Welcome to Braggsville (30 page)

Families ambled past, some with two shopping carts—each loaded like Santa's sleigh. Daron felt a moment of superiority, like an expat come to the village market to procure specialty items undervalued by the natives. In fact, the only time he had seen anyone else perusing one of those three magazines, a rivet of jealousy pinched him right in the belly button until the tourist—and he was clearly a tourist, in that green felt Peterbilt hat—walked off empty-handed. Daron survived that, but perhaps not this. He was embarrassed to be seen here, and the fact of his embarrassment embarrassed him even more. There was a big box every two towns, so he'd find another, not that he expected to be in Braggsville much longer. He wanted to be away from all of it, FBI included.

A gust of wind swept Denver's windbreaker up under his arms. He smoothed it out and buttoned it, while scanning passersby as if to
see if anyone had noticed. Why don't we get in? After Daron paused, he added, Your car.

No. Yours.

The usual laptop and electronics were installed, though the FBI cruiser was more luxurious than expected. The seats were leather, the dash all digital. But it was cluttered like a bachelor pad with newspapers, Barq's cans, and fast food wrappers on the floorboards. Plus the agent used those beaded seat covers usually seen in cabs. Denver buckled himself in, registered the alarm on Daron's face, and unbuckled. Habit. He settled back into his seat. Cal, they call it, right? Top public school in the world. So, I don't know how much of this is new to you. None I think. Why the call?

It was what I thought. Daron leaned back and struck the metal grate partitioning the backseat. At least he wasn't back there. Was this a strategy? Invite suspects into the front seat, and let the backseat silently threaten with its presence alone? (Good seat, bad seat?)

You want to take a drive? Afraid of being seen?

No.

Denver placed his phone on the console between them and scrolled through it with an awkward pawing motion before turning it toward Daron with an almost regretful look. Listen:

The voice was uneven, the tone carved by a black urgency, the cadence staggering, almost serrated, the words tumbling over themselves like racing piglets as the 911 operator repeated his questions, his attitude even and professional, as the caller howled that there had been a rape! Someone else had reported it, too? But who? Daron thought he recognized the edge of dread, could imagine the pacing, hear the slogging steps, the hand slapping the counter or wall or table—Listen!—picture the jolting arms, the winding jaw, the thumping that punctuated each repetition, the mantled face, which at last he knew as his own.

Well?

Well?

Who wouldn't come after that call? Who would have the heart? Only someone who already knew there wasn't any rape. I've spoken to Miss Chelsea. I'm convinced she's not hiding anything. She says she wasn't raped. You said she was. Usually it's the other way around, women making accusations, men denying them. How would they all know that she wasn't raped? They were all there. And you wanted to make sure someone knew it, that I knew it, or whoever would eventually come from the outside world would know it. Why? And you knew that after this fiasco, someone was coming from outside Braggsville, whether it was the GBI, FBI, or the real county sheriff. So, why?

You should have seen her.

I have. I've seen the photos. She was dressed like a slave.

I was confused. And I hadn't seen the outfit.

But you knew she was dressed as a slave. You dropped her off that morning.

They changed into their slave outfits after we dropped them off.

Charlie called too, but he didn't report a rape. Sounds like something else happened between those two calls, like you figured out what really happened back there and knew you couldn't report it because you'd be calling the cops to report the cops, so you blamed it on the Gully, knowing the cops wouldn't investigate because they knew damn well where every player on the field was, every one of them. Everyone. You didn't say a kidnapping, which is more what appeared to have happened, with Louis still missing, as far as you knew. Candice was fine but you reported her raped. At that point, Louis was in trouble. Even Charlie says that in his call, says something in the background, repeats it, says they took Louis. But you don't mention Louis at all. I think you realized that they knew where Louis was. Couldn't sound an alarm about that. It sounds like you
were trying to raise a lynch mob, except they all had a previous engagement.

Daron uh-huhed and mm-hmmed.

Is there a chance anyone had it out for you, thought that it was you hanging up there?

No. Daron laughed. That might be true now.

What's in the Holler?

Nothing.

You have to travel through the Holler to get to the Gully, don't you? You know that. First you say Holler, then you say Gully. You add that like a slap to the side of a TV. Then you start to use them interchangeably. Why?

Daron thought about it. Had he? Even though he wasn't sure he believed it, he didn't want to listen to the call again. He blew his cheeks out like bellows. That was a mistake.

What's back there?

Daron shrugged.

Everyone's heard the urban legends about the murder victim whose last act is to scrawl his assailant's name on the floor in blood. Sounds like that's happening here.

Maybe. But I can't right figure what that means, Agent Denver.

Still playing it close to the chest? Okay. That's not the real reason I'm here. How about Vallejo, California? Six Flags? He paused to appreciate the surprise on Daron's face. You have done this before, but this time was different. Things went wrong in Braggsville. But not how you expected. So what are you trying to tell me? Tell me about that. Six Flags tells me you are a political agitator, not one to antagonize. There were protests almost every semester you were at Cal, that your thing?

No. Daron rubbed his face wearily.

What were you trying to reveal here? What were you trying to tell
me? At least tell me about Six Flags, and maybe I can figure out the rest. How about that?

A belch escaped him unexpected.

Denver fanned the air. I won't offer to buy you a cheeseburger for lunch.

Daron laughed. He shifted and the seat cover clacked. Why would anyone want to sit on an abacus? He felt tight inside, like his ribs were poking his lungs. [What had he thought when Candice came stumbling into the backyard? The only sensible thing. If Louis was haranguing people and wearing blackface and Candice was dressed as a slave, of course the Gulls might retaliate, like when your parents offered to
really
give you something to
really
cry about.] He recalled that child's drawing from the inquest, the one hanging on the wall behind the Changs, the one with the yellow coils of smoke hazing the roof. That was what the 4 Little Indians had done, stoked a blaze in a house without a fireplace or chimney, and his head felt too much like that house.

H
ow had they discovered Ishi anyway? A play, wasn't it? Yes, a play. Candice had wanted to go. Was it really her idea? You aren't sure. Louis was cramming for an exam and backed out. Charlie went along, though, and liked it. You were angry. She was angry. Charlie was a Saints fan, as he described it, about all things race. Best advice my father ever gave me: When you know your team can't win, you hope, pray, and cheer, but don't bet, curse, or get in anyways angry when they lose. That's how you live without your heart drawing up into your ass.

You kicked the wall after that show. Shucked your throat to work up enough phlegm to dot every light post in the plaza. Candice, too.
Ishi: Last of the Yahi,
a
play,
had done nothing for your evening plans:
play,
eat, smoke, drink, PlayStation. It was Wednesday, that semester's Friday. Lower Sproul Plaza, UC Berkeley—California even—all rifling indifferent through your every illusion, all cutting a profile like Lyle Grant when you found him neck-deep in your locker. It stung the same after, too, always throwing chin over the shoulder, shading the combination (his was next to yours) and window-shopping every opportunity for revenge. Lyle, everyone knew, was stubborn enough to argue with a sign and would just as soon kill himself to avoid caring about another person, an oak toad done up as a bullfrog.
But California, once plural, that LL's going back to, the Mamas and Papas' dream, Cali whose Wiki page you memorized that summer before freshman fall, the thirty-first state, named after a fictional paradise peopled by black women ruled by Calafia the warrior queen, thought for hundreds of years by the Spaniards to be an island, was part of the same mass, another undigested pea in a big pile of shit.

(Maybe that Salon de Chat prof had a reason for giving YOU an unofficial tour of campus and its unregistered residents: the man under his bicycle like an upturned turtle, the tai chi practitioner in court jester shoes, the man who wore many hats like a Dr. Seuss character.)

And you should have known you couldn't escape Braggsville. Not even when your debate coach and eleventh-grade English Lit warden, Mr. Buchanan, the mayor's brother, called you—Hey Ron-Ron!—into his lounge, one of the few single-occupancy offices, one of the fewer even with a couch, and beckoned you sit closer and closer, until your knees were nearly touching, until you could smell Old Spice and cold fries, took you in with his eyes, and said more than asked, Your parents didn't go to school?

You tensed, recalling that fifth-grade workshop about how some kinds of people preyed on the weak and poor, about stranger danger not being all strangers, which was why you couldn't always spot the dangers. The teacher had posted pictures on the wall of cab drivers and policemen. The entire class had acted it out even. Don't get scared. L.A.F.! Loudness. Acceleration. Focus. Yell loud for help, and loud for them to stop. Run as fast as you can to the nearest authority all the while imagining yourself accelerating like the fastest car in the world. Focus on recalling the details so you can be a helpful witness.

Instead you W.I.S.H. Want. Imagine. Solicit. Hope.

Behind you a door. May as well be closed. You know what's in those halls. Before you are holidays at Mr. Buchanan's home with
Mrs. Buchanan's pearls flashing and the gaudy jewelry tinkling at her neck. Mr. and Mrs. B, as they preferred to be known, seated at opposite ends of their hand-carved oak table, long as tomorrow, the edge traveled by the same Victorian scroll that adorned the dining room wainscoting in the family's English estate house all those generations ago. (Same as the Braggs, for the Braggs and Buchanans were cousins.) Before you is the side table (nothing but dining on the dining room table), where they stack the wrapped books they individually selected for every Gully student at Christmas, and a few lucky white ones, too. And everyone knew Mr. Buchanan had friends, special students, apprentices, those whose potential deserved prodding and whose prospects deserved probing, and you—for the first time since tenth grade, when you learned that more degrees meant more money, and a bigger vocabulary meant a bigger paycheck—were not ashamed to admit that neither of your parents went to school, withholding that your father was doing something online with economics. Yes, you wanted more.

If you want to get out of here, I've found a way.

And you scooted a little closer. Waiting.

Waiting.

With two hands he presented you a folder scaled in Post-its, a suitcase of brochures, explained what
first-generation college student
meant, sent you on your way. Not before saying, Berkeley, they're all good, but Berkeley is special. You can be whoever you want there. They won't mind you not hunting. A wink. Then, he sent you on your way. No Christmas invitation. No wrapped books on the side table. No follow-up meetings. Oh the elation upon learning he'd been fired. Was to be tried. For embezzlement. Not even romantic. The elation. The relief.

Jo-Jo told you about it when you were home for Christmas vacation, how the local editorials defended him and condemned the school board for fiscal mismanagement, how he denied all allegations
of wrongdoing, how he still trooped through town like a sergeant inspecting the barracks. How everyone acted like that was okay.

You would be different. Why? ¿Por qué? To prove that you were. After
Ishi: Last of the Yahi,
the play, you watched Candice simmer outside the theater, pace between the worn wooden benches, black and pitted as old piers in an abandoned port. She walked with short steps, nearly scampering when excited, always with the steady seesaw swish of women who stepped from the heel and not the toe. When she was drunk or angry, the small heavy bag she appeared to always imagine herself carrying became a large light one as her right arm swung wider and higher, as it did then. Your seats had been in the back. Student seating allowed for last in, first out. By the time the auditorium emptied, Candice had calmed down and taken a seat on one of the worn benches, still breathing heavily. We need to do something! More people should know about this.

Charlie gestured to the crowd around them, thinning as patrons wound their way past the crumbling student learning center, where Mrs. Brooks's office was located, to catch the train downtown, or mounted the wide steps to the fountain on Upper Sproul Plaza, or veered to grab joe at the MLK Student Union, under renovation, or forked like a school of fish around Eshleman Hall, in the process of being demolished.

That's not enough. (What had Nana always said? The good Lord speaks with fire on tongue but man heeds man's advice only if spoken softly, almost hummed.) If I were a Native American, I'd be pissed. Spoken slowly, almost sung, one eye on Candice to be sure she heard.

She had.

And so YOU had ended up at Six Flags, contesting a history that no one knew or cared about anyway. Daron told Denver as much as he could recall about the ashes, their plan, the park director letting them go with a warning. Those details were fuzzy now. What he
now remembered most, but didn't share, was Louis conducting interviews while they waited in line, all four Indians leaning like fishing poles on the crab, with backs arched and necks craned to avoid the sun, their bums against the railing, the smooth wrought-iron banister pressed into Candice's butt like a barbell across a mattress. In that position and dressed to scrum, with her bowed back and vaulted front, Candice resembled a ship figurehead, her own prows making it impossible for Daron to look at her. Daron's eyes everywhere but her and that padded bra. Charlie nonchalant as always, like that was his game. Not Louis.