Sweet Jiminy (16 page)

“Since before you were a baby,” Roy said.

Bobby laughed again.

“Since even before,” he agreed. “David Eisen, meet Mr. Roy Tomlins. Mr. Tomlins, meet David Eisen. David's a writer for
Esquire
magazine, doin' a profile on up-and-comin' Southern leaders.”

In truth, Bobby had been apprehensive about letting any journalist too close to his father or his father's friends, but his press secretary had convinced him that they'd get a much better story if they allowed a more intimate level of access. Bobby prayed she was right, and decided to mask his worry with aggressive good cheer, willing everything to go well with the sheer force of his winning demeanor.

In the glow of Bobby's thousand-watt smile, Roy looked David Eisen over before shaking his hand. He didn't particularly want to shake it, but he realized it was the thing to do. He noticed that the writer was holding something small and gray that he brought close to Roy's mouth when Roy started to speak, which made him step back.

“It's just a digital recorder,” the writer explained.

“Oh,” Roy said, hesitatingly stepping forward again.

He didn't know whether to direct his comments to the writer or the machine. He was supremely uncomfortable.

“Well, Bobby's a leader all right,” he managed. “Always has been.”

Bobby beamed and clapped Roy lightly on his shoulder as David Eisen looked Roy straight in the eyes. The sunlight reflecting off the writer's glasses was blinding. Roy blinked in irritation.

“What do you have there?” David asked, pointing to the back of Roy's truck.

It was Travis who answered, grinning all the while.

“Some stolen property he recovered for me. Let's get a look, Roy.”

Roy walked to the back of his truck and struggled to put his foot on the bumper. He felt like his body was growing stiffer and creakier by the day. Still, at least he wasn't wheelchair-bound like Travis yet.

“Here, let me help ya,” Bobby boomed. “Wanna get a little dirty, David?”

David did not.

He stayed put while Bobby launched himself into the bed of Roy's truck and began undoing the straps.

“These are some purty chairs, Mr. Tomlins. Dad, you said they belonged to you?”

Travis nodded.

“Had 'em made special,” he replied. “Haven't seen 'em in thirty some years.”

Bobby hoisted one of the chairs over his head unnecessarily and jumped to the ground with it, then placed it in front of his father.

“They look good as new,” he said.

Roy watched the
Esquire
writer run his fingers over the wood and resisted the urge to slap his hand away.

“K.S.O.,” David Eisen read. “Is that someone's initials?”

Roy saw a look of surprised alarm cross Bobby's face. Saw him check the label himself and turn back toward the commercial shoot, ready to lead David Eisen away.

“It's just an old name,” Bobby answered. “You know what? I'd like nothin' better than to keep sittin' here and jawin', but I think we gotta take advantage of this weather and finish up. Know what they say: ‘Make hay while the sun shines!' ”

He grinned as he placed his big hand on the writer's shoulder.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Tomlins,” David Eisen said. “And these
are
beautiful chairs, Mr. Brayer. You say they were stolen from you?”

“That's right,” Travis replied. “By some good-for-nothin' spics.”

David Eisen looked up quickly.

“Dad, you don't mean that,” Bobby said sharply.

There was panic and reprimand in his voice. Roy looked from son to father and back again. Travis seemed completely calm, which made Roy love him all the more. He already had quite a story to tell the boys. He was recording it in his memory for later, just as carefully as David Eisen was recording it on his little machine.

“He doesn't mean that,” Bobby said to the writer.

“What
do
you mean, exactly?” David asked Travis in a quiet, curious voice.

Travis waved a hand in front of his face.

“I don't mean that all wetbacks are good for nothin',” Travis clarified. “I just mean the ones that sneak in here to steal jobs and such, which is most of 'em. They take whatever they can get their dirty hands on. They're just as bad as the nig—”

“That's enough, Dad,” Bobby interrupted sharply.

Roy had never heard Bobby speak that way to his father, though he'd also never heard Travis speak quite the way he was speaking either, at least not in this sort of company. Travis was usually quite careful around Bobby and his political friends. He wasn't an old man unaware that the times had changed. He knew exactly what sort of impact he was capable of having by saying such things in front of such people.

“He's not well,” Bobby said to David Eisen. “He's had some serious health problems that have damaged his body and brain. I hope you'll respect that fact and keep all this off the record. Out of decency. He's just a fragile, dying old man who doesn't know what he's saying.”

“Don't talk to me like that, boy!” Travis bellowed.

He stood up from his wheelchair, which was something that had been deemed medically impossible in his condition. To Roy, it didn't seem that Travis's legs were supporting him at all. He appeared to be empowered by a pure, undiluted rage. His face was flushed purple, and outsized veins in his neck were throbbing as he pointed a crooked finger at his son.

“You respect me, understand? You show me some respect!”

Before any of the others could reach for him, Travis Brayer toppled hard onto his side and slid headfirst down the veranda stairs to the gravel driveway below. He gave a groan as his head hit and the rest of his body piled after, like a Slinky made of worn-out old man.

 

Lyn knew people who crossed themselves or folded their hands in prayer whenever they heard the sound of ambulance sirens. For most of her adult life, she'd felt resentful toward them for doing this. The fact that whoever was injured was being rushed to the hospital and tended to seemed like prize enough. The prayers were just rubbing in how privileged they were. No sirens had raced to her husband and daughter, and no strangers had prayed for them, as far as she knew. To her, ambulance sirens were an elusive luxury.

Even when her daughter, Jiminy, had split her leg open on a tractor blade, no one besides Lyn, Edward, and Henry had rushed to care for her. The receptionist at Fayeville Hospital had claimed they didn't have the time to treat her, and recommended they give the veterinarian's office a try instead. Henry had stormed past the desk and made a direct appeal to the doctor, who'd agreed to stitch Jiminy up. Lyn looked across at that doctor now, sitting with Jean, both of them dozing off. She'd heard others claim that Walton Trawler was a decent man now, but he certainly hadn't started out that way. In her experience, very few had.

By the time the sirens had pulled to a stop outside the Fayeville Hospital door, Lyn could tell that they were louder than normal. The crescendo sounded as though it was being caused by a whole fleet of ambulances. Before she could stand to look out the window, assuming she had any inclination to investigate what emergencies others might be facing, the doors opened and a crowd poured in. She saw state troopers and cameramen and Roy Tomlins. And an ambulance gurney that was whisked past, shielded by EMTs hunched over, hard at work. Lyn stayed right where she was sitting, observing it all.

She watched as the frantic EMTs tried to push open the far door into the inner sanctum of Fayeville Hospital just as the magazine orderly was pushing a large rolling trash can back the other direction. The result was gridlock, and in the confusion that followed, the gurney was left briefly unattended. For the first time in many years, Lyn looked straight into the eyes of Travis Brayer.

He was on his back, but his neck was turned toward her and his eyes were open. His limbs were folded at odd angles and a gash on his head had bled down the side of his face. For a moment, Lyn thought he might even be dead, and she felt nothing but numbness. But then he blinked, and she realized he was still alive. Though she couldn't be sure just how conscious he actually was of what was happening.

Partly to test him and partly to amuse herself, she made her fingers into an imaginary gun and shot it in his direction. He closed his eyes, perhaps to protect himself from invisible bullets.

“You stay with us, Trav!” Roy Tomlins yelled.

Roy had struggled to keep up with all the commotion. He wasn't young or limber enough, but his concern for his friend infused him with adrenaline.

“Who's in charge here?” a younger, taller, broad-shouldered man asked in a loud, authoritative voice. “My dad needs care.”

Bobby Brayer, Lyn realized. Everyone knew him from his campaign posters, but Lyn had also known him since he was a baby, when she'd worked at Brayer Plantation. She'd changed Bobby Brayer's diapers. And now here he was before her, a big man, running for governor and making a scene in a room that had just become too small.

The roadblock was sorted out, with the trash lady apologizing profusely in Spanish and flattening herself against the wall in a kind of prostrated position of penance to let them pass. With his eyes still sealed shut, Travis Brayer was rushed to the back, followed by his son and Roy Tomlins and one of the state troopers. Another of them stood guard at the door, glaring at the trash lady and putting up a hand to stop anyone else from trespassing where they shouldn't.

Lyn watched a curly-haired man in glasses try to talk his way past, to no avail. He took out his wallet and showed some laminated badges, but the state trooper seemed completely unmoved. Lyn watched the man accept defeat and seat himself near the door, where he was soon absorbed in leafing through his notebook, making occasional marks with his pen.

The hubbub had woken Jean and Walton, who were anxious to be filled in. Bo had left the room more than half an hour ago and was nowhere to be seen, which left Lyn with the responsibility of talking.

“What's happened?” Jean asked.

“Travis Brayer's had some kind of accident,” Lyn replied in a monotone devoid of emotion.

“Oh my word, how awful,” Jean gasped.

“I suppose so,” Lyn replied mildly.

Jean gave her a sharp look. Lyn ignored this, but noticed that the curly-haired stranger was now only pretending to read his notebook while he actually listened to them.

“Well, is he okay? What was it?” Jean asked.

Lyn shook her head to convey that she didn't know, and didn't try to hide the possible implication that she didn't care.

“I only caught a glimpse,” she replied.

She left out the fact that she had pantomimed shooting him in the face.

“I think this man was with him, though,” Lyn continued, pointing out the stranger. “Maybe he knows.”

The man immediately looked up in surprise, confirming Lyn's hunch that he had been listening closely. Jean and Walton turned to look at him.

“Walton Trawler, how do you do,” Walton said as he crossed over and offered his hand in greeting.

“Oh, hello. I'm David Eisner,” David said as he shook Walton's hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You a friend of the Brayers?” Walton inquired.

“Not exactly, no,” David replied. “I'm a writer, doing a story on Bobby Brayer, among other people.”

“Were you with them today? Were you there for the accident?” Jean asked anxiously.

“Yes, I was,” David Eisner replied. “Mr. Brayer took a nasty fall and they're very concerned.”

“Goodness,” Jean said, shaking her head.

“How'd it happen?” Walton asked.

“Just an accident,” David replied. “He got a little agitated and lost his footing. Are any of you familiar with the initials ‘K.S.O.'?”

Lyn flinched and Jean stared at the ground. Only Walton held his gaze.

“Are they the initials of a Brayer relative or something?” David continued. “No ‘B' obviously, but maybe from Bobby Brayer's mother's side of the family?”

“Is that what you were told?” Jean asked quickly.

Walton could see that Jean didn't want anyone to offer any explanation counter to whatever the Brayers might have already said. In her mind this was about sticking together as a community. Walton understood that mentality all too well, but he suddenly felt it was time for something different.

“It stands for Knights of the Southern Order,” he told David Eisen.

Jean sucked in some air. “Walton,” she said, with a warning tone in her voice.

Lyn had raised her head and Walton could feel her eyes on him.

“It's an offshoot of the Klan, started in this part of Mississippi over a hundred years ago.”

David had frozen in surprise, an instinctive reaction he'd been trying to overcome for years, not least because it was an impediment to his chosen profession. When he should be scribbling or reaching for a cell phone camera shot or clicking on his tape recorder, he was frequently still and amazed, taking a costly moment to process some genuinely shocking development. It had led to him being regularly scooped as a cub reporter and was one of the reasons he'd begun focusing on longer form profiles.

“Really,” David managed, goosing himself into action again. “And are the Brayers connected to the Knights of the Southern Order?”

“It's a secret society,” Walton answered. “No one really knows who's connected or not, or even if anyone is at all anymore. It was mainly active forty years ago. You don't hear too much about it these days.”

“Fascinating,” David replied, as much to himself as anyone else.

He'd heard something about the fledgling investigation into the civil rights era crime here in Fayeville, and he'd asked Bobby Brayer about it. Bobby had assured him that should he be entrusted with the governorship he'd do everything in his power to punish any and all criminals. Other interviewees had talked about moving on from the past, but Bobby had been adamant that justice would be served, no matter how late. David wondered now if this was just another example of a politician speaking out loudest against things to which he or she felt some secret guilty connection. He'd seen this time and again: the closeted mayor denouncing gay marriage, the senator who solicited high-end call girls publicly railing against prostitution rings, the reform-obsessed committee chairwoman awash in bribes. Hypocrisy didn't surprise David. In fact, he'd come to expect it, which made it harder for genuine people to win him over.