Brambleman Read online

  “Are you still mad at Mommy? I think she’s mad at you.”

  “Mommy and I have problems.”

  “She says you did something bad, but she won’t tell me what. What did you do?”

  “Nothing. Really. Nothing. Look, you need to sleep.”

  She propped herself on an elbow and gazed steadily into his eyes. “Are you going to leave us?”

  “Sweetie, I will never leave you.” He poked her gently in the chest. “Even if I go somewhere, I will always come back.”

  “I don’t want you to go. Christina’s daddy left. He has a cellphone but he’s never anywhere.”

  “Don’t you worry, sweetie. Now get some sleep.”

  “Sing the Bramble song.” Her favorite as well as Ben’s, even though it was one of the odder offerings in Mother Goose.

  After he finished singing, they kissed and hugged and said good night, even though it was morning.

  Charlie pulled a blue-and-gray quilt from the hall closet and bedded down on the family room sofa. He’d tried sleeping in exile back in July, when Susan cut him off, but he’d found that not having sex in a queen-sized bed was preferable to not having sex on the couch. (For the record, Charlie considered it perverse on his wife’s part to first deprive him sexually, then complain when he looked at porn.)

  Sirius padded in and lay down beside him. As Charlie drifted off to sleep, he thought that maybe, just maybe, Susan would come to him and tug his sleeve, like she used to. Then everything would be all right, and he could laugh with his woman on the way to the bedroom and tell her, “The strangest thing happened last night …”

  But this was not to be.

  * * *

  Susan, picking up where she left off—mercifully, without two cops to shout between this time—stood over Charlie in her frayed pink bathrobe, hair pulled back in a ponytail, face worry-worn. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” she said. “You need psychiatric help.”

  “Good morning to you, too.” He looked at her groggily and came up on his elbows. “Is that what you told the police?”

  “I didn’t call them. Beck did.”

  “I know. She told me. That wasn’t the question.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I’m not pressing charges, you’ll be happy to know.”

  He grimaced in distaste. “For what?”

  “The officer said there wasn’t room in the Georgia Dome to hold everybody who had porn on their computer. They said they’d have to build a hundred new prisons.”

  “That’s because it’s normal.” He swung his feet to the floor and sat up.

  “It’s not normal. It’s sick. Depraved. Especially that stuff. It should be illegal.”

  “What, interracial?” He shook his head in disgust, grasping at that rare opportunity to simultaneously appear morally superior and in favor of porn.

  “That woman was being abused. That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “I stumbled across it when I was working on an article about a racist, that’s all.”

  She laughed in his face. “Yeah, right. That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.”

  “Don’t want to argue about it anymore. But I have a right to know what you told the police.”

  “There is an incident number. They made a report.”

  “Do you think that’s a big deal? You act like that makes me some kind of criminal. Wait a minute. What exactly did you tell them?”

  “I don’t know that they wrote down everything.” A classic Cutchins response.

  Once sassy, now shrewish. “What might they have written that would come back and bite me on the ass?” Charlie asked.

  She plopped down on the coffee table, took a deep breath, and put her hands on her knees as if to say, Where do I begin?

  “Do I have to guess?” he asked. “I heard you say I knocked you down.”

  “Then you already know.”

  “I was trying to get by you and you shoved me. I didn’t knock you down. I brushed past you. I was just trying to get away from your yelling.”

  “I hit the wall hard. You could have hurt me.” She gave a little pout. “You didn’t care.” The briefest of pauses, then: “I told them you were mentally ill and violent, all right? Holding that hammer that way.”

  “What way? Come on, cut the shit. You were the one acting crazy. So why are you out here now, other than to continue hostilities?”

  “I just can’t accept the way things are with you anymore.”

  “Amen to that. As far as I’m concerned, our marriage is over. Actually, it was over on the Fourth of July.”

  “Right,” she snarled. “The Confederate flag ruined our marriage.”

  Actually, he thought it had. “Well, I—”

  “There was a lot of patching up to do, in case you didn’t know. Oh, that’s right, you were too busy calling everybody names to notice.”

  “They almost had to patch me up.”

  “Pappy did not shoot at you. Quit claiming he did.”

  Pappy, also known as Isaac “Ike” Cutchins, was Susan’s maternal grandfather and patriarch of her clan. Although well into his nineties, Pappy kept a loaded shotgun in his house, and he was still at least semi-adept at using it, as Charlie had seen firsthand.

  Charlie took a deep breath. “You humiliated me in front of your family, and you were on the wrong side of a moral issue. You did everything you could to make me feel like shit about it, even freezing me out in the bedroom. That’s worse than porn. It’s as bad as an affair, in my book.”

  “What book?”

  “Cheap shot.”

  “You’ve been writing for six years with nothing to show for it. And it’s not my fault we haven’t slept together.”

  “You want me to leave.”

  “Like that’s going to happen,” she said with a sneer. “Where would you go? You don’t have any family. You tried to leave last night, and guess what? You’re back.” She sang the last word.

  “You win,” he declared and stood up, holding up his hands in surrender.

  She paced back to the master bedroom. He staggered into the kitchen to make coffee. Sunshine flooded the window above the sink, bathing his face in light. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, feeling weary, but also clever and lucky. Rarely does a guy get a chance to snap off his life so cleanly, with a twist.

  Contradicting him, Beck appeared in her white bathrobe, yawning, stumbling, and stretching her arms, her hair tousled and tangled. “You shouldn’t fight,” she said.

  Ben followed in his red pajamas. “’Bout what?” he asked as he sat down.

  “They fought last night and Daddy left and then he came back but they’re still fighting.”

  “Over what?”

  “I don’t know. Daddy did something bad.”

  Ben was mainly curious. “What bad?”

  “It wasn’t anything,” Charlie said.

  “They were being stupid and hateful,” Beck explained.

  The kids wolfed down Corn Pops and dashed off to play with those Christmas toys not yet damaged or destroyed. Susan returned, still in her robe, and plopped down across from Charlie as he sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee.

  “How many orgasms a day you up to? Sheila said men only use that stuff to masturbate.”

  Charlie didn’t want to be reminded of Susan’s older sister, whose second husband, Phil, had barely survived the recent raccoon attack. Two months previously, Sheila had arrived at Thornbriar “to calm things down” with a Glock pistol grip sticking out of her purse. After she refused Charlie’s request to head back to Forsyth and mind her own business (and Susan backed her right to bear arms in his house), Charlie temporarily vacated the premises. When he returned after midnight, Sheila was still there, waiting up, playing the part of Susan’s guard dog. She left at dawn—only after Phil called to demand that she come home and pick him up some breakfast on the way. “Your childless sister, the expert on male sexuality.”

  “Don’t even go there. What happene
d with Jerry wasn’t her fault.”

  That much was true. Nothing involving Sheila’s first husband had ever been anyone else’s fault, including his violent death. (He needed killing, as it turned out.)

  “In answer to your question, eight,” he said brightly.

  “Ick.”

  “On school days. On weekends it’s none. As you well know.”

  “Hard to believe it’s humanly possible.”

  “As we both know, I’m not human.”

  “At last something we can agree on.” She paused. “Just to let you know, I’m not paying for pornography.”

  He held up his hands. “Fight’s over. I’m moving out.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “The hell I do,” Charlie said. “This morning, in fact. I got a job and a place to stay.”

  “You got a job in the middle of the night, dressed like a … I don’t know what.” She sniffed and squinched her face, no doubt catching a whiff of Trouble. “Did you sleep in a Dumpster?’

  “The job’s been waiting for me. I’ve already been paid.”

  “You’ve got a job and a place to stay and you’ve already been paid?” Susan put her hand to her forehead as if she would faint.

  Charlie retrieved the checkbook, along with some bills. Susan watched in disbelief as he paid the mortgage and Visa bill—more than the minimum, less than the balance. He figured that left him enough to live on for a month, if he was frugal. “Don’t mail these yet. I haven’t made the deposit.”

  “Could I see the check?” she asked.

  He showed it to her. It was drawn on an account at TransNationBank—her employer. “I don’t get it. Who’s Kathleen Talton, and what is it for?”

  “I’m editing a man’s book.”

  “Is that like a men’s magazine?”

  “No, but thanks for playing. His widow is paying me to fix it up and get it published.”

  “Where are you going to live?”

  He pointed to the address on the check. “There, in a basement apartment, while I’m working on the book. Live cheap or die. That’s my new motto.”

  “There’s something majorly screwy about this.” Susan bit her lip. “I’m sorry you feel you have to leave. Must be nice to think you can.”

  Not the apology he was looking for. Too much cheek, not enough knee. “I’ll still take care of the kids,” he said. “Pick them up, bring them here, fix dinner, leave. How ’bout it?”

  She gave him a harsh glare, worthy of her grandfather. “And live in another woman’s house?”

  He made a face. How could she think such a thing? “She’s like eighty years old.”

  “And you’re being paid over two grand for one night’s work.” She gave him a wicked sneer.

  He left the insinuation hanging. Yeah, I’m that good, but what would you know?

  “If you leave, you’re not coming back,” she added.

  “Let’s tell the kids that, then.”

  She looked down. “OK. Maybe you’re right. But I don’t see how you’ll make this work.”

  “What I’m doing shouldn’t come as a shock, you know.”

  “I know.” She got up and withdrew to the living room.

  “Let’s call it a trial separation,” he called out after her. “I’ll come back for the van.”

  A while later, Charlie broke the news to the kids, telling them he’d see them every day after school. During his tortured explanation of the new arrangement, Beck turned to Ben and said, “Daddy’s got a job now. When daddies have jobs, they have to go. Melissa’s dad is gone all the time.”

  That was a better explanation than Charlie could give, so he left it at that. He just wanted a quiet exit—or a last-minute, heartfelt plea from Susan to stay. Contrition was not forthcoming, however, so he kept packing. A couple of duffel bags, three boxes, his bike, and his computer and printer—the basics to begin a new life. As he was leaving, he saw Susan staring into the bedroom mirror, pushing up her hair in a new style. Considering her prospects, no doubt. Perhaps now her prince would come. He decided not to disturb her.

  Chapter Three

  Charlie returned to Bayard Terrace and began hauling in his gear. Kathleen stood in the doorway, her face a mask of incredulity, her voice rising in pitch as she spoke. “You’re staying here?”

  “Yes,” he said, brushing past her with his printer. “That’s the arrangement, right?”

  She spoke to the back of his head. “You don’t have anywhere else to live?”

  He turned to face her, his expression troubled. “Not now I don’t. I thought we had a deal.” He paused to consider his options. “I suppose I could make a Xerox of the manuscript—”

  “Oh, no. That’s the only one. It’s not leaving this house.”

  “Not even to make a copy?”

  “Especially not to make a copy.”

  Her position, though daft, served Charlie’s purposes, so he pressed on, taking the printer into the study. She followed, complaining, “I don’t like how this is going. I gave you money and you haven’t done anything except drive my car around, without me in it.”

  “Well, you’d better make up your mind.”

  She followed him back outside. Charlie took his yellow mountain bike off the car carrier and leaned against it. “Look, Mrs. Talton, I’m going to get some coffee. When I come back, you can tell me what you’ve decided. I’ll return your money if you want. But if you give me a chance, I’ll do a good job.”

  “Can you get it published?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Charlie said blithely, ignoring his own concerns about the project. “No problem.”

  When he hopped on his bike he realized he’d left his helmet at Thornbriar. No matter. It seemed like he’d already suffered a major head injury, anyway. The cold air turned his cheeks red as he rolled down Bayard Terrace to its dead end and pedaled to Bay Street Coffeehouse, located in a small set of shops across an alley from the neighborhood post office. He leaned his bike against a brick wall. When he opened the door, a bell tinkled. It was a welcoming place, furnished with old couches and mismatched chairs. Local artists’ paintings hung on the walls, and the place was crowded with leisurely Saturday-morning sippers.

  At the counter, he ordered a large house blend from a strangely attractive, short-haired, tattooed and pierced woman of indeterminate age. Nearly as big as he was, she wore a black T-shirt with the words AMAZON WOMAN across her ample chest. He gave her two dollars and said, “Keep the change.”

  “I’d love to,” the barista said with an engaging smile, “But it’s two-fifty.”

  “Oh.” Even more red-faced, Charlie pulled out another bill. He sat on an old wooden chair at a square table by the door and drank his coffee black, brooding over his unraveling plan. He’d been saved from a terrible fate for some reason, but now his opportunity for a new life was slipping away. If he failed … what was the saying? An apple never falls far from its bridge. Something like that, anyway.

  When he finished his coffee, Charlie pedaled up the hill and hauled his bike onto the porch. Kathleen opened the door with a smile bright as sunshine. “Good, you’re back! Everything’s set.”

  Catching a whiff of Trouble, Charlie eyed her suspiciously.

  “He brought the contract,” she said. “Just left. Come in and look it over.”

  Charlie entered, fighting an impulse to gag at the lingering stench. He looked over the contract, which was office-store boilerplate, its blanks filled in with black ink. He would be paid twenty dollars an hour “to do whatever is necessary to complete Thurwood Talton’s unfinished historical work.” He would live in the basement rent-free while performing his duties and receive “half and only half” of the proceeds from publication. Fair enough, even generous, if there turned out to be any royalties. He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have a problem with this?”

  “Of course not. I’ve already signed it.”

  “OK.” He pulled out his Waterman fountain pen and did likewise. “Deal.”
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  “Deal,” she said, shaking his hand. “Make yourself at home.”

  With the crisis averted, Charlie set up the computer in Talton’s study, then turned to the basement. In the dim light that fought its way through the back door’s filthy window panes, the place looked only slightly less foreboding than it had at night. He breathed its fetid air, scuffed its crumbling concrete floor with the toe of his hiking boot, and listened to joists creak as Kathleen moved around the kitchen above him. He ducked to avoid overhead pipes. Maybe with a shaved head, he could safely navigate this place.

  Over the next few hours, Charlie cleaned up his new living quarters. He threw out a ton of refuse: old bed frames with sharp, rusty edges, sheet metal, fencing, corroded buckets. The decomposing, moldy mattress came out in pieces, along with disintegrating books and an ancient Erector set that once aspired to be a robot. When he nailed up a dark green towel on the door as a curtain, he realized he’d created the perfect hiding place.

  He had a bathroom of sorts—a tiny shower stall, a sink with a rusty old faucet, and a toilet that took forever to refill, surrounded by plywood walls. The shower was too gross to bother cleaning—it ran only cold water, anyway. He decided he’d use the Decatur YMCA’s facilities to clean up, since he was a member and needed to get back in shape anyway—although he had to admit that cold showers might help him clean up his act. (In fact, he’d been chastened by the porn debacle with Susan and vowed he would be Onan the Barbarian no more.)

  That afternoon, he took a shower at the Y, got a crew cut at Fantastic Sams, and bought clothes to create a new image: Dickies work shirts and pants, like the ones he’d worn for his summer job at the warehouse during college. At Optical Shoppe, he bought some offbeat glasses with gray metal frames to complete his trade unionist look, a statement of rebellion against the racist Republican politics of the family he’d married into and the suburbs he’d so recently forsaken.

  He also bought a space heater, dehumidifier, carbon monoxide detector, air purifier, and a new laptop computer, so he could get out of the house upon occasion. When he plugged his new gadgets into the basement’s lone outlet, he blew a fuse. Nevertheless, he embraced his cold, dank home. In this place of penance he would practice the asceticism his task required. He would be grim, stern, resolute, unrelenting. He would survive and prosper in his dungeon.