by Eric Wilson
Carla dangled the application like a red flag. “Wyatt Tremaine.”
Uncle Wyatt? Two decades after the fact? Never.
“Okay.” I stood and turned to face the table. “You’re starting to make me angry. Marching in here, throwing this in my face. Please—shut off the camera.”
Greg’s eyes locked on to me, practically pleading.
“And you.” I pointed at him, feeling like a bully on a playground. “Take your soft-hearted, bleary-eyed fluff and get outta here. You hear me? I don’t need sympathy.”
He never blinked. He said, “You’re wrong. Everyone does.”
“Yeah, you’re the expert.”
“Your Uncle Wyatt needs it too.”
“And you’ve spoken with him? He told you that?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Whatever.”
“It’s the truth.” The words came from behind me.
Sonorous and warm, the voice rolled over me. It stirred a volatile mix in my head, releasing emotional odors and toxins that seemed almost palpable. As I turned, my mouth went dry. The roots of my hair tingled. My heart came to a brief standstill before slamming into my rib cage.
“Uncle Wyatt?”
“Aramis.” He extended his hand.
FIFTEEN
Even after all this time the sound of my uncle’s voice was a wrecking ball.
There I was. Six years old.
He was giving me orders in a low growl.
“Get your head down, boy.”
Fingers grimy and strong enforced the demands of his gruff whisper. Already on my belly, spying through stalks of wheat at my captive mother on the riverbank, I felt my chin grind into the mud. A cloth circled my head and cinched between my lips.
“Keep still, and not a peep outta you. It’s for your own good, Aramis.”
A knee was in my back. A belt was strapped around my wrists. I was one of those insects I used to catch and pin to cardboard. Helpless. Confused.
Pinned down by Uncle Wyatt. Why was he doing this?
He left me there with rain drumming on my head, splatting my eyes with mud. I craned my neck so I could see where he was going. I knew he was heading toward Mom. Did he realize the other man had a gun? I tried to warn him. The downpour drowned out my mumbling. Uncle Wyatt stood tall and walked straight for the riverbank.
I hoped he knew what he was doing.
The morning had started like any other, with me stuck at home. Even though I wanted to be big like my brother, I couldn’t go to school till next fall.
After breakfast Mom had set down her coffee and smiled at me. One of her sad smiles.
“Come here.”
I crawled onto her lap, and she hugged me. It was almost scary how tight she held me, like she was afraid I’d dissolve into thin air. She handed me a shiny black box with velvet lining. I’d never seen it before. Inside, folded up nice and neat, was the handkerchief she’d been embroidering the night before.
“Hold on to this for me, okay, Aramis? I have secrets wrapped in here. Someday it’ll show you the way.”
“It’s soft.”
“Take special care of it, you understand?”
“Okay, Mom. But you’re squeezing me. I can’t breathe.”
“I love you,” she said.
“Love you too.”
She let go. “Don’t forget. That’s just for you. Why don’t you go hide your new treasure in your tree fort?”
“What about Johnny?”
“You’re getting to be a big kid. I think you can make it on your own.”
Looking back, I recognize that she was talking about more than tree climbing. She was preparing me; she knew what was coming.
I bounded outside and clawed my way up into the fort Dad had built with me and Johnny Ray. I tucked the box into a hollow in the oak, where puckered wood led to a dark space. A gentle rain began tapping on the leaves, but there was another sound too.
An engine was rumbling, getting louder and closer.
I peered from my leafy refuge and saw a black Trans Am slide into our driveway. A darkly tanned man with bleached blond hair jumped out, holding a gun.
Mom stepped on the front porch, twisting her silky hair in her hand.
The man was yelling, cursing like she was nothing more than some stupid dog. From where I was, I couldn’t catch it all, but he was angry. That was for certain. Angry enough to shoot her. She held up her hand, ushering him inside.
What was she thinking, letting a strange man in our house?
I was shimmying down the rope ladder when I heard the front door open again. I dropped into the rain-dappled dirt, ran, and ducked behind a tractor.
More yelling. A slap. Footsteps scuffling over stone.
“Tell me where it is!”
“It’s gone. I threw it in the river.”
“You wouldn’t be that stupid. Where? Tell me where.”
“It’s wrong. I know what you’ll do with it.”
“You have no idea what I’ll do! Go! Get moving—that way.”
I trailed them through the wheat field. My mind was packed full of questions and fear, but I prayed the Lord would send someone to stop this madman from doing bad things to my mother.
Yelling threats, waving the pistol, the man made Mom stand at the river’s edge. The drop to the water was a good eight or nine feet; I’d made the jump before on a dare and had gotten the breath knocked out of me. From my belly now, hoping to remain unseen, I could tell that Mom had clammed up—same way she did with Dad some nights.
I felt helpless, terrified. Where was everyone? When did Dad get off work? Shouldn’t Johnny Ray be outta school by now?
These thoughts were running through my mind that moment in the field when Uncle Wyatt arrived and shoved me down. At the sound of his voice, I thought help had come.
I was wrong.
“You?” The gunman pointed at my uncle. “Shoulda known you’d show your face. Well, thanks for joining us. Your sister’s not talking, so maybe you can tell me.”
“Nothing to tell.”
“Don’t give me that! Somebody knows.”
“All right. Okay, I’ll tell you. Just let Dianne go.”
“You think I’m stupid, Wyatt? Do I look like I flunked kindergarten?”
“No sir. But I think you’re desperate enough to get yourself killed. I made a call. The cops’re on the way, and they don’t take kindly to men pointing guns.”
“What’ve they got in this hellhole? One cop car? A horse and buggy?
“Take your chances. It’s up to you,” Uncle Wyatt reasoned. “But let her be. She’s no good to you.”
The gunman guffawed. “Now that’s the first honest thing you’ve said.”
“So don’t do anything stupid. C’mon, put the gun to my head and let her walk.”
“Might as well drop you both where you stand. I finally track you down after all these years, and you’re still useless as dirt. Shoulda known.” The bleached-blond man pulled back the hammer on the gun. My mom didn’t flinch. “Maybe this’ll loosen your tongue.”
He fired into my mom’s thigh, and she dropped to her knees with a scream.
Uncle Wyatt yelled at the man and rushed forward, but the gun barrel angled his way and froze him in place.
I was bawling. The belt was biting into my wrists, the cloth in my mouth muffling my cries. I managed to get up on one knee, and then I stood. My uncle caught the movement in his peripheral vision. Raindrops were spilling down his nose, and terror contorted his face.
“Hey!” He took a step toward the assailant.
The blond man gestured. “Stay back. Come any closer, and she gets it through the head.”
I was drenched and shivering. Mom was shaking with quiet whimpers.
Maybe the man would have sympathy if he realized my mother had a child. He wouldn’t shoot a kid, would he? Fear coursed through my body, but I couldn’t watch my mom die. With my shoulder, I scraped at the cloth in my mouth, pulling
, tugging, working it free. I filled my lungs with fresh air.
“Mom!”
“Get outta here!” Uncle Wyatt yelled at me.
The gunman turned toward my voice.
“Don’t shoot her again! Please.” I scooted forward, ignoring the slap of soggy wheat on my cheeks. “That’s my mom.”
“This woman is your mother?”
“Please.” I stumbled, landed in the mud.
“Keep quiet,” Uncle Wyatt insisted.
The blond man waved the weapon at my uncle. “You stay out of it.”
“The kid’s lying,” Uncle Wyatt continued. “I don’t know where he came from.”
“I’m not lying.”
The blond man’s voice softened, and he put one hand on his heart in a show of concern. “I didn’t realize you had a younger son, Dianne. If only you’d told me.”
“It’s true,” I said. “Please, mister. Don’t hurt her anymore.”
“You’re a good kid. I can see that.”
“Please believe me.”
“I do.” He lowered the gun. Crouched down to look me in the eye.
It was a turning point. Why didn’t Uncle Wyatt see that? The attacker might back down in the presence of a begging six-year-old. No. Uncle Wyatt launched forward. Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing. Figured he could be the hero. The mighty rescuer coming to his sister’s and nephew’s aid.
But this mistake changed everything.
I saw him coming. So did the blond man.
A coil of anger knotted the assailant’s mouth and corkscrewed through his eyes, turning his face from a mask of sympathy into one of unrestricted evil. The transformation was instantaneous. The man’s arm jerked forward, jabbing the pistol into the black strands of my mom’s hair.
Uncle Wyatt was still charging when the man pulled the trigger.
Now, in my own espresso shop, I was facing my uncle for the first time in decades. I thought I’d started a new chapter, but my credo was still etched on my arms, on my heart.
One look at Uncle Wyatt’s sun-weathered face, and I exploded.
He stood before me, nearly half a century of life under his silver belt buckle. His jeans were faded, and his cowboy shirt bore visible stitching and pearl buttons. He was crusty and raw, yet there in the solid line of his jaw, the prominent cheekbones, and wide, dark eyes, I caught a glimpse of his sister’s genes.
My mother. Dianne Lewis Black.
In two seconds flat, the negative energy I’d been trying to contain here in Music City came unleashed, like a rubber band stretched to its limit before snapping back with stinging force.
My fingers rolled and clenched. A stone hammer.
In a practiced motion, swift and sudden, my fist catapulted into his mouth. A tooth caught on my knuckle and broke away.
I stood over the fallen man, my mind caught in a sea of red and rage. My breathing was deep and steady, the way I’d learned in my years on the streets. My uncle’s idiocy had moved from my mom to my father to me in a torturous trickle of consequences. He’d never tried to reconcile with me; he’d watched his own sister die, then disappeared from my life.
Would’ve been better if he’d stayed gone.
Stepping into my shop? He had it coming.
And who did Johnny Ray think he was, setting this ambush? Did he think such a confrontation would erase the past and put everything right?
I pointed to Uncle Wyatt. “Get him outta here! All of you. You’ve got sixty seconds to pack up your stuff and get off my property. Out!”
Greg Simone and one of the cameramen reached for the bloodied man.
Carla Fleischmann stood in front of the other camera. I thought I saw its light still glowing, but when she stepped away, it was dark. She wore a slight smile, and I could just imagine her pleasure. This was what The Best of Evil was all about, the real struggle of real people with the illogical concept of grace.
My little outburst? By her measure, she probably thought it was good television.
“I haven’t signed any releases. Air this, and I’ll see you in court.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Black.”
She turned in her cream skirt and led the way out, leaving the packet of papers on the table.
In Rome, baristas call it “the tail of the tiger.”
I placed a demitasse cup beneath the Italian machine’s porta-filters and pulled myself an espresso shot. The crema thickened atop the liquid. Near the end of the shot, a lighter trail of coffee trickled through, indicating the flavor had been extracted and only acidity remained.
In Nashville, I call it “your past will come back to bite you.”
I wrapped a wet towel around my hand. My knuckle was throbbing, and the skin was ripped. Old inclinations boiled in my belly—testosterone and hatred. In the alleys and storefronts off Portland’s Burnside Avenue, I’d taught others a lesson or two, mirroring my father’s actions toward me.
But no. I was not like my father.
Unlike Kenny Black, I’ve never struck a woman. Women play by rules that require mental and verbal acumen. Men? We can’t keep up, not in that game. Size, attitude, intimidation—these are the coins men pay to get what they want.
Today I’d found I still had a few coins left. One bought me a solid right hook. What of it? I wanted nothing to do with Wyatt Tremaine.
I tossed back the espresso shot in a gulp, felt it burn a hot trail down my throat.
Yeah, my uncle deserved what he’d got.
SIXTEEN
Windows rattled as I slammed through the front door of our brownstone. The place was empty. Tuesday. One of Johnny’s tanning-booth days.
I had to get out. Get away.
I snatched the car keys from my coat hanging by the door.
Stuffed into the small cockpit of my Honda Civic, I made a sweeping reverse maneuver out onto the street, slipped into first, and peeled across the pavement. I drove toward no destination, taking side streets I’d never traveled in an attempt to lose myself. Not hard to do in Nashville. A spider web of thoroughfares radiates from downtown—Nolensville, Gallatin, and Lebanon pikes and West End Avenue. Circling the city, Old Hickory Boulevard, Harding Place, and Briley Parkway connect these threads.
Caught up in the web, I was a bug of no consequence. Racked with poison, I knew the numbness was on its way.
I know of only one way to combat this poison.
When the venom of regret seeps into your veins, when the paralysis of depression holds you in its icy grip, you need to turn your mind from your own struggles to another’s. This is no easy thing to do. Self-preservation mode is strong. Darwin recognized its power and integrated it into his theory of our species’ origins.
If good and evil do exist, we are caught in a war. Comcast Cable, the Cheesecake Factory, and MySpace.com will insulate you from it only so long. The larger struggles—conflicts in the Middle East, the fight against racism, corruption in the legal system—are reflections of the internal wrestlings of each human heart.
Murder, hate, envy, and greed.
Theft, lies, lust, and adultery.
No wonder some turn to the power of confession. Others find solace in pleasure. Even the very act of philosophizing can be an escape.
And they all work—for a while. I’ve tried them.
But there’s one thing that works more powerfully than any other—an act of selflessness. Maybe that’s because selflessness connects us with God. Didn’t he give up his rights as Creator to walk this earth, to face the same temptations, and to surrender his body in payment for our sins? At least that’s how the story reads.
He was a redeemer. A remedy. And an example to follow.
No easy thing, that. All the baggage that’s been added to the story makes me doubt. Makes me wonder what’s really true. I want to believe. I want to follow the example. But the war in my heart still rages.
To talk about it and turn away is to lose another battle. I owed a grieving woman a visit. I looked up her
address.
Neely’s Bend.
Laid out between two ridges on the northeastern perimeter of Nashville, the valley is quiet, with farmland still stretching between homes and encroaching developments. The road turned darker the farther I went. Angling my car to catch the numbers on the mailboxes, I was able to locate the correct address.
“Who is it?”
In the dark, on her uneven doorstep, I swallowed hard. “My name’s Aramis Black. Is this the Michaels residence?”
The house gave a weary groan. A porch light came on.
A voice said, “You wantin’ to sell us somethin’? We don’t talk to no salesman.”
“Nothing like that, ma’am.”
“Speak your business then. Ain’t got all night.”
“Uh. I’m Aramis Black.”
“Done told me that already. You slow or just plain stupid?”
I recalled Mrs. Michaels’s face from the newscast a few nights ago, her sorrowful eyes. I couldn’t turn back now.
“I’m the owner of Black’s,” I said. “The place where your son was killed.”
Silence.
Drawn by the bare light bulb over the porch, a huge moth fluttered along the door, changed direction, and bumped into my neck.
“Mrs. Michaels, I was there when it happened, and I can’t stop thinking about it, so I can only imagine the hell you’ve been going through. I thought maybe you’d like someone to talk to about it. Or maybe I need to talk. I don’t know. I want to understand why. I wanna know who would do such a thing.”
A whisper. “You don’t even know.”
I gave her a moment to continue, but no words came. “Know what?”
Along the street, piles of leaves were coming to life, crawling along the lawn, leaping and spinning into ghostly shapes. A storm was approaching, a sorcerer using the wind to recruit dead things for the evening’s show.
“Know what?” I said again. “I want to understand.”
“You can’t … can’t even begin to know the way it rips out a mama’s heart. Mr. Black, you have no right. No right at all. You wander onto my property thinkin’ that’s gonna give you some insight? Only a mother can know what I’m talkin’ about, and I don’t need you or those television folk pokin’ them fat noses into my life. I done the best I could—that’s the Lord’s honest truth. Now. Get yourself down off my front step. And don’t you come back. Y’all took my son from me. Ain’t that enough?”
