Welcome to Braggsville (21 page)

Louis would have come out, if he was gay. He would have done it. He would have. He would have.

Candice moved to sit beside Charlie. There, there. It was high school. We're never as liberal as we want to be then. I broke up with Darnell Jackson right before prom because my mom put pressure on me over the pictures. She said, Me and your dad laugh at our prom pictures sometimes, and it's such a joy to share them. You wouldn't want to have to hide them, would you? I told them I was going with someone else and spent the evening at Denny's. Louis wouldn't have done that. He would have stood up to her. He would have gone with whomever he wanted. My mom's funny. She's funny. She thought I was gay for a while. Remember how I dyed my hair the first year and cropped it, a few weeks after the dot party?

Charlie muttered affirmatively.

Daron nodded.

The day after I uploaded the photo to Facebook to show off my new hairstyle, I updated my status to Abstract but not Vague. Two hours later, my mother called under the pretext of catching me up on family business. At the end of the longest conversation we've had since I was eight years old and stumbled across her Internet porn bookmarks, she was like, Your aunt Carrie called and told your father not to be upset when he saw your new picture, but he was. I'm thinking, like, Aunt Carrie, who lived like Carrie Fisher, but without the fame or money? So, my mom's sounding all pained, like, Candy, it's okay to experiment, but don't advertise it. I grew it out, and haven't cut it since. They'd threatened to make me transfer to Temple.

With a sharp rock, Daron scratched lines into the wooden bench. He felt their expectant gaze, as if yesterday was really only the result of secrets coming out to die like poisoned rats. So, I should have never
shoplifted or batted mailboxes, and then he'd be alive? he asked. And why was Candice growing her hair out only to let it get all dreaded anyway?

It's our fault. It's our fault, repeated Charlie. In school they teased me, in public school that was, for being Mr. Charlie. Mr. Charlie, especially if I did well on a test. What do you expect from Mr. Charlie? they would ask. Now, asked Charlie, who am I? I'm Judas, Iago, Nixon. Washington, Ellison, Obama. A great conciliator. But a part of me—his voice dropped to a whisper—is so glad to be alive. Before with Tyler, and even now. This sliver of myself, that part wind-thin, and just as sharp, as my own nana used to say, was relieved when Tyler killed himself. I know God hates me for it. He gave me that ulcer, for starters. It was like swallowing razors. I spent half the time in the nurses' station. He gripped Daron's arms, staring like a wild man. I know God hates me for it, I know he does, but I felt that way again when I saw Louis yesterday. I saw him there with that shoe polish on his face and that wig, and the muscle suit, and I knew that would have been me, and I was glad I didn't go. Glad to have been afraid.

Daron drew back from Charlie, shaking himself loose, brushing at his chest and arms as if to scatter the contamination. Charlie! Iago? Judas? Walking off, Daron thought conciliation was more his middle name than Charlie's, was it not?
Little May
. Hadn't he learned that much the first two years of college? Names were things, and things names, and both the stuff of thought, like stars, without which we wouldn't even see the night sky. What was the difference between
please,
and
can I,
and
yessuh,
and
may
? And Little May!
Little May?
Wasn't that a whisper, a faint inquiry, a question asked reluctantly? Crying in Mrs. Brooks's office like a bitch. How he wished she were here to talk to. She would understand. She would understand how he felt, how he wished so much he had defied his father's wishes and been there to stop it. She would understand how it felt to hear
his father tell him, Son, I would have preferred you defy me than abandon your friends, which no real man would do. She would have understood that his sin wasn't any shameful act he'd hidden away, not even jumping to a confusion and thinking Candice had been raped by a Gull. His sin, if he had one, was no different from Alfred Kroeber's, the sin of being born in a particular time and place, and there was nothing he could do about that.

H
irschfield was right about the media. The next morning, two days after the Incident, regional news stations flashed a ticker-tape teaser:
THE FIRST LYNCHING SINCE ALA 1981
? When the anchors spoke, there was no question mark in their tone. The
Huffington Post
and NYT.com ran editorials. Facebook was on fire, the posts on Louis's wall growing by the minute, mostly from people who didn't know that he was dead. The day before Hirschfield's warning, Candice, always efficient with her 140 characters, had written a tweet heard around the Berkeley campus but impossible to contain there:

Louis Chang hung from tree MURDERED in GA by Confederate pretenders whipped and teased—laughing paraded his body to town on car hood.

The ambulance battery was dead, or the paramedics couldn't get through the crowd, or there simply wasn't enough time. Excuses abounded, but one fact remained consistent in every newsflash: Someone had laid Louis across the hood and driven him into town for medical help. The news outlets didn't interpret it as quick thinking. Guided by Candice's tweet, they were enraged that someone had
savagely paraded the poor young man through town on a car hood, a heinous and vicious act outdone only by the insurgents who had dragged dead U.S. contractors, naked, through the streets of Iraq. But that wasn't the worst of it. Moments before the Changs heard from Sheriff, Louis's cousin had read the tweet and called them.

Daron's mother had made up the guest bedroom (reserved for adults), fluffed the spare pillows, and inflated the air mattresses. There was no need. When the Changs arrived, they did not call the Davenports, let alone ask to stay in their home. As it was, the only reason his mom knew they were in town was because one of her knitting friends had called to report, A solemn Oriental family staying in the local Super 8. She'd heard from Quint that they had gone to the Gully, needing an undertaker skilled at adjusting necks just so. Daron learned of their arrival when he saw a photo of them on the local news.

From the moment he awoke, Daron knew it was going to be a day when two felt like four. He'd tried to ignore Charlie sniffling as he punched his clothes into his suitcase, but he couldn't ignore his mother calling Candice to the phone. He had been afraid of how his parents might behave once his friends left. His father's front seat speech after returning from County Morgue and Sheriff's made it very clear there was more to be discussed. But as Charlie zipped his bag, Daron knew that more than anything else he would miss the company. He'd never had friends stay with him. Relatives, yes, but never friends. The first few hours of the trip had been like finally having the family he wanted.

Candice and Daron saw Charlie off. Daron's parents stood in the doorway. As Hirschfield steered his oversize rental away, swaying on the shocks, Charlie waved, the attorney nodded. As if Charlie's departure wasn't enough, Candice said her parents would be there within hours, and that it would be better if Daron didn't go outside when they arrived because, My father . . . doesn't understand.

After passing the house three times, the Chelseas parked at the end of the drive. Mr. Chelsea popped the trunk and waited behind the car, stretching his calves, bouncing on the sloped curb. He was a large man, bigger than Daron had imagined, with heavy shoulders and arms, like he worked out more than most professors. He also stood differently, legs apart, arms crossed, as if in challenge. When Candice appeared at the door, which opened with a squeak, Mrs. Chelsea put her hands to her face in horror, and there they remained as Candice limped across the yard, her suitcase bumping along behind her. The wind stirred up her strappy yellow sundress and it looked like she would have been blown away without the boxy fracture boot to anchor her. Halfway across the yard, she dropped to one knee to adjust the Velcro strap on her bootie, hooking one elbow around her crutch for balance. Daron was reminded of an afternoon in Ohlone Park when he snuck up behind her to scare her, sticking a wet finger in her ear. She'd hugged him with relief as she now did her father—who was freed from whatever spell transfixed him and rushed to help her with the luggage. Next to him, she looked like a child.

The last thing she had done before exiting the house was kiss Daron's cheek and thank him for sticking up for her. If only she had stayed for a couple more days, Daron knew he could have helped her understand it all.

S
TARTING THE DAY HIS FRIENDS LEFT,
a vigil gathered every evening at the giant poplar, lighting candles in Louis's name. Daron didn't see anyone he recognized. He didn't recognize the local Christian Fellowship Council leader, or the local Asian American Justice leader, or the NAACP local chapter president, nor had he known these organizations had local chapters, nor did he recognize the more assertive and outspoken protesters, the ones who carried picket signs with slogans such as
BRAGGSVILLE, THE CITY HATE BUILT
and
BRAGGSVILLE, THE CITY FOR JUST-US.
He also didn't see the Changs, whom he'd stayed home to avoid, choosing to monitor the vigil on TV, even though his father said he couldn't escape the inevitable.

Braggsville had never been a town divided, but the news sure made it sound that way. They claimed that it was 99 percent white, and that the Mexicans and blacks who worked at the mill were denied promotions and refused the opportunity to buy newer housing in town. They claimed that Bragg built the Gully, and founded Bragg's Technical High over there across the Holler, just so the blacks wouldn't have to go to the white school. They claimed that the Gully wasn't part of incorporated Braggsville because they didn't want to provide any services. They claimed that according to the census, Braggsville hadn't had a registered black resident since the death of the midwife Nanny Tag, the Bragg family wetnurse, back in 1895. Daron knew that none of it was true, and whatever was fact was merely meaningless coincidence, but that didn't stop him from getting hot, especially seeing as how everyone blamed him, even Quint. As Quint said, You can't explain it away, D. You fucked the town up good. It was a jackass move. Your boy got done up like a nigger and hung hisself from a damned tree. What kind of shit is that? It's a shame. He was a funny fella, and your friend and all, but this is bad for all of us. They were at the Gorge, a twelve-pack of PBR on the console between them, and Daron found himself crying in front of Quint, which he hadn't done since fifth grade when Quint had tickled him until he peed himself. Like the deacon did that time in Nana's church, Quint grabbed his biceps and squeezed tight, once, then twice.

T
HEN, ALMOST THREE DAYS AFTER THE
I
NCIDENT
, the FBI arrived. If Hirschfield was a ninja, agent Philip Denver was a samurai, conservative in manner and armored always in a dark-blue windbreaker with the letters
FBI
on the back, regardless of the weather. He was a towering man with large hands and seventies sideburns, his eye
in the peephole like he was trying to look
inside
the house. The visit was brief, and the agent returned repeatedly to one question, and that was one question Daron couldn't answer. And, unlike Hirschfield, Denver wanted to talk to Daron, and only Daron.

They were in the gazebo. Daron where he had sat the night after Louis's death, when Charlie shared a story that Daron still didn't quite believe. Denver sat across from him, where Candice had been, the same empty wine box on the table between them. When not repeating his favorite question, the agent lamented the media's treatment of Braggsville or shared personal information, as he did now.

I'm from Florida. Got out, went to school in New York, realized how redneck my home was, and never went back. He spoke with a measured tone, as if the silences between the words were more important than the words themselves. I had friends there growing up, but a few of them did some wicked stuff sometimes. One day I had to decide, was I them or was I me? It was hard, is real hard to leave what you know. Malcolm X did it, though, so anyone can, right? Right?

Right, Daron nodded, though he thought it an odd example because Malcolm X stood with his people, not against them.

You know why I wanted to talk to you alone?

Daron shrugged.

First off, is it
Da
ron or Da
ron
?

D'aron, with an apostrophe before the A.

Oh, why's that?

D'aron shrugged again.

Denver leaned back in his chair. You never asked?

Scots-Irish. Lot of that around here.

Denver slapped at a mosquito and leaned in closer, into the waning light, shielding his eyes with his hands as he did so. The back of his hand was hashed with scars. I'd like for us to get along, D'aron. I may be the only law enforcement officer on your side. Understand?

D'aron shrugged. Over Denver's shoulder, he could see that his father had returned to the kitchen window.

Look, D'aron. I'll ask again. Have you seen any militia activity in the area? Any military training, in or out of uniform? Men with guns who aren't hunting? Any unusual congregation in the woods?

D'aron laughed.

What?

My grandmother's church used to meet out there. That was one unusual congregation. He left it at that. There was no point in mentioning the snakes and anchors and all.

Denver stood and looked toward the hill. So, there's a church back in there?

It burned down long ago. I only went once, maybe was five or seven or something.

But no militia?

No, sir.

And you don't know this guy with the cross tattoo, either?

No, sir.

He noisily whipped through the pages of his notebook. Miss Chelsea mentioned this man a few times. Are you sure that doesn't ring a bell? He pinched the wedge of skin between his thumb and forefinger. A cross tattooed right here.