Welcome to Braggsville. T Johnson Geronimo
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 milliondollar-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.
Welcome back, Little D.
Hi, Rheanne. These are my friends from—
Hi, Little D’s friends.
He rattled off their names, but she’d already returned her attention to her magazine. No handshaking and hugging here.
At the back of the store Lou had installed a new deli counter, behind which stood his oldest granddaughter and Rheanne’s older sister, Lee Anne, who waved politely from her folding chair, positioned so that she could watch The Voice on the television in the corner.
Welcome back, Little D.
Hi, Lee Anne, these are my friends—
Hi, Little D’s friends. What are all y’allses names?
His mom rushed through the introductions. They were in a hurry, she explained as she gave