Welcome to Braggsville (26 page)

Take this interview, Daron thought, as yet another example that tragedy is a myth. Exhibit A: Sheriff instructs Daron to win the city back over, but Daron has given up on that. Pride is all he has left; however, when his father says it would be a show of good faith to appear with Otis, Daron agrees. He may be swallowing his pride, but it's important, as his father says, to let Otis know that he wasn't racist, isn't racist, to let the world know that Braggsville is not a racist town. His family is more important than his pride. There was no tragedy. There never could be. No two claims upon the self could be equal. Daron couldn't care less about Sheriff or Otis.

Moreover, before Sheriff made him do the interview, Daron hadn't known that the Gully had its own mayor, and wondered if Otis was the real mayor, or the so-called mayor, in the same way everyone called Sheriff either The sheriff or plain Sheriff, even though he was only the chief of the local police and entrusted with no county-wide authority. None of this had bothered him before, much as he'd always accepted that they called it a mill even though it was a hot air factory.

In all previous appearances, Otis had quietly insisted that he was
reserving his comments about young Mr. Davenport for the day they met in person. Now they were together, in this makeshift studio that NBS Charlie-rigged in the newly constructed room at Lou's. Cameras and lights were mounted on tripods and dark quilted fabric draped the walls. Their set consisted solely of three chairs grouped around a central table. The newscaster sat in the middle and her guests to either side. (Rheanne was only yards away, probably reading a teen-dream magazine. Would she watch this, the stringy-maned, guitar-headed bitch? She better. It was live and soon as Daron was given the chance to speak, he'd tell about sorry all right. He'd tell them how sorry they were for lying about him at Lou's and the Awful Waffle. He'd tell them all. Give them lots to holler 'bout.)

Otis looked fifty, his neatly cut hair and mustache both given over to gray. He wore a blue suit and a yellow tie. Cal colors, thought Daron. The most notable thing about Otis, though, was his expression. He smiled at Daron from the moment he sat down until the moment the newscaster completed the introductions, at which point he rose, walked around the table and gestured for Daron to rise to his feet, which Daron did only after a moment's delay. He didn't relish being struck on live television, but perhaps that would be the best thing that could happen to him now. A little victimhood would definitely sweeten the stew. Instead, Otis embraced him warmly and kissed him wetly on each cheek.

Young man, my condolences for the loss of your friend. He made the greatest sacrifice, and I want to thank you, and—he rustled open a sheet of paper—Louis Chang, Charles Roger Cole, and Candice Marianne Chelsea for what you have done. The children are indeed the future and you young folk have changed the future because you had the courage to do what none of us have ever done, but always wanted to do.

Otis turned to the camera as if to a long-lost friend and withdrew from his inside breast pocket a second sheet of paper. He glanced
at the newscaster, who nodded, before he unfolded it and began to speak.

In the winter of 1864, Braggsville was the last supply stop before the Confederate forces began the steady climb to Atlanta. The troops were wore out something wicked, spiny and sharp with hunger. In Braggsville they were troughed and shod, and their numbers and confidence bolstered when Bragg himself sent his three young sons along. The men of the Gully had been conscripted for months. Atlanta burned, and within three months of sending off his sons, all three were killed in valiant action, we are told.

Bragg never forgave Lee for surrendering at Appomattox and swore that if it was the last thing he did, he'd see the capital moved to a city with some backbone, a town with heart, the true South, the real center of Georgia: Braggsville. Bragg also complained about the deserters amongst the Atlanta upper set, a show of cowardice that only furthered his conviction that Braggsville should be the new capital of Georgia.

First, John B. always said, this here is the peach pit. It's right damn near the center of the state, far closer to the actual center than Atlanta. That vice pit sits up there all smug like it's natural for us to journey nearly to South Cakalacky to see to our own affairs. Second, we's all here. Every single one of us, born and reared or transplanted to this town is still here. Ain't been no deserters. But that weren't true.

In sooth, one farmer-now-soldier turned coat and fled west, beyond the U.S. borders. They said he was originally a northerner, and that type of behavior was to be expected of them because they just couldn't shirk their crude and dishonorable ways. The extreme weather and crowded city life made them cold, untrustworthy, prone to illness, and plumb without honor, not to mention poor cooks. But that weren't true neither.

When Bragg passed, they erected a statue in his honor right
beside the watchtower—underneath which his wife is buried—in the turnabout in the center of town. Over three meters tall, they reckoned if he was alive he could nearly see Atlanta. As it is, he's certainly pointed in that direction. They'd meant for it to signify that he was challenging the citizenry, pointing out their town's future as the one true capital of Georgia, but, unfortunately, it looked like he was kindly indicating the direction to some wayward traveler who had inquired as to the quickest route to Atlanta, and when I-75 was later built he seemed to be pointing to it, and, sadly, it seemed that every year more and more youngsters took his advice and moved to the city for the manufacturing jobs on the Southside and the domestic work on the Northside (that which wasn't reserved for the blacks).

To celebrate the town's ninetieth anniversary in 1920, the city held a pageant complete with a buffet and staged a reading of Bragg's
Declaration of War on the U.S. Traitors
and even had three little boys in gray soldier's uniforms with wings. It was received with all the reverence of the Pope, and for that weekend everyone came together and forgot their side spats and pickle spitting and celebrated their visionary founder. But the next year, the crowd thinned, and it declined even more the year after that. Meanwhile the cities close to Atlanta, like Newnan and Tyrone and Peachtree City, grew into prosperous suburbs in their own right, so in 1960 Braggsville filed another petition, and eventually restarted the reenactments. Attendance shot up, no doubt helped by the growing civil rights movement. In fact, the first modern Braggsville Historical Preservation and Dissemination Society reenactment took place a week after King delivered his
I Have a Dream
speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in the nation's capital.

From 1861 to 1865, the Confederate flag flew all across Georgia. In 1955, the state raised it once more, to protest federally mandated integration. But, funny thing is, they'd never stopped flying Old Dixie here in Braggsville. It wasn't about slavery, they said. It was
about the Northern presumption about one man thinking he had the right to tell another man what to do. And what to think. And what to believe.

We in the Gully said nothing. No more.

What no one is telling you is that the so-called deserter was one of Bragg's sons. He died later, because he was found out and put back to gun on the front line. But for three months he hid out in the Gully, where no one would think to look. Only Bragg himself, his son, and one general knew this, and that general went on to become a legislator and sat on the Milledgeville committee that Bragg invited to view this town. That's why over the years the petitions have not been successful for the Olympic equestrian events, the state games, and even the Special Olympics. But we got Walmart in the Gully.

Finished, he took his hand off Daron's shoulder.

Oh, that slick nigger! Daron thought. Was this how Mike Myers felt during that telethon? Daron guessed it was when Quint later told him, You got straight Kanye'ed.

A
ND WE WERE AFRAID YOU WOULD COME BACK
singing
Dancing Queen,
his father declared, trying to make a joke of it later that night. He was alone in his laughter. His mother stood with her arms crossed as though plotting. Elsewhere anger announced itself more vigorously: there was a fire in the Gully, and later a brick thrown through the Davenports' garage window. The next morning, the FBI stationed a man across the street. As Denver explained it, you'll talk when you're ready. I just want you to live until then. He wanted to station the agent in the front yard, but Mr. Davenport refused the offer, even after being assured that his taxes paid for it, instead insisting that very fact gave him the right to respectfully, but forcefully, decline. I don't need no outsiders to protect me in my own town from my own people.

D
aron was plotting his escape from Braggsville, and finally saw his chance. After the inquest, Louis's family flew his body directly to Malaysia, so his San Francisco remembrance celebration was scheduled almost a full two weeks after his death. Daron discovered the date by reading the school paper online, an act undertaken with trepidation, avoiding the editorials, op-eds, and columns, summoning a discipline quite unlike his usual forays into cyberspace. When he told his parents about the memorial service, they agreed that he needed closure, closure being the only shrink-speak spoken at home. (Can we get some closure on that back door? the refrigerator? your mouth?
Lost
?
)
Daron packed two days early, picking out his clothes for this four-day trip with even more care than he did when first leaving for college.

He and Candice had not shared a word since the morning her parents picked her up. He'd not seen her since the inquest, making this the longest period of time since they had met that they had gone without contact. The longest week of his life. No IMs, texts, or Facebook messages. No Instagrams or tweets. Simply put, no direct communication, as the lawyers advised, for fear it would be intercepted or misinterpreted, or both, intentionally. Charlie changed his privacy settings because of the endless threats posted to his Facebook wall,
and closed his account altogether after he was doxed, and the death threats began to be accompanied by the GPS location of his home or his face pasted over an image of a dangling Saddam Hussein. It was as if the Indians had committed cybersuicide, as if Candice's final post, the four of them at his mom's backyard barbecue, had been a picture of the Last Supper. As it was, Daron didn't remember her asking anyone to take it, which only added to the vertigo he felt when he first saw it: he, Candice, and Charlie flanking Louis, who still stood on his stage, that white plastic chair. Their heads staggered in space reminded him of Olympians on the rostrum: Louis, the victorious gold medal recipient; Charlie, silver; Candice, bronze; Daron, a runner-up, even with a hometown advantage. He was giddy and anxious at the thought of being with Charlie and Candice again, and after learning that he would not see his friends, he suffered a deep dismay at life's caprice, felt bridled by a broad stroke of well-black despair even more suffocating than the Easter Sunday despondency that strangled the eight-year-old D'aron—bka Faggot—when his stripper cousin cautioned him: Yes! Christ can rise from the dead; it's professional wrestling that's staged. Could we have nothing for ourselves in this world?

It was the day before Louis's memorial service, and when his mom called him to the phone, Daron sprinted to the kitchen, breathless as he greeted Charlie, who had only bad news. He had spoken to Mrs. Chang, and they were not welcome to attend.

Is that what she said?

May as well. She said it might cause too much commotion. She said it might, uh, Distract from purpose. So, yes.

Charlie must have been mad to mock Mrs. Chang. Are you going anyway?

D, I can't go to the bathroom without closing the door. That's not a joke, D. It's a report from the field.

Does Candice know?

Yeah.

Have you seen her?

No.

You've talked to her?

Once.

About what?

Everything. Charlie paused. What else is there to talk about?

What did she say about me?

Charlie paused even longer this time. Nothing.

Did you tell your mom?

About what? She already knows everything.

About the memorial? About us being distractions?

Nope.

Did Candice?

Probably not. It doesn't apply to her.

Daron had been excited to hear his friend's voice, and upon learning that they were not welcome attendees, first felt the comradeship of the wrongfully persecuted. That agreeable sensation evaporated, recondensed caustic. At hearing that Candice was permitted to appear at the memorial, Daron wondered if this was how she'd felt about the morgue. Had Candice felt this angry, this betrayed, at learning that Daron and Charlie had seen Louis, but she could not? Even as part of him felt it deserved, that her attending the memorial service from which they were barred neatly repaid a debt he'd considered unfairly incurred, he felt a sting of resentment and tried telling himself that it was not her fault any more than the morgue decision was his.

More than ready to escape the claustrophobia of home, Daron didn't tell his parents, either. If he could make it back to Berzerkeley, he might not return to Braggsville. Three printed tickets to San Francisco hung on the fridge door. Printed because his parents didn't trust e-tickets. Three because Daron's mother refused to let him
travel to California alone, worried as she was about reprisals. Malaysian people have gangs, too.

Daron shrugged off that comment, as he did their going cattywonked at the airline counter in Atlanta, their civility war with the flight attendant, their kerfuffle at baggage claim in San Francisco, their muttering match with the hotel clerk, and that they made him carry all the luggage, all the way, all the time, right up to the room, his father saying, You're young, you don't need a baggage cart. He shrugged it all off. They had been tense lately, and he knew they would be angry enough to swallow vinegar after he told them that he wasn't wanted at the service. Surprisingly, they weren't. His father continued to unpack as if he had not heard Daron, each piece of clothing folded as neatly as a U.S. flag and conveyed from suitcase to dresser with two hands. His mother, though, muttered, Good, before she caught herself. Are you sure? Daron nodded. She unloosed a long whistle as she flounced back onto the threadbare floral bedspread, her arms out like it was an exercise in trust. What are we going to do here?