Текст книги "Sweet Jiminy: A Novel"

Автор книги: Kristin Gore

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

Willa’s eyes were closed, her lips parted. She had oxygen tubes inserted in her nostrils to help her breathe, but Jiminy saw that she was inhaling and exhaling through her mouth, reclaiming her life on her own terms.

“It’s not your fault,” Willa said.

Jiminy felt relieved and humbled. In Willa’s state, fighting to come back, she was still attempting to comfort another.

“You were doing it for Jiminy, I know.”

It was a quick trip from relieved and humbled to confused and concerned.

“I’m Jiminy, Grandma,” Jiminy said.

Willa kept her eyes closed but squeezed her hand.

“No, no, dear, Jiminy died. I’m sorry. You were so young, you didn’t understand. I know you loved her. There was so much you couldn’t understand.”

Before Jiminy could argue or investigate further, the doctor entered the room.

“She woke up?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Jiminy replied. “Sort of. She hasn’t opened her eyes but she’s talking and moving a little.”

The doctor examined Willa and checked the machines to which she was hooked.

“Miz Hunt?” she said loudly and clearly. “Miz Hunt, can you hear me?”

Willa didn’t stir. She again appeared to be sleeping.

“She wasn’t making any sense,” Jiminy replied. “I think she may have thought I was my mother.”

The doctor frowned.

“She had multiple strokes. We won’t know the full damage till I do some more tests. Even if she comes out of this completely fine, it would be very normal to have disorientation after a trauma like this. It happens in people a fraction of her age, so I would certainly expect it to happen to her. Excuse me a moment.”

The doctor glanced down at her pager then back up.

“If she moves or speaks again, will you press that button?” she asked Jiminy, as she hurried from the room.

That was something Jiminy felt sure she could do. Pushing people’s buttons had become a specialty.

 

When Roy Tomlins pulled into the driveway of Brayer Plantation, he was surprised by the activity on the sprawling front lawn. Travis Brayer’s son Bobby, the state senator and candidate for governor, formed the epicenter of a mini-tornado of action. Roy saw cameras, cords, boom microphones, sunglasses, clipboards, water bottles, and large shiny discs that a man and a woman were angling and adjusting in different directions. Bobby appeared unfazed by it all, cool as usual in blue jeans and a button-down shirt tucked snug by a large American flag belt buckle. He was talking into the camera, until the noise from Roy’s truck proved too distracting.

“Cut!” a man with a bullhorn exclaimed with exasperation. “Who is this? What’s going on?”

He was glaring at his crew, who were all shaking their heads that they didn’t know. Whoever had failed to stop this intruder at the gate and instruct him to wait for the all-clear sign between takes was clearly in trouble.

If the director had targeted his accusatory questions toward Travis’s perch on the veranda, Travis would’ve been happy to tell him that the truck belonged to his friend Roy, who was coming to visit him at exactly the time Travis had instructed, smack in the middle of the shoot.

Travis was pleased to watch the cloud of dust from Roy’s truck descend on the group surrounding his son. It was the first break in a bad mood that had been worsening ever since he’d been rolled out onto the veranda earlier that morning.

“How ya doin’, Dad?” Bobby had called back then, in his booming, good-natured, people-are-observing-me voice.

Travis had nodded at him, wishing he didn’t have a blanket on his lap. Only the old or infirm needed blankets on warm days. Travis knew he was both, but he preferred not to dress the part if he could help it. The nurse had put the blanket there, and he’d forgotten. But of course then all the people on the lawn had turned to look at him, and he had recognized the indulgent condescension in their eyes. It was the same look his wife had given the mentally challenged bird feeder salesman that used to come around—so encouraging of someone from whom she expected so little. To these people, Travis was sweetly pathetic. Their simpering smiles disgusted him.

“He’s adorable,” the makeup lady had exclaimed.

Travis had heard this distinctly. His ears were two of the only body parts that had yet to betray him.

So Travis was now pleased to have these people’s work disrupted by Roy’s arrival. Roy continued driving straight up to him, aware that the dust and noise made by his truck were sending the bullhorn blowhard into paroxysms. He even drove a little faster than he needed to and gave a couple honks for good measure. The chairs in the back of his truck were strapped down tight enough, and the smile on Travis’s face made it all worth it.

“Mornin’, Trav,” Roy called as he climbed out of his truck.

“Morning, Roy. You got the chairs?”

“You bet.”

Roy was thrilled to be there. He and Travis had been friends for seventy years, but they’d never been equals. Roy was more sycophant than confidant, which suited Travis just fine. He valued deference in his companions.

Travis could see his son striding across the lawn. This walk wasn’t for the cameras, which were being reset for another take. Bobby was headed for them.

“Mr. Tomlins, I thought that was you,” he said to Roy as he took the porch steps two at a time.

He was taller than Travis by several inches, and he’d inherited his mother’s untapped athleticism. He moved well, Travis admitted, aware that he should take some pride in this.

“Well, hi there, Bobby,” Roy said, shaking hands with Travis’s son. “You sure got yourself into something these days.”

Bobby laughed deeply and turned to a short man with curly brown hair and glasses who’d been trailing him.

“David, I’d like you to meet one of my dad’s oldest friends, someone who’s known me since I was a baby,” Bobby said to the curly-haired man.

“Since before you were a baby,” Roy said.

Bobby laughed again.

“Since even before,” he agreed. “David Eisen, meet Mr. Roy Tomlins. Mr. Tomlins, meet David Eisen. David’s a writer for Esquire magazine, doin’ a profile on up-and-comin’ Southern leaders.”

In truth, Bobby had been apprehensive about letting any journalist too close to his father or his father’s friends, but his press secretary had convinced him that they’d get a much better story if they allowed a more intimate level of access. Bobby prayed she was right, and decided to mask his worry with aggressive good cheer, willing everything to go well with the sheer force of his winning demeanor.

In the glow of Bobby’s thousand-watt smile, Roy looked David Eisen over before shaking his hand. He didn’t particularly want to shake it, but he realized it was the thing to do. He noticed that the writer was holding something small and gray that he brought close to Roy’s mouth when Roy started to speak, which made him step back.

“It’s just a digital recorder,” the writer explained.

“Oh,” Roy said, hesitatingly stepping forward again.

He didn’t know whether to direct his comments to the writer or the machine. He was supremely uncomfortable.

“Well, Bobby’s a leader all right,” he managed. “Always has been.”

Bobby beamed and clapped Roy lightly on his shoulder as David Eisen looked Roy straight in the eyes. The sunlight reflecting off the writer’s glasses was blinding. Roy blinked in irritation.

“What do you have there?” David asked, pointing to the back of Roy’s truck.

It was Travis who answered, grinning all the while.

“Some stolen property he recovered for me. Let’s get a look, Roy.”

Roy walked to the back of his truck and struggled to put his foot on the bumper. He felt like his body was growing stiffer and creakier by the day. Still, at least he wasn’t wheelchair-bound like Travis yet.

“Here, let me help ya,” Bobby boomed. “Wanna get a little dirty, David?”

David did not.

He stayed put while Bobby launched himself into the bed of Roy’s truck and began undoing the straps.

“These are some purty chairs, Mr. Tomlins. Dad, you said they belonged to you?”

Travis nodded.

“Had ’em made special,” he replied. “Haven’t seen ’em in thirty some years.”

Bobby hoisted one of the chairs over his head unnecessarily and jumped to the ground with it, then placed it in front of his father.

“They look good as new,” he said.

Roy watched the Esquire writer run his fingers over the wood and resisted the urge to slap his hand away.

“K.S.O.,” David Eisen read. “Is that someone’s initials?”

Roy saw a look of surprised alarm cross Bobby’s face. Saw him check the label himself and turn back toward the commercial shoot, ready to lead David Eisen away.

“It’s just an old name,” Bobby answered. “You know what? I’d like nothin’ better than to keep sittin’ here and jawin’, but I think we gotta take advantage of this weather and finish up. Know what they say: ‘Make hay while the sun shines!’ ”

He grinned as he placed his big hand on the writer’s shoulder.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Tomlins,” David Eisen said. “And these are beautiful chairs, Mr. Brayer. You say they were stolen from you?”

“That’s right,” Travis replied. “By some good-for-nothin’ spics.”

David Eisen looked up quickly.

“Dad, you don’t mean that,” Bobby said sharply.

There was panic and reprimand in his voice. Roy looked from son to father and back again. Travis seemed completely calm, which made Roy love him all the more. He already had quite a story to tell the boys. He was recording it in his memory for later, just as carefully as David Eisen was recording it on his little machine.

“He doesn’t mean that,” Bobby said to the writer.

“What do you mean, exactly?” David asked Travis in a quiet, curious voice.

Travis waved a hand in front of his face.

“I don’t mean that all wetbacks are good for nothin’,” Travis clarified. “I just mean the ones that sneak in here to steal jobs and such, which is most of ’em. They take whatever they can get their dirty hands on. They’re just as bad as the nig—”

“That’s enough, Dad,” Bobby interrupted sharply.

Roy had never heard Bobby speak that way to his father, though he’d also never heard Travis speak quite the way he was speaking either, at least not in this sort of company. Travis was usually quite careful around Bobby and his political friends. He wasn’t an old man unaware that the times had changed. He knew exactly what sort of impact he was capable of having by saying such things in front of such people.

“He’s not well,” Bobby said to David Eisen. “He’s had some serious health problems that have damaged his body and brain. I hope you’ll respect that fact and keep all this off the record. Out of decency. He’s just a fragile, dying old man who doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, boy!” Travis bellowed.

He stood up from his wheelchair, which was something that had been deemed medically impossible in his condition. To Roy, it didn’t seem that Travis’s legs were supporting him at all. He appeared to be empowered by a pure, undiluted rage. His face was flushed purple, and outsized veins in his neck were throbbing as he pointed a crooked finger at his son.

“You respect me, understand? You show me some respect!”

Before any of the others could reach for him, Travis Brayer toppled hard onto his side and slid headfirst down the veranda stairs to the gravel driveway below. He gave a groan as his head hit and the rest of his body piled after, like a Slinky made of worn-out old man.

 

Lyn knew people who crossed themselves or folded their hands in prayer whenever they heard the sound of ambulance sirens. For most of her adult life, she’d felt resentful toward them for doing this. The fact that whoever was injured was being rushed to the hospital and tended to seemed like prize enough. The prayers were just rubbing in how privileged they were. No sirens had raced to her husband and daughter, and no strangers had prayed for them, as far as she knew. To her, ambulance sirens were an elusive luxury.

Even when her daughter, Jiminy, had split her leg open on a tractor blade, no one besides Lyn, Edward, and Henry had rushed to care for her. The receptionist at Fayeville Hospital had claimed they didn’t have the time to treat her, and recommended they give the veterinarian’s office a try instead. Henry had stormed past the desk and made a direct appeal to the doctor, who’d agreed to stitch Jiminy up. Lyn looked across at that doctor now, sitting with Jean, both of them dozing off. She’d heard others claim that Walton Trawler was a decent man now, but he certainly hadn’t started out that way. In her experience, very few had.

By the time the sirens had pulled to a stop outside the Fayeville Hospital door, Lyn could tell that they were louder than normal. The crescendo sounded as though it was being caused by a whole fleet of ambulances. Before she could stand to look out the window, assuming she had any inclination to investigate what emergencies others might be facing, the doors opened and a crowd poured in. She saw state troopers and cameramen and Roy Tomlins. And an ambulance gurney that was whisked past, shielded by EMTs hunched over, hard at work. Lyn stayed right where she was sitting, observing it all.

She watched as the frantic EMTs tried to push open the far door into the inner sanctum of Fayeville Hospital just as the magazine orderly was pushing a large rolling trash can back the other direction. The result was gridlock, and in the confusion that followed, the gurney was left briefly unattended. For the first time in many years, Lyn looked straight into the eyes of Travis Brayer.

He was on his back, but his neck was turned toward her and his eyes were open. His limbs were folded at odd angles and a gash on his head had bled down the side of his face. For a moment, Lyn thought he might even be dead, and she felt nothing but numbness. But then he blinked, and she realized he was still alive. Though she couldn’t be sure just how conscious he actually was of what was happening.

Partly to test him and partly to amuse herself, she made her fingers into an imaginary gun and shot it in his direction. He closed his eyes, perhaps to protect himself from invisible bullets.

“You stay with us, Trav!” Roy Tomlins yelled.

Roy had struggled to keep up with all the commotion. He wasn’t young or limber enough, but his concern for his friend infused him with adrenaline.

“Who’s in charge here?” a younger, taller, broad-shouldered man asked in a loud, authoritative voice. “My dad needs care.”

Bobby Brayer, Lyn realized. Everyone knew him from his campaign posters, but Lyn had also known him since he was a baby, when she’d worked at Brayer Plantation. She’d changed Bobby Brayer’s diapers. And now here he was before her, a big man, running for governor and making a scene in a room that had just become too small.

The roadblock was sorted out, with the trash lady apologizing profusely in Spanish and flattening herself against the wall in a kind of prostrated position of penance to let them pass. With his eyes still sealed shut, Travis Brayer was rushed to the back, followed by his son and Roy Tomlins and one of the state troopers. Another of them stood guard at the door, glaring at the trash lady and putting up a hand to stop anyone else from trespassing where they shouldn’t.

Lyn watched a curly-haired man in glasses try to talk his way past, to no avail. He took out his wallet and showed some laminated badges, but the state trooper seemed completely unmoved. Lyn watched the man accept defeat and seat himself near the door, where he was soon absorbed in leafing through his notebook, making occasional marks with his pen.

The hubbub had woken Jean and Walton, who were anxious to be filled in. Bo had left the room more than half an hour ago and was nowhere to be seen, which left Lyn with the responsibility of talking.

“What’s happened?” Jean asked.

“Travis Brayer’s had some kind of accident,” Lyn replied in a monotone devoid of emotion.

“Oh my word, how awful,” Jean gasped.

“I suppose so,” Lyn replied mildly.

Jean gave her a sharp look. Lyn ignored this, but noticed that the curly-haired stranger was now only pretending to read his notebook while he actually listened to them.

“Well, is he okay? What was it?” Jean asked.

Lyn shook her head to convey that she didn’t know, and didn’t try to hide the possible implication that she didn’t care.

“I only caught a glimpse,” she replied.

She left out the fact that she had pantomimed shooting him in the face.

“I think this man was with him, though,” Lyn continued, pointing out the stranger. “Maybe he knows.”

The man immediately looked up in surprise, confirming Lyn’s hunch that he had been listening closely. Jean and Walton turned to look at him.

“Walton Trawler, how do you do,” Walton said as he crossed over and offered his hand in greeting.

“Oh, hello. I’m David Eisner,” David said as he shook Walton’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You a friend of the Brayers?” Walton inquired.

“Not exactly, no,” David replied. “I’m a writer, doing a story on Bobby Brayer, among other people.”

“Were you with them today? Were you there for the accident?” Jean asked anxiously.

“Yes, I was,” David Eisner replied. “Mr. Brayer took a nasty fall and they’re very concerned.”

“Goodness,” Jean said, shaking her head.

“How’d it happen?” Walton asked.

“Just an accident,” David replied. “He got a little agitated and lost his footing. Are any of you familiar with the initials ‘K.S.O.’?”

Lyn flinched and Jean stared at the ground. Only Walton held his gaze.

“Are they the initials of a Brayer relative or something?” David continued. “No ‘B’ obviously, but maybe from Bobby Brayer’s mother’s side of the family?”

“Is that what you were told?” Jean asked quickly.

Walton could see that Jean didn’t want anyone to offer any explanation counter to whatever the Brayers might have already said. In her mind this was about sticking together as a community. Walton understood that mentality all too well, but he suddenly felt it was time for something different.

“It stands for Knights of the Southern Order,” he told David Eisen.

Jean sucked in some air. “Walton,” she said, with a warning tone in her voice.

Lyn had raised her head and Walton could feel her eyes on him.

“It’s an offshoot of the Klan, started in this part of Mississippi over a hundred years ago.”

David had frozen in surprise, an instinctive reaction he’d been trying to overcome for years, not least because it was an impediment to his chosen profession. When he should be scribbling or reaching for a cell phone camera shot or clicking on his tape recorder, he was frequently still and amazed, taking a costly moment to process some genuinely shocking development. It had led to him being regularly scooped as a cub reporter and was one of the reasons he’d begun focusing on longer form profiles.

“Really,” David managed, goosing himself into action again. “And are the Brayers connected to the Knights of the Southern Order?”

“It’s a secret society,” Walton answered. “No one really knows who’s connected or not, or even if anyone is at all anymore. It was mainly active forty years ago. You don’t hear too much about it these days.”

“Fascinating,” David replied, as much to himself as anyone else.

He’d heard something about the fledgling investigation into the civil rights era crime here in Fayeville, and he’d asked Bobby Brayer about it. Bobby had assured him that should he be entrusted with the governorship he’d do everything in his power to punish any and all criminals. Other interviewees had talked about moving on from the past, but Bobby had been adamant that justice would be served, no matter how late. David wondered now if this was just another example of a politician speaking out loudest against things to which he or she felt some secret guilty connection. He’d seen this time and again: the closeted mayor denouncing gay marriage, the senator who solicited high-end call girls publicly railing against prostitution rings, the reform-obsessed committee chairwoman awash in bribes. Hypocrisy didn’t surprise David. In fact, he’d come to expect it, which made it harder for genuine people to win him over.

“Kill Shootabay rides again,” Lyn said softly.

Walton, Jean, and David all turned toward her. She looked startled, like she hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

“Excuse me?” David asked.

“The Knights,” Lyn replied. “We knew who they were. Even in their robes, you could still see their shoes.”

She looked right at Walton, who felt deserving of the shame that engulfed him. He welcomed it even, grateful that there was some retribution after all, in a place where people had gotten away with everything.

Jean spoke up. “Some just thought of it as Southern pride.”

Lyn stared at her.

“I’m not saying they were right,” Jean continued defensively. “But to some it was just a rah-rah Southern patriotic thing. Partly.”

The ensuing silence was its own rebuke. David looked from one to the other, enthralled by the tension.

“What was that name you said a second ago?” he asked Lyn, wishing he’d turned on his recorder faster. “You said someone rides again?”

“Kill Shootabay,” Lyn answered. “People made him up—a monster that rides through town burning houses and snatching people. For the kids, to explain things when we had to. ‘K.S.O.’ would show up painted somewhere and we knew that someone was gonna be killed, probably shot, because they hadn’t obeyed.”

“Kill, Shoot, Obey,” David repeated.

“I’d never heard that,” Jean remarked.

Lyn ignored her.

“They killed my husband and daughter,” she said to David.

“Oh my God, are you—?”

David couldn’t remember the name. He knew about the case, and he’d asked Bobby Brayer about it, and now it was escaping him.

“Lyn Waters,” Lyn said.

“Edward and Jiminy Waters!” David exclaimed.

Lyn winced, resenting their names being blurted out like a quiz show answer. It didn’t feel like an improvement over their not being mentioned at all.

“Edward and Jiminy Waters,” David repeated in a quieter voice. “Theirs is the case that might be reopened.”

Lyn nodded.

“Do you know who did it?” David asked.

Lyn paused.

“I know it was the Knights,” she said. “But I don’t know which ones for sure. For all I know, the ones that did it might be long dead.”

Jean stared out the window. She could see Bo in the hospital parking lot, bouncing a basketball hard against the pavement, as though he were trying to punish one or the other.

“Were any of the Brayers in K.S.O.?”

David posed this question to Lyn.

“Travis Brayer was,” Lyn replied. “Don’t know about his son.”

“You don’t know about Travis, either,” Jean said automatically, unsure exactly why she felt compelled to protect him.

She’d never particularly liked Travis Brayer, though she’d admired his wealth and standing. Travis had enjoyed her husband Floyd, as everyone had, and he’d always invited Floyd and Jean to Brayer Plantation parties. He’d given them reasons to dress up, which injected excitement into otherwise dull routines. Jean recognized that this was a frivolous reason to defend him, particularly against something indefensible.

“Travis Brayer’s a Knight,” Walton said softly but clearly. “There aren’t many who weren’t, me included. And it’s past time we answered for it.”

His admission reshuffled the air around all of them. It blew through the room, and facts settled like leaves in its wake.