Brambleman Read Online Free PDF Page B

she
wanted. He’d stopped short of telling her he’d considered joining
the march. That would have incurred her eternal enmity as well as
that of her brother, State Rep. Stanley Cutchins, a Reagan
Republican and barely closeted racist who’d flown to Hawaii on a
lobbyist-paid junket rather than welcome the civil-rights
marchers.
    Soon after the event, Oprah herself had
traveled south to tape her show in Forsyth County, which by then
had become known worldwide as a racist, redneck backwater. Of
course, locals believed they’d been vilified unjustly. (Cumming
residents told reporters, “We didn’t do nuthin’ to nobody.”)
Certainly there had been some progress in the seventy-five years
since 1912. For one thing, subdivision signs advertising “Gracious
Lake Living” had replaced the infamous county-line postings that
said, Nigger, Don’t Let the Sun Set on You Here .
    Charlie knew that since 1987, a few blacks
and increasing numbers of Hispanics had moved to Forsyth County.
He’d seen photos of an African-American high school track star on
the Cumming newspaper’s sports page. This showed acceptance, but
also suggested that speed was essential for blacks who chose to
live there.
    Most blacks he knew rolled their eyes in
exasperation at the mention of the place. African-Americans
certainly couldn’t be too comfortable in Atlanta’s ultimate suburb.
After all, Forsyth’s reputation drew the sort of white person who
wanted to escape crime, drugs, poor schools, and welfare this and
welfare that, but who didn’t necessarily use racial pejoratives,
preferring to speak in code. Forsyth recently had become the
nation’s fastest-growing county, a paradise for people of paleness.
It also happened to be Georgia’s wealthiest and one of the twenty
richest in the nation. That was no mere coincidence. There were now
polo fields in Forsyth, once the home of Hee-Haw ’s Junior
Samples.
    Charlie knew Forsyth’s saga was interesting.
Talton’s manuscript, not so much. “This work is not publishable in
its present form,” stated one rejection letters he read.
    While the old woman thought he could rescue
the book, all Charlie wanted was to survive the night. That meant
staying as long as he could—until his hostess asked him to leave or
the police arrived. But Kathleen didn’t tell him to go. Instead,
she asked, “How long can you stay?”
    “I got nowhere else to go,” he confessed. “I
have all night.”
    “You can rest on the couch if you get tired.
Use the quilt.”
    Kathleen retired at 1:30 a.m. Completely at
peace with his presence, she was soon snoring gently in the front
bedroom. The Seth Thomas wall clock ticked in counterpoint to the
rain’s wavering beat. Wrapped in a quilt—his clothes remained
incredibly damp—Charlie continued reading, mainly to justify his
existence.
    He reached the hundredth page. There was
nothing remarkable written on it; so far, none of what Talton had
written was special. Weariness overcame him. He couldn’t continue.
The scope of this mission was beyond his skills. The past was not
within his power to change. The only thing Charlie could do was get
some rest and try to save his own life. In frustration, he banged
his head on Dr. Talton’s desk.
    The old sofa was inviting. Perhaps he could
sleep off his dampness. He got up and shuffled over to it. The
window trembled in its frame. The wind was rising, chasing the
storm away. Charlie stood for a moment and considered his plight.
He knew a couple of guys who might put him up for few days. Or not.
The local Home Depot might hire him. Everyone who worked there knew
him already, anyway. Then maybe he could rent a room. But he
wouldn’t return to the house on Thornbriar Circle, not until things
changed. Not until Susan apologized and begged him to come back.
But what about Beck (Rebecca) and Ben? What would he tell his
children? He didn’t know.
    Charlie collapsed on the musty old couch. The
dust he’d raised made him sneeze. He