Brambleman Page 14

  “I don’t know. If I did, I thought it was you. You keep the door closed,” she said as she looked around. “They took the computer, didn’t they? Oh, dear.”

  “They took everything. The manuscript. His notes. Files.” He nodded toward the cabinet to signify the loss, the full consequences of which were still sinking in.

  “They stole the book?” Tears welled in her eyes. “This is horrible! Who did it?”

  She started toward the sofa, which was covered with shards of glass. Charlie grabbed her arm and steered her toward the desk. She slumped into the office chair.

  “Someone who doesn’t want the book published.” He drummed his fingers on the desktop.

  “We’re ruined.” Kathleen buried her face in her hands.

  “No. I’ve got a manuscript file on my laptop. And I parked one on an e-mail server. It’s just—”

  “You can still do it?” She looked up hopefully as tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Yeah.” He paused. “Yeah,” he said again, to convince himself. He knew it wouldn’t be easy. The situation was terrible, actually. The trump cards—the property records he’d never bothered to look at, let alone make copies of—were gone. Oops. Big oops. Irreversible, unrecoverable error. Maybe fatal. Blue screen of death. He shook his head and shivered. “Check and see if anything else is missing,” he told her.

  She got up, screeching the chair on the wooden floor, and padded off. As he picked up slivers of glass, he noticed that the bloody contract was undisturbed. Then, as he clinked the glass fragments carelessly into the trash can, he sliced his left middle finger. He retreated to the hall bathroom and found a Band-aid in the medicine cabinet.

  “It’s going to be OK,” he told the defeated face in the mirror as he held up his bandaged finger. Sure, it would be difficult to check all the footnotes now, and he’d have to remark the text. But he understood the story. And the fact that evildoers wanted to thwart him—that should stoke his determination even more, right?

  No. It was no use. He couldn’t talk himself out of the despair he was feeling.

  Kathleen peered into the bathroom. “I think they took the salt and pepper shakers,” she declared. “I’m going to sit down.”

  He followed her into the living room and noticed she was trembling. “They can’t stand for the truth to be told,” she said. “That’s what brought this on. I think it was the Klan.”

  “Or maybe someone whose granddaddy stole some land.”

  Charlie grabbed the phone book and thumbed through the pages until he found it: Thurwood Talton on Bayard Terrace. “You’re easy to find.”

  “I never had the listing changed. Just because … just never did.” She thought for a moment, then said, “This is a hate crime. We need to call the police. Maybe the FBI. Even though I never cared much for that J. Edgar Whosis who used to run it. He was in bed with the Mafia.”

  “He was in bed with a lot of men,” Charlie said. “But as for calling the law … no cops.”

  “We should at least call that reporter.”

  A plan was hatching in his fevered brain. “Uh … no. Can’t do that. If Crenshaw found out the records are gone, it would make Flight from Forsyth seem like damaged goods.”

  “What should we do, then?”

  “Fix the window. Get back to work. And don’t tell anyone about it.” He pressed a finger to his lips. She looked at him like he was crazy. He shrugged. “The damage is done. I’m sure they’ve already destroyed the stuff they took.”

  He wished he’d returned the desktop computer to Thornbriar as soon as he’d bought the laptop. Now he’d have to buy another PC for Susan and kids.

  Kathleen picked up the phone.

  “Uh,” Charlie said. “Who are you calling?”

  “Angela, to see if she has a copy of the manuscript.”

  “No. We don’t need it, and she doesn’t need to know.”

  “Phone’s dead,” she said, staring blankly at the receiver.

  Charlie groaned. He grabbed a flashlight from the pantry and went outside to find that the phone line had been cut at the box. He looked around the other side of the house and found two sets of shoe prints in the mud by the study window. One pair was sunk deep in the mud beside the screen, which had been taken off and cast aside. Charlie shuddered to think what could have happened to Kathleen, especially now that she was back to being powerless. Would have been nice if she’d woken up and put a smite on their evildoing asses.

  Working in the dark on a rickety stepladder, Charlie patched the window with an old sheet of plywood from the basement. By the time he finished, he could see his breath even as he wiped sweat off his forehead.

  He returned to the study feeling a frenzied urge to get back to work, but the room was so ugly and cold he couldn’t stay there. He also felt violated. His space had been invaded—his work and thoughts had been stolen. Pissed on, crunched by jackboots. Raped. He walked into the kitchen and slumped at the table.

  When he’d composed himself, he used his cellphone to report the service outage.

  Kathleen sat down across from him and said, “This is a horrible thing.” A moment passed. “You’re sure we can keep going?” Another moment slid by. “I need to hear something positive, Charles.”

  He lifted his head to meet her gaze. He felt like he was a boxer, bloodied, rising off the canvas, not sure what had hit him, what round it was, or how long the bout was supposed to last. And all he had now was a puncher’s chance, if he could keep going. “Yes.”

  She gave him a nervous little laugh. “We’ve got people frightened, don’t we? We’ll get it done just to spite them. Anyway, I’m too old to be afraid.” She leaned forward and swatted his leg. “Back to work.”

  She retreated to her bedroom. The study was still cold, so he stayed in the living room, lying on his belly as he worked on his laptop by the fire. But he was too frazzled to do anything. The good professor’s words had blurred together in a meaningless clump on the computer screen. Wanting to do something, Charlie retyped the title page, adding his name as editor. Then he replaced Talton’s artless epigraph with a Biblical passage that had been uttered by a black preacher after his church just north of Cumming had been burned to the ground: “I the LORD thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me …”

  Charlie hoped this was true. He could use some Old Testament justice on his side.

  He gave up on the day and went downstairs. He looked around the dungeon and, feeling his dark little world closing in on him, buried his face in his hands. Then he remembered the rat traps. Soon, the stench of death would be his only companion. He grabbed a plastic bag and his flashlight and went into the shadows to search, but found neither vermin nor traps. He staggered back to the cot and collapsed on it, overcome with a sudden fear that he had killed not a rat, but Trouble, and thereby put a curse on himself. That would explain so much.

  * * *

  Charlie lay on his cot until noon. When he brought the laptop out of hibernation, he saw the ghastly title of Talton’s first chapter: Geologic/Economic Imperatives and Propensities. No question: Flight from Forsyth sucked, he was lost, and villains grew fat on stolen breadcrumbs.

  “Are you all right?” Kathleen asked him when he trudged upstairs. “Have you been drinking?”

  “No, it’s just hard to get moving today.” He stood and stared at the wall as he drank cold black coffee.

  “Could you call someone to fix the window?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh. I have a friend that could use your help. She bought some ceiling fans.”

  The idea of doing something other than working on Talton’s manuscript appealed to Charlie, so he called the woman, who knew someone else who wanted some painting done. Before he knew it, he had several days’ work lined up. The idea of making a living as a handyman appealed to him, and he considered giving up on Talton’s turd and returning Kathleen’s advance.
The contract was a joke, anyway. A bad one.

  After calling a glass installer, Charlie went to the Y, where the scales said he’d lost ten pounds since Christmas. At least something was going right.

  On the way to pick up the kids at Gresham Elementary, he stopped by Office Depot and ordered business cards to advertise the services of “Charlie the Handyman.” After Beck and Ben were settled in at Thornbriar, he loaded his van with tools.

  Late that afternoon, he noticed the answering machine’s blinking light. He played the message and was shocked to hear that someone named Joshua Furst, an editor with Fortress Publishing in New York, had found his home phone number and wanted to talk to him about his “Forsyth saga.”

  Just as Charlie pulled his cellphone out of his pocket to return the call, the kids exchanged blows. “Stop it!” Charlie shouted, clicking shut the phone. “Time-outs for everyone!”

  Returning the call would have to wait until he was safe from sabotage.

  When Susan got home she was friendly, even flirtatious, which made Charlie trust her even less. Then he realized he’d misread her. She simply wanted to talk about her job, or more specifically, complain. Just like old times. At least she wasn’t griping about him this time.

  During dinner, Susan and the kids demanded that he return the computer he’d taken back in December—which wasn’t possible now that it had been stolen. He wasn’t going to admit that, however. After ten minutes, they wore down his resistance. “All right, all right. I’ll get you another one,” he said.

  “I want the old one back,” Beck said.

  “Uh—”

  “You pawned it, didn’t you?” Susan said. “I knew it!”

  “No, I didn’t. Don’t worry. I’ll get you a better one.”

  “When?” Susan said, calling his bluff.

  “Now!” He jumped up and stomped toward the door.

  “And you’re paying for it!” Susan shouted after him.

  * * *

  Wednesday, Charlie earned $150 installing three ceiling fans. He called Joshua Furst’s number but got voicemail, so he left a message. That night, Kathleen told Charlie it would cost $150 to repair the study window and suggested that the repair was his responsibility. Since she looked ready to smite someone, Charlie ducked out and went to the coffeehouse. For the record, he didn’t care who God or Bad Kathleen thought should pay for the window, he was keeping his handyman money.

  Late that evening, he went through the motions of working on the manuscript, but he could only look at the damned thing a few minutes before it repulsed him.

  Thursday, Charlie painted bedroom ceilings in a house three blocks away from Bayard Terrace. As a consequence, he was late picking up the kids. For the second day in a row, Beck and Ben were the only children left in their respective classrooms. His apologies were abject; the teachers’ smiles were strained. Charlie knew he was pushing it, but what could he say? He had a job.

  Friday, Charlie was painting walls. Mrs. Wetherbee’s TV was blaring in the living room, so he didn’t hear his cellphone at first. When he realized it was ringing, he nearly kicked over a can of yellow paint in his haste to take the call. “Charlie Sherman here.”

  “Mr. Sherman, Joshua Furst. You’re a hard man to get hold of.”

  “Uh … sorry. I’ve been busy.” Charlie was perplexed, since he’d been anxiously awaiting this call.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the Forsyth book.”

  “How did you hear about it?”

  “One of our authors lives in Atlanta. Arden Davis. She marched in Forsyth in the eighties. Anyway, she e-mailed me an article about you along with your phone number. Were there really twenty thousand people there that day?”

  “Not counting the Klansmen.”

  Joshua laughed. “It’s a great idea for a book. Can you tell me more about it? You’re finishing a professor’s work, right?”

  Charlie explained what he was doing, or rather, what he should have been doing.

  “How soon can you send me three chapters, along with an outline?” the editor asked. “Let me have an exclusive look at it, and I’ll get back to you in four weeks. I’m looking forward to seeing it.”

  “OK. I’ll get it in the mail to you.” Even as he said this, Charlie wondered how long it would take to make Talton’s prose presentable.

  * * *

  Saturday morning, Kathleen expressed shock and outrage that Charlie was charging her friends to paint rooms and install ceiling fans. “You don’t need the money,” she told him as he drank coffee and ate toast she’d paid for. “Your job is to edit Thurwood’s book, which you’re not doing. You should be sending something to that editor you told me about.”

  “I assure you I do need the money. I’ve got a family and bills to pay. It’s always tight this time of year, and I have to help with the mortgage. Don’t worry. I can do both jobs.”

  “I’m paying too much. I don’t plan to give you all my money.” She shook a finger at him. “Virginia Wetherbee said you’re charging four hundred dollars for painting two small rooms.”

  “That’s a bargain.”

  “She could have hired a painter.”

  “She did hire a painter!” Charlie said in exasperation. “Hey. Did you take your meds?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with it.”

  “Take your meds.”

  “It’s not your business.”

  “Angela said it was.”

  Mentioning her daughter put Kathleen in a foul mood but also forced her to act. After pouting for a while, she got some bottles from the kitchen counter. Charlie watched her take her medication to make sure she didn’t palm the pills—a favorite trick of hers, according to Angela. As soon as he turned his head, he heard the garbage can’s lid go up.

  “Kathleen!” he yelled. “Did you just throw away your meds?”

  “Of course not. And I’m not taking them twice!” she yelled back. “Do you want to kill me?”

  * * *

  Charlie finished his painting job Saturday shortly after dusk. With his paycheck safely tucked in his wallet, he slipped in the dungeon’s back door. After cleaning up using gritty mechanic’s soap, he put on clean clothes and went upstairs, where he found Kathleen kneeling in the living room by the fireplace. The lights were off and a dozen candles burned brightly on the mantel, their light reflected in the mirror above it. Photos of Thurwood were all over the room: standing on the floor, lying on the couch, sitting on the coffee table—dozens in all. Kathleen wore a baggy old black cardigan sweater. Her faraway eyes danced in the firelight. Was she holding a séance? “Kathleen.”

  She snapped out of her reverie. “Where have you been all day?”

  “Painting Mrs. Wetherbee’s bedroom. I finished.”

  She looked around and laughed. “You must think I’m silly.”

  “No.” Silly wasn’t the word he was thinking of.

  “I wanted to spend some time with Thurwood. He died twenty years ago this month. We were married forty years.” She sighed. “Sixty, now. I miss him every day.”

  “I understand.”

  “Sit down,” she said. “Talk to me for a while.”

  Charlie glanced at his watch, then looked around. “Where can I sit?”

  “I’ll make a spot.” She picked up photos from the couch and placed them on the coffee table. When they sat down, she held both his hands. “Thurwood wants you to get back to work on the book. He knows you’re having trouble, but it’s going to be OK.”

  Charlie grinned. “You talked to him, did you?”

  “No, of course not. I can’t speak to the dead … he spoke to me. In my dream.”

  “Oh.” That’s different.

  “He said there aren’t any major problems with his book.”

  Charlie shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. Look, I need some time to myself.”

  “You have more time to yourself than is good for a person. If that’s what you are. I think sometimes that you
come from a far place, from—”

  “You’re getting me confused with the guy I came in with.” The one I killed with the rat trap.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Look, I’ll work on it in the morning. I gotta go.”

  He left to eat dinner and hang out at the coffeehouse. When he returned at midnight, the house was dark. He slipped in the dungeon door and climbed into his sleeping bag. After a few minutes of tossing, turning, and fretting, he fell asleep.

  * * *

  The sun was shining and sweat beaded his forehead when he saw her in the distance, walking along the cornfield fence. She wore a white dress and a red ribbon in her curly shoulder-length auburn hair. As he stumbled clumsily along the fence row, he realized she was the rich girl. Her daddy owned several hundred acres of bottomland. “Martha Jean!” The name came easily to his lips. She turned toward him. Even at a distance, he could see her eyes twinkling. She was pretty. “Wait up!”

  She kept moving. He persisted, even though something was wrong with his foot. He huffed like an old man as he shambled up to her.

  “Daddy kill you if he see you runnin’ after me.” Her hard tone belied her soft features.

  “I gots to tell you. Doan go down to the crick today.”

  “What do you mean?” She wrinkled her nose. “You stink.”

  “It ain’t safe down there,” he panted.

  “It ain’t been rainin’. The snakes won’t be out.”

  “Not snakes. It’s …” He couldn’t remember what to warn her about.

  “It’s what?” she asked.

  His thoughts, already dim, grew darker. “Nuthin’.”

  “Say ‘ma’am,’ you stupid nigger. Leave me before you get in trouble.”

  He looked around fearfully, then relaxed. There wouldn’t be no trouble except what she caused. “Doan—” He could feel the anger rising, and there was no use in talking. Words never did him much good, anyhow. He stood and watched as she turned and sauntered down the path, swaying her hips. He felt confused. A terrible urge rumbled through him and stuck down there, chasing away all fear. It wasn’t right she should put him in trouble just because she was a white girl. There was that other thing, too. He could tell she needed it.