Brambleman (23 page)

Facing her as he backed away, Charlie went to
the study and grabbed his laptop. As he retreated through the
living room, holding the computer like a shield, he wondered if his
extended warranty covered knife fights.

Once he was out, Kathleen locked the door
behind him. Charlie stood on the sidewalk and looked at his van,
now his home as well, and wondered if he could make enough as a
handyman to survive. He called Angela again. No answer; he left
another message, this one sounding forlorn. He circled behind the
house and slipped into the dungeon to get his stuff. No telling
when he’d be back, especially since he could hear Kathleen on the
phone upstairs, and it sounded like a 911 call. So much for the
printer.

He had just pulled out of the driveway when a
police cruiser turned onto Bayard Terrace. “No cops!” Charlie
hissed. After the squad car passed by, he watched in the mirror to
see if it would turn and follow him. It pulled into Kathleen’s
driveway instead.

He went to the coffeehouse. Jean wasn’t
there. He sat in a corner nursing his brew and waited for Angela to
return his call. His spirits sank further as he considered his
plight. What was he supposed to do? He thought about Beck’s
invitation to return to Thornbriar. He sensed a trap. Was he being
tempted to renege on the contract?

All these attempts to sidetrack him were the
devil’s work, of course, and Charlie wasn’t about to let Satan have
his way. There was no turning back. Even if he’d been fired by his
earthly boss, he had to finish the book. Now he understood why the
contract had been worded so harshly. Because God couldn’t trust
people to do something unless their lives depended on it, and maybe
not even then. Charlie vowed to be someone his grungy, vengeful God
could believe in. Having done that, he went back to work.

He left the coffeehouse when it closed at
midnight and retreated to his van, parked at the back of the lot
behind the building. He took out the middle seat and set it upside
down on the back one, then crawled into his sleeping bag, all the
while hoping the cops wouldn’t find him. Using his parka as a
pillow, he curled up, pulled the sleeping bag tight around his
neck, and dozed off.

He woke from a terrible, useless dream: black
farmers calling each other racial epithets to a hip-hop beat, then
shooting at each other from mule-drawn wagons. He looked at his
watch: 3:13 a.m. The timing was off. Everything was off. His
nocturnal transmission had been hijacked. Had losing his place in
the world destroyed his channel into the past?

On the other hand, maybe he could get back to
leading a semi-normal life.

Then he reminded himself that he was living
in a van.

But at least it was
his
van. With
difficulty, he managed to empty his mind and fall asleep.

A while later, a rap on the window awakened
him. He looked up and saw a figure standing at the van’s side
window, crowned by a halo provided by a parking lot light. At
first, he was afraid. Then he realized it was Jean. She spoke, her
voice muffled by the glass: “Are you homeless?”

What a disheartening question. And rude,
somehow. What could he say? He was what he was: a middle-aged man
sleeping in a van. Trespassing. And now ashamed. He rubbed his
head, leaned over, and opened the sliding door. She plopped on the
van floor and looked him in the eye. “How long?”

His mind was as blurry as his vision, but the
crisp air forced his world into sharp focus. He was too forlorn to
be cute or clever. “My boss pulled a knife on me last night. And
I’m broke.”

Jean, who knew about Charlie’s living and
working arrangements, seemed unsurprised. “Why? The violence, I
mean. I figured you’re broke.”

“She was off her meds.”

She nodded sagely. “I know how that is.”

“I gave all my money … for child
support.”

She gently touched his chest. He felt an
impulse to kiss her, but that would ruin the only adult
relationship he had left. She saved him from a bad decision by
climbing out of the van. “I’ve got to open up,” she said. “Come
inside. I’ll give you some coffee and a muffin.”

The tall woman tromped off in her hiking
boots. Charlie pulled on his own boots and clambered from the van.
It was 6:00 a.m. Traffic was sparse. He pissed from the back end of
the parking lot onto a wooden fence in a luxurious, arching stream.
When done, he admired his accomplishment. That was the shame of
modern life: People no longer took pride in their work.

Charlie brought his laptop into the
coffeehouse and set it on a corner table under a track spotlight.
Jean was scurrying to get the place up and running. A couple of
regulars stood at the counter, stamping their feet, gently razzing
her. When she was caught up, Charlie ordered coffee.

“On the house,” Jean said, her voice just
above a whisper.

“It’s OK. I’ve got a credit card.”

She laughed. “Less trouble for me to give it
to you, then. Here, take a muffin. Cranberry-walnut. I have to
throw it out, otherwise.”

“Thanks. I’ll make it up to you.” He returned
to his table, opened his laptop, and plugged in, realizing that
he’d been reduced to scrounging for power
and
food. The
beggar bit into his muffin and stole a glance at Jean. She was
heartbreakingly beautiful, inside more than out. Why must the woman
he desired see him scraping bottom? They could never be together
now. He felt that he was no longer a man to her, just a stray she’d
befriended.

He was typing away when he felt a firm,
gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re so tense,” Jean said. “You
never stop working, do you?”

“Got a job to do,” Charlie mumbled.
“Everything depends on it.”

She leaned down, kissed the back of his neck,
and walked away. It hadn’t felt like a come-on—more like an act of
grace. She was an angel, and this was a holy place. He sensed that
no harm would come to him in her abode. A minute later, she slipped
a CD in the player. The music was organic, Eastern: a wooden flute
and a bird that chirped on cue. Charlie wasn’t paying complete
attention. It sounded like a man was climbing a mountain and crying
about the love of a woman. Either that, or his feet hurt.

Dawn brought a storm. Fat raindrops smashing
sideways pushed people into the coffeehouse and kept them there.
Charlie kept working, looking out the window just as a lightning
bolt struck nearby and rattled the building. It reminded him of
that night at the Pancake Hut, when all this madness started.

It rained heavily for an hour. When the place
filled up, Charlie shared his table with a young man named Ron, who
had pierced eyebrows and tattoos on his forearms. “I just got fired
from my day job, which I’m better off without,” Ron said. “The
world sucks. But why does it have to suck so loud?”

“Really,” Charlie said. “Why doesn’t it have
any manners?”

“Life should get people a room when it fucks
them,” Ron declared.

Charlie laughed. “Unfortunately, that’s
exactly
not
how it works.”

The clouds started to break; the rain
stopped. Charlie stood and stretched. He looked out the window.
“Rainbow,” he announced. The customers cheered and drifted over to
see it. A MARTA bus rumbled by. The bell on the door tinkled.
Charlie bid adieu to Ron and packed up to leave. Jean thumped her
chest with her fist to salute him and wish him well.

* * *

During the next two days, Charlie showered at
the Y, took care of the kids, and slept in the van. Fortunately, he
landed a couple of handyman jobs and earned two hundred bucks. On
the third day, he was eating lunch in a Decatur diner, idly
watching a crow on a parking meter. It was, in turn, looking at
him. His cellphone trilled.

“
Where are you
?” Angela demanded. “We
need you back here with Kathleen. She’s been off her meds for
weeks. She accused me of going up on the roof and trying to tear
off the shingles.”

“She kicked me out and called the cops. I
left messages. Don’t you check them?”

Not one to dwell on her mistakes—that was
Kathleen’s job—Angela ignored Charlie’s question and pressed on.
“She doesn’t remember kicking you out. Why’d she do that?”

“I’m an Irish gypsy. Apparently, you are,
too.”

“A what?”

“A fly-by-night roofing contractor. She saw a
story about them on the news and now she’s convinced they’re out to
steal her money.”

“She needs someone to take care of her
full-time. And I can’t do it. We’ll pay you.”

“I’m supposed to be getting paid to—”

“Three hundred a week, plus room and
board.”

“Is that even minimum wage? For a
left-winger, you sure are anti-labor.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t offer me three
hundred and give you another chance. My job is to edit the book.
That’s what the deal was. Is, I mean.”

“We need to talk about that. When can you be
here?”

“I think we’d better talk about it now, while
we’re at a safe distance.”

“All right. I finally got power of attorney.
This
deal
you’ve got? We’ve stopped it.”

“Wait a minute—”

“Who do you think you’re kidding? Dad was
getting senile when he wrote the book.”

“Not true.” Charlie was sure that the good
professor had simply been obtuse, not demented. “It’s not that bad.
I just sent chapters to an editor who’s interested in it.” He shook
his head. “I can’t believe I’m defending a man against his own
daughter.”

“I know it isn’t publishable. I’ve got
expertise, you know. There’s so much wrong with it structurally.
Plus, it doesn’t adequately address feminist issues. Women are
treated as victims.”

“They were victims!” Charlie said. “Murder,
rape. Lack of servants.
Hello
?”

“
Merely
as victims. It’s a
male-dominated narrative.”

“Well, that fits in with the
racio-sexio-fascio-ism of that period, doesn’t it?” He didn’t know
what that meant, but at least it
sounded
academic.

“I can’t let Mom waste her money. I’ve voided
the contract due to diminished capacity.”

“Look, just because you’re not thinking
clearly—”

“
Her
diminished capacity, Charlie.
Don’t be a smartass.”

He looked out the window. The crow seemed to
be enjoying itself. A lone thunderhead hovered ominously to the
west—over Bayard Terrace, no doubt. Angela had better choose her
words carefully, because she was prime smite bait. “Keep talking,”
he said.

“If you believe in the book so much, you can
finish it on your own.”

“She owes me … at least two thousand dollars
for the work I’ve already done.” As he spoke, he realized that he
was severely lowballing the amount he was due and cursed himself
for not keeping better track of the time he’d spent on the
book.

“No, she doesn’t. Tell you what, you can have
all the royalties. Every penny. But academic presses don’t pay
much. You might get a thousand dollars if you’re lucky.”

All the money? Not too shabby, especially
since he was sure he could do better than a measly grand. And in
the meantime, this live-in caretaker deal would keep him alive, at
least. It sounded like a briar patch to him.
OK, throw me
in
. “Well, then, that’s a beating I’ll have to take. So are you
going to redo the contract with those terms?”

“Yes.”

“Five hundred a week.”

“Four-fifty.”

“OK,” he sighed. “You gotta pay me the two
grand I earned under the old contract, though.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Let me know when you do. Have a nice
day.”

“Wait. All right. But everything from now on
is on your own. And you take care of Mom.”

“I get coauthor’s credit.”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

“All right. I’ll do it,” he said with what he
hoped sounded like reluctance. “But I have to take care of my kids
from two until six.”

Angela paused before saying, “All right.
We’ll see how this works.”

After Charlie hung up, he added up hours in
his head, realized he should have asked for four thousand dollars,
and then smacked his forehead with his phone. He watched the crow
fly off. When Charlie cocked his head this way and that, he could
see he’d not only survived the ordeal, but stood to prosper, if his
reclamation job on the book was as good as he thought it was. He
may have sprained his ankles, but he’d landed on his feet. His
universe was held together with baling twine and duct tape, but it
was still in one piece. And most importantly, treasure far greater
than gold had just been handed to him.

That night, Charlie returned to Bayard
Terrace and stood on the porch, refusing to enter until Angela
handed him a check. Kathleen was delighted to see him and claimed
her daughter was holding her hostage.

“I left a list of things for you to do on the
kitchen table,” Angela said, wrapping a muffler around her neck.
“I’ll be back by tomorrow with the new contracts.”

“Smite bait,” Charlie muttered after the door
closed behind her. He looked at the list:
Wash dishes, clean out
refrigerator, get groceries, pick up prescriptions. Sweep and mop
kitchen floor
.

“She irritates me,” Kathleen told Charlie as
she watched Angela’s departure from behind the curtains. “She does
it on purpose.”

* * *

The next day, there were two contracts for
Charlie to sign: one stating that Angela didn’t have to pay Social
Security taxes, the other declaring that Kathleen didn’t have to
pay him any more money to edit the book, which was now his baby. He
would shoulder all risk and reward from then on. He signed them
both, not really caring what the foolish papers said, since he knew
that the real deal boiled and bubbled in the dungeon below.