He grunted in disgust and turned off the TV.

  “Turn the race back on, asshole,” Jerry said.

  Momo turned to stare at him. “Don’t make me go out to my truck.”

  “Hell,” Jerry said. “Don’t make me go out to mine.”

  Charlie felt like he was watching a battle between bad and evil. “Guys,” he said.

  Momo looked at him, apparently noticing him for the first time. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “He married Susan,” Jerry said. “You missed the wedding because you were in jail for stalkin’ that girl.” (Momo’s mother referred to this as a “failed romance.”)

  Momo gave Charlie a once-over with close-set eyes and grunted, “You lucky.” He stomped off, mumbling about the lack of pro wrestling in the world. Charlie shuddered. The guy reminded him of the villain in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

  Right after he washed down his lemon meringue pie with sweet tea, Charlie saw a performance of what Bradley Roy liked to call “the longest-running soap opera in Forsyth County.” Momo had returned to the living room, and Charlie felt himself getting pushed out by the toxic aura of the man, who made Jerry look like a college professor in comparison. Charlie was standing in the wide passage between the kitchen and living room of the modest home when the older folks’ conversation seized his attention.

  “They can put me in the poorhouse, for all I care,” declared Pappy, wearing faded Lee overalls and a blue chambray work shirt. Wizened, with grayish-white hair, the seventy-three-year-old man stood
at the head of the table, holding court over bowls of potato salad, bags of chips, ketchup, mustard, napkins, and a platter half-full of grilled burgers and hot dogs. On his left sat his only son, Stanley, dressed in white slacks and a pale blue polo shirt, who was running for a second term in the Georgia House of Representatives, having wrested the seat from a Democrat in 1984. On Pappy’s right sat his daughters Evangeline Powell and Marie Hastings, who was nicknamed Tantie Marie. Both wore polyester slacks and sleeveless blouses. Stanley’s wife Liz was outside, smoking a cigarette.

  “What about the land?” Tantie Marie cried out.

  “They can have it,” Pappy said, waving his hand. “I ain’t got no use for it. I quit farmin’, if ya ain’t noticed.”

  His children vehemently shook their heads in unison.

  “What about the house?” Tantie Marie’s tone grew even more anxious. She shared a mobile home with her son Momo, and Charlie could imagine the trailer rocking from side to side whenever the big guy got up to get a beer (although he wasn’t allowed to drink while on probation).

  “They can take the house, too,” Pappy declared. Meanwhile, Gram, Pappy’s hatchet-faced wife, washed dishes, apparently ignoring the discussion over the fate of her home.

  “Nobody’s taking the house,” Stanley said.

  “Can’t you fix the taxes?” Tantie Marie asked her brother.

  “Fix them?”

  “Talk to the tax commissioner so we don’t have to pay. That’s what politicians do, right?”

  Bradley Roy, passing through the kitchen to get a piece of apple pie, grunted in disgust.

  Stanley shook his head. “That’s not the way things work. We’ll cover it this year,” he declared, then glanced at Evangeline and nodded toward her purse. “Anyway, I already got them to appraise it low. I don’t know how long it will be before Bill Arnold notices.”

  “I’ll have to owe you for my share,” Tantie Marie said.

  Stanley reached over and patted her hand. “I know it’s been hard since Big Rhett left.”

  Charlie turned his head toward Jerry, who was laying on the sofa, and asked, “Who’s Big Rhett?”

  Jerry answered without taking his eyes off the TV. “Momo’s daddy. Momo is Little Rhett.”

  Momo grunted at the mention of his name, but kept his eyes glued to the TV, apparently mesmerized by the shiny cars racing around the track. “When did he leave?” Charlie asked.

  “I don’t know. Momo, when did the Forsyth County Courthouse burn down?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Momo grumbled.

  “Nineteen seventy-three,” said Bradley Roy, now standing across from Charlie, still working on dessert. “And they never proved anything,” he added, stabbing his fork in the air for emphasis.

  “’Cept that Cutchins women are hard to live with,” Jerry said, letting out a derisive chuckle.

  Charlie was curious, but he didn’t want Momo’s full attention, so he dropped the subject and turned back to the kitchen-table discussion. Evangeline was shaking her head vehemently as she scolded her father: “I don’t know why you have to put us through this every year.”

  Pappy glared at her. She reached for her purse and pulled out her checkbook. “That don’t work on me,” she said. “You want the money or not? You don’t have anything to say to that, do you? Just as I thought.” Evangeline started writing. “What’s my share plus half of hers?” Evangeline waved the back of her hand at Tantie Marie like she’d forgotten her sister’s name. Stanley gave her a number. Evangeline fluttered the check over the potato salad and placed it in front of her father. “I made it to the tax commissioner, so don’t get any ideas. Sure you want it?” Pappy said nothing. Whatever he was thinking was locked away behind those smoldering eyes.

  “Go on and tear it up if you don’t want it, then,” Evangeline said. “Just go on.” The check remained undisturbed. “I thought so. I’m tired of this poor-mouth nonsense. You gonna say, ‘Thank you, Evangeline, for helping me keep my land?’ I thought not. Come on, Bradley Roy. Let’s go.” She rose and stormed off in dramatic fashion. Bradley Roy took his time finishing his pie, holding the plate close to his face.

  A minute passed before Gram hollered from the kitchen. “Vange is out there yelling for everyone to come out and say ’bye to her.”

  Bradley Roy sauntered over to the trash can and threw away his paper plate, then took his time saying farewell to everyone. On his way out, he turned, winked at Charlie, and said, “Now you know.”

  “Know what?” asked Susan, returning from a back room heart-to-heart with her sister, Sheila, during which Jerry’s sins would have been freshly cataloged.

  Bradley Roy kissed his younger daughter on the cheek. “Everything and nothing. Best come out and say goodbye to your momma. Sheila!” he shouted toward the back of the house. “Vange is in a snit and she needs you to say ’bye to her. You know how she is.” He turned to Charlie. “She holds grudges.”

  “I know. She’s still mad about our wedding.”

  “Hell, boy,” Bradley Roy said with a grin, “she’s still mad at me about ours! As for you, she ain’t ready to admit you exist. Give her a few years … she’ll come around.”

  Charlie noticed that his father-in-law sounded uncertain about that last part.

  On the long drive home, Charlie told Susan, “Your grandfather is right unfriendly. I’m not sure he even said hello. He just grunted when I came up to shake his hand.”

  “He and Gram are mad we didn’t have the wedding up here.”

  “Why should they care?”

  “They care.” She shrugged and looked out the window.

  “I heard something about your uncle and a courthouse fire.”

  “Just a rumor. I’ve heard it, too.”

  “Well, what’s the rumor?”

  She sighed and shook her head. “Supposedly, Uncle Rhett burned down the courthouse and left town. No one’s heard from him since.”

  “Why’d he supposedly do it?”

  “Don’t know. Love. Money. Take your pick.”

  “Love? Funny way of showing it.”

  “Well, it wasn’t for Tantie Marie.”

  Now it was Charlie’s turn to shake his head. A few seconds later, he had an epiphany. “They’re varmints,” he declared. “I married into a family of varmints.”

  “Don’t call them that,” Susan said. “And especially don’t call me that.”

  But the name stuck, at least with him. Pappy’s place became Varmintville.

  That afternoon, Susan told Charlie things she’d kept to herself until then—the sort of family secrets no sensible person lets their spouse know until after the marriage has been consummated. Thus Charlie learned Pappy’s story—part of it, at least.

  In the 1960s, Pappy and Gram moved into a new Jim Walter home that replaced the cracker box and outhouse that the family had endured for decades. When Pappy turned sixty-five, he quit farming, sold his equipment, and told his children to pay his property taxes if they wanted to inherit the farm—those he still talked to, anyway.

  Missing from family discussions was Pappy and Gram’s eldest child, a daughter who’d run away when she was a teenager. “I saw Aunt Shirley once, at Lenox Square when I was seven years old,” Susan told her husband during that ride. “I was with Mom and Sheila. Mom said, ‘Lookie, girls, there goes your Aunt Shirley.’ When the woman saw us, she turned and walked away. Mom didn’t follow. Instead, she dragged us into a dress shop, like she was afraid of her sister. I craned my neck to watch the woman. I only saw her a few seconds before she disappeared. I heard she didn’t marry but changed her name anyway. Don’t know why.”

  That night, back in Macon, Susan refused his advances in bed. Eventually, Charlie learned to insist on “sex before varmints.” If he had to go to Forsyth County, he would at least start out contented, since these trips never seemed to have a happy ending.

  * * *

  Charlie, fascinated by Aunt Shirley, had missed his chance to meet her afte
r Gram died in November 1986—two months after Jerry Bancroft’s brawl-marred burial (which left Sheila having to play the dual role of bereaved widow and referee). Charlie and Susan, having just recently moved to Atlanta, misjudged the drive time to Cumming, so they were running late that day. When they arrived at Haynes Funeral Home, Shirley had been gone ten minutes, but people were still yelling and crying about what she’d done while there.

  According to Bradley Roy, Gram was laid out in her casket looking pretty, and her friends, neighbors, and relatives were waiting for the memorial service to begin when in stormed Shirley wearing a white dress. She went up to the casket, hocked a loogie, and spat on her mother’s face. Stanley grabbed Shirley’s arm and ordered her to clean off the spit. She snarled, “Get your damn hand off me, or you’ll be dead before you hit the floor.”

  Shirley struggled to open her purse with her free hand, and Bradley Roy saw a pistol butt. “Let her go, Stanley,” he said. “She just wants to leave. Don’t you, Shirley?”

  “I do,” she said. “Soon as this bastard gets his damn hands off me.”

  “You’re gonna have to answer to God Almighty for this,” Stanley said.

  “I will,” she snapped. “But He got to answer to me first.”

  Shirley spun out of Stanley’s grip and headed toward Pappy, who had remained seated by the wall throughout the fracas. She gave him a twisted, scary smile, wagged a finger in his face, and snarled, “You better hope you live forever, old man, because when you die, you’ll burn in hell.” Pappy stared past her like she wasn’t there, and she left as quickly as she’d come.

  So said Bradley Roy, which made it the absolute truth, so far as Charlie was concerned. Unfortunately, Bradley Roy couldn’t tell his son-in-law what Gram’s sin had been, and Charlie had wondered about it ever since.

  After his wife’s death, Pappy’s life didn’t change much. He watched rasslin and sat on the front porch chewing the tobacco Momo brought by when he wasn’t in jail. Every year, Pappy repeated his set piece on taxes. Stanley and Evangeline ponied up their portions and loaned Tantie Marie her share at ten percent interest, the maximum allowed by the Bible, to be repaid when Pappy passed on to his reward and the farm became theirs, all theirs, to sell as quickly and for as much as possible. Pappy listened with characteristic ill humor to the flattery of kinfolk who came to visit, Charlie suspected, not for love, but for land.