So far.
Anton let out an exasperated growl. Stop getting ahead of yourself, he thought. Why should he get caught? He had used Google Earth to look up her house, and it showed that she lived out in the country, with not too many other houses around. He would find her, look her in the eye, say what he had to say to convince her that talking to the media would be a bad idea, and then leave. If things went well, he could be making his way back to the airport later tonight. Or, if he was too tired, he’d check in to a small motel—a baseball cap, a pair of dark glasses, and paying in cash should do the trick—and fly back the next morning. Brad had rented the plane from Beau Branson, one of his millionaire buddies who had business interests in Georgia and who had even provided the Lexus he was driving. So really, things had gone as well as he could have hoped for.
He got off the freeway, and the sign said it was twenty-two miles to Ronan. He drove down a four-lane street with the usual big-box stores and fast-food restaurants, a road that looked depressingly similar to any other in the country. But after a few miles, the road narrowed to two lanes, and then he was driving through a series of small towns with brick buildings and mom-and-pop restaurants and ice cream parlors. Despite the summer heat, he lowered the car windows to savor the full experience. He wished he could stop for an order of grits or a bowl of mac and cheese; although his stomach let out a low growl at the thought, he pushed on. The sooner he could finish what he’d come here to do and leave, the better. He searched through his duffel bag and pulled out a small packet of peanuts to nibble on instead.
But letting the Georgia air into his car might have been a mistake, because as he drove out of town and through the countryside again, something within him began to slow down. For a moment he thought that he was drowsy—he had awakened early this morning, after all—but it wasn’t that. It was as if he had let the South into his car and it was acting upon his senses, cradling him, lulling him, and dulling the urgency of the task before him. He heard the whooshing of those elegant magnolias, he felt dizzy at the sight of the vividly red earth, his eyes widened at the sight of a peach tree orchard. He passed a tiny church, its steeple white as Jesus against the deep blue sky. The houses were now few and far between, and already he could guess who lived in which houses—white people in the big, opulent homes with the wraparound porches and blacks in the smaller, modest homes or, worse, in the shacks near the plowed fields. Occasionally, he would see a lone black man, old but straight-backed, sitting on a porch swing, and inevitably, the man would wave at the passing car. Anton felt a choked sensation in his throat the first time it happened, something primitive and familiar pounding in his blood. I am home, he thought, and then, aghast, drove the ridiculous thought out of his mind. He was being romantic. Melodramatic. Sentimental. Idiotic. Georgia was no more his home than Rome was. But this is where your ancestors are from, the voice rose again, and again he snuffed it out. What’re you going to do next? Chew tobacco? Eat watermelon? This was the Deep South, a red state with terrible politics, and he was no more from it than Pappy was.
It was in this laconic-agitated state that he went over the railroad tracks and almost missed the small road sign for his mother’s street. He braked hard and turned sharply onto the gravel road. She really did live in the middle of nowhere. He hadn’t even passed another house for the last five minutes or so. He drove down the bumpy road, a flat, heavy feeling in his chest, bracing himself for squalor, dirt, dysfunction, a falling-down shack, maybe, like several others he had passed.
And so he wasn’t ready for the sweet light yellow bungalow that bore her address. Nor for the neat front yard with a vegetable garden on one side and a flower bed on the other. He checked the address on his phone against the one on the mailbox, and it was right. Knocked off course, knowing he needed to recalibrate, he kept driving down the gravel road past her house, taking in deep breaths, gathering his nerve, asking himself what this new information meant. Finally, unable to decide, he turned around and headed back. There was a gravel driveway to the left where he parked behind an old-looking red Civic. He sat in his car for a moment, ran his fingers through his short hair, looked at himself in the rearview mirror, and then pushed open his door. He waited for a dog to bark and come rushing toward the vehicle, but nothing stirred. The place was so quiet he could hear the buzzing of the afternoon air. He walked to the front of the house and stood looking at it. Now that he was up close, he noticed the areas where the paint was peeling, the fact that the third step leading up to the front porch had a large crack running through it. It was a modest house, to be sure, but it looked neat and well-maintained.
He shook his head. What the hell was he doing, standing in the middle of her yard, worrying about peeling paint? If she sensed the slightest wavering in him, even a hint of weakness, she would take advantage of it. He would not allow himself to feel sorry for her. He would not. He would be polite but curt. Businesslike. He had come too far, risked too much, to fail. He was scowling as he knocked on the front door. The muscle in his jaw worked compulsively when he heard her unlocking it. But the face that appeared at the door was so guileless and alert, the eyes so clear and kind, her recognition of him so immediate, the smile that flooded her face so wondrous, that he felt an immediate reciprocal warmth. He stood there, staring back, his mouth slightly agape, so that when she moved toward him and touched his cheek with her thin brown hand and said, “That you, Baby Boy?,” he had no choice but to become nine years old again and respond, “Yes, Mam. It’s me. It’s Anton.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Anton. Anton. Anton.
Anton. Anton. Oh Lord, Lord, Lord.
Praise be Jesus.
Anton.
Juanita said his name over and over again, chanting it like a prayer, yelling it out loud in disbelief and excitement, wiping her tears away, and then saying it some more. He laughed the first few times she did it, caught up in her giddiness, flattered by being the object of her obvious joy, but when she didn’t stop, he fell quiet, embarrassed by the flagrant display of maternal devotion, then puzzled by it, then distrusting. He looked away from her and around the room, relieved at how tidy and clean it was, far more neat, truth be told, than his own apartment. Katherine was forever straightening up for him when she visited. Katherine. Damn. He should’ve called her again before he went in.
“Anton,” Juanita said. “Baby. Here, sit. My goodness, you so tall. Sit in this rocker. It’s the most comfortable. How tall are you, anyways?”