Fire marshal codes were being violated, no doubt about it. Under normal circumstances in Black’s, I would’ve insisted we conform to such guidelines.
But these were far from normal circumstances.
After a special preview following the Super Bowl, the pilot for The Best of Evil had debuted two weeks ago and taken first place in its time slot. My story was scheduled to run in the third week of the series.
Tonight.
Being on television has never been a personal goal; if I had it my way, I’d be standing like a kid at a parade, cheering Johnny Ray on his road to lasting stardom. Still, it was hard not to feel the excitement in my espresso shop.
Black’s was wall-to-wall with people facing the huge flat-screen television on the corner stage. We hadn’t advertised the gathering. Didn’t need to. Between my regular customers, Sammie and Johnny Ray, Mrs. Michaels and her brood, Tina and Freddy C—looking more claustrophobic than the rest—and a cluster of media sorts, we were fortunate to have oxygen.
On the stage, manning the remote and lending a sense of order, Detective Meade stood with a faint smile.
He was drinking a Hair Curler.
I smiled too as I propped myself on the counter. “No more drinks tonight, folks. The bar is closed. My apologies.” This was the night we’d been waiting for, and I wasn’t about to miss something while adding froth to a cappuccino.
A tinge of anxiety brushed over me.
What would these friends think of me? How would this affect my relationship with Johnny Ray? And what would Mrs. Michaels’s reaction be? Had Carla Fleischmann and Greg Simone done justice to the segment or butchered it in the editing process?
Kenny Black hadn’t made it here for the viewing. I thought I knew why.
We all have our blind spots. We might know a man for years before we comprehend the one thing that’s emotionally crippled him. Kenny Black had admitted to his frustration after my mother’s death, but to a much greater degree now, I understood his vile tantrums. I’d pointed my finger, judged, and scorned, only to discover that my own ignorance was as ugly as the welts he’d inflicted.
It didn’t make everything right—on his side or mine—but one shared point of understanding can tap into the wells of grace.
Yes, the past was about to come into the light.
A good thing, of course. But painful too.
A thunderous cheer rose as the show’s logo filled the screen.
The gold letters glittered as though under a spotlight while angel wings curled slightly around their edges. Then the logo flipped, still gleaming and gold, but pierced by a pair of curled devil horns.
Detective Meade lowered the crowd’s noise with his hands, then pointed the remote and notched up the volume. Most of the watchers knew little about my past and sat in stunned silence for the majority of the broadcast. Although some liberties were taken with stand-ins and dialogue, the show captured the essence of the truth.
A hush fell over the audience in the shop.
Tension had settled in as the show reached its finale. All eyes were riveted to the screen. There was sympathy here, yes. Also criticism? Blame? The clip of me planting a fist in my uncle’s face had stunned many in the room.
The narrator, in suit and tie, stood against the backdrop of snow-dusted mountains. “And now,” he said, “we reach the last portion of our show, the moment of truth when the perceived victim does something good for the alleged wrongdoer. Reconciliation, not judgment.” He folded his hands. “Tonight you’ve seen two men who blamed each other. Both were victims. Both were wrongdoers. If we could grant them their wishes, what would those be?”
Wyatt, his face in the corner of the screen: “I’d wanna bring back my sister, give her the life she deserved.”
My face in the opposite corner: “I’d want my mom back. I’d wanna tell her how important she was and all that she meant to me.”
The narrator continued. “Neither of these men had a desire to accept magnanimous gestures or gifts from the other. Instead, they agreed to turn the spotlight on someone else. An unexpected party. But, as you’ll hear, a deserving one.”
The scene segued to the nighttime streets of Nashville. Broadway. Glitz and neon. Dance clubs and music outlets battling barbecue joints for tourist dollars.
A murmur of excitement moved through the crowd in Black’s.
It was our city on the big screen. Places we all recognized. Memories dancing in those lights. And those cirrus clouds stretched like gauze and tinted orange.
“Is this a live shot?” I heard a patron ask.
My own anxiety was building as the narrator spoke over the scenes of street life: “This week, a new twist. Our crew is in Music City USA. At this moment, in a shop on Elliston Place, a room full of people is watching this show unaware that they are about to become a part of it.”
The cameras were breezing through West End, peeling off toward Black’s.
My shop went stone silent. Faces turned.
I’d been waiting for this for months.
“You heard it, folks,” I called out. “The show continues here. Right now.”
The audience went ballistic.
From the shadows in the kitchen, Uncle Wyatt stepped forward. I put my arm over his shoulder and led him through the crowd to the stage.
Feet were pounding on the floor and hands were banging on tables as we experienced the surreal effect of live cameras arriving outside our very door, visible to all on the flat-screen television. The place was in absolute, unabashed, joyful pandemonium. Mrs. Michaels’s children were bouncing up and down. Even Freddy C was clapping his hands.
A group of security men built like delivery trucks forged their way into the shop, making a path for lights and microphones and cameras. Greg Simone and Carla Fleischmann followed right behind.
We met on stage, backslapping, hands shaking.
Detective Meade and the Delivery Truck Boys tried to restore order.
Oh the mess I was going to have to clean up.
Carla Fleischmann called out, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are live. We have one detail to attend to if you’ll give us your attention. As you know, this nephew and uncle cannot replace what they’ve lost. After much discussion, though, we came to a consensus on how best to bring some good into the situation.”
Light applause was quickly squelched by Carla’s upheld hand.
Carla said, “Is there a Mrs. Michaels in the house?”
Everything fell silent as faces turned and eventually landed on the woman at the table with four young children.
There she was.
Her arms were crossed, the skin wrinkled and pinched. Her eyes were made up, overdone with blue eye shadow and dark eyeliner. And there, visible to anyone who was willing to look, sat a gorgeous woman who will stand before her Maker one day and put others to shame when her deeds are called out.
Greg Simone took the microphone. “Mrs. Michaels had no idea a few minutes ago that the evil that has robbed her of so much would come face to face with the generous thoughts of two men trying to do some good. Would you like to make the presentation, Aramis?”
I could see myself on the big screen as I took the stage. I turned to face the cameras and a live, nationwide audience, proud to be wearing the Johnny Ray Black T-shirt I’d made weeks ago.
“Mrs. Michaels.” I cleared my throat. Steadied my voice. Trained my attention on her. “My uncle and I know all that you’ve been through. We’ve both been affected by your son’s death and your loss.”
One of the cameras turned to catch her first tears.
I was struggling to finish. “A few weeks back I sent in an application regarding your home in Neely’s Bend, and three days ago we got a response from the state commission. Due to the historic significance of your home during the time of the Civil War and due to its period of architecture, the nomination has been accepted.”
My voice caught.
Carla slipped in with practiced ease. “We will be funding a complete and time-period-accurate restoration of your home. It will be added to the listings on the National Register of Historic Places.”
In overlapping shots, the cameras showed Mrs. Michaels soaking it all in. Too choked up to say a word. She tried to wave them off, to turn the attention in another direction, but her children were infused with the energy in the room—pulling on her and giving her kisses, hamming it up for the cameras.
Carla asked one of the twins, “What can you tell us about your mother?”
“She’s a good mama. She makes us good cookies.”
The other piped in. “Sometimes she’s mean, like when she gets angry.”
The first put her hands on her hips and said, “Nah, that’s just because you don’t clean up your room like she tells you. You just shove it all under the bed ’cause Mama’s too big to bend down and look there.”
Mrs. Michaels laughed. “That’s the Lord’s honest truth.”
I walked down through the crowd, no longer concerned with cameras or television audiences. I gave her a full hug, and she broke down on the spot.
I tried to hold it in, to be tough. Aramis Black. Cool and collected.
Mostly, I succeeded.