Welcome to Braggsville (32 page)

Quint eyed him like he was a predator circling, looking for the easiest angle of attack. You ain't got no business in the Holler. Not now. I'll gamble this much for you, D, ain't no Bat-Signal for the Joker. Sort them screws. Now, what about the Gully? You wanna walk back there?

Is it safe? Daron asked. He hadn't been in years, had only a faint memory. Spice. Wood. Snatches of bronze.

I do it all the time.

Is it safe?

Quint laughed.

From inside, Maylene shouted, Why don't you leave them people alone? You act like you don't get fed over here. I see 'em looking at me all funny when I take labels down to shipping.

They're admiring your nails is all. He slapped Daron on the knee and set off toward the tree line, their backs cooling where the nylon webbing had cut wet lines.

The sweet-smelling wood, the soft pine needles underfoot soon gave way to a path born more of use than planning, a gravel lane worn nearly to dirt and hugged by elms choked in bramble, which they followed until it forked, downhill to the left and uphill to the right. On the right was a collection of mailboxes, maybe twenty, several of which Daron had met in a previous life with an aluminum Louisville slugger, as well as several blue boxes labeled
COUNTY EXAMINER
, a few of which had not recovered from their own interrogations, that local version of the great American pastime. D'aron, much
to his credit, he'd once thought, was only blowing off steam, and never once—not even one time—cracked lip when the others asked, Who writes Gulls anyway, and when they get a letter, who reads it to them? He now wondered how much of his fear about coming back here was actually guilt, and how much of the guilt was fear—nothing was as it seemed.

That way's the river. Quint pointed uphill. This way's the Gully.

They walked toward the Gully, the gravel sometimes glowing hazy in the moonlight, other times only a sound or a sharp stinging in the sole. The houses were far apart, not as far apart as they were on his street, but they felt similarly distant because there was no light in between them. No streetlights, just the gravel road and a cabin or shotgun home or saddlebag house every two hundred yards or so, set back at various distances from the road, road cut by use and not design. The first house they passed that was close to the street was in the style known locally as a dogtrot. Single story, the home had only two rooms, one to the left and one to the right, and the hallway between ran straight though the house from front to back, So as like the dogs can trot through without messing nothing, as Nana once explained. The side of the home was scabbed by fire.

A little black girl, six or seven, her hair in three thick braids, waved at them from the porch. Evening-steven, Mr. Quint, how you?

Fine, Ingrid, fine. Evening-steven to you, too. How are you tonight, dear? And your momma?

We's all good.

An older woman, probably the mother, poked her head out and waved, too.

Quint waved back. Hi, Miss Irene. It was like that at most houses they passed. Quint knew them by name, and they him.

How you know all these people?

I been walking through here for years. Half of 'em work at the mill anyway. And Gully shine is the next best thing to . . . you know.

Daron had always associated it with vo-tech, but now he wondered where Quint had learned his rock-in-the-flip-flop walk.

A mile into the Gully, the houses were made of cinder block, like his own, but still were no larger than the cabins they'd passed earlier. Unlike these, the Davenports' home was clad in vinyl and neatly trimmed. At one of the cinder-block houses, painted white, the old lady on the porch huffed as they passed. I see Ms. Maylene not speaking today?

No, ma'am, this here's my cousin.

Really now? Bring him close for me to see.

She was a large woman, the arms of her metal rocking chair cut deeply into her hips. She took Daron's hand and held it to her cheek. I pray for your friend. Every night. You did a fine thing, son. It was right fine. Over her shoulder she yelled, Reggie! Octavia! Ernie! Tyrone! Get out here.

Windows lit up. They now stood in what appeared to be a courtyard centered in a cluster of square cinder-block homes, all in a similar style, huddled together as if to protect themselves from the night. Now Gulls emerged from these houses in twos and threes, sometimes singly, all shuffling sleepily like the undead. An old man in a thin housecoat, hands out, as if copping a feel through the dark. Two little boys rubbing their eyes with their arms. A girl clutching a cat to her chest as if to ward off a bad dream. (For one salty, thrilling moment, it was zombie-apocalypse-esque.)

They smiled and touched him, some shaking his hand, some kissing him on the cheek, others fingering the hem of his garment. As they crowded 'round Daron, an unspeakable fear rose in him. He would have lashed out and run had he not at that moment heard the familiar voice of Otis. Give the boy some space, now. Give him some air.

Tables were set up and a hog slaughtered. Fiddlers weaved a fine tune and eventually an upright bass took a place between them. At
the tables, some plastic and metal, others merely planks across barrels and sawhorses, preserves and breads and cobbler were all laid out, and it was as if every house donated the best of what they had. Through the night they ate and drank, and Daron had so many questions. How long had they lived there? Why didn't they move to the other side? Did it still flood? But it would have been impolite to voice them aloud.

They looked as if they had questions as well. Why'd you do it? How'd you come up with the idea? How are they treating you now? But those would have been impolite as well. It felt like a reunion after an embarrassing absence. The affection and appreciation were earnest, but things had changed so much no one knew what to say.

Then he asked about the fire he'd heard rumor of. They fell silent. Nothing major, said someone. Ain't nothing but a thang, said another. The way they said it, though, the sneer and dismissal, shutting him out, as if Daron were the arsonist and they refused to acknowledge him, to give him the benefit of knowing he had inconvenienced them.

During that lull in the conversation, Quint asked if anyone wanted to hear a joke. Of course they did, thought Daron, irked. No one would ever say, No, I don't want to hear a joke. I hate to laugh. Funny makes me runny. He could only pray it wouldn't be one of Louis's jokes.

Quint cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders. All right. Y'all know I wrecked the old ATV a few weeks back down by the bank. So I went to the emergency room, and it was crowded as church the A-and-M after junior prom. Felt a little chilly, put my green hat on, and I'll be damned if everyone didn't clear out and I got next. Went down to the DMV, and the same thing happened. Got right up to the front. Happened at the laundry mat too. Know what the hat said?

Daron thought, Please don't say, Pit bull with AIDS, which couldn't possibly be a hat, but with Quint, who knew?

Quint felt around his cargo pockets for a moment before waving like a bronco buster, brandishing a green cap that his hair had never stopped wearing. He'd had it on earlier, but Daron hadn't noticed that it said
BORDER AND IMMIGRATION CONTROL
. Quint continued, Just don't wear it at McDonald's, they'll arriba-arriba right out the back afore you get your Big Mac. He kissed two fingers and touched them to his heart in the manner of a boy scout. One of my amigos invited me to his kid's baptism. The church was cold so I had to put the hat on, but I'll be George Washington if half his fam didn't take off before the priest finished waterboarding the baby.

Daron smiled weakly when Quint poked him in the ribs. He didn't think it was funny, and didn't know why the residents of the Gully would, either. Weren't people always complaining that Mexicans were just new niggers? Taking away all the shit jobs and driving down wages? He'd heard that half the blacks were laid off when the Mexicans moved into the area, but a lot of the whites got raises. He heard that's when some of the Gulls moved to Doeville for a spell, but soon came home. Yet he watched them laugh to a man, including Otis, and the children as well, mimicking the adults.

A few minutes later, unbidden, Otis apologized if he'd caused Daron any trouble.

Having only moments before witnessed a man allowing his daughter to stick her finger in his mug of shine, Daron was at the height of his disgust. Trouble? he asked Otis. Trouble? Not at all, not at all.

You sure now? I'm retired, but I remember what it was like. I'd hate to see you or your folks getting the squeeze. Short hours. Cemetery shifts. Hairy eyes. I know how it can be over there.

How's that? How is it over there?

Otis took a small step back. I didn't aim to offend, Mr. Davenport, especially not after what you've done. I was just hoping we didn't cause you any trouble back in the Holler.

Daron didn't know what the Holler had to do with it, but he
nodded lavish reassurance. Like he once overheard his father say, No nigger'll ever get the satisfaction of thinking they can cause me some trouble.

Well, we appreciate what you did.

I didn't do it for you.

I never thought you did, Mr. Davenport, it just turned out mighty fine for us. If you will excuse me, I'll dance with my wife. Otis snapped his fingers and the band picked up the tempo.

The song he vaguely recognized as John Lee Hooker. Or B.B. King. Or Albert King. One of them. Definitely. Otis's wife was a head taller, the perfect height for Otis to rest his head on her bosom and go dreamy-eyed. She was dark, darker than Otis by far, but her high cheekbones and almond eyes gave her a regal look. Daron couldn't tell if she had been beautiful as a young woman, but even in her sixties she was by far the most put-together of the Gully women who were out that night. Otis and the missus danced that song and the next, Otis at one point catching Daron's eye and winking.

Still more food came out, and shine, and before he knew it, dawn crept through the brush. At sunup, a little girl gave him a bouquet while Otis oversaw from the sidelines, nodding his approval from several feet away. She then handed Daron a locket. You are an honorary citizen of the Gully. Our doors are always open to you.

They were open before, but this is an official invitation, yelled someone from the shadow of the tree line, sparking riotous, carnivorous laughter.

On the way home, Quint clapped Daron's shoulder and offered, Maybe you done a good thing and we can't see it yet. They always say that in the vo-tech circle-jerks. It didn't work none inside, and I don't much believe it works out here. Sure don't work none inside. That's my problem there, D. I always been a rough cub. I couldn't never keep the two straight. My thing is I do what my rules say no matter where I am. Sometimes it works, sometimes it don't. I ain't no
restaurant Tabasco. But I ain't changing, see. The world is. I'm just me. Seems like you got the same problem, in a way. He paused. But, for the opposite. Quint took a toke off his pipe and held his breath for several paces, exhaling as he sang, Some days it feels like my body is a cage. You know what I mean, Li'l D?

Daron waited for the punch line, but none came, and so he relished for some long moment that warm blanket of belonging he felt when his cousin called him Li'l D, the Li'l symbolizing for Daron his position as one to be protected. Quint spun his hat around backward. Immigration Control! It wasn't a Louis joke, but it would have been funny if it had been. Instead all it did was make Daron uncomfortable, and feel, frankly, disappointed in the Gulls. Six
A.M.
and two smokers plus a grill were going. And a band. Pork and chicken piled across the table, steaming bowls of yams and greens, and theyselves all laughing and joking and feeding their faces. A kid in cutoffs with a rack of ribs larger than his own. The heavyset lady with her plate resting on her tits like they were a TV tray. Any excuse for a shindig. That's why they couldn't get anywhere. Partying all night, of course they wouldn't be able to keep a job. A crisis was going on right now and the blacks were celebrating. Here, so deep in the woods no cars go, Negro fiddled. He bet it was quiet as church over in Ridgetown where the Mexicans lived.

V
EXED
. V
EXED, HIS FATHER WAS
. Very. He arrived home at about the same time Daron did, and had already heard tell at the mill about a midnight party, a pig slaughtered, shine, dinner by wick and wax. They can't afford to slaughter a pig like that, but you obligated them by visiting. Worse yet, word's out making it sound like you's in cahoots with them. Gave you a damned hero's feast. A welcome for a prodigal son. Shit, D'aron. Everyone knows it's bad luck to eat in the Gully after dark. I never paid much attention to that. But it
looks like it's true in your case. Don't go back up in there until this is done. Daron thought it was done. It was, wasn't it? But he didn't object or ask for clarification. His father had been cranky and edgy lately. Daron attributed it to fatigue. He'd spent the last few weeks on the night shift.

T
hrough the phone Daron feels her strawberry breath at ear, so that he can yield and not buckle, a kind of warning, her kindness of announcing his every emotion only moments before he perceives it, her throat making new shapes, the miracle of blowing electronic bubbles through the tower—crackling—through the layer cake atmosphere above where they glisten enigmatic in the uppermost dark like shy stars before the satellite cups gently these lovely trophies—can't begrudge such loyal lonely an earful—then sending them on their way with a hush back to earth, back to Daron, who receives gratefully these divine meteors, paying for each with his tears, until his face below eye is a bandit's mask of sorrow, drawing tight his own voice until even to murmur sears like sudden loss and he can only nod, only nod, nod heavy against the stubble, when she calls for response, only nod when her gifts burn, when the meteorite singes his heart, when she tells him, They used us all. Don't you see? You think they were protecting you by not making you testify because you weren't there? By not making me testify to, Save me the horror. It's like rolling dice under river water, ma'am, trying to get facts straight, ma'am, they said, under those lights, in front of all those people. To relive it all. To make the poor boy's family relive it all.
For your folks to hear you say what you told me? Miss, save the people you care about the horror of seeing you take that stand.
Take,
miss. They say take for a reason, young miss—take—because it's somethin' you'll always carry with you. Are you there? [Nod. God, hope she hears.] They're laughing, and I can hear it all the way from there to here, hear it here in Iowa. I thought the inquest was to find the truth, not to write it. Are you there? [Nod. God, hope she hears the phone graze his chin, each pass hungrier.] They made me feel safe, like one of them. One of us, they said, one of us. They spoke with arms open wide as wishes. Like one of them. I didn't believe it. One of us, they said. I wanted to, to belong, but I didn't believe it. My parents believed it, but I didn't believe. I was wrong not to testify. Just like backing down with Vandenburg. Are you there? [God, hope she hears my heart.] I believe it, now. They made me believe. I believe. [Was this how Siddhartha felt when he left the palace?]