There are some secrets better left buried, Aramis.”
“You sound like you know something I don’t.”
In his Tabasco boxers, Johnny Ray stretched, scratched, then lumbered into the bathroom. I was hurrying through my second Pop-Tart to avoid his disapproving look.
When he wandered back into view, I hid it under the table.
He picked up his six-string and found his cross-legged position on the hardwood floor.
“By the way,” I said, “you did great last night.”
“Thanks for settin’ it up. Had myself a heckuva time.”
“During? Or after?”
He waved his hand in a downward motion. “Shh. Sarah’s still sleeping.”
I could feel Pop-Tart crumbs landing on my toes. I was hungry, and I needed to leave for work in a few minutes. “It’s not right, Johnny. Taking advantage of her like that.”
“She’s knows it’s nothin’ permanent. That was clear from the get-go.”
“Oh, well, in that case …”
“You missed out. She woulda brought her friend for you, Aramis, but I told her you were in trainin’ for the priesthood.”
He shrugged as he brought his guitar into his lap.
“Well. You might like to know I’m having dinner with Brianne tonight.”
“That girl who’s workin’ for you?” It was his turn to shake his head.
“Friends. Nothing more.”
“Mmm, I’ll take your word. I wouldn’t trust her though. She’s got her eye on you.”
“Can you blame her?”
He sneered at me. “Back to your other question, about Uncle Wyatt.”
“Yeah. He’s lived here all this time, and you didn’t think to tell me?”
“Only found out myself a few weeks ago.”
“Oh, really?”
“He disappeared after Mom’s funeral, so how was I to know where he’d gone? The thing with you and Mom at the river—I don’t think he ever got over that.”
“How’d you find out that he was in Hohenwald?”
“He called me.”
“What? Just for fun?”
“Outta the blue. I picked up, and there he was, introducin’ himself and askin’ to speak with you.”
“With me?”
“You’d never let that happen, so I met with the man myself. Had lunch.”
“You met with him?”
“He said he wanted to spill some family secrets. Time to rattle the ol’ skeletons in the closet, he told me.”
“And you had to keep it all to yourself.”
“Who drove you to the Lewis monument a week ago?”
“You did—”
“And who’s kept tellin’ ya about the connections to our own history?”
“You have. But—”
“Hold on now.” He held up a hand and bowed his head. “Tell me, please, who set you up to go on national TV and put this thing to rest? Your big chance to get The Best of Evil?”
“You did, oh wise and wonderful big brother.”
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
“But you tricked me. Suckered me into it.”
“ ’Cause you won’t listen.” He tapped the latest issue of the Scene. “Can’t even spare a minute of your time. Just bound and determined to fix it all on your own. Been that way since you were six. You’re the strong one, isn’t that how it goes?”
“If you say so.”
“You’re not so doggone complicated as you make yourself out to be.”
“Okay. You have me all figured out. Tell me, Johnny, what do you see?”
“It’s all written there on your tattoos.”
“Life on the edge,” I said. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“You’ve watched Gladiator one too many times, kid.”
“Seriously. What’re you keepin’ from me?”
“Like I been tellin’ you, it’s high time you faced the stuff in the past and moved on. But I can’t make it happen. You gotta let go. Till you do that, you won’t be ready to face the rest of these ghosts.”
“What ghosts? What secrets?”
“You listenin’ to a thing I’ve said?”
“I’ve gotta let go first. Okay. I get it.”
“If you don’t, they’ll haunt you till the day you die.”
“Am I the only one in the dark here?”
“We all are, Aramis. Each one of us, just tryin’ to find our way.”
“Whatever.”
I brought my Pop-Tart from under the table and nibbled around the edges. Licked my lips. Savored each warm and gooey bite.
“All that sugar in your system?” he said. “It’s no wonder you’re so cranky.”
Sarah’s breathy voice floated into the kitchen. “Johnny Ray Black? Did I hear you say ‘sugar’?”
I was outta there. I hurried toward the park still fumbling with the buttons on my shirt.
Centennial Park was quieter than usual this Friday morning, so it was no surprise to hear Tina shuffling along with her dog.
“Hi, Tina.”
“Walking and talking, an old crone, alone.” The mist thinned her voice.
“Stop by if you need a hot cup of joe,” I said. “I’ll be open at six.”
“A matter of time, to find the dark grind.”
A layer of fog hovered over the wide lawn, giving shrubbery and stonework the illusion of poking through wisps of battlefield smoke. I could almost smell the gunpowder as I thought about Civil War conflicts where blood was spilled and history etched into the landscape and disposition of the South.
The past fifty years in Music City have echoed those racial struggles.
In 1960, hundreds of African Americans staged nonviolent protests, taking seats at lunch counters in downtown Nashville. Had Detective Meade’s parents been here then? Watching the world change before their eyes?
After numerous beatings and arrests of unresisting young black men, the general population’s sympathies swung to the protesters’ side. On April 19, when a councilman who had spoken up for the cause had his house bombed, nearly four thousand marched in silence on city hall. Addressing the issue without compromise, the mayor stated that discrimination based on color was morally wrong.
The next day Martin Luther King Jr. spoke at local Fisk University, declaring, “I did not come to Nashville to bring inspiration, but to gain inspiration …”
Within weeks, lunch counters began opening to diners of all races, all colors.
In some ways we’ve come so far. In others, we’re just scratching the surface.
Through the fog, I spotted Freddy C curled on cardboard beneath a tree.
“Freddy C.” I nudged his shoulder and caught that salty hushpuppy scent.
One eye crept open. Watery. Slowly focusing. “Artemis?”
“I’m on my way to the shop. Where’ve you been?”
“Nowhere special.” He sat up, pulled a hand through his graying beard.
“You hungry? I’m running over to Krispy Kreme if you wanna join me.” I’d had breakfast already, but I knew he would never let me watch him eat. “I can’t do a whole box by myself.”
“Shouldn’t show my face. Shouldn’t do it, not today.”
“You okay?”
“Thanks for wakin’ me. Gotta get movin’.” He folded the cardboard beneath his arm while his wary eyes surveyed the park.
“Is this about that warning the other day?”
His neck stiffened, and his eyes rolled my way. “Could be.”
“You said something, Freddy. Said I had trouble.”
“We got trouble.”
“Okay. We.”
“A man’s been watchin’,” he said. “Hangin’ around. He’s not a good man.”
“Who is he? Does he have a hooded sweatshirt and black high tops?” It was worth a shot.
Freddy C shook his head, his reedy hair shifting on his scalp. “He’s not really a man. Not a man at all.”
“A ghost?”
Freddy stood upright. “You think I’m crazy? Think I have a few screws loose?”
“Not at all. What do you mean then, he’s not a man?”
Freddy buttoned his coat, tucked in his scarf, and withdrew his grocery cart from its hiding place in the bushes. “Stay outta my hair, you hear.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“And if you’re smart”—he tapped his finger against my temple—“you’ll get him. You’ll get into his hair. He’ll no longer take what doesn’t belong to him.”
“Is it my Uncle Wyatt? Do you know him?”
“Gotta go.” Freddy C pushed past me. “He’s here somewhere.”
I glanced around. “We’re fine. I think we’re alone.”
“I’m not safe to be around. I’m tellin’ you now, I’m no longer safe.”