American Ghost (35 page)

“Yeah, well, that's bullshit,” she said as she braked in front of her
house to let him out. “Minimalizing and rationalizing—we know it well, in old Hendrix town.” She pinned him with a final, deadly question: “Does your father know? That you let Travis walk?”

Sam was finally squashed at that and told her plainly, “If you tell my father, I'll hang myself. So will Shelton.”

“
Good
. I'll buy the rope,” she said, so sincerely that Sam looked at her in amazement.

“Well, God, Jol, I don't know why
you're
so pissed. I'm the one who got shot in the back and left for dead.”

“Oh, no, you weren't. It was
my
back, too, Sam, and your father's, and he's right—you can't just let them
walk
. You let them walk, and they'll just do it again, to someone else. You got to keep your
thumb
on their
head,
your
boot
on their
neck,
or they'll take over the god
damn
world.”

She was so furious her chest was heaving, though Sam seemed untouched by her fury, more curious than defensive. He watched her a moment, brow furrowed, then unfastened his seat belt and offered a final bit of Sam Wisdom. “Beware of collective guilt. It's a seductive notion. But it is a lie.”

He got out and shut the door with no kick, no complaint, just a resignation that struck Jolie as a sort of abandonment. She drove to City Hall with a spate of tears rolling down her cheeks—not for Henry Kite or Sam or the brothers Frazier and their doomed search, but for herself, Jolie Hoyt. Because she was tired and cold and lonely as hell, and her father's scribbled old notebooks were gone and she
had
forgotten about them, living the high life in town, planting trees and peeling paint and working so hard to preserve a history that was not even her own. What was she so scared of, anyway? That she'd lose her job? End up like her Big Mama, ironing for the rich folk? How would that be any worse than what she was doing now, wrestling that miserable commission into shape every day of her life?

Hell,
she
was
ironing for the rich folk, she thought as she turned into the packed parking lot, where the line of political demarcation was
clearly drawn, the cars of the members of the Historical Committee parked in one direction—ancient Mercedeses, Volvos, and a Seville or two—and those of the Chamber of Commerce members in the other—Lexus, Lexus, Lexus, all brand-new. She went in the back door through the kitchen to the long, raftered hall that smelled of charred oak and oil heat, and decades of public smoking, long outlawed, but once so furiously practiced that the pine floors seemed to have absorbed a layer of Lucky Strike.

The commission members were already seated on a raised dais at the front of the room, so physically similar as to appear to be members of the same well-fed tribe. Their ages varied by forty years, but they were all dressed in pressed khaki and Van Heusen dress shirts, monotone ties, and Red Wing boots—a workingman's uniform designed to designate them as local, prosperous, and up-and-coming.

Tad was at the sound board, testing the equipment, Faye at his side, the
MAYOR
folder clutched in her hand, checking her watch. “Thank God,” she said when she saw Jolie. “Juddy was about to start without you.”

Juddy Hewitt was a bulked-up, crew-cut former 'Nole linebacker. The youngest commissioner on the bench, and lately pro tem, he was only slightly less impatient than Jolie and always wanting to get the show on the road. When he saw her pause to speak with Faye, he had the temerity to emit a sharp whistle in her direction, as if she were an errant cow who'd gone through the wrong gate.

Jolie was not in the mood to be whistled at and murmured darkly as she took her folder, “Will somebody tell that Cracker I'm not one of his hunting dogs?”

Faye was used to Jolie's moods and just sent her up to her seat. She was conscious of her stringy hair and soggy suit. Jolie apologized for her ragged appearance as she took her place in the middle of the long wooden bar that served as the commissioners' desk and, with no more discussion, called the meeting to order. As predicted, a lion's share of the night's agenda was concerned with the cell tower. Only Jolie and a handful of beautification committee members were at all concerned with the
possibility of their quaint little downtown's being afflicted with a tall and blinking red monster of a tower. The cell company had obviously been doing their homework with the commissioners, who would likely have pressed the matter to a premature vote if Hugh hadn't appeared at seven thirty, just in the nick of time.

He came in quietly, with Georgia Anderson on his arm, one of the county's grande dames, whose father had actually built the Cleary Hotel, back in '22. The place had changed hands many times since, but the Andersons still had a few holdings around town and still had enough of a sniff of prosperity and power that the hustlers on the commission paid heed when she took the podium and pleaded for caution before her father's masterpiece was desecrated. When she left the microphone, Jolie immediately suggested a workshop before the matter was voted on, which was quickly seconded and carried, which was all she wanted—a little more time for the old Historic and Beautification Board to regroup to battle the forces of modern evil and urban blight.

She appreciated Hugh's coming to her rescue and met his eye a moment before he left—or would have, if he would have consented. But he was obviously still furious and only there to squash the cell tower, and left as unexpectedly as he had appeared.

Jolie went about refereeing the rest of the meeting, which was relatively uneventful, as the cell-tower controversy was plainly their new municipal pain in the ass and would be for many months to come, the cell-phone people threatening them mightily with all manner of drawn-out lawsuits and legal challenges. Jolie took it all in stride, and by seven o'clock they were on to New Business, with Tad briefly taking the podium to put in a word about a coming change in cable regulations that didn't require a vote. There were no discussions or questions on the matter, the meeting plainly at an end, aside from the small matter of public comments, at the end of the agenda, when citizens could stand and air grievances.

A few people lined up, for or against the tower, mostly friends of Jolie's from the old Garden Club set. Their comments were tart, precise,
and quickly done, and the room was relaxing with the relief that comes toward the end of any fractious meeting when the double doors at the back opened, and two latecomers unexpectedly appeared. Everyone, even Faye and Tad, turned to give them a second glance, as they were an odd mix: a snappily dressed black man in a fancy coat, and another black man, with a cane and a look of squinting interest. There was a small fear that they were there to weigh in on the cell tower and would pin everyone in for another round of questions, but they seemed to have nothing to do with the business at hand and took seats quietly in the back row.

After a little more eyeballing and neck-stretching, the audience returned their attention to the mayor, who should have been bringing them down the home stretch, but seemed distracted by the newcomers. She let the final speaker yammer on far too long about the high cost of his new cell phone, which had nothing to do with anything.

The mayor just sat there, slumped in her wilted suit, her face pale and thoughtful, till he finished yammering. She finally bestirred herself and made the call for unfinished business, which this time of night shouldn't have been much. It was late and everyone was ready to leave, an obvious fact that only the mayor didn't seem to grasp. While the rest of the commission buttoned coats and shuffled paper, she went to the great trouble of explaining what everyone already knew: that this was a free forum, that
any
one could make a citizen's comment and have it entered into public record—
any
single thing concerning the city of Cleary, no matter how forgotten or
historical
.

She ignored the air of disgruntlement from the commission at what sounded like a clear invitation to the wing nuts to take the floor. Juddy, who sat to her immediate left, was bold (and desperate) enough to lean out of the range of the mike and whisper, “What is this, Jol? A
goddamn
altar call? I have to be at work at five tomorrow morning.”

Jolie withered him with a glance, then sat there, gavel in hand, sweating them out, till to the room's great, groaning horror, one of the latecomers came quietly to his feet: the pimp in the flashy coat. He made his way to the microphone with great presence, his race and fur collar having
an almost visible effect on the older commissioners, who hated being held captive by the kooks and the pimps and the goddamned minorities, who had by God taken over city politics and were always yammering for their share of the pie.

These commissioners sent many dark looks down the table at the mayor, whose full attention was on the podium, where the pimp had to stoop a little to speak. “Well, I'm not a citizen of Cleary, but I do have a little city bidnis to take care of while I'm here. I'm Hollis Frazier from Memphis, Tennessee,” he began, introducing himself as he had to Sam and Jolie. He even introduced the other old man—his brother, he said, who made no gesture, just sat there, his cane between his knees, listening. The impatience in the room was increasingly palpable, the commissioners at the far ends of the table leaning forward to see what the hell the mayor was thinking, drawing out an out-of-town crank when God knew they had plenty enough to deal with right in their backyard.

There was a world of grimacing, grunting, and many exhalations of breath till Hollis got to the heart of his request about the return of his father's fingers with the same simplicity he'd used before, holding up his own hand to demonstrate which fingers (“middle 'ens, right hand”).

The bizarre leap from cell tower to severed fingers made everyone, aside from the outright dozers (there were always one or two), spring to life with new interest, if politely concealed. All along the rows, everyone—black, white, cell reps, and city activists—muttered, murmured, and mouthed among themselves. They gaped at Hollis Frazier with expressions that varied from incredulous surprise to blank astonishment when he offered the reward: $10,000, cash.

Jolie grimaced at the public offer in a rare display of emotion (if the wing nuts weren't out by now, they would be shortly). But it was too late to argue, and when he was done, she opened the floor for question and discussion. This was usually not such a bother at this time of night, everyone ready to be done with it and get home. The citizenry uttered not so much as a peep, their faces curious but undecided, as if they were not quite decided if this was an April Fools' prank, or the ghost of Henry
Kite raising his head at last. They were prepared to go home and sleep on it and call a few dozen relatives and talk about it in the morning—all but Commissioner Wynn. A local auto-parts salesman, he had a keen ear for local nuance and recognized a political windfall when he saw one.

He had long coveted Jolie's good office and made a point of sitting on the far end of the long table so he could swivel in his seat and face her in debate with ponderous gravity, in a voice that was actually born in Cincinnati, but could go Kentucky colonel in moments of political expediency.

“Well, Miss May-yah,” he drawled, “I can appreciate the gentleman's request, but ah don't quite see how it comes under the province of the City of Cleary. Didn't the Hendrix Lynching happen in, well, Hendrix?” he asked with a rumble of amusement at his small jest. He left the unspoken portion of the question unspoken (
by yo people
) and sat there like a confused old owl, as if sincerely trying to wrap his mind around a puzzling mystery.

He was famous for such old-school manipulations, and Jolie equally famous for outflanking him. She swiveled around and answered him to his face, with scant patience, “Well, I believe you're right, Commissioner Wynn. But from what I understand, Mr. Kite was actually hung in Cleary, from a live oak on our own award-winning town square. The limb's gone, but I'll be happy to show you where it used to be, before the City had it pruned.”

The admission was so open and odious, and so polar opposite to what the Garden Club and Historic and Beautification Board had sought to achieve with their time and money and fabulous renovation, that it would have drawn an audible groan if the ladies of both organizations hadn't been too well-mannered to make such a public utterance. They blinked and sniffed and put their purses in their laps and stared straight ahead with such unbending efficiency that JW conceded the point with nothing but a small smile that said it all (
Miss Mayor, you are headed back to the farm
). Jolie accepted the stab and let it pass, then called a second time for discussion, this time with the gavel in hand.

She was met with stark silence, even the garrulous old courthouse sitters too shocked to comment. They were blindsided by the fingers and the reward, but possibly even more stunned that a canny politician such as the mayor would make such an absurd misstep this far along in the game. She offered up another moment or two, then adjourned the meeting with a swift crack of the gavel, precisely six minutes too late to salvage her budding career.

Four of the commissioners were smokers and could not have cared less if Jolie had publicly impaled herself; they just needed a smoke. They scuttled out like cockroaches, leaving Juddy to glower with wounded indignity, clearly having not absorbed a word of the proceedings after Jolie so bitchily refused to recognize him from the bench, his ass so high on his shoulder it was almost apparent to the naked eye. Being the eternal pragmatist she was, Faye paid no attention to the larger questions, but met Jolie at the bottom of the stairs with a terse “You go find Juddy. You hurt his feelings, and if he tells his mama, she'll be on your neck for twenty years.”