“Dre, seriously though, one more question.”
“Yes, B, it was a ’fro. That winter, I grew a ’fro. Happy?”
“Okay. Two questions. Second question: why are we talking about this now?”
Andre straightens, inhales. “Tyler Lee Googled my name and . . .”
“Paid the two-ninety-nine sketchy fee. Hmmm. Yeah. So Duke Boshears knows.”
“You can wait here if you want.”
“Let’s face it. Any conversation with Duke and Victoria is awkward.” The kid grips his nape. “Their marriage is like a tontine where happiness is the prize.”
“Does anyone understand anything you say?”
“I won’t leave you hanging. Ever. Whither thou goest, I will go. Like Paul said to the apostle Mark, ‘We be bros forever.’” Brendan proudly lifts his fist, expects a fraternal bump, but Andre has had enough, turns his back to pursue the path that heads down the hill, the kid’s fist left raised in the air.
“Dude, you are a horrible mentor,” the kid shouts downhill. “A horrible mentor with well-below-average credit.”
The inside of the boathouse is a half-submerged heated garage that shelters a floating small houseboat. Why do cash-strapped rich people always own the coolest toys? Victoria kisses his cheeks with unnatural lips, and he again questions why a former beauty queen would undergo such drastic plastic surgery. She is the perfect hostess, offers refreshments, provides a boathouse tour that ends beside a picturesque window that overlooks the praying men.
“Them? Oh. One of those men’s fellowships. Born-agains returning home,” Victoria says. “You know, grown men who want one last chance, who sign a pledge that they won’t drink, that they’ll be good fathers, that they won’t knock around their wives. Then they feel all proud of themselves. Go ’round town walking with their chest out, bragging. Gee, look at me. I signed a piece of paper saying I won’t beat my wife. Like the governor should give ’em a medal.”
She steps onto the houseboat, which bounces atop choppy waters. To Andre’s surprise, the boathouse can’t keep out the rough water, and he wonders whether a boathouse that keeps the elements at bay would have cost extra. Victoria gestures for her guests to board, and Andre tastes his breakfast rise up his throat. To be sure, he fears neither drowning nor the boat’s collapse, but he’s hungover, and the boat and the waves and the rocking and the yawing, it’s all too much to bear.
Duke Boshears emerges from inside the cabin, sunglasses backward around his neck. He crosses the boat deck, beer can in hand, adjusts a fishing pole cast into the lake. Andre questions the ethics of fishing indoors, feels it’s unfair to the bass.
“Come on,” Duke says. “Make yourself at home.”
Now both Boshears stand, staring, patiently awaiting their guests. As the moment grows more uncomfortable, Andre weighs a list of excuses not to board: childhood trauma, muddy shoes, his ancestors’ experiences with white people and boats. He thinks, perhaps, that the truth will do, but while he’s analyzing that strategy’s pros and cons, Brendan steps forward, says, “Maybe we could sit over there?” pointing at a picnic table in the boathouse’s corner. “I get motion sickness.”
The picnic table is an excellent choice, beneath a vent that blows warm air. Andre, eager to end this conversation, summons a faux enthusiasm, emphasizes the campaign’s success: an effective and efficient canvass; more than sixteen hundred verified signatures, more than enough to appear on the ballot; an internal analysis that suggests all three initiatives enjoy broad public support. To his surprise, Duke Boshears offers effusive praise, Good news, well done, I completely agree, while Victoria sits stone-faced, arms crossed. Andre assumes she’s upset about Tyler, but she isn’t.
“These liberty initiatives.” She grips the table’s edge. “I saw them in the paper. First I heard of it, and I thought . . . well, never mind what I thought. I was surprised. That’s what I’m trying to say. I was surprised.”
“No one’s asked me, but I say you’ve got a genius plan,” Duke says. “You know, my second campaign, the one for state senate, I ran on liberty.”
“Sweetie, please, you ran on being a redneck. Don’t confuse the two.”
“Don’t mind her. She’s in a mood. Go ahead, tell ’em. Tell ’em why you’re in a mood.” Duke’s like a boy taunting his little sister. “Paula Carrothers and Vicki here are thick as thieves. Paula’s godmother to our two girls. I tell Vicki, this campaign ain’t personal. Politics is business with blood.”
“I’m not in a mood. I’m just surprised.” Victoria’s face turns bright red. “But, yes, Paula is a friend, a dear friend. She’s also—”
“A fucking cunt.” Duke looks at Brendan. “That’s a Scottish phrase, ain’t it? Cunt?”
The word, and the casual vitriol with which it is spoken, has horrified the kid. The only question is how Brendan will respond. The obvious answer is that cunt isn’t a phrase. It’s a word. And probably not a Scottish word at that. And above all else, a word that men should never use, unless a pistol is pressed against their head, and, quite possibly, not even then. Andre, with a stare, begs Brendan for restraint. Right now Duke is our friend.
“It’s that you said you’d consult us on major decisions. To me, this seems major.” Victoria struggles for words. “I understand you’re professionals, and I don’t doubt you know your business. But Paula works hard. Real hard. And she cares deeply about this community. Last year, she created a program for girls—”
“See? There it is. That’s my problem with Paula. Or, should I say, one of Her Majesty’s problems,” Duke says. “She spends taxpayers’ money on her own personal pet projects.”
“How is a weekend clinic for pregnant teenagers her own personal pet project?”
“We got a bazillion GD churches in this town, some of ’em richer than Midas. Let one of ’em pay the bill.” He punches his open palm to emphasize his point. “Taxpayers shouldn’t foot the bill for little girls that don’t have the sense to keep their legs closed.”
This statement sets off an argument, and the Boshears bicker, her voice flush with rage, his voice thick with sarcasm. Clearly the two have had this fight before, perhaps about one of their own, talking in circles, Victoria urging Christian compassion, Duke demanding fiscal responsibility. By the time the squabble ends, Victoria’s upset. She bites her lower lip, takes a moment before speaking. “Mr. Ross, I would very much appreciate if you could . . . I’m trying to say . . . This county is run by incompetent men. The sheriff. The school superintendent. Our treasurer has a seventeen-year-old mistress. Is there any way you . . .” Her voice breaks. “Please.”
She turns her face to stare through the window at the men who promise not to beat their wives. She doesn’t need to be told the obvious: that this type of campaign is less likely to succeed against a man, that a healthy share of the electorate simply resents a powerful woman, that, by virtue of being smart and successful, Paula Carrothers is the ideal foil.
“You just don’t understand,” Victoria says. “Paula’s the one who made it.”
Andre endures a long silence, doesn’t question Victoria’s loyalty. If she planned to expose PISA’s campaign, she would have done so by now. Yes, Miss Vicki loves her childhood friend, but clearly Miss Vicki loves her wealth and status more.
On the public beach, the preacher in purple wades into the water, and a bearded man, maybe in his forties, follows behind. The bearded man, dressed in white, hesitates, as though fearful that he might be swept away. The pastor takes his hands, guides him into the lake, where together they pray. The bearded man falls backward, plunging beneath the surface, and rises seconds later, drawing deep gasping breaths, sins forever washed away.
Chapter Eleven
Brendan and Andre play video games through the night, another unanswered set of Brendan victories, another awkward set of Irish song-and-dance. The kid takes a break from gloating, opens his window, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. On the sill, beside a baby-food jar filled with cop
per screws, the kid sits, a sliver of pink sunrise aglow against his back.
“Can we talk for a sec?” The kid pauses, either to carefully choose his words or to surrender to his THC-induced fog. Andre wonders from where Brendan gets his re-ups, suspects that the kid has a connect somewhere between here and Charleston. Hopes that the kid isn’t doing anything reckless. From experience, Andre knows the troubles that can befall a rich white kid who stumbles into the wrong neighborhood.
“You have to forgive Tyler,” Brendan says. “We don’t have options. We need a local registered voter to submit an affidavit attesting to the validity of our signatures. That’s the written law. For better or for worse, Tyler Lee is our man. He’s the face of our campaign. He’s on the website. He—”
“Appeared in the newspaper when I told his dumb ass—”
“What can that possibly matter now?” Brendan says. “Dude. You gotta make your peace with him, and you gotta do it now. We don’t have another choice.”
Andre drops his chin, sucks in a huge breath. He knows he should just walk away—let this moment pass and come back tomorrow—but his fists have tightened, his jaw has set. Et tu, Brendan? Tyler Lee does an interview, an affront that still pisses Andre off, and no one gives a damn? Cassie cheats. No one cares. Mrs. Fitz gives this bullshit assignment. No one cares. How many different ways can one man be disrespected? No. On principle, he will not eat any more of their shit. So, when the kid sings the same refrain, we must, we have to, we have no choice, Andre strikes back. “You’ve no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Dre, I’m not an idiot. I know—”
“What? What do you think you know?”
“I know that my grandmother doesn’t give out third chances,” the kid says. “No matter how much she loves you.”
“You gonna snitch? Tell your grandmother?”
“What? No. I didn’t say . . . I would never . . .” Brendan springs to his feet, points his forefinger like a dagger at Andre’s heart. “That is not me, and you know that is not me. Say that again, Dre, I dare you. Say that again.”
The kid, his face a mask of pain, returns to his perch on the windowsill. Andre sometimes forgets that he’s not arguing with Hector or his juvie friends. With each of them, he could levy any accusation, could utter an insult that cut straight to the bone. In those worlds, among friends, words held little value. Intentions, actions, loyalty, these were the measure of a man. Outside juvie, the world is different. Outside, friendship is different. Outside, respect is different.
“I’m sorry. I know you would never . . . I’m sorry, B. Really, I am.”
“Maybe you should stop drinking,” Brendan says.
“I know.”
“You’re a mean drunk.”
“I know.”
“And sometimes you’re mean when you’re sober too.”
“I’m sorry.”
Brendan plucks the cigarette from behind his ear, lights it, takes a long, thoughtful drag. Andre inhales the smoke, relaxes to consider the merits of the kid’s request. He knows that Tyler’s pardon is inevitable, that if he doesn’t forgive Tyler now, then in forty-eight hours, he’ll receive this order directly from Mrs. Fitz. She too will fault his fragile ego, but mostly, she’ll repeat her favorite truism: sometimes, in politics and in life, you gotta dance with the gal that you brought to the ball.
* * *
The Jeep pulls beside a short school bus with a bumper sticker that reads JOHN 3:16, parked outside a barn. Brendan points to a wire chicken run, where two dozen dyed chicks—blue, green, bubblegum pink—peck pine shavings. Above the run appears a neon sign: BABY CHICKS. 2 FOR $5.
“Dre.” Brendan hands over an envelope fat with cash. “Please remember—”
“Jesus, Brendan. I’m here. I’m meeting him. I’m making nice.”
“—everyone’s opinion deserves respect.”
Inside, the barn smells of mesquite and fresh-baked bread, and the clamor of a busy kitchen rises above the sizzle of a grill. The restaurant, open five minutes, is without customers, and the interior resembles the trendy artisan bistros once popular in Georgetown: clean, sunlit, whiskey-barrel tables, plank countertops. The owner, an old black man with Poseidon’s beard, fills a tin pail with cellophane-wrapped syrup candy. “You waitin’ for Chalene?”
“No, sir. Tyler. Tyler Lee?”
“Don’t know nothin’ about no Tyler, but Chalene’s here.” He points toward the bathrooms, one labeled ROOSTERS, the other HENS. “She’s in there. Hopefully she ain’t makin’ a mess. Ask me: pregnant women always makin’ a mess. I’m keen to ban ’em from my establishment.”
Andre picks a table, stays standing as he wonders whether Tyler Lee will make an appearance or whether the coward has sent his wife, which is, without doubt, a characteristically chump move. With each mistrustful thought, Andre’s impatience grows more intense, and he finds himself guessing at the motives that persuaded Tyler to choose, of all places, here. He bets that Tyler knows the owner, that Tyler aims to show that the Lees have a black friend, a proposition so juvenile, so offensive, that by the time Chalene steps out of the bathroom, wiping her hands on her prairie dress, Andre seethes.
“The money we owe you from the canvass.” Andre tosses the fat envelope on the table. “It’s all there. Count it.”
“I didn’t ask you here to . . . This isn’t about money.” She shoves away the envelope, sits, folds her napkin in her lap. “Please try the trash-can chicken.”
“Is Tyler coming?”
“Please. I thought . . .” She rushes to her purse, unfolds a sheet of spiral-torn paper, begins to read. “When you came to our house on Sunday—”
“Listen, Chalene. I don’t know what Tyler’s pulling—”
“He don’t know I’m here. I asked you here. I wanted to say . . .” She looks down at the paper, starts from the beginning. “When you came to our house—”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Chalene. Will you please take the damn money?”
“I ain’t finished,” she shouts, voice breaking, as she brings her fists together, crumpling the paper. Her first tear falls, and Andre panics, thinks his best option is to turn around and race through the barn door. But instead he stands paralyzed, uncertain whether he’s been harsh or he’s the victim of the unstable hormones of a pregnant white woman.
“All I wanted to do was apologize. I spent a lot of time writing this.” She’s sobbing. “But you and my Tyler, pulling your penises out, spraying your testosterone all over the place. Stubborn men. Makers of your own misery. Jesus would not approve.”
No one has ever made this particular accusation. He takes a moment, confirms that he’s not offended. If such rudeness repulses the Son of God, then Andre’s got bigger troubles than being short with a pregnant woman.
“I been praying over what to do, praying real hard about what to say, because I am real sorry about what my Tyler said.” She gasps for breath. “I wrote down what’s in my heart, and I practiced saying it in the mirror. And now, you . . . you’re being . . .”
“An asshole. You’re right.” He sits. “I’m an asshole. Go ahead. Say it.”
“How can you be in politics and be this frustrating?” she says. “Aren’t elections about getting people to like you?”
“That’s a common misconception. Elections are about getting voters to hate others.” He realizes, too late, that the question was rhetorical. He glances over his shoulder, sees the staff enjoying the spectacle. The owner shakes his head, as though to say, That does it, no more pregnant women. The chef chuckles. The busboy winks. The butcher gives an encouraging thumbs-up. Andre hides the envelope beneath a napkin as the waiter approaches.
“Sweetheart,” the waiter says. “How can I make your day better?”
Chalene wipes her eyes, orders the large-portion chicken spaghetti, extra spicy, extra cheese, with a large sweet tea. She orders a side Caesar salad, with sardines if in stock, with salted ham if not. Andre orders the special, chicken
bog, the cheapest meal on the menu. When the waiter leaves, Chalene says, “He’s judgin’ me. Isn’t he? Or am I crazy?”
Andre bites back the urge to say, Yes, he’s judging you, and yes, you’re crazy, and now, thanks to your tearfest, he’s judging me too. Instead, he leans forward, whispers, “I’ll stiff him on the tip,” and after she giggles through tears, he says, “You come here a lot?”
“Oh goodness. Who can afford it? But the baby’s been craving their spicy chicken spaghetti.” Chalene pats her napkin against her flushed cheek. “With my last two, I had these cravings, spicy chicken spaghetti, and I tried fixin’ it at home. Tried reverse-engineerin’ the recipe like they do on TV. Never could get the spiciness right.”
“I thought you might know the owner.”
“Mr. Dix? No. I guess I know him. Small town and all. But I don’t know him better than anyone else.”
The waiter returns with Chalene’s sweet tea and a basket of ash cakes, compliments of the staff. She says a quick blessing as the waiter leaves, quotes chapter and verse before tearing into her first cake, then a second, a third, smearing globs of honey butter across each cake, each bite savored with as much pleasure as the first. She’s the happiest woman in South Carolina. And there’s something about her satisfaction, about the exuberance with which this small, frail mother-to-be eats, that’s a pleasure to watch.
“Can I read what I wrote now?” She licks her fingers, opens the notebook paper. “Please.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Fine. But all I wanted to say was my Tyler was wrong. He knew better. Should never’ve talked to that reporter. Should never’ve said anything about your past,” she says. “We have all made mistakes. We have all sinned. We have all come up short of the glory of God.”
She has more tears in her eyes.
“Forgive and forget,” he says. “That’s my motto.”
“Crazy thing is, my Tyler and me, we met in prison. You know that?” She breaks another ash cake in two. “His uncle was doing fed time. Dummy shot up a postal van. My family, we lived in Spartanburg; my daddy led a prison ministry. We’d travel ’round the state tendin’ to convicts’ souls. My Tyler and me met in line on visitors’ day.”
The Coyotes of Carthage Page 12
