Welcome to Braggsville (8 page)

Mrs. Price. That was her name. Eighth-grade D'aron—aka Mr. Davenport, aka Dim Ding-Dong, bka (
b
etter
k
nown
a
s) Faggot—
had always wanted to come in late enough so that for just a minute or two, Mrs. Price would devote all her attention to him and only him, and he would have a feeling all over that was a mix between a warm bath and rubbing his groin against the kitchen sink, which was unavoidable when reaching for the tap. Mrs. Price, smells so nice, Mrs. Price, let me taste your spice, Mrs. Price, let me juggle your dice—always snake eyes, must have come to Daron's mind because he stood between Candice and Charlie, and the hand Candice's held—and that hand only—was clammy, that entire arm warm and tingling as if it had fallen asleep and been violently awoken.

Like criminals, kids attract each other, and soon eight children sat in a row before them, clapping at the end of Candice's every sentence. Fortunately, their parents appreciated the break and relaxed on nearby benches—close enough to watch their children, but not close enough to get a good look at our 4 Little Indians. One of the kids stared like Daron was somebody important, and he had to admit the kid was cute. From a passing first aid attendant—Whassup? From a short black kid pushing a broom—a nod. From a cute brunette driving the handicapped golf cart—a wave. From the fountain—Dribble dribble. Briefly, it all felt very natural. Then came Tweety Bird, whom Daron had never seen up close. Then came a Latina who stopped at the insistence of her two blond charges, twin boys about waist-years-old. The crowd had grown. The kids hummed along as best they could, harmonic as a holiday hymnody. Candice chanted:

You are the sparrow's song, the crow's caw

The rose's fragrance, the spring thaw

In our hearts you live forever,

Children will celebrate your brave endeavors

And we'll take strength from your resolve

Until we meet again in heaven above

Charlie squeezed Daron's hand, motioning at the nearby twin boys. One twin did cartwheels while the other coyly reached for a paper feather. Candice hissed him away. The Latina in charge of the twins made an apologetic face, more so, it seemed, for her powerlessness than for the twins' behavior.

But Tweety deserved the attention, now only yards to their left, her fluffy finger dragging through the air like that of a director shadowed in the stage wings, resigned to her cast's tendency toward insurgency. But this Tweety, as Louis pointed out in an inching whisper, has a clitoris-colored tongue—a hot one—a clitoris-colored tongue with a soft groove as inviting as a warm hot dog bun. Behold the blessed velvety furrow! And this Tweety, much to Daron's surprise, is too pink in the beak, too pink for him to be at the same time holding Candice's hand, too pink for him to be at the same time having random memories of Mrs. Price, such as a vivid image of the scrumptious freckle centered in the cleft of her chin, peeking down the split in her bib, pink enough to threaten a hot and perhaps soon not-so-private bristling, and about this he feels that confusion, that particular confusion he felt after the first time he knew himself in the biblical sense and lay there for some long, huffing minutes, afraid to look down because he thought he'd peed in his hand. It was a particular confusion that provided the only reliable refuge against shame.

Again, Candice hissed away the twins, but these two Willy Wonka rejects were professionals and used their similarity to great advantage. One would dance, try walking on his hands, mime—anything to distract, while the other wreaked havoc, stealing other kids' toys, poking children, both of them acting all around like midget assholes. Louis tried motioning to the nanny, and Candice shushed him. But I didn't say anything. Shushed again. One twin danced wild in a scuba mask while the other snuck behind them again and grabbed the paper tomahawk, upsetting Ishi.

Was Daron the only one to notice that Tweety Bird's eyelashes
were too, too long, fine strokes tapering gently up and across the forehead, framing blue eyes almost as big as Candice's? And again, that particular confusion; he couldn't bear to look down, the hot bristling now a full-on shadow box, noun and verb, so he dropped to one knee right as the wind scooped Ishi up and along the sidewalk and to the wider world.

Ishi, Candice yelled, Ishi, we commend you to the wind.

Tweety, hand to her temple as if compressing a wound, caterwauled as if she tawt she taw a putty cat, stirring the crowd out of their enchantment. The audience politely danced the ashes off their feet and applauded. Tweety, hand still to mouth, scurried off as best she could, knees cycling as if pushing pedals, those canary clodhoppers working the ground like snowshoes.

A
t the San Francisco airport Charlie discreetly pulled Daron aside and asked if there was anything he needed to know, if he should expect more crazy-Colonel-Sanders types of people in Braggsville. After the Ishi Incident, the 4 Little Indians had been invited to eat with a charming Southern couple who, as promised, made the best fried chicken west of the Mississippi. The couple, by Daron's mind, had exemplified Southern hospitality by sharing with the hungry Indians what food they had, by making space at their dining table for strangers. Was Charlie offended because that table had been plastic and they'd sat on metal folding chairs? Daron hoped Charlie wouldn't be so particular when meeting his relations. My mother, warned Daron, despises people who wear shoes without socks, and anyone who eats non-finger-foods with their fingers, like picking up the last pea. They had a good laugh over that, at least Charlie did.

While Charlie, Candice, and Louis were fastening seat belts and returning chair trays to the upright and locked position, it dawned on Daron that though he'd asked his mom to move The Charlies, he'd neglected to mention the mammies from New Orleans, Salt and Pepper Climb on Cucumber, as well as the Bibinba, Zwarte Pieten, and Hajji Firuz dolls his cousins had picked up while
stationed abroad, not to mention the Blackface Soap and Watermelon Whistler tins. And that strange guy with the big grin dressed in only a loincloth and turban. That they were antiques, that they were valuable, that they were gifts wasn't going to make Candice feel any better about them.

It's not that the Davenports had never had black people around their house before, or even a Chinese guy once, but never a Malaysian who looked Chinese to some and Indian to others, fancied himself black at times, and wanted to be the next Lenny Bruce Lee; a preppy black football player who sounded like the president and read Plato in Latin; and a white woman who occasionally claimed to be Native American. They were like an overconstructed novel, each representative of some cul-de-sac of idiolect and stereotype, missing only a handicapped person—No! At Berkeley we say handi-
capable
person—and a Jew and a Hispanic, and an Asian not of the subcontinent, Louis always said. He had once placed a personals ad on Craigslist to recruit for those positions: Diverse social club seeking to make quota requires the services of East Asian, Jew, Hispanic, and handicapable individuals to round out the Multicultural Brady Bunch Troupe. All applicants must be visibly identifiable as members of said group. Reform Jews and ADHDers need not apply. Daron felt now as he had when people had started responding to that ad, that he couldn't help but expect a spectacular disaster.

H
ARTSFIELD
-J
ACKSON
A
TLANTA
I
NTERNATIONAL
A
IRPORT
was among the most active transportation hubs in the world, in some years ranked the busiest. Daron never claimed Atlanta as his own, nor did anyone at home, but when they landed, he acted as tour guide, sharing all he had read online, and there was much to tell, see, and do on the long journey from Terminal E to baggage claim. Modern art graced the terminals and African sculptures lined the underground walkway. Any kind of food could be found, or movies
rented, or prayers proffered, but that's not what captivated them, not what had Candice shy, Charlie bright-eyed, Louis agape, and Daron feigning indifference, affecting an at-home swagger.

Theyselves were porters, skycaps, desk agents. TSA and armed officers. Businessmen, mothers, families. Teens traveling alone. Clerks and janitors, not to mention the pianist entertaining diners in the international terminal food court. Waitresses, waiters. Flight attendants. Was that Waka and Gucci? A pilot even! Tall short fat. Pretty ugly glamorous. Theyselves were flamboyant and poised. Rambunctious and composed. Svelte and slovenly. But mostly middle class and well-to-do, from the looks of them. Atlanta's nickname was well earned; a Chocolate City indeed it was.

Beyond baggage claim, the 4 Little Indians were equally mesmerized. Daron was reminded again how different Atlanta was from most of Georgia, and from Berkeley or San Francisco even. It was impossible not to notice when theyselves comprised more than 50 percent of the population (especially when they were only 3 percent of Berkeley). Circling the concourse in vehicles ranging from beaters to Beemers, but mostly the latter, their significant middle class was outdone only by their extensive upper-middle class. Charlie, Candice, and Louis stared in awe as an elegant middle-aged woman clicked past them, the fox staring back as she flung her stole over her shoulder while wheeling a Tumi to a red convertible Aston Martin, the engine idling like Lord of Misrule nuzzling the gate before that famous derby. The driver, of average height and build, greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks, leaning back between each one as if to get a look at her. It was impossible not to feel pleasure at their reunion.

Candice nudged Daron, Famous?

Who they were, Daron didn't know; the driver was obviously no athlete and too old to be a rapper. This was normal for Atlanta. He'd even heard that southwest of the city was a vast tract of million-
dollar-plus homes all owned by blacks, a fact he proudly shared. Welcome to the new South.

It's like being Asian in SF, or it must be, Charlie mused aloud.

Daron was glad it was Charlie who'd said it.

Except it looks like they have more money here.

Daron's mother nosed her boxy white Ford Bronco into the space behind the Aston Martin. She clapped with glee and skipped to greet her D'aron, smothering him in kisses. Don't be embarrassed, they have parents, too. She affectionately greeted each of his friends with a kiss on the cheek.

Actually, Charlie doesn't. Daron regretted how that sounded when Candice glared at him.

Is that so? She tilted her head and turned on her heels to face Charlie.

It's my dad, ma'am.

So sad. She kissed him again, squeezing his arms. You're a big boy.

Yes, ma'am.

See! She elbowed Daron. He didn't wipe his off. Charlie is a young man with good home training. She turned to Charlie, You play football? Cutting her eyes at Daron, she added, Forgive me if I'm
essentializing
.

Whatever! Daron began loading the luggage into the car, starting with Candice's Hello Kitty bag, which momentarily reminded him of Kaya, and he wondered what Kaya would make of this Atlanta place, as she liked to phrase things. More importantly, though, what would Candice make of Braggsville? Straining to heft an oversize duffel with Fu Manchu mustache patches sewn onto either end, he was surprised again that the distinction of having the largest bag went not to Candice, but to Louis, whose only explanation was, Stuff.

Your mom's so friendly, Louis added.

Daron nodded glumly; handlebar-headed was more like it. She's not normally so saccharine.

Before leaving Cali, they had agreed to speak French or Spanish as necessary for security, but Daron knew his mother wouldn't know that word anyway, at least not as an adjective. Nonetheless, a hurt look passed across her face.

Play what you like on the radio, she offered in a grim voice, jerking the seat belt as if closing a coat against the cold.

With Louis cooking up a story about every trucker they passed, and Charlie explaining to Daron's mom what life was like as a poor kid in a rich boarding school, something he'd never even mentioned to Daron, the two-hour drive passed pleasantly enough, and before he knew it, Candice, who read every single printed letter and punctuation mark along the highway (emphasizing the many Indian names)—a fact Daron was glad to have learned before they went on an extended road trip—yelled, Welcome to Braggsville, The City That Love Built in the Heart of Georgia, Population 712. Was there a Bragg? Candice asked.

Sure was.

Signs for the reenactment adorned every corner, each one a line drawing of a Civil War soldier superimposed over the Confederate battle flag. The signs promised
THRILLING HISTORY AND HERITAGE, BREATHTAKING SCENERY AND SOUND EFFECTS,
and the
EDUCATIONAL EXPERIENCE OF A LIFETIME
all at the Pride Week Patriot Days Festival. Red, white, and blue lights strung across Main Street blinked, illuminating the matching streamers wrapped around the light poles. Enormous Confederate flags dressed the watchtower—strung high enough to ensure passersby a clear view of the memorial plaques dotting each of the walls. Four men in full Confederate regalia stepped into the crosswalk, spaced like the Beatles on the
Abbey Road
album cover, one even barefoot. Candice fumbled over her iPhone.

Dear, don't you ask people before taking their photograph? asked Daron's mom as she steered the car into the parking lot of Lou Davis's Cash-n-Carry Bait Shop and Copy Center.

Excuse me, ma'am. Candice, surprisingly chagrined, powered off her phone and slipped it into her pocket.

Lou's? asked Daron.

They're expanding, she explained. To Candice, she smiled. No need to apologize.

Lou's? asked Daron.

Look at it. They're expanding.

Lou Davis's was designed in the style of an old general store with a faux plank face. Old Man Davis had torn down the original dovetail chink log cabin and replaced it with this cinder-block structure back in the forties. For a long time, it was the town's central landmark. (Everything was measured by its distance from Lou's, the watchtower, or the tree known as Miss Keen, even though that old sweet gum had long ago been debilitated by canker and had succumbed, at last, to a careening Walmart rig driven by a Mexican barely tall enough to see over the instrument panel and so when the stewing citizens arrived at the scene to find only one slight young man no taller than a three-year-old Christmas tree, they assumed that the operator had run off and took pity on the young Latino. The state trooper had called him, One lucky jumping bean. No one likes Walmart. They tolerate it because it's cheap, but no one likes it.) When the reenactments were reinstated back in the 1950s in response to mandated integration, Lou installed the fake wood front, For the sake of authentic-nessity. (Lou used
-nessity
the way Gulls used Texas Pete hot sauce.) A room that doubled the size of the store was now being added to the right, jutting out into the parking lot. A handmade sign with a border of roses drawn with a highlighter promised that dine-in seating was coming soon, though obviously not in time for this year's reenactment. Daron recognized Lee Anne's writing and wondered if she'd be working. The exposed cinder blocks contrasted with the wooden front, reminding Daron that the store wasn't historic, only dirty and cluttered. Inside, though, was cleaned up significantly. It was brightly
lit, the new tile floor shiny, and, the biggest surprise, central air had replaced the dusty old black fan. (I love the sound of a compressor in the summer, a line the locals often intoned in the manner of Robert Duvall in
Apocalypse Now
.) Rheanne Davis, Lou's youngest granddaughter and one of Daron's early hitches, and with whom he had shared many a milk shake for one summer in high school, sat behind the register reading
People
. Behind her was the updated copy center, an all-in-one inkjet printer and scanner. Back then he'd been heartbroken by her decision to take time apart, and wrote her every night for a month, though he never mailed the letters. He wasn't that foolish. He did, however, relish this moment to introduce her to his new friends, but hoped she wouldn't mention their previous relationship, not with those bleached bangs and the T-shirt dress.