Brambleman Read online

  * * *

  Sunday morning, it took Charlie more than an hour of huffing and puffing to bike over to Thornbriar to retrieve his van. Susan had taken the kids to church and left him a note saying, “I will pray for you.”

  “Pray for me to what?” Charlie said irritably, wadding up the note. Didn’t she understand that he wasn’t coming back?

  He drove back to Bayard Terrace and spent the rest of the day reading Talton’s manuscript. That evening, he accepted Kathleen’s offer of dinner, free food being a welcome benefit of his new job. As she worked in the kitchen, he sat in the green chair before the blazing fire. The paper’s Metro section was open atop the hassock. A small headline on a news brief caught his eye:

  Forsyth County Man Shot to Death

  A Cumming man died after being shot in the chest with his own gun outside the Pancake Hut on Hanover Drive late Friday night, according to DeKalb County Police. Robert Logan, 27, of 1287 Dahlonega Highway, was pronounced dead at the scene.

  Police seek a suspect, described as a tall, heavyset white man wearing goggles. Witnesses reported the man started a confrontation with Logan, grabbing the victim’s hat and throwing it on a stove burner. Police are asking potential witnesses …

  That wasn’t what happened! Panic rose like a rocket from Charlie’s gut to his brain. He told himself that the guy had been drunk, stumbled on the wet pavement, and shot himself. So why was everyone blaming him? It was as if Trouble didn’t exist. There was another reason to worry. If Susan read the story, she’d pick up on the goggles. So would his in-laws, since he’d worn them during the Christmas get-together. The Cutchinses might turn him in, especially if there was a reward. On the other hand, the varmints didn’t read—at least not the lyin’ Atlanta newspaper. So maybe it would blow over.

  “No cops,” he muttered. Trouble’s edict now seemed like excellent advice since Charlie’s name was on a domestic incident report, and he was now a suspect in a fatal shooting.

  * * *

  Charlie awoke Monday to hear women shouting. He laid on his cot and listened to the kitchen floor creak overhead as the combatants shifted positions. Angela Talton was back from Florida, where she’d spent Christmas “with a young redhead that has a tattoo right above her butt,” according to Kathleen, who considered her daughter’s holiday trip a betrayal. Apparently, Angela had issues, too. Charlie couldn’t make out what they were talking about, but he figured that he was the subject of their dispute.

  He fumbled for his watch. It was 7:13 a.m. He didn’t want to join a debate that could put him on the street. Besides, he didn’t have time to fight; he needed to take care of the kids. He felt an urge to slip out the back door.

  But first, he pondered last night’s dream, about a black farmer facing a lynch mob in broad daylight. Charlie could recall the scene in photographic detail: The victim, in overalls and a black felt hat, was riding a mule on a dirt road. A half-dozen white men blocked his path. They’d come to tell him to get out of Forsyth County. No, that wasn’t right: They wanted to kill him because he refused to leave. The farmer didn’t flee or beg for his life. He would die like a man. Good for him.

  Charlie went into his nasty lavatory. The faucet yielded a sputtering blast of arctic water. He wet a cloth and threw it on his face to shock himself awake, then ran the rag over his buzz cut. Maybe he’d shower at Thornbriar. After all, he was entitled to that after renovating the master bath, even if he had moved out. He stared balefully at the corroded shower stall, then laughed at the prospect of being kicked out of this place, which was just a step above sleeping under a bridge.

  Wait a minute. It was definitely better than sleeping under a bridge (and infinitely preferable to jumping off one). Furthermore, it was all he had.

  His stomach rose to his throat when he realized Angela might have power of attorney, which would render moot Trouble’s Office Depot contract. Perhaps she also could have her mother committed to a nursing home, a prospect Kathleen dreaded and one Charlie wasn’t fond of, either. It was too late—and would be too humiliating—to tell Susan to hold off paying those bills. He needed this gig, which meant he had to go upstairs and solve this problem. He would be supplicant, diplomat, holy man, professional—whatever it took.

  He slipped on jeans, sweater, and boat mocs, then stomped loudly up the rickety wooden steps and tried to open the door at the top, but it was fastened by a hasp on the other side. He rattled the door as he peered through the crack with his left eye.

  “See,” said Angela. “He could break it down any time he wanted.”

  “Until you locked it, he could come and go as he pleased,” Kathleen countered. “He’s going to help me around the house, too, aren’t you, Charles?”

  “Yes,” he said, lips to the crack. “May I come in? Up? Out?”

  “By way of leaving,” Angela said. “And only because I’m curious about the kind of person who would live down there.”

  A hand unfastened the hasp. Charlie opened the door and blinked in the light. Kathleen stood by the sink, wearing a pink and white floral-print shift with yesterday’s cardigan. Next to him stood Angela, a slightly rotund, middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper, close-cropped hair, black framed glasses, and an owlish face that made the glare she gave him almost comical. She wore Doc Martens, blue jeans, and a black sweatshirt underneath a denim barn coat. She was holding the contract.

  “Hi, I’m Charles Sherman. I guess you heard I’m editing your father’s book.” He held out his hand. When she regarded it with disdain, he made a point of closely examining it for cooties.

  “I understand my mother wrote you a check for twenty-five hundred dollars,” she said, enunciating the amount as if she were addressing a jury, “on the recommendation of someone whose name she can’t recall. Please return the money and leave.”

  Angela might be in the right, but she had to be stopped. “Is it your money?” he asked.

  “It’s my money,” Kathleen snapped. “And my house.”

  “Do you have power of attorney over your mother’s affairs?” Charlie asked.

  “No, she doesn’t,” Kathleen said firmly. “I won’t give it to her. I can take care of myself.”

  “I’ve been trying to since Mom gave five hundred dollars to the Southern Law Foundation.”

  “I thought it was a civil rights group,” Kathleen said.

  “It’s a homophobic group, Mom! They were behind Georgia’s gay marriage ban. Now they’ve got more money to deny me my rights, thanks to you.”

  Kathleen stage-whispered, “My daughter’s a lesbian.” Then to Angela, who was rolling her eyes, she said, “I thought they fought the Klan. I just got confused, that’s all.”

  “Exactly. And this is the latest, most egregious example of your confusion.” Angela turned to Charlie. “You’re taking advantage of a helpless old woman.”

  “I’m not helpless,” Kathleen said. “How dare you!”

  “Look,” Charlie said. “I agreed to do a job, and I’m staying in the basement because it puts me closer to the manuscript and Dr. Talton’s papers.”

  “How long have you been working on Dad’s book? What stage are you at?”

  “I started reading Friday night. I brought a computer and I’m converting files from his old word processing program so I can edit.”

  “Why are you here, though? Really? You know what I mean.”

  “I need a place to stay,” he confessed with a shrug.

  “Are you an alcoholic? Do you have a drug problem?” She glanced at his wedding band. “Don’t you have a family?”

  “My wife and I are estranged,” he said, instantly liking the exotic-sounding term. “Look, the manuscript needs work, but it’s publishable.” He had to say that, even if he wasn’t exactly sure that this was true.

  “What are your credentials?”

  “I’m a writer. I was an editor with the Macon newspaper.”

  She sneered. “Macon?”

  “It’s a good paper,” he said defensiv
ely. “Since then, I’ve written freelance articles.” He didn’t mention his PR work, sensing she might be hostile to the concept. Actually, he was hostile to the concept, which was why he’d quit to raise babies and write novels.

  “What makes you an expert on Forsyth County?”

  “I’m not. Your father was.”

  “He comes with the highest recommendation,” Kathleen said. “And he fixed my bathroom faucet. The one that’s been leaking for ten years.”

  “Just needed a new washer,” Charlie said modestly.

  “Great. Look, nothing against you,” Angela said, “but I’m a sociology professor, and I—”

  “You never looked at the manuscript or showed an interest in your father’s work,” Kathleen said. “So don’t come in and pull that.”

  Angela sighed. “Mom, I was going up to Forsyth that day, remember?”

  “Dr. Talton, I—”

  “Ms. Talton,” Kathleen corrected. “She teaches at Perimeter College. Unlike Thurwood, she doesn’t have a PhD.”

  Charlie was starting to sympathize with Angela, but expressing any such sentiment wouldn’t help his case. “Professor Talton,” he said. “It’s a great story. And it’s tragic that your father died without getting it published. It would be worse if it never got into print. I’m committed to making it happen. If you want someone to review the contract and my credentials, that’s fine. I understand. I want everything open and aboveboard. But we’ll get it done.”

  “So don’t you come in here messing up the only chance I’ve got at getting Thurwood’s book published!” Kathleen cried out, ignoring Charlie’s conciliatory tone. “Not after you refused to do it. I don’t have much longer, and I know this man can do the job. He was sent here for that purpose.”

  Angela turned to Charlie. “Ah, yes. That mysterious stranger she talks about. What’s his name?”

  “Trouble,” Kathleen said.

  “Trouble,” Charlie agreed.

  “Double Trouble,” Kathleen said, then giggled.

  Angela shook her head. “I’m not buying it. I’m going to do some investigating. Meanwhile, Mr. Sherman, I want a curriculum vitae, writing samples, and a detailed proposal on your plan to get this book published. But you can’t stay here.”

  “It will take a couple of days to work up a marketing proposal, and I don’t have a curriculum vitae,” he said, pronouncing the term like it was an intestinal disorder. “The résumé and writing samples I can give you. Hang on.”

  He went to the study. He was reviewing his six-year employment gap when Angela stuck her head in the door. He printed the single sheet and handed it to her. “This project means as much to me as it does to your mother,” he said. “I can do it. And I’m not a bad person. I just … fell down.”

  Her expression softened. She glanced over her shoulder. “Are your parents still alive?”

  “No. My father disappeared a long time ago. Eventually, he was declared dead. My mother got cancer. She hung on long enough to see me graduate from college.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “University of Missouri. Where I’m from.”

  “Good journalism school.”

  “I know. I graduated from it.”

  She raised her eyebrows appreciatively. “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “A brother who died before I was born. I was a replacement part,” he added, marveling that he would tell her such a thing. He blew air through his lips in a gentle huff and gave her a wan smile.

  Angela whispered, “Sometimes I think I’m a replacement part, too. It’s hard for me to help her when she’s like this.”

  “I heard that!” Kathleen said, sidling past Angela into the room.

  “You did not,” Angela said. “She always says that. Just trying to keep me quiet.”

  Charlie grinned. “Look, I gotta go take care of my kids. You two talk. Angela, I assure you that all I want is to get the book published. I’ll be gone soon. Your mother’s basement is not exactly prime living quarters.”

  When he left, he grabbed a trash bag from the kitchen and put it in a wheeled garbage can behind the house. It was partially overcast and the sun was playing peek-a-boo. Charlie’s breath clouded the air. He inhaled deeply and told himself not to worry. After all, things could be worse. While Angela might dislike him, at least she didn’t call the cops or shoot at him. Then again, that’s what family was for. When he rolled the waste bin down the driveway to the street, he made a racket, not wanting his good deed to go unnoticed.

  * * *

  Charlie glanced at his watch as he pulled off Hanover Drive onto Thornbriar. He was running late; Susan would be stressed. She had a meeting scheduled with bank attorneys to discuss a class-action lawsuit filed by black employees. She’d been nervous about the case for weeks. “What can I tell them?” she’d asked Charlie in early December. “I don’t discriminate. All I know is that a couple of blacks were passed over for promotions. This started with a woman at the branch too busy polishing the chip on her shoulder to do her job. Now attorneys are coaching branch managers to cover their asses. I hope they’re not looking for a scapegoat.”

  “Don’t tell them you’re from Forsyth County,” Charlie had suggested.

  “I’m not. I mean, I won’t.”

  He’d given her the benefit of the doubt back then, having always assumed she was a moderate like her father. Bradley Roy Powell, while a Forsyth County native, was no varmint. In fact, he was Charlie’s hero. But now Charlie could no longer ignore the fact that Susan was half-varmint, and therefore capable of poor behavior on issues of race. Not that she’d ever admit it.

  When he pulled into the driveway, the garage door was closed. He unlocked the front door. Inside, he was shocked to see his mother-in-law sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee from his favorite blue cup. How did she know? Evangeline Powell, a stocky woman with a dyed brown mini-bouffant, pulled her white cardigan close around her neck, as if he’d brought in a draft. She set to the task of watching Charlie with bright, beady eyes like mall security would a shoplifter. An impish grin lit her round face as she blew her coffee to cool it. The instant Susan’s dryer fell silent, Evangeline shouted, “Hon! You need to change them locks!”

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” Susan yelled back.

  Evangeline smirked. “Hey, Charles.”

  He sat down across from her. “Hey, Evangeline. What are you doing here?”

  “Taking care of my grandbabies.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Didn’t Susan tell you? Bradley Roy won’t pick me up until six. Lord, I don’t know what he’ll do with himself now that he’s sold the auto parts store to Phil and retired. Probably make a nuisance of himself.”

  “Bradley Roy’s a saint,” said Charlie, intending to piss her off.

  It worked. Evangeline raised her voice to say, “He’s a man, that’s what he is. But I’ll not get into it with you.”

  Susan walked into the kitchen dressed for work, looking ready to kill someone without caring who.

  “What’s going on?” Charlie asked.

  “Mom dropped in.”

  Like a bomb, Charlie thought.

  “Sheila drove me down,” Evangeline said.

  Charlie was confused. “I thought Bradley Roy—”

  “He’s picking me up. People will do anything for me ’cause I do right by ’em. Something you wouldn’t know a thing about.”

  Charlie turned to his wife. “Didn’t you tell Sheila that I was taking care—”

  “Sheila didn’t come in,” Susan snapped.

  “Everything just falls into place, doesn’t it?” Charlie punctuated his remark with a derisive snort.

  “Don’t you worry none. Everything’s under control,” Evangeline declared. “We’re not going to let what he did hurt the children.”

  “He?” Charlie asked.

  “I didn’t know this was going to happen,” Susan told Charlie semi-apologetically. When he gave her a look of disbelief, sh
e threw up her hands. “I called your cellphone and the number you gave me to tell you not to come over, but you didn’t answer, and the woman there said you’d already left.”

  “The woman,” Evangeline said.

  “Well, here I am,” Charlie said. “So there’s no need—”

  “I was here first,” said Evangeline, making it sound like a playground game.

  “But I’m taking care of the kids.”

  “They don’t need you to babysit ’em. They got me.”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m not a babysitter. I’m their primary—”

  “Look,” Susan interjected. “I’m sorry it’s working out this way, but I gotta go.”

  Charlie shook his head. “I’m amazed you let this happen.”

  Evangeline sat smugly while man and wife fought over her undeniably brilliant three-point plan: She was there, she was staying, and that was that. The battle was won. On behalf of her daughter, grandchildren, and all things good, holy, and Cutchins.

  “You’ve got a job now,” Susan wheedled. “This will free up your time.”

  “Bradley Roy and me gonna take the kids up to Cumming for the rest of the week.”

  “Mom, we haven’t talked about that.”

  “We just did, right before he came.”

  “I said I needed to talk to Charlie about it.”

  Evangeline was a cruel and powerful enemy, and Charlie knew that victory over her was unlikely. Just being around her was giving him a headache. Clearly, compromise was called for. With his temples throbbing, he tried to do a cost-benefit analysis. He didn’t want to leave his kids alone with her, for fear they’d wind up sounding like hillbillies and filled with Evangeline’s spitefulness, saying “You got that right,” or “Lord, look what the cat drug in.”