Chapter Nine
The firm’s software-development team has created a Liberty App that supporters can download to stay connected with the campaign. Rally schedules. Streaming videos. Social networking updates. Join Carthage County, Proud and Free. The app is generic, an interface seen before, and he wonders whether it will appeal to Carthage’s young. Thus far, the online campaign hasn’t gotten much traction. He’s budgeted another ten thousand dollars for online ads. Every time a Carthaginian uses a search engine, entering terms like jobs or loans, Powerball or credit score, the search engine returns a campaign banner ad.
Andre checks his watch, thinks how best to pass the time. He’s come to loathe Sunday mornings, the holy hours that he spends alone while Brendan attends Mass and all of Carthage attends church. Already he’s completed the day’s administrative tasks: written an optimistic letter to PISA, e-mailed a candid status report to Mrs. Fitz. He’s grateful that the state doesn’t have any reporting requirements. In federal elections, the law requires that candidates and PACs appoint a treasurer, a legally bound accountant who must, under penalty of prison time, track each dime raised or spent. But for South Carolina local elections, where federal campaign finance rules don’t apply, and where state legislators eschew all political regulation, Andre answers for spending only to PISA and Mrs. Fitz.
So Andre pursues another distraction, a series of mindless searches that inevitably turn toward Cassie. The results include positive reviews about her new debut album. He selects a video interview, two days old, conducted by a local jazz legend, a beret-wearing saxophonist sporting a goatee. Cassie shines. She’s smart, funny, sexy. Her answers are playful yet polished; she speaks with an alluring confidence.
He’s starting to write her an e-mail, a flirtatious congratulatory note, Cass, I knew you had it in you, girl, when, six minutes into the interview, she tells the jazzman that she’s engaged and pregnant. This pronouncement, at first, Andre assumes he mishears. She has an engagement at the Pageant? So he replays the five-second bit again and again, each time, breath held, ear pressed against the laptop speaker. Perhaps she misspoke. Perhaps she’s joking. Deep down he knows neither is true. He sits back, plays the video to its end, where, as though with the last twist of the knife, the jazzman asks whether she is now truly happy, a question to which the woman Andre loves answers: For the first time in my life.
On Instagram is confirmation, an engagement announcement and photo: Cassie, glamorous in white elbow-length gloves and a navy gown; her new fiancé, the hatchet-faced Canadian with a Prince Charming chin, his arms wrapped around her. He reads the page again and again, recognizing each word but failing to comprehend their collective meaning. She’s four months pregnant—she doesn’t look so—and, though she left him three months ago, Andre knows this child is not his. The night he bent his knee, six months ago in the shadow of Abraham Lincoln, Cassie proposed a sexless engagement, claimed that celibacy would enhance their wedding night. Had she been unfaithful even then? On the night she wept and said she would love him forever?
He strains to piece together the chronology of her betrayal, and his memory sticks on the last time he saw her, at a crowded Japanese teahouse, where, he now realizes, she lied to his face, ended their engagement under false pretenses. On the back of a sheet of music with a trio of blank staves, she’d handwritten his faults, flaws that included drinking and cynicism, moodiness and short temper, pessimism and mistrustfulness. She looked him square in the eye, claimed, as he choked down grief, that she could not, would not, marry a man who could never know joy. But each painful personal accusation, he now realizes, was a lie, a pitch to pacify a heartbroken sucker. He’d sat there, pleaded, begged, apologized for the way he thought, for the way he acted, for the way I am. He promised to change, to become the man whom she wanted him to be, and when she refused, flat-out said that she’d made up her mind, he slammed his palm against the bamboo table, shouting, I am not too sad for a woman who sings the blues. She slid his ring across the table and rose to leave, bumping the table’s edge, her black tea spilling over her saucer and staining the ivory sheet of music that cataloged his faults.
“Dre? You’ve seen it?” Brendan, in a linen suit, stands behind him. “Dre, man, you okay? You look a little . . .”
“Seen what?”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Seen what?”
Brendan tosses his keys on the table, spreads today’s newspaper beside the keys, leafing through the Sunday edition, which continues this week’s coverage of Youth Day. It is a photo album of adorable white children with dead deer. Nothing, so far, surprises. Brendan stops on the penultimate page, and, at first, Andre’s unsure on which story his attention should focus. Then he spots, in the lower quarter of the left page, a black-and-white photo of Tyler, arms folded, proud atop the courthouse steps. The headline reads: LOCAL CONSERVATIVE SEEKS REFORM.
“How many times did we tell him?”
“Several times,” Brendan says. “No media without your approval.”
“Did you know about this?”
“Me? I’m literally with you all day,” Brendan says. “But, Dre, if you read it, it’s not all that bad. He actually does—”
Andre snatches the paper. The story is not long, an editorial afterthought at best. To Andre’s surprise, Tyler stays on message. Tyler speaks about liberty, and the founders, and the founders’ love of liberty, and the need to take his country back from out-of-control despots. He says the government has given up on locals like him, that no one in government listens to the common man. For the liberty campaign, Tyler takes sole credit, says that these initiatives were inspired by his love of scripture and history. Collecting signatures, Tyler boasts, is the most patriotic way one can spend Youth Day, because, as he articulates, Liberty is all about the future and our children and stuff like that, brother. The feature swallows whole the campaign’s statistics about county land ownership, publishes the salary of Paula Carrothers, who, for this story, declined comment. The feature is lopsided. The feature is effusive. The feature is borderline propaganda. In short, the feature is perfect.
Brendan breaks the silence. “Maybe we should remind him—”
Andre snatches the keys from the table, charges through the door, newspaper tucked beneath his arm. The kid scurries behind, shouting, stuttering, down two flights of stairs and out the front door, where Andre turns, clasps the kid’s shoulder to ensure his words are felt. Andre says that he will speak to Tyler alone, promises to return once the necessary business is done.
The road to Tyler’s house is empty, and yet, as he passes each milepost, Andre feels an intense insecurity behind the wheel. He worries as the rain falls in flashes—waves gushing down his windshield—but he pushes forward, tries to steady the Jeep as he bounces wildly with the rise and fall of the slippery road. He passes familiar stone walls and rickety bridges, short pines and dead oaks, abandoned pickups and a prairie of wilted grass and two vultures feasting upon the carcass of a mule.
At last, the Jeep reaches the Lee home, where, on the covered porch, Tyler and Chalene, swaying in a swing, hold hands. The two wear their Sunday best, Chalene in a powder-blue dress with a Puritan collar, Tyler in khakis, clip-on tie, short-sleeve white shirt. Andre marches across the lawn, plants his feet on the front step. Chalene’s face brightens, and, as she rises, clutching her pregnant belly, she says, “Dre. Sweetie. You’re early. You want a fried bologna sandwich?”
“What the fuck was so hard to understand?” Andre pitches the newspaper into Tyler’s chest. “No interviews without my permission.”
“Hot damn, brother. It came out today? In the Sunday edition?” Tyler opens the newspaper, finds his picture. “They said Monday or Tuesday! Baby, come see. I look good.”
Chalene wipes her hands, takes the paper with care. This article is the first time her husband’s name has appeared in print except for the two DUIs once listed in the crime beat. No wonder she wants to preserve the article: public affirm
ation that by marrying this jackass, she didn’t make a terrible choice. Chalene looks up. “Andre, can I get you sweet tea? You look like you got some sun.”
Andre says, “Who gave you permission to give an interview?”
“Whoa, brother! They came to me,” Tyler says. “Trust me. This is good. I thought you’d like the surprise.”
“We should go inside,” Chalene says. “I think the storm’s gettin’ worse.”
“Baby, check on the boys. I’ll be behind you,” Tyler says. She hesitates but, after Tyler kisses her cheek, retreats inside. “Like I said, reporter came to me.”
“You knew better.”
“Dre, come on, read it,” Tyler says. “This is a good thing.”
“You’re fired.”
Tyler stands, raises his chin to reveal a thick, hairy Adam’s apple that bounces with each hard swallow. He steps forward, close enough so that Andre can smell the tobacco tucked beneath his lip. Andre prays this asshole takes a swing, hopes this white boy will throw the first punch. Andre, more than anything, wants a reason to whoop someone’s ass.
“Brother, look at the paper. I am this campaign.” Tyler spits chew into the bushes. “You fire me, I’ll go straight back to the paper, and I’ll—”
“Tell them what? That you manipulated your community because PISA paid you a few bucks? Shit. Go ahead,” Andre says. “You like seeing your name in print? We’ll see how much people like it when you confess to being a Judas, brother.”
The rain starts to fall, sheets thick as glass, and Andre, on the front step, not yet beneath the covered porch, is drenched in the downpour. He moves to climb a stair, but Tyler blocks his ascent.
“You know what, I did some checkin’ on you. Nearly killed a guy. Four-count felon. All-time loser.” Tyler spits, wipes his mouth. “DC time is fed time, and fed time is serious time. Even I know that, Toussaint. But I got a question: Can a homeboy with your record even vote?”
“Who needs the right to vote when I control the ballot?”
“People like you, you crack your teeth, you make noise, but you ain’t nothing but half a hand,” he says. “Seems to me, you should be witherin’ in a hole. After what you done. You and your homeboys, you and your affirmative—”
“Tyler! Now, you hush now.” Chalene flies through the door, steps between the men. “Now, both y’all quit all this foolishness.”
“Get off my property, Toussaint, before I get my gun.” Tyler spits as Andre climbs back inside the Jeep. A minute later, Andre’s back on the road, compelled by a need to find a dark, empty hole. He pulls beside the road, searches, with wet, trembling hands, the GPS. The nearest open bar is two counties over. Sunday. Blue laws. More reason to hate Carthage. He hoped that once he fired Tyler, he might feel better, but instead, he feels drained of energy and emotion. He knows he just fucked up, unnecessarily put the campaign at risk, another self-inflicted wound that Mrs. Fitz will say was reckless and thoughtless, and, of course, she’ll be right.
* * *
The floor beneath his bar stool begins to shake.
Andre’s pretty certain that he’s drunk—one hour, four doubles, who wouldn’t be?—but he’s also fairly certain that this small, dank hole has begun to quake. He considers whether to panic, whether to drop to the floor and crawl beneath a booth, but he’s also quick to realize that the shaking has yet to alarm the bartender, a smooth, serpentine brother with a cluster of moles beneath his eye.
Against the counter Andre lays his palms flat, considers the possibility that his mind is simply swimming. But he’s hard-pressed to ignore an abundance of proof to the contrary: half-empty bottles that clink together, neon signs that flicker, a bell above the door that rings as though to warn that the British are near. At the end of the bar, a drunk sable-skinned man with salt-and-pepper hair pauses playing solitaire with a deck of pornographic playing cards.
The rumbling ends, the mere passing of a train, and Andre drains his drink. The bartender pours another generous double, and Andre pays. Five for the drink. Five for the tip. Andre doesn’t know how his night will end, but he’s an hour outside Carthage, and if his day continues to worsen, he’ll need the bartender on his side.
“You sure I can’t get you something better?” The bartender checks the label on the bottle of cheap liquor. “First drink on the house.”
Andre knows the bartender is running a game, offering to sell pricey booze to a drunk man, the first shot free. But Andre doesn’t mind. He respects the effort, an honest hustler trying to make a buck. Andre says, “Things usually this quiet?”
“You know how folks be on Sundays. The angels sitting in the pews, the devils sleeping off last night.” The bartender leans in. “Wait ’bout an hour. Party picks up with the last-minute crowd that ain’t ready to give up on the weekend.”
The bar door flies open, and in walks a cello-shaped woman, maybe thirty, with dusty-blond cornrows and pristine peach skin. Her brows, drawn on and exaggerated, seem to belong to a silent-film star, and her torn collarless shirt hangs over her tattooed shoulder to expose her bra’s tattered pink strap.
She slams her bucket bag atop the counter, searches inside as she curses beneath her breath. She empties the bag, unafraid to reveal all her secrets: pepper spray and a diaphragm, chewing gum and tampons, a switchblade and a troll doll and a roll of duct tape. At last, she finds a coin purse, pours her change into a green glass ashtray. She counts her treasure, one coin at a time, says to the bartender, “Whatcha sell me for . . . one fiddy?”
“Directions to the water fountain.”
“Come on, James. Is that any way to be?”
“Baby girl, I ain’t got no time for your broke ass. Buy something or get out.”
She props her elbow atop the bar, rolling her eyes, rests her face inside her hands. Andre, for a moment, thinks she might cause a scene. Instead, she relents, repacking her bag, filches a fistful of swizzle sticks and packets of white sugar. The bartender meets Andre’s eye, winks, and throws his neck in the woman’s direction. Andre shoots a quick sideways glance, judges the woman in a different light. Isn’t there a proverb about picking up white women in a black bar?
“A shot for the lady,” Andre says. “Whatever she wants.”
The woman, chewing on a swizzle, stops packing. “Finally, a gentleman.”
He cups his ear, pretends he can’t hear a word, a move he learned in college to get the girls to come closer. She takes the bait, slides over her stool. This close, she smells like grapefruit, a spicy scent that’s probably sold in bulk.
“So what’s your deal?” She runs cherry ChapStick around her lips.
“I’m just out looking to have a drink.”
“Uhh. I’m just out looking to have a drink,” she says. She mocks his voice and posture. “You white? You talk like you white.”
“Funny, you don’t.”
“Nigga. I am black. Blacker than you, anyway.” She sinks the shot he bought. “And don’t look at me like that for sayin’ nigga. I didn’t mean it like that. You the one talkin’ all proper and shit. Your mama white?”
“No,” he says.
“But I bet she was bougie.”
“This is the worst thank-you for a drink I’ve ever had.”
“Your daddy bougie too?”
“Wouldn’t know.” He hears his words slur. “Never met him.”
“Lucky. I knew mine. He was an asshole.” She points two sharp fingers toward the bartender. “Wasn’t he, James? Wasn’t my daddy an asshole?”
“That he was, baby girl,” the bartender says, and the woman smiles, satisfied. Andre passes on the opportunity to ask about her father. Daddy issues, without a doubt, are the least sexy form of small talk. He wonders, though, what to discuss next. He guesses it’s better not to ask whether she has a kid or a job or a man at home.
“Buy me another drink. I want a . . .” She leans over the bar, arms folded beneath her breasts, G-string creeping above the back of her drawstring pants. “Get me some
thin’ classy. Somethin’ with olives or cherries.”
“We ain’t got no olives. Ain’t got no cherries,” the bartender says. “This ain’t Buckingham Palace.”
“Piece-of-shit ghetto bar,” she shouts. “With piece-of-shit ghetto service.”
“Baby girl, I ain’t puttin’ up with your tantrums tonight.”
She throws away the threat, slides between Andre’s legs to reach for a cocktail menu covered in dust. She runs her forefinger across the menu, mouths the words like a child who’s just learned to read. Finally, she selects a sour-apple martini, an order that annoys the bartender.
Andre pulls out his roll of cash, pays her tab and an extra-generous tip. For the first time, he realizes that this entire afternoon, he’s been spending the campaign’s petty cash, money he withdrew from the safe to pay Tyler. Using campaign funds for personal expenses is a career-ending offense. Sure, some junior partners lie, print up fake receipts or enter nondescript cash expenses, but for Andre, stealing from the firm is stealing from Mrs. Fitz. So he tells himself to remember to reimburse the petty cash from his personal savings, which are slight. Between Hector and wedding planning and the expense of living comfortably in DC, he doesn’t have a net worth.
The woman gawks at the cash, says, “You dealin’?”
“Why is that your first assumption?”
“Uh. Why is that your first assumption. Because that much cash, you bound to be causin’ trouble.” She reads his annoyed expression. “What? I know things. I ain’t Pollyanna from Hicksville. I been places. I’ve done things. You don’t know a damn thing about me. Fuck you.”
He thinks that this woman isn’t pretty enough to excuse such abuse, though, based upon her confidence, no one’s ever told her that.
The Coyotes of Carthage Page 10
