Paper Gods

by Goldie Taylor

  His eye is on the sparrow

  And I know He watches over me.

  The masses joined in with the second stanza. Victoria left the lectern and met her mother center aisle. She melted into Rosetta’s breasts. The gathering, still singing and some now crying, raised their hands to the heavens.

  “It’s alright, dear heart,” Rosetta said softly but assuredly, rubbing her daughter’s back. “He’s gone, baby. Your brother passed on. To be absent the body is to be present with the Lord.”

  “God is close to the brokenhearted,” Victoria whispered, quoting Psalm 34:18. “He is my rescue.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Virgil and Libby Gail spent much of the day touring some newfangled winery over in Rockmart, Georgia. Lunch was a dry and ungodly arugula salad tossed with withered strawberries, pecan crumbles, and feta cheese. There wasn’t a decent cut of meat in the whole place, including some overbaked, tough-as-shoe-leather chicken drowned in an indiscernible mix of seasoning. Virgil swore the “summer wine” tasted like swamp water. Why anybody with the good sense of a greylag goose would attempt to farm grapes in Northwest Georgia was beyond his understanding.

  “We drove damn near to Alabama,” Virgil protested as they pulled into the driveway, “for a plate of burnt yardbird!”

  “Well, I enjoyed it,” Libby Gail said dismissively. “Next time, I’ll leave you at home.”

  “By all means, please do!”

  By midafternoon Sunday, Virgil was still mad and teetering on the brink of starvation. He fished through the cabinets and discovered nothing worth eating aside from a sleeve of focaccia party crackers and a slightly questionable container of crab dip. He stuffed his jowls until he wasn’t mad anymore. Thanks to her meddling stepsister, Libby Gail was on another raw food diet, and there was nothing else in the house but root vegetables and a pile of fruit that he didn’t want any part of. He thought about ordering delivery, but quickly realized he’d never so much as called for pizza without Libby Gail’s help.

  Harold, the houseman, was out back helping Libby Gail rearrange the yard furniture for the second time that week, and Virgil was told they were not to be disturbed. He wanted to raise a stink, but he knew that would only get him another lecture about his own eating habits, a discussion he’d avoid at near ’bout any cost. Virgil decided it was better to sleep it all off.

  He woke up just past nightfall, tucked what was left of a 750-milliliter bottle of Bulleit Bourbon under his arm, and headed to the theater room on the lower level. Virgil tossed back a shot, relaxed deep into a stadium-style recliner, and cued up a series of newly produced campaign spots. He grinned as the first video lit up the wide screen.

  He lit a cigarillo, taking several long drags as he admired his handiwork. Reverend Goodwin was simply magical on camera, just as Virgil had imagined, and that lifted his spirits. The pastor’s broad shoulders and compassionate yet strong demeanor were everything Virgil dreamed they would be. Goodwin was a son of Atlanta and a man of God. Virgil hated to think that he might one day be disappointed in the pastor. He didn’t worry so much about the issues as he did holding the line on Goodwin’s narrative as a family man. There were problems, he knew, given the reverend’s purported extracurricular activities. Laying aside rumors that Goodwin had a Velcro zipper, the minister was still his best shot at taking down Dobbs. Virgil worried that a “bimbo eruption,” as he liked to call such matters, might spoil his plans. Goodwin swore everything had been put to bed, so to speak. Still, he trusted preachers less than politicians, and this one was as slick as week-old bacon grease.

  Recruiting a viable candidate to mount a bid against Dobbs in the special election, other than the customary yahoos and suit-fillers, had been tough sledding. The pickings were slim. No small thanks to his own doing, Dobbs was Hawkins’s heir apparent and had been for a dozen years. Few others had the name recognition, the fund-raising prowess, or the courage to take her on. Backing Dobbs in previous races was Whit’s idea, but despite millions spent on one election or another, the anticipated payoff never came to fruition. The alliance was troubled from the start. Her loyalties had always been as questionable as the week-old crab dip rumbling in his stomach.

  She took courtesy meetings, but did little to advance legislation of any direct benefit. Sure, Dobbs tossed a few crumbs their way. However, when it came down to it, she did just as she pleased. Truth be told, Hawkins delivered much of the same. The late congressman outright refused to place their pick for the Federal Communications Commission on the president’s desk. That deciding vote, a ruling that regulated ownership of multiple media outlets in the same market, had been costly. And killing so-called net neutrality, a hard-fought issue involving pay-for-play internet speeds, had nearly busted the deal. In the most recent skirmish, an omnibus transportation bill that failed in committee after Hawkins refused to sign on, Virgil watched billions turn to dust. There were rumors that he was about to file an amendment that would revive the legislation before his untimely demise. The proposed legislation would have cut Dobbs out of the deal, and Virgil was certain she would fight like an alley cat to keep it off the floor.

  Virgil would take pleasure in her political demise. Dobbs was, at least in his mind, too big for her proverbial britches.

  No permanent friends, no permanent enemies.

  People disappear when they die, he thought with another puff. Such is true about politics too, Virgil reasoned. One minute you’re at the top of the heap; the next, you’re lying supine in a cheap pine box. If he had his way, this would be the last election for Victoria Dobbs. She’d quit or lose. Virgil didn’t care which. That little housewarming gift he’d ordered sent to her house was the first salvo. He was armed and ready to unleash a treasure chest full of her indiscretions.

  Bet on black.

  Rudy Goodwin was good enough, as far as Virgil was concerned. In only a few days’ time, he’d assembled a small staff and created an aggressive campaign calendar. An email blast would hit a hundred thousand voters at midnight, followed by a press release due out by 4 A.M., just in time for the morning news producers to get a bite. Goodwin, surrounded by a thousand supporters, would be on the Capitol steps by noon, in time to make the midday local newscasts. Virgil personally looked over the speech and decided it was nothing short of magnificent. The preacher’s wife had a few inconsequential revisions, and he let them pass. Virgil knew the value of a happy wife.

  Happy wife, happy life.

  The national networks would show up too, given the nature of the race and the death of Hawkins. The first round of campaign ads would hit the airwaves with the 5 P.M. newscasts and keep rolling through until the late-night talk shows came on.

  “All lives matter,” Goodwin said in one thirty-second spot. “Yours and mine, from the cradle to the grave.”

  Of course, the unstated message was that Goodwin was pro-life and supported the death penalty, but according to the high-priced consultants who were paid to study such things, voters would read different things into it. Goodwin wanted to say “womb” instead of “cradle” and demanded that he say “life” instead of “lives,” but J. T. King, who had been assigned to personally handle Goodwin, swiftly rejected the idea during the videotaping session. Virgil thought the pastor was going to storm right out of the studio. He knew King could have a hard edge.

  King was a tall, slender, bookish-looking man who always got down to the point. It was his job to keep the preacher in line and on message. Virgil watched as he ran his fingers through his shock of jet-black hair and tried not to let his frustrations get the better of him.

  “I’m with you on that,” King said, “but you’ve got to remember who lives in the Fifteenth. This is one of the most solidly blue districts in the country.”

  “I am who I am,” Goodwin responded.

  Virgil was forced to remind the preacher that this wasn’t his pulpit.

  “Our team at Aristotle Strategies tested ‘all lives matter’ and determined a clear majority of colored
folks find it more favorable than ‘black lives,’” Virgil said.

  “Colored?” Goodwin said.

  His discomfort was clear. Goodwin was half out of his chair and appeared ready to bolt.

  “Oh, I apologize,” Virgil responded, correcting himself straightaway. “I meant to say ‘African American.’ Blame my head, not my heart. I came up in another time.”

  “I prefer ‘American,’” Goodwin said, retaking his seat. “One nation, one people.”

  “This is Atlanta,” King said with measured annoyance. “You can be ‘black’ or you can be ‘African American.’ Pick one.”

  “You’re going to lecture me about race?” Goodwin shot back. “I’ve been a black man all my life. I was born in this skin and I will die in it, but I won’t ever be ‘colored’ for him and nobody else.”

  “Pastor, I meant no disrespect,” King said, lowering the temperature. “You have to understand the political landscape. Some things won’t go over well with African American women, and they represent a substantial part of the electorate. They will decide this race.”

  “Indeed,” Goodwin said. “I’m married to one, you know.”

  “And you’re running against one,” King said. “Hell, Victoria Dobbs knows half of them by name.”

  Virgil remembered how the remark seemed to poke Goodwin in the chest. It was clear that he didn’t like being lectured by a white man. But, even after all of the haggling, the commercials turned out pretty good as far as he was concerned.

  Virgil trained his eyes on the theater screen. There were three commercials featuring Goodwin. A fourth and final ad, starring Victoria Dobbs, began playing as Lucky walked into the media room. Photos of the mayor; her brother, Chip; and Richard “Dickey” Lester leered ominously from the screen. A folky, unmistakably southern black female announcer said, “Are these the kind of people you want representing you? We’re better than this, Atlanta.”

  Lucky entered the theater room, folded his arms across his chest, and silently watched. By the time the voice-over said, “Paid for by Reclaim Atlanta,” Lucky was fit to be tied.

  “We can’t run that,” Lucky said. “Haven’t you heard the news?”

  “What is it now, Lucky? How much bad news you got in those britches of yours?”

  “Prentiss Dobbs died last night.”

  “You don’t say? Well, that is an unfortunate development. We’ll send flowers.”

  “Did you hear what I said? You have to get the boys to edit him out of that video.”

  Swigging the last corner of his shot and pouring another, Virgil said, “We bought up every station in the city, plus a big radio buy on 750 AM and V-103. I aim to box her in and make her fight. And we all know what she’s like when she’s teed-off. Remember, that broad started this fight.”

  The video included a still photo taken from a Mays High School yearbook, with Dobbs hugging up on Richard “Dickey” Lester like young, sex-starved lovers. Her brother was grinning in the background.

  “Virgil, I said he’s dead. It’s all over the news. You cannot run that like it is.”

  “Tell me again like I didn’t hear you the first time,” he said, sucking on the last of the butt and extinguishing the cigarillo in an armchair ashtray.

  “Who cares if you got your feelings hurt? I might’ve cussed you blind too.”

  “She’s disloyal,” Virgil said with a belch. “I tried to tell y’all that when we put her in office the first go-round. Whit, bless his heart, still has a soft spot for that gal, and who could blame him? If he had it his way, she’d be sitting in the Oval Office right now, scorching everything we’ve built. I cannot convince my long-suffering brother that she’s anything short of a saint. A damn disgrace is what she is. And her brother was too.”

  Virgil recalled meeting young Chip at a National Black Arts Festival reception some years back. Prentiss Dobbs spared not a single breath before he informed Virgil that he was the son of the late Dr. Park Dobbs. Even with that, how the dimwit got into any reputable college, let alone Morehouse, was a mystery, Virgil thought. He used to joke that he could hear the rocks clanging around in Chip’s head when he entered a room.

  His sister apparently inherited all the brains, Virgil surmised, though in his mind, both had less grace than a hairless pygmy possum. But whatever he lacked in intellect, young Chip more than made up for on the street. If one wanted to win an election inside of I-285, it was common knowledge that Chip Dobbs was your man. His stock skyrocketed when his older sister won the mayor’s race.

  “Is she going to suspend her campaign?” Virgil said with a sniff. “One would think she’d put the whole thing on ice at least until the funeral is over.”

  “Heck, there’s only four weeks until the election, and the clock starts ticking Monday when qualifying closes,” Lucky said. “You have to reckon she won’t waste a day.”

  “And neither can we, my friend. We damn sure can’t wait until they put that boy in the ground to get things going. When’s the funeral, anyway?”

  “It hasn’t been announced,” said Lucky, shaking his head at the empty popcorn maker. “We can’t run the one with Lester in it until we know for sure. Maybe we should think about letting Goodwin put out a condolence message and suspend active campaigning until after the burial.”

  Virgil pulled on another shot of whiskey. “I think we should position it all as a potential drug hit and let the media run with it.”

  “We can’t do that,” Lucky said. “It will make her look sympathetic to the voters.”

  “Who says we can’t? Who’s going to be sympathetic to a drug-addled miscreant who had the keys to the city contract department?”

  “Every mama in Atlanta, that’s who. Between that and Hawkins, and then to find out her husband has been pussyfooting around with some TV gal, Dobbs will come off looking like a victim,” Lucky said. “We don’t have any proof Chip was taking dope.”

  “And there’s no proof he wasn’t.”

  “I’m only saying that I’ve been knocked flat on my ass by a lot less.”

  “Don’t go losing your shit on me now, Lucky. I told you this one would get rough. Might be a real barn burner. Hey, speaking of that, you remember when we snuck off down to Bainbridge for that cockfight in ’71?”

  “How could I forget? I won us a grip of money.”

  “You always knew when to lay your cash on the table, and I’m telling you that it ain’t no time to fold now.”

  “I’m only saying that I’m not sure how much else she can stand.”

  “We ’bout to see,” Virgil said, eyeing him wearily.

  Virgil and Lucky had roomed together at University of Georgia back in the mid-’70s. Lucky didn’t fuss much when Virgil hatched a plan to kidnap the team mascot, a bulldog named Uga III. They drove five hours through the night down to Savannah and waited outside the owner’s house until a housekeeper let the pooch out into the yard that morning. The first shot from the pistol that whirled past his ear took Lucky by surprise. He scampered under a car parked on the street and watched as Mr. Frank “Sonny” Seller upbraided Virgil, whom he’d caught inside the wrought iron–fenced yard and held at gunpoint.

  Whit, then in school at Emory University, was forced to drive down there and bail them both out of the Chatham County jail before their father found out, which Virgil admitted would be much worse than getting shot.

  Virgil re-cued the tape and ran the last spot again. It was problematic, just as Lucky had advised. Virgil turned off the DVR and checked his watch.

  “Fine,” he relented. “We’ll edit Chip Dobbs out of the spot and hold the others for a few days.”

  “What about Lester?”

  “What about him?” Virgil asked.

  “He won’t like seeing his mug on television. This could be dangerous.”

  “He’s under house arrest. Feds are watching his every move, and you’ve been watching too much Netflix.”

  It was a quarter past ten, and Libby was in all likelihood f
ast asleep. She wouldn’t like all this tomfoolery, as she called it.

  “Lucky, let’s say you and I grab a bite to eat. I’ve got a hankering for some barbecue, and One Star Ranch over on Irby Avenue is still open.”

  He clicked an intercom button on his armrest. “Harold, pull my car around.”

  “Yessuh, Mr. Loudermilk. Will that be all for the evening?”

  “You can go on home now, Harold. I’ll see you in the morning, first thing.”

  * * *

  Lucky sucked his ribs clean and got wasted on a pitcher of tequila punch while Virgil soaked up a bowl of sauce with a thick slice of Texas-style garlic toast. Virgil ordered up another beer, his fourth of the night, not including the whiskey shots back at the house, but cut Lucky off. After a while, he got tired of feeding Lucky quarters for the jukebox and listening to him belt out a string of country songs out of key. Among other things, Lucky was tone-deaf. He was blathering on about the lovely Latina, who currently had his nose swinging wide open like a barnyard door.

  “A good woman will make you break all the rules, Virgil. Make you wanna sing all night long!”

  “You should save that singing for the shower, and by ‘good,’ you mean ‘beautiful.’”

  “That too!” Lucky said gleefully.

  “Pipe down. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

  “There’s nobody in here but us. My Gabriella sure is good to me, I can tell you that,” Lucky replied in a slurred whisper.

  “She’s good for putting a dent in your wallet.”

  “I’m a good find!” Lucky said in protest, swaying in the restaurant booth, barely able to keep his balance.

  “That’s what your last two wives said, Lucky,” Virgil said.

  “I’d spend my last dime to make her happy, and she knows it.”

  “It might come to that if you don’t get a prenuptial agreement this time around. I’ll put it to you like this: Do you think Gabriella would spend more than ten minutes with you if you were dead broke?”

  “Heck, Virgil, I could ask you the same thing about Libby Gail.”