II

The African

Thigpen read me my Miranda rights, cuffed my hands behind my back and stuffed me into the back seat of the police car.  Nelson, with sirens blaring, drove us to the County Jail in Brunswick.  Thigpen sat next to me, sweating in silence, his gut pouring over his belt.  They allowed me one phone call.   My office in New York was of no use, so I phoned Grafton.

“You’re what?  For what?  That’s insane.  Don’t worry.  I’ll get you the best criminal lawyer in Glynn County.  It’s important that he is local, take my word for it.”

Grafton hung up.  They booked me. They took my belongings, including my cell phone, took my fingerprints, and led me to my cell, a cold, dank place with two cots, one above and one below.  The guard told me to take the lower cot.  They were expecting another prisoner. Soon, the guard came back, unlocked the cell and took me to an interrogation room, in which two detectives sat behind a table.   They sat me opposite them.

“I’m Detective Don Willis, and this is Detective Dick Sanders.  Just make yourself comfortable.  We just want to ask you a few questions and tell you some stuff that you might want to consider.”

I said nothing.  Willis continued:

“Now, how can you explain the fact that your finger prints were all over Mae Ramsey’s respirator and feeding tube?  It didn’t take long to confirm that the fingerprints you just gave us match those on the respirator and the feeding tube.”

‘Look, “ I responded.  “I didn’t do this.  Why would I want to do this?”

“Well, nevertheless, can you explain the finger prints?”

“When I went into her room and found her comatose, I saw they were disconnected.  I tried to reattach them.  It was obvious that there wasn’t much time.”

“But you didn’t reattach them, did you?”

“I tried, but I was unable to do it.  I ran out and called for help.”

“A likely story,” said Sanders, a small, wiry man with a deep tan.  The lines on his face told me he was a serious smoker.

“It’s the truth.”

Willis was the opposite of Sanders, a tall, pale man with blond hair.  He leaned forward towards me, his eyes narrowing.

“You were aware that certain members of the Ramsey family are claiming title to the property you’ve been trying to buy.”

“I have heard something about that, but my lawyer said they had no valid claim.”

“You knew, didn’t you, that they were going to sell the house and land for fifty thousand dollars, a quick sale for cash?”

“No.  I had no idea.”

“So you killed Mae Ramsey so someone else could file a deed who would sell you the property cheaper.”

“You think I would kill and old lady just to save eighteen thousand dollars? Besides, she had a will.”

“People have killed for much less,” Willis responded.

“Much less, “ Sanders added, with a smirk.  “As for the will, most of the black wills are invalid.”

“You can plead guilty now, and that way, you could avoid the death penalty,” Willis interjected. His face was so close to mine, I could smell his breath.  “In Georgia, we got two kinds a’ murder-felony murder and malicious murder.  Malicious murder equals the death penalty, felony don’t.  You cooperate and maybe we can git you felony.”

I froze.  The death penalty?   We were interrupted when a police officer entered.

“His lawyer’s here.”

The lawyer burst into the room. “Don’t say another word,” he shouted.  “What do you guys think you’re doing?”

“Jest askin’ him a few questions, so he could decide if he wanted to plead guilty,” Willis answered.

“That just came to an end.  I want to meet with my client immediately.”

They led us to another room that had two chairs and a small table. A police officer stood guard outside.

“You didn’t confess to anything, did you?”

“ No.  I told them I was innocent.”

The lawyer’s name was Willard Germaine and he was notorious.  He was famous for his drinking and his whoring.  There wasn’t a bar in Glynn County that he had not been thrown out of.  He had almost been disbarred on several occasions, and had been held in contempt in several trials, as he told me.

“I want you to know the whole truth about me if I’m going to defend you. “

He was small, nervous and disheveled and inspired absolutely no confidence.  My heart sank.  This is what Grafton came up with?

“I’m the only criminal defense lawyer your friend Grafton could get.  No one else would touch you with the proverbial ten foot pole.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re from New York, and all the white people all hate people from New York because they think they’re all Jewish and pushy. And you are charged with killing an old black lady who was revered by her people. So the blacks hate you.  The D.A., Calvin Rush, is up for re election, so prosecuting you gives him a leg up. And if he gets a conviction, he’s a shoo in.  And that’s why no other lawyer would take this case. So before you decide, you need to know my fee and the rest of my personal history, so there can be no reason to complain later on.”

He wanted a fifteen thousand dollar retainer, against which he would bill me four hundred and sixty dollars an hour, which he assured me was cheap, considering my situation and his, for taking the case.  Then he related to me that he had been a lawyer in Atlanta but had stopped practicing law for a while.  He had moved to Nashville to be a country and western music composer and failed, ending up totally broke, a drug addict and a street person.  A young black woman, with two children, found him, took him back to her house and got him into rehab.  He became her lover and lived with her until she had an affair with an African reggae singer. He didn’t want to go back to the streets, so the only alternative was to return to Georgia and practice law.  Having burned his bridges in Atlanta, he set up practice in Brunswick and defended drug pushers, murderers, thieves and other low life.  I agreed to the terms but said I couldn’t get the money until I spoke to Celeste.  My portfolio had collapsed and I was short on cash, while Celeste remained  flush by furnishing the second homes of hedge fund managers and Goldman Sachs executives in the Hamptons.  The kinds of fortunes these guys amassed during the financial meltdown made the  Rockefellers, Mellons and Vanderbilts looks like pikers.

“I’ll arrange for that,” he assured me.

With a total sense of dread, I phoned Celeste.  When I explained what had happened and where I was, she started shrieking. Eventually, she composed herself.

“Tell your lawyer I’ll wire him the money.  And I am coming down there as soon as I can get a flight.”

“Call my office.”

She hung up abruptly.  I turned to Germaine, who told me I had to stay in my cell until they took me before a judge, at which time, he would read the complaint and tell me my rights.

“They’re supposed to do that ‘without unnecessary delay’ as the law says.  Here in Glynn County, that’s open to interpretation.”

“How long could that be?”

“Maybe a couple of days, maybe a week.  It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“How they feel about it and who you are, but I’ll do my best to hurry them up. I’ll be back tomorrow with more news. ”

They took me back to my cell, where I threw myself on the cot.  Completely exhausted.  I lay there for several minutes, and then fell asleep.   I don’t know how long I had been sleeping but was awakened by the sound of singing coming from the upper bunk.  It was a deep, mellifluous voice, but I couldn’t make out the words.  I got up and looked around.  Then, I saw him, a large, muscular black man, deep black, almost purple, in a black T-shirt and chinos.  He was barefoot.

“Did they bring you in here while I was asleep?”

“Yes. That’s right.  I’m charged with breaking and entering.  You?”

“Murder.”

“You don’t look like a murderer.”

“I’m not.  Why did you break and enter?”

“That’s a long story.”

Somehow, I felt I had seen him before.  He looked like the image I had seen at the condo or the guy who beckoned for me to follow him into the creek. His accent was strange.  When I questioned him about it, he explained that he was Gullah, the last vestige of the original Africans who were brought to the Georgia islands as slaves.  They had their own distinct dialect, which was becoming extinct.

“Just call me Oba.”  He smiled, revealing dazzling white teeth.  He had a scar on the left side of his face that could have been the result of a knife wound.  He swung himself across the cot until he was sitting upright, his legs hanging over the side.

“Roger,” I responded as I got up from my cot and took the only chair in the cell, and moved it so I was facing him.

“Roger, as in O.K.?”

“No.  Roger is my name.  Roger Westerfield.  I’m from New York. And Bridgehampton”

“So, how long you been on the island?  You were on the island?”

“Yes.  It’s been about a month now.  I came down here to write a book.”

“What about?”

“It’s a thriller.  You know what that is?  It’s about a plot by terrorists to assassinate the King of Saudi Arabia.”

“You come down here to write about Saudi Arabia. That make me laugh.  You should write about what’s here.  You should write about Ibo Landing.”

Then, he started singing to himself:

“Orimiri Omambala bu anyi ba.  Orimiti Omambala ka anyi ga ejina.”

“Would you mind telling me what that means? I heard the old lady they have accused me of murdering chant that, and an artist I know had written it on a painting.  I have no idea that it means.  Why are you singing it?”

I neglected to tell him about my dream and what I had seen and heard that night I went walking.  I looked at him carefully.  He didn’t look like an American black.  He seemed to be African, but as he explained to me, the Gullah were Africans.  They had never married outside their tribes when they were brought to Georgia as slaves.  He told me that most of the slaves that the slave traders brought to the Georgian islands were Ibos, from what is now Nigeria.

“So, really I am Ibo.  Some Ibo descendents live on St. Simons in the Harrington section.  And what I was singing was an old Ibo hymn.  It has been passed down through generations.”

“What does it mean?”  I asked again.

He sang it again, his eyes closed, his face looking up.

“It means  ‘The water spirit brought.  The water spirit will take us home.’”

“But what is its significance?  What is the water spirit?”

“There was a slave rebellion on the island by the Ibos.  There are several versions of what happened.  Some think the whole thing is a myth, but it wasn’t.  That I can assure you.”

The Ibos were an ancient people that have existed since the dawn of history, Oba  explained.  Not a few of whom considered themselves to be descended from one of the lost tribes of Israel and practiced a form of Judaism.  Like the Jews, they wandered until they found their promised land, the lush forests and plains just south of where the Niger and Benin rivers joined.  They called it Ibo Land, where they grew rich, cultivating the earth and creating a flourishing civilization.  Like the Jews, they worshipped one god but also recognized many spirits.  And like the original Jews, they had no king but lived in separate villages governed by an assembly of common people.  And again like the Jews, they would experience bondage in a strange land.

Just as Saul united the tribes of Israel into one kingdom, the priest-king of the powerful city-state, Arachukwo, the Ezez set out to unite the Ibos.  His ambition was to create a powerful kingdom under his rule and expand it into a great empire.  The villages that failed to accept his rule, he crushed, burning and sacking them until the people succumbed.  But one man rose up to lead the resistance.  ‘He was called Oba.’  my cellmate said in a near whisper.  ‘He was a prosperous farmer and the leader of the village his grandfather founded.  He is my namesake. My grandmother insisted I be named for him.’

This Oba went from village to village, rallying the people to resist the tyranny of the Ezez because if they didn’t, they would die anyway or be sold into slavery.  They cheered him and joined his army, until he had amassed a force of some two thousand men.  Determined to crush the resistance, the Ezez mobilized his army of five thousand and, standing in front of his army, he challenged Oba to surrender or either die or be sold into slavery.  Oba shook his head and rallied his troops to battle.

“The dull thud of clubs against skulls could be heard on the plain where they fought,” Oba continued. ‘It grew dark and started to rain, drenching the bodies of the warriors who battered each other with ferocity, spears piercing bodies as the blood soaked plain became strewn with corpses.   The battle was going Oba’s way when a powerful blow to the back of his head felled him and he crashed to the ground, unconscious.  His disheartened troops were in disarray, the enemy clubbing them as they started to flee.’

“The Ezez proclaimed that the defeated warriors, including Oba, would be sold into slavery, as well as their wives and children, whom they captured as they ransacked the villages. He had them bound with grass rope, with shackles attached to their ankles and necks, with chains attached to the neck shackles.   They dragged them, standing, until they reached the Niger River, where they were thrown into canoes, forced to lie in the filth at the bottom, as they paddled, until they reached the point where the Niger River flowed into the ocean.

“It was 1802 and the slave trade was flourishing.  The town they had arrived at, the Gulf of Guinea seaport, was bustling with commerce, the tall-masted ships docked in a line.  Drunken white sailors staggered about, their arms around prostitutes, singing bawdy sea shanties.  Some fornicated shamelessly on the ground or relieved themselves without concern.  Fights broke out, fists flying and knives flashing, as the sailors taunted the slaves who arrived where the broker had arranged for their sale.  One of them yelled ‘fuckin’ nigger’ at Oba, who understood not a word but comprehended that they were insulting him.  He remained stoic, glaring back with narrowed eyes, as the Ezez’s men dragged him and the others to the dock. This was the way that millions of Ibos had been dragged from their homes to be sold by white slave traders to the planters.

“Oba had never seen a white man and his first impression was not a good one.  A group of them surrounded the captured Ibos and poked and prodded them as if they were cattle, inspecting them to make sure they were worth the price they had to pay for them.  One of them pointed at Oba and then, to his ship, where they dragged him, his neck and ankles throbbing with pain.  A white man threw him to the ground, stripped him and seared his flesh with a branding iron, and then ordered him to be thrown into the bowels of the ship, where he was chained to a rack.  In the dark, he could make out other Ibos, crammed together, chained to each other.  They were moaning and weeping in the dark, without food or water, as the ship finally set sail.

“A sailor came in and gave them slop and dirty water, which they devoured like animals.  Before long, they were wallowing in their own waste, reduced to sub-humans in the vile stink of their containment.  They developed sores around their wrists and ankles that became infected, oozing an ugly yellow green puss.  Struggling to retain his dignity, Oba shouted at them to be brave and not to sink to the level the white man wanted them to.  He led them in singing, defiantly, the old Ibo hymn:

‘Orimiri Omambala bu anyi bia.  Orimiri Omambalaka anyi ejina.’ ‘The Water Spirit brought.  The water spirit will take us home.’

“They sang it over and over until, exhausted, they fell asleep as the candles burned out in the rank air.  Many Ibos died during the voyage.  The sailors threw their bodies overboard to be devoured by sharks.  Sometimes, the sailors made the living come upon deck to dance for them as they played their fiddles, white some Ibos attempted suicide by rubbing their wrists against their shackles until they bled to death.

“After three months at sea, early in 1803, they reached  Skidway Island, just north of Savannah, where a Savannah slave importer sold about seventy-five of the Ibos, including Oba, to two prominent coastal planters, Thomas Spalding of Sapelo and John Couper of Cannon’s Point on St. Simons.  They paid $500 for each of the Ibos, an act of total hypocrisy, since both men had signed the Georgia Constitution, which had outlawed the importation of African slaves five years earlier.  Ignoring their constitutional obligations, and in violation of the law, they arranged for the delivery of the Ibos to St. Simons Island.

“The schooner York then set off for St. Simons.  Before reaching its landing place on the bluff of Dunbar Creek in mid May, the white sailors unchained the Ibos from their racks and shoved them on deck.  It was a hot, humid moonlit night, infested with mosquitoes that bit into the captive’s flesh.  They drifted slowly along the creek until they were on the bluff when Oba incited a rebellion.  The Ibos shouted their war chant, terrifying the whites on board.  In a panic, Couper’s overseer and two sailors jumped overboard and drowned in their attempt to reach shore.

“Once on the bluff on Dunbar Creek, Oba directed the Ibos to walk down the plank to shore.  They could see the pine torches held by other whites who were moving towards them.  As they walked down the plank, at Oba’s direction, they began to sing the hymn: ‘Orimiri Omambala bu anyi.  Orimiri Omambala ka anyi enina.’ –‘The Water Spirit brought.  The Water Spirit will take us home.’  Thirteen Ibos in all, with Oba as their leader, and including several boys, walked in unison into the black creek, their shackles clanking around their ankles, as they sang, slowly disappearing beneath the water until they drowned.   With faith in their God, Chukwu, they accepted death rather than be slaves of the white man.

“The overseers took the survivors of the Ibo Stroke to Sapelo Island and Cannon’s Point on St. Simons for a life of servitude, passing their recollections of the event to their children.  After Sherman’s march and the liberation of the slaves on St. Simons Island,  the descendents in the Harrington community narrated the eyewitness account of the survivors to their descendents, which became the legend of Ibo Landing.  And every night, the souls of Oba and those who drowned with him, reenact their ritual drowning at Ibo Landing, singing their hymn.  They will do this until their souls are freed, either by magic or through retribution, in which the Ibos fiercely believe.  It is said that they must have a descendent of either of the planters who brought them, go down with them, and then their souls will fly back to Ibo Land, in peace.  This is why St. Simons is haunted and why no one will fish where the tragedy happened.  Write about it. It’s late. I need some sleep.”

I went over to my cot and lay down.  The reality of being charged with murder sank in even more deeply.  What compelled me to come to this island in the first place?  Why was I so compulsive in wanting to buy that house?  And who was that person in the cot above me who had related the story of Ibo Landing to me?   Eventually, I fell into a fitful sleep, losing all track of the time, until I was awakened by the sound of a guard banging his club against the bars of my cell.

“Wake up, Westerfield.  Here’s you breakfast. And your lawyer’s here.”

He shoved a tray of cold scrambled eggs into the cell.  I got up and looked around. The black man was gone.

“What happened to the other guy you brought in last night?”

“What other guy?  In the end, we didn’t bring in anyone else.”

“But I’m telling you. There was a black man who took the cot above mine.  He talked to me all night.”

The guard laughed.  “That happens all the time in the lock up. Guys go bonkers.  They can’t believe this is happening to them.  You’ll get over it.”

I saw Willard Germaine in his usual rumpled condition right behind the guard, who opened the door to my cell and let him in.  He was carrying a large, beat up leather brief case.  He reeked of bourbon and it was only nine o’clock in the morning.  I listened to him as I ate.

“We go before the judge this afternoon.  They’ll take you to the court and I’ll meet you there.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“As I said, we’ll get a copy of the complaint, which the judge will read from the bench.  You don’t have to plead at this time.  And I’ll ask for bail to be set.  I have to be honest.  I’m not optimistic about that.  You’re from out of state and they all hate you.  You’re an interloper.  My guess is they’re gonna throw you back in jail, but I’ll give it the old college try.”

“Please brush your teeth,” I told him.  “I might have a better chance.”

“They know me.  If I were out of character, they might get suspicious.  But if it will make you feel better, my breath will be as sweet as a rose.”

“And can’t you get a better suit?”

“You think I look like a tramp?  You should have seen me when I was living on the street.”

He grinned and the guard let him out.  I sat down on the cot, my hand rubbing my chin in disbelief.  That guy was up there.  I knew it.  And there was something else.  He had said one of the planters was named Thomas Spalding.  It sounded strangely familiar to me.  I racked my brain to no avail.  Then it came to me.  There was an old portrait in my grandmother’s house in Hagerstown, Maryland.  It was hung on the wall in the drawing room in a gilded frame.  He was a great, great, great something or other.  Then, I remembered her saying that his name was Thomas Spalding, and that he was famous in Georgia before the Civil War.  If that were so, I was descended from a slave owner who bought some of the Ibos who drowned.  The night I saw them marching into the creek, singing the hymn, the leader, undoubtedly Oba, had signaled for me to follow them and I had to struggle to resist.   Oba, the man in my cell, had used the word “retribution.”   This was all too farfetched, I told myself.  I was imagining things again.  It was stress or I had been downing too many pills?  I had to prepare myself to go before the judge.

I was brought in the court in handcuffs and seated next to my lawyer, behind a table to the left of the bench.  A large female black guard in uniform, wearing a gigantic pistol attached to a belt of bullets, marched into the court and bellowed:

“Oder in the court, oder in the court.  All rise.  This court is now in session, Judge Lateesha Williams presiding.”

We stood at attention as the judge entered and sat down.  Rotund and deep black, she was majestic in her robes, her bifocals resting on the tip of her broad nose.  Another black woman, a cop, handed her some documents, which she scrutinized.  Then, she announced: “ Please sit down. State of Georgia versus Westerfield, first on the docket.  Counsel, step forward with your client.”

I could not detect any trace of a regional accent.  In fact, as I learned later from Germaine, she had grown up in Bedford Stuyvesant in Brooklyn, and had gone, on scholarship, to Emory University in Atlanta and then to law school at the University of Georgia, long after Charlene Hunter Galt had broken the race barrier.  A Republican, she had been appointed to the bench by Republican governor, Sunny Purdue.  Williams had a reputation as a tough, no nonsense judge, a reputation she was about to live up to.

As we got up and approached the bench, there was a rustling in the back of the courtroom.  I turned my head to see Celeste, making her way down the aisle to one of the few vacant seats, fourth row from the front on the left behind where I had been sitting.  She was dressed in a dark blue blouse and a gray skirt.  She caught my glance, shook her head and rolled her eyes, as if to say, “What in God’s name is happening?” My behavior had put her through a lot  but she never could have imagined that I could be charged with murder.

The clerk handed Germaine a copy of the warrant with the complaint attached, and the judge began to read from hers. The gist of it was that they accused me of malicious murder, or murder the first degree, of Mae Ramsey.

“Counselor is your client prepared to plead at this time?”

Germaine whispered in my ear that I didn’t have to.  I would plead at the arraignment. I agreed that I wouldn’t plead, after a heated exchange with Germaine.  I was not guilty and wanted to say so.

“No your honor, not at this time.  I would ask the court that my client be granted bail.”

“You’re asking for bail?” the judge scowled.

“I would ask the court that my client be granted bail,” Germaine repeated.

Williams glared down at him.

“Mr. Germaine, why are you even asking me this?”

Germaine was unflustered.  He mopped his brow with his handkerchief although the courtroom was air conditioned to the extreme.  He took a breath.

“Your honor, Mr. Westerfield had no prior criminal record.  He is a member of the bar of the State of New York…”

She interrupted him.

“I don’t care if he is a member of the bar of the state of confusion.  He is from out of state and has no connection with either St.Simons or Brunswick.   He is accused of murdering an outstanding member of our community in a most dastardly way for the basest of motives. I see no reason why I should grant him bail.”

A tall, painfully thin assistant D.A. got up.  He had a Roman nose and thinning blond hair.

“Your honor the State objects to bail in this case. A heinous murder has been committed.”

“Your honor, I submit that bail is appropriate in this case, Mr. Westerfield has no prior criminal record.  He came to St.Simons to write a book and decided to buy a house.  He is not a criminal. “

Judge Williams scowled.

“Very well.  I will set bail at $750,000, cash, on these conditions.  I will require the accused to wear a global positioning system device that will allow court officials to track his movements.  He is to stay away from any witnesses in the case.  And, he will be subject to random drug and alcohol testing.  Have you got the money on you, Mr. Westerfield?”

“No, your honor.”

“Can you get it?”

“I will try, your honor.”

“You can try while you sit in jail.”

With that, Celeste stood up.

“Who are you?”

“I’m his wife.  I will put up my house as collateral.  It’s worth over a million dollars.”

‘How can you prove that?”

“It’s been assessed at $1, 250,000.  It’s in the Town of Southampton’s Assessors office.”

“You may approach the bench.”

Celeste strode purposefully up before the judge.  In her upper class British manner, she began to argue that the whole business was insane, but the judge cut her off.

“Mrs. Westerfield, we are not in the House of Lords.  We are in a court in Georgia, the United States of America.  As soon as we verify that your house is worth that much,  I will accept it as collateral and allow your husband to be released on the conditions I have just set.”

She banged her gavel and moved on to the next case on the docket.  A guard took Celeste off while we waited.  She emerged about a half hour later, with the same guard, who handed Judge Williams some documents.  She waved off the lawyer and his client in the next case and summoned us back up.

“O.K.  You skip and that house is ours.  Go get fitted for the device”

An armed guard approached her with a large box.

What’s this?”

“It’s seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash.  I counted it.  It’s his bail.”

“”Who gave you this money?”

“It was a guy with dreadlocks, that’s all I know. He said the person whose money it is wishes to remain anonymous.”

Judge Williams told Celeste they didn’t need her house any longer, as they were now in possession of her husband’s bail in cash.”

“This is unbelievable,” Celeste said.  “Who put it up?”

“We have no idea,” Judge Williams answered.  She banged the gavel again and guards escorted me to a room where the device was affixed to my ankle.   Then, I left the courthouse with a very agitated Celeste and a cocky Germaine.

“Let’s go somewhere for a drink,” he suggested.  “It seems as though we just got lucky.”

“Not bloody likely,” Celeste sneered.  “I’m going back to the condo with Roger and we’ll talk to you later. “

“At my office at 4:00 clock.”

“Right,” Celeste snapped. “ I’ve got a car.  I’ll drive Roger back with me.”

Celeste was like ice as she drove over the bridge.

“Who put up that money?  You’re obviously not telling me everything.”

“I have no idea, I swear it.”

“Are you screwing some heiress?”

“No,” I said.  But could it have been Claudia? How could she have known how much money to put up so quickly, and where could she have gotten it.  If it was Claudia.

“In any event, you’ve done it this time.”

“Done what?  I haven’t done anything.  I was just trying to buy a house.  You don’t think I did it?”

“I let you out of my sight for five minutes and this happens.  St.Simons was a big mistake.  Your problem, Roger, is that you’re having a mid-life crisis and you’re trying to turn back the clock.  It can’t be done.”

“I’m facing the death penalty and this is all you can say?”

Celeste let out a sigh.

“You’re right. I’m just strung out.  But you have to admit you’ve gotten yourself in one hell of a mess.  And I’ve never seen such a lawyer.  I’ve phoned the firm and they’re sending someone down. Also, I phoned Clifford.  He’s flying in from California tonight. Oh, shit.  It’s all over the papers.  The Reverend Clapton was on television denouncing you.  He said nothing had changed.  He’s going to lead a huge rally.  They’re all going to come down here to what he called a ‘racist pit.’  Can you believe?  If it’s a racist pit, how come the judge and most of the police are black?”

At the condo, I took a pill and lay down.  The next thing I knew, Celeste was hovering over me.

“It’s time to go see your creepy lawyer.  Where on earth did you get him?”

“Ned Grafton got him for me.  It seems that no one else would take the case.”

“I can’t believe that.  You’re being set up.”

“Why?  Who would want to do such a thing?  I have nothing to do with this place.  I’m a total stranger.”

“All the same, it smells to high heaven.  They’re out to get you for some reason. “

I didn’t answer.  We drove over to Germaine’s office in Brunswick.   It was upstairs in a rundown commercial building on Newcastle, the main street that featured a women’s clothing store with mannequins draped in fashions so obsolete that I felt I was in a Rod Sterling “Twilight Zone” time warp.   We walked up the two flights to the top floor. A podiatrist and a chiropractor occupied adjoining offices. The black lettering on the opaque glass on the door proclaimed:  “Willard Germaine, Attorney at Law.”

I knocked and Willard shouted in his Georgia drawl, “C’mon in.”  The office smelled of cat urine, with files stacked in disarray all over the room.  There were so many files and law books on Germaine’s desk that he was hidden except for his crossed feet atop his desk.  One battered shoe had a hole in it, Adlai Stevenson style.  His law degree from LSU hung, off balance, on the wall behind the desk and he was smoking a cigar, which he waved as an indication that we should sit in the two rickety chairs facing him.  He was leaning back in his swivel chair and smiling.  A mangy yellow cat sat, with its eyes closed, on his lap, while a large black one with a furry tail scampered behind boxes lined up against the wall.

“The preliminary hearing is in a week,” he explained.  My sense of the thing is that the only way you’re gonna get off is if we find the ones who actually did it.  I mean, look, you were the last one in the room and your fingerprints were all over the respirator and the feeding tube.  That’s a tough one to explain.  Mae Ramsey’s funeral is tonight and emotions are running pretty high.”

“Who put up that money? Celeste asked, her face twisted in anger.

We were greeted by a coffee colored woman, probably fifty, with short cropped hair and a broad behind, wearing dark blue sweat pants and a light gray sweatshirt with a  “Clark-Atlanta University” logo.  “I’m Dolores Pinckney,” she held out her hand.  “You’re here to see my aunt about the house on North Harrington Street.” She pronounced aunt “ahnt.”

“That’s right, m’am,” Grafton said in his most courtly manner.  “I’m Ned Grafton and this is Roger Westerfield, a civil rights attorney who wants to buy the house.”  (I had informed Grafton of my tactic on the drive over.)

“My aunt’s right inside. Come on in.”

It was an overstuffed living room, with family photos, sofas, a large TV, oversized easy chairs, a faded oriental rug and several coffee tables covered with clutter.  There was also a gold-framed picture of Jesus on the wall, as well as one of Haile Selassie.  Sitting in a far corner in a high back chair was Mrs. Ramsey, diminutive, and very black.  She was wearing a black dress and black shoes, and had a small black hat on the back of her head.  Her gold frame glasses sat on the edge of her small nose.

“You look Ethiopian, “ I said for openers, after formal introductions. I had been in the Peace Corps in Ethiopia and thought I recognized a similarity.

She glared at me.  “I am Ibo,” she responded  “My family, all of North Harrington Street, is Ibo.  Don’t tell me anything about roots. I know our roots, and I am Ibo.”

“Nigeria?”  I responded.

“There were Ibos before there was a Nigeria,” she snapped.  “It was Iboland.”

I seemed to recall a secessionist movement by a tribe called the Ibos, against Nigeria.  They were known for their intelligence and industriousness and some referred to them as the Jews of Nigeria.  I seemed to remember that they called their breakaway entity “Biafra.”  I remembered, too, that the revolt was crushed.

“And we never asked to come here,” she added.

“I know,” I said.

Grafton approached her with an unctuous grin.

“Can we discuss the house?”

“Dolores, get these gentleman some coffee.  You do want coffee?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Grafton accepted in his most sycophantic manner.

Dolores exited to the kitchen sullenly.  She knew who was boss.  She had thrown her husband out for cheating on her and doing drugs and her children were grown and gone.  She was resigned to looking after her aunt, the payoff being that she would inherit her money and the house, since both of Mrs. Ramsey’s sons had died without children.  She was estranged from her two younger brothers and Dolores was her only other heir. It was known she had a will, but no one knew its contents, but Dolores assumed that what Mae Ramsey had would go to her.

“If I sold the house, which everyone is pressing me to do, including Dolores, I would want to sell it to a colored person and most preferably to a Gullah, a descendent of Ibos.”

“I can’t help you there, Mrs. Ramsey, but maybe I’m the next best thing.  I’m a civil rights attorney,” I said, lying.  Two cases hardly made me a hero of the movement.

Her eyes brightened as Dolores entered with a tray containing two mugs filled with hot coffee.

“Dolores, do you know this gentleman is a civil rights attorney?”

Dolores nodded.  “Mr. Grafton told me.”

“Still, you need to know about the Ibos and St. Simons.  The white folks don’t ever talk about it but we always do.  How they rebelled, led by their leader and drowned themselves. Maybe you wouldn’t want to live here.”

We all sat down around her as she entered into a kind of trance and started to chant:

“Orimiri Omambala bu anyi Orimiri Omambala ka anyi ga ejina.”

Mae Ramsey repeated this several times, each time shrieking louder and louder, holding her small head with her hands. She started to wail and cry uncontrollably, shaking from side to side.  Then, she fainted and toppled over.  Dolores rushed over to her.

“I think you better go”

Grafton and I saw the old lady begin to revive as we headed for the door.  She shouted something we could not comprehend.  Dolores left her there and followed us, showing us out.

“ It was a fit.  She has them all the time.  She’ll decide.  She’ll tell you her decision, or I will.”

We walked out into the steaming heat and blazing sun.  The young black man who had gotten rid of the children was standing by the Rolls.  Grafton took out his wallet and removed some bills.

“No, no,” the young black man demurred.  “Put it back.  Just go now.”

We got into to the car. What was I getting myself into?  I was on strange ground.  Was the young man warning me not to stay on the island?  I saw his stern eyes glaring at me as Grafton turned the ignition key and we drove off.

He took a shortcut, turning down a side street lined with once magnificent ante bellum mansions, some of them now divided into apartments.  Spanish moss hung from the oak trees. “It’s nine hundred years old,” Grafton said of a monumental oak that stood in middle of the street.  “They call it “Lovers Oak.”  There was a breathtaking view across the tidal marshland.  I saw an egret open its vast wings and take off.

“Don’t believe that crap about the Ibos,” Grafton said.  “It’s all superstition.   Don’t let them spook you.  They like to do that to people like you.  It gives them a sense of power.  I’m sure she’ll come around.”

Grafton dropped me off at my condo.  I changed and drove down to the beach.   I lay down and closed my eyes.   When I opened them, I saw a dazzling woman in a black one- piece bathing suit, walking the beach.  Tall and voluptuous, with jet black hair cascading down to her shoulders, she had a dark complexion but was not black.  She could have been Spanish.  I couldn’t take my eyes off her, as she walked like a panther, until she was much further down the beach.  I stood up and looked into the distance.  I watched her wade into the water, swimming further out until she was gone.  I felt a sense of panic.  I picked up my towel and left the beach.  How, on this island, could I find her, before I had to leave?  And what was that the old lady was chanting?   I had this irrational sense that it was connected, somehow, to the woman I had just seen.  There was no reason to believe this, but I could not blot the thought out of my mind.  Back at the condo, I poured myself a vodka and drank it down. Then, I lay down on the bed and fell asleep.

I slept long and deep, and so intense were my dreams that what I was dreaming seemed real.  The old lady was chanting, but she became young and beautiful.  She approached me and kissed me.  Then she pointed with her index finger toward a thick fog.  I heard moaning and crying and the sounds of chains clanking.   A line of naked black men, chained together, appeared.  One of them, a powerfully built man was leading them.  They were chanting  “Orimiri Omambala bu anyi Orimiri Omambala ka anyi ga ejina.”  They continued to chant as they walked solemnly into what appeared to be a creek, and one by one, disappeared beneath the water.  Then, the woman on the beach was smiling, beckoning at me to come to her.  As I moved towards her, reaching out, she began to fade away until she vanished.

I woke up with a start.  It was dusk.  I had missed lunch.  I got into my BMW and drove, as if by impulse, toward Brunswick.  I wanted to get off the island to clear my head and maybe find a bar where I would not be surrounded by jocular golfers in red or green trousers.   I drove around aimlessly until I found a dingy, smoke-filled, raucous bar on a dilapidated street behind Newcastle, near the waterfront.  Two bleached blonde, hardened southern women in peasant blouses that revealed considerable cleavage and tight cut off jean shorts were shooting pool, smoking and drinking Buds from the bottle.  They were shooting with a group of large men, who hadn’t shaved in days.   The men had gigantic tattooed biceps and wore muscle shirts and cowboy boots and hats.  An Alan Jackson song was barely audible in the din.   Through a small window in the back wall, I could see a black woman preparing soul food; ribs, fried chicken, barbequed pulled pork, and the usual sides- collards, baked beans, slaw and fries.  The prices were astonishingly cheap.  I ordered a double vodka on the rocks, took a gulp and got on the food line, ordering the combo platter, which seemed the simplest thing to do.  I took the food back to my place at the bar and began to wolf it down, interrupting swallows of food with gulps of vodka.  I soon became almost oblivious to everyone and everything around me.

I ordered another drink and knocked it back.  I was in a fighting mood.  I would quit the law firm and live in the house, writing full time.  I had enough money to last me the year.   But then what?  And what about Celeste, my second wife, back in Bridgehampton?  I saw her mostly on weekends, holing up in a tiny flat in Greenwich Village during the week. She was getting restless, I was convinced. This was no way to make a marriage work, let alone a second one.  After my third drink, I had come to no conclusions.  And what would the old lady do?  I had no idea. It was all becoming a blur.  I paid the bartender, staggered outside and found my car.  I spun the car around and drove down a street lined with houses.  On the corner of a lamp lit street was an apartment building with balconies lush with plants.  I looked up momentarily so see the back of woman on one of the balconies.  She had the same black hair as the woman on the beach.  I put on the brakes.  Where was I?  I parked, took out a pad and pen from the glove compartment and wrote down the address.  68 Oglethorpe.  Oglethorpe and Willow.  My heart was pounding.

That I made it back to my condo on St. Simons was nothing short of a miracle.  I pulled into my parking spot, rummaged around for my keys and opened the door.  I saw an unclear image at the other end of the living room.   It was a person, tall and black, a man.  I quickly turned on the lights and the image was gone.  I was having hallucinations.  My hands were trembling.  Hands shaking I, poured myself a nightcap and collapsed on the sofa, locking my demons inside the deepest recesses of my mind.  I closed my eyes and dozed off.

I woke up in my rumpled clothes, smelling of fried chicken.  My cell phone was ringing.  I picked it up and could barely hear Celeste’s voice.

“Roger, is that you?” she asked in her chirpy English accent.  “I’ve left several messages.  Don’t you check your messages?”

“No, I didn’t. I’m afraid I forgot. I have been all tied up with the possibility of buying a house down here.”

“A what?”

Her voice was now coming in more clearly.

“A house.”

Celeste had an antiques store in Sag Harbor that was going gangbusters.  With her blonde British good looks, she charmed all the nouveau riche second homeowners who wanted to give their McMansions a bit of class.

“Why on earth for?  We’ve got a perfectly good house.  And a place in the city, even if it is something of a hole in the wall.”

“As an investment,” I lied.  “I could fix it up and turn it over.  The real estate market is going through the roof here.”

“Well, I could fancy that.  How much do they want for it?

“Sixty eight thousand.  Five thousand down.”

“What is it?  Some kind of hovel?  It sounds like a shack.”

“Well, it is modest.  It’s in a black neighborhood that is in transition.”

“You mean they’re buying out the blacks so rich whites can come in and tear down their houses so they can put up their monstrosities.”

“Something like that.  The property itself is worth it.”

“Don’t do a thing until I come down there and have a look.  I bet you’ve been drinking.”

“Nothing unusual.   I haven’t lost my mind. When will you be coming?  I’ve only got the condo for a few more days.’

“Tomorrow.  I’ll get a flight to Savannah and you can pick me up.”

“Let me know when you’ll be getting in and I’ll be there.”

“Fine.  Check your messages.”

I phoned Squires to ask him if I could extend my stay.  The place would be vacant after I left, he said, so I took it for two more weeks. phoned the office and left word  that I planned to be away for two more weeks.  I was feeling brazen.  If the senior partner Ted Baker didn’t like it, he could fuck himself. I wanted out, anyway.  Then, I showered, and drove back to Brunswick.  The roads were crowded with large, comfortable cars, mint-condition Buick Park Avenues and Mercury Marquis. They had Midwest license plates and were driven by second homeowners with the expectation of being treated like royalty. Soft and comfortable was how they liked it.  I could see them at the wheel, pale and impenetrably bland Middle Americans coming for golf and sun, the women invariably bovine, the men, bald.

I tried to pass one of them driving at a painfully slow speed.  He instantly turned red in the face and began honking at me furiously, his face full of rage.  That was Middle America.  Outwardly calm, inwardly furious.  It was a terrible mistake to provoke them because they were capable of exploding like a volcano. Tea Party people, I thought. The islanders did not know what to make of them.  They walked back and forth on the hard beach, fully dressed, wearing hats.  They went out to ordinary restaurants, stuffed themselves and drank beer, not wine.  They played lots of golf.  They were an amorphous mass of humanity, interchangeable and blank, the opposite of southerners, who, however flawed, are individuals with distinct personalities.  Southerners appreciate the intricacies and complications of people, no two of whom are alike. It’s why there are so many great southern writers.

I found the apartment building where I had seen the back of the woman.  No one was on the balcony and there were no names next to the buzzers near the front door.  I sat in the car and waited.  An hour went by but nothing happened.  Then, all of a sudden, a Saab convertible pulled up and parked directly behind me.  A woman got out, went to the front door and opened it with her key.  It was she, no question.  Before long, she appeared on the balcony, watering the plants, and then disappeared into the apartment.

I needed a plan, but I didn’t have much time.  Celeste was coming.   I went to the front door and madly rang all the buzzers, until she reappeared on the balcony and looked down.

“Who are you and what do you want?” she asked.  She did not have a Spanish accent as I had anticipated.  Neither was she southern.  But there was something foreign about the way she spoke.

“I’m Roger Westerfield and I saw you at the beach.”

“So what?  Lots of people see me at the beach and they don’t come stalking after me.”

I felt like crawling into a hole.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.  It’s just that….”

“You were smitten by me,” she smiled.

“Exactly.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a writer.  And a lawyer.”

I told her I was from New York and she smiled again.

“O.K.  Come up.  It’s 3 A.”

She buzzed me in and I climbed the winding staircase up three flights.  She greeted me at the door and let me in.  A Big Bill Broonzy Delta blues C.D. was playing in the background.  She introduced herself.  Her name was Claudia Cabral.

“So now you’re here.  Tell me what you’re doing in Brunswick.”

“St. Simons, actually, “ I corrected her.  “I came to work on a novel and now may be buying a house.”

She was looking at me approvingly.  I looked ten years younger than my age and had the advantage of never having putting on weight.  I had almost no gray hair and a passable physique.  Women considered me to be “cute,” a term I could never comprehend when applied to adult  males.  Half of all Americans have either high blood pressure, high cholesterol  or diabetes.  In a country of physical wrecks, I was not all that undesirable.

“That’s what happens to everyone.  They come for a few weeks and want to stay.  They all think they’ll be happy here, find peace.  It’s an illusion, I can assure you.”

“And you?”

“I’m an artist.  I’m from Brazil, but I’ve lived in the states for ages.”

The wall was lined with her paintings.  They were all of black people, one of a line of slaves walking into a body of water.  “What’s that?” I asked. It was just like my dream.

“It’s Ibo Landing. Look close.”

There was writing on the painting.  It said  “Orimiri Omombala bu anyi bia.  Orimiri Omambala ka anyi ga ejina.”

“What does it mean?”

“You will find out.  You’re looking at me as though you were having amorous thoughts.”

“How did you guess?”

“Very well, then.”

She led me by the hand into her bedroom, undressed quickly and lay down on her large bed.  She stared at me and relaxed her shoulders.  I took off my clothes and moved in. None of this was happening, I told myself.  But it was.

I did not stay the night.   She smiled sweetly when I told her I was going back to St. Simons.  She whispered “goodnight” and went back to sleep.  The next morning, I shot off, by e-mail, the hundred or so pages I had written of “Appointment in Riyadh” to my agent, Samson Rothbard, and raced off to Savannah to pick up Celeste.  Claudia was still very much on my mind.  So was the house.  I found the gate for the Southwest Airlines flight from New York and waited as the passengers disembarked.  Celeste stood out from the others, tall, blonde, willowy and chic.  She moved gracefully, her well-shaped breasts almost visible from underneath her diaphanous blouse.  I wanted very much to take her back to the condo and make love to her.

“Roger, Roger, “ she waved.

We kissed and walked through the heat to the car.  It was about an hour drive back to St. Simons, and during the drive she wanted to know everything I had been doing.

“I got off a hundred pages to Samson Rothbard.  Otherwise, dealing with the house thing.”

“Can I see it before we go to the condo?”

“No reason why not.”

We drove over the bridge to St. Simons and I headed to North Harrington Street.  There it was, standing on its little mound, like a child’s drawing.

“That’s it?”

“Don’t you think it’s sweet?”

“Sweet?  It’s a slum.”

“In any event, a cheap slum.  We can make at least fifty grand by fixing it up and turning it over.”

She was silent.  Then, she patted me gently on the shoulder.

“Darling, it’s your little project.  You might as well go ahead.”

I detected a note of condescension, but let it go.  I could go ahead with it, which was the point.

“I want to go the beach,” she said.

Back at the condo, she put on a very small bikini.  She looked amazing.  We found a clear spot on the sand, spread out the blanket and doused ourselves with sunscreen.  While I was rubbing it on her back, I saw Claudia, running along the beach, close to the water.  She saw me and waved, running on.

“Who was that?”  Celeste asked

“She’s a real estate broker who tried to sell me another property,” I lied. “Her name is Claudia something.”

“Who’s the broker on the house?”

“Bill Squires.  The same guy who rented us the condo.  Not as good looking as Claudia, but a better agent.  He manages over two hundred rental properties.”

Celeste seemed to buy my explanation.  I then told her about the old lady and what had happened.

“ She sounds completely mad.  This sun is utterly brutal.  We don’t have an umbrella.  Let’s not stay too long,” she said.

It was about two o’clock.  We packed up, grabbed some lunch and went back to the condo.  She took off the top of her bikini, and I embraced her from behind, holding her breasts in my hand.

“Off with the bottom,” she laughed.

I took off my swimming trunks and led her to the bed.  She gave every sign of enjoying it.  We both reached climax and lay still on the bed, staring at the ceiling.  The air conditioner hummed.

“I think I actually like it here,” she said.

“I know a good place for dinner.”

“Smashing.  I would like that.”

We lounged around on the patio with drinks.  My cell went off.  It was Claudia.

“You didn’t get my number.”

She gave it to me and I entered it.

“Who was that?”

“Squires.  He wanted me to have the old lady’s number.”

I glanced at Celeste, taking in her confident Englishness, all the grit of a people that never accepted defeat.  There was no beating them, I thought, as opposed to me, who seemed to let things slide in solitary despair.  Not this time, though, I thought.  This time I will prevail, I told myself.

“As I said, she’s obviously daft.  But it’s your deal. You can handle it.  I’ll just stay a few days and then you can go back to writing.  I’ve got some terrific pieces coming in from Italy.  I’ll need to be getting back.”

We left it at that.  I would go ahead with the house with Celeste’s blessing.  We went to the Crab Shack for dinner and had the soft shells, which were sublime.  Since I detest white wine, we washed it down with a chilled red.  Dinner went very well.  Celeste was relaxed, appearing to be amused by the entire business.   The night was soft and balmy, but I was nervous.  So many things could go wrong.  I could end up with nothing.  Still, I considered the alternative, living out my life at the law firm and grinning at stiffs at Hamptons cocktail parties.   There was no choice but to press on and see what happened.

For the next three days, I went back and forth between Celeste and Claudia, dropping Celeste off at the beach.  I told her I had to see the lawyer, the real estate broker, the mortgage broker and the old lady’s niece.  Claudia was aware of what I was doing and didn’t mind, while Celeste enjoyed her vacation.  Meanwhile, the old lady remained silent, so everything was still on hold.   Celeste booked herself on a flight from Savannah, and I took her to the airport.  She kissed me goodbye and got on the plane.

Back on St. Simons.  Grafton had news for me.  The old lady might not be able to prove she owned the house.  He presented me with his bill for the hours he had spent up to that point, which was considerable.  I wrote him a check with some reluctance, knowing he would probably have to spend many more hours resolving the title problem, and rang up Claudia.  No one was in, so I left a message on her voice mail.

I tried to write but my head was spinning.  I needed a long walk but didn’t feel like going to the beach so I set out from the condo, walking along without knowing where I was going, though I knew I was near the water.  I didn’t look at my watch and lost track of the time.  Before I knew it, it was dusk.  I had intended to turn back, but decided instead to walk down one of the side roads and have a look at the water with the sun setting.  The main thoroughfare had streetlights, so I would have no trouble finding my way back to the village.  I looked down the road and saw an image.  It was the same image I had imagined seeing at the condo-a tall, black man.  Only this time, he was beckoning me to follow him.

He was wearing only a loincloth and had a magnificent body.  I could see behind him that the sun had disappeared and that the moon was vanishing behind a cloud.  The mist increasingly impeded my visibility, and I could barely make out the image.  But there was a sound coming from that direction, so I followed it.  The oak trees hovered, dangling Spanish moss enclosing the road, making it seem like a tunnel in the dark.   I could barely see but kept going as if something were compelling me.  My hands were clammy and I was sweating.   The image kept on, walking backwards, continuing to beckon me, as the noise grew louder.  I could now make out what I heard.  “Orimiri Omambala bu anyi bia.  Orimiri Ombala ka anyi ga ejina.  Orimiri Omambala bu anyi bia.  Orimiri Ombala ka anyi ga ejina.”

As I approached the image and the sound, I came upon a body of water, maybe a creek.  Then, I saw them, a line of black men and a few boys, being led by the image, which was now clearer.  He was their leader.  He stood by as they walked into the water, chanting. One by one, they disappeared beneath it.  The leader looked at me sternly.  Then, he followed the others, lifting his arm as a final gesture.  He was waving at me to follow them. The chanting stopped and it was silent.  I stood for a moment, frozen in place, resisting the pull of the leader. It grew incongruously cold and I shivered in  fear.

Trembling, I turned around and ran back in the dark to the main road.  It was hot again.  Almost out of breath, I stopped running and walked as quickly as I could.  My chest tightened and I could hardly breath.  I fell to the ground, motionless and then crawled, finally staggering to my feet It felt as if I had been walking for hours, but, drenched with sweat, I soon saw the condo. I collapsed in front of the television, staring blankly at the screen.  In the fridge, there were a few slices of ham and cheese and sliced bread.  The sandwich, smothered with mustard and the cold Bud did little to revive me.  I might well have drowned, as the leader had asked me to do.  Had this been another hallucination?  My doctor had warned me that I drank too much, caused by the stress of work. Was I now suicidal?  Feeling completely alone, I rang up Claudia although it was quite late. She was up.  She told me she was painting, but that I could come over.  I didn’t hesitate.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, looking at me strangely.

I shook my head silently as she led me to bed.

When we got up, I decided not to tell Claudia what had happened that night.  Maybe another time, I thought.  She asked me what I had been up to and I told her I had been writing.

“That’s good,” she said, “Writing, painting, composing, at least they do no harm.  But it’s hard to concentrate with all the violence going on around you. You have to shut it out.  There’s no way you can stop it.  When humans grow up and read, look and listen, then maybe they’ll stop.  Until then, it’s useless to waste your consciousness on them.  I don’t feel superior.  I’m not.  But I have talent, and I can’t afford to waste it in the pursuit of the futile.”

She made me coffee and I left.  She was right.  I sat down with a white, lined legal pad and got back into “Appointment in Riyadh.”  It wasn’t high art but it was my form of expression at the moment.  I admitted to myself that I was writing it for the market and if I succeeded, I would be free.  Freedom was the objective, and you can only make yourself free.  No one else can do it for you.  There is always evil in the world.  The question is when to confront it and when to simply avoid it.  I always wondered how Strauss could keep on composing in the middle of the Third Reich, or how Colette could write “Gigi” in the middle of the Nazi occupation of Paris.  Or how Chris Evert could go on winning tournaments during the Vietnam War and never saying a word, or Tiger Woods doing the same thing during the Iraq War.  Bobby Jones never said boo about civil rights.  Then, it’s all over and no one remembers all the activists who got killed, like Goodman, Cheney and Schwerner, but they honor Everett.  Rosa Parks had been all but forgotten until a black congressman put her on his staff.  No, Picasso, who stayed in Paris during the Spanish Civil War, was right.  Keep on painting, writing, composing, with the hope that the world will one day catch up with Mozart.  I admired my son from my first marriage, Clifford, who was a filmmaker in California.  He lived in Venice and devoted himself entirely to his work.  But maybe I was making excuses for myself.  What is a novel anyway, compared to the sacrifice of Martin Luther King?

My cell went off.  It was Grafton.  They had rushed the old lady to the hospital.  She had suffered a stroke.  “The niece says she is paralyzed on the left side but conscious.  We’ve got to get over there and have her sign the affidavit and the sale agreement,” Grafton said nervously.

He had prepared a lengthy affidavit tracing possession of the property back generations on her husband’s side to the time when General Sherman had ordered the plantations divided up amongst the former slaves.  Joshua Ramsey had passed possession to his wife, who had lived there for two decades since his death without anyone else claiming they owned the property.   There was some kind of legal doctrine that said if this sort of thing happened, no one else could claim that property unless they could produce an actual deed, and even that could be overcome if they had never charged any rent.  I didn’t know anything about trusts and estates, and wasn’t about to question him.  It was a matter of Georgia law, about which I also knew absolutely nothing.  How much of the affidavit was true and how much Grafton had made up, I had no idea.  But he knew he had to act fast, since now others were making noises that the property belonged to them.  That evidently included the other Ramseys and Mae Ramsey’s two brothers.  Without the affidavit, Mae Ramsey was, if she survived the stroke, heading for litigation.

Once Grafton had the affidavit, he would take it to the County Clerk’s office and file a deed.  Since it would be the only deed on file, it would be virtually impossible to make a claim against hers that could stand, particularly since the clerk was a friend of Grafton’s.  With the sales agreement signed, I would write a check and Grafton would swiftly move to do the closing.  Mae Ramsey did not have a lawyer.  Grafton was doing everything by himself, which was probably a conflict of interest, but I gather it was the kind of thing that went on all the time when a white person was buying a black person’s property on the island.

Grafton picked me up and we took off to Brunswick, to the hospital where they had taken Mae Ramsey.

“You look like hell, “ he said,  but as we drove,  it was Grafton who began to show signs of suffering.

“I don’t know how much longer I can hold it, “ he explained. “Enlarged prostate.”

He was taking deep breaths and holding the steering wheel tightly.  As we pulled into the parking lot, he handed me the papers and said I should go to her room and have her sign them.  He said I should sign as a witness and we could grab the nurse or somebody else as the second witness.  He would notarize the affidavit himself.  As we entered the hospital, he asked for the location of the men’s room and bolted.  I went to the front desk where a nurse told me that Mrs. Ramsey room was on the second floor.  I took the elevator and walked past a comatose patient being wheeled down the hall to God knows where.  I hate hospitals.  They are redolent with death, while the staff goes around smiling.  I guess that’s how they endure the morbidity. I stopped again at a desk at which a fat nurse was eating fried chicken and drinking a large Coke.  She said I could go in.

I entered Mrs. Ramsey’s room.  It was a double, but she was the only patient in it.  She seemed to be sleeping.   She was alone.  The attending nurse had obviously gone to do one of the mysterious chores nurses do in hospitals.  The niece was not there either.

“Mrs. Ramsey,” I said, leaning over as close to her as possible. There was no reply. “Mrs. Ramsey,” I said again, somewhat louder.  Still, there was no reply.  She was on her back, her eyes open.  Then, I noticed in horror that her respirator and i.v. feeding tube had been detached.  A press on the emergency buzzer produced no response.  I tried again.  A sign on the wall gave instructions for what to do in case any tube or the respirator became detached.  According to union regulations, only the registered nurse in charge of re-attachments could put them back.  That person was Nurse Cavandish.  I rang her extension to hear a voice message that she was on floor five and was working her way down.  I found myself cursing.  I ran outside and shouted for help.  Nothing.  In a rage against union rules and bureaucracy, I tried, unsuccessfully, to reattach them myself.   She wasn’t breathing.  I ran out into the hall as Grafton rushed towards me.

“What’s happening?”

“I think she’s dead.”

Finally a nurse appeared.  The mystery of hospitals is how nurses, who are standing right there, can disappear in a flash.  You can buzz and buzz, but they don’t respond.  Then, miraculously, they reappear as if nothing were wrong.

“Mrs. Ramsey, “ I said.  “I think she’s dead.  Her respirator and feeding tube are detached.”

“Fuck!” Grafton shouted.  “All that work.  What do we do now?”

“How should I know?”

The nurse left in a hurry. She soon reappeared with a couple of doctors and another nurse, all of them running down the hall into the room.  The doctor in the blue outfit emerged from the room with a forlorn look on his face.

“She’s dead,” he murmured.  He was barely audible. “Who detached her respirator and the feeding tube?”

There was silence.  The doctor was both agitated and alarmed.  “Someone better call the police.  The last time I examined her, I was convinced she was going to survive and possibly recover.  She could speak with difficulty, but she was coherent.  Never mind, I’ll do it.”

He pulled out his cell and dialed 911.  “Someone just died at the hospital.  Her respirator and feeding tube were detached.  Please send someone over.”  I heard a beep.  I had received a text message from Claudia, inviting me to come over for dinner.  I text messaged her back that I might not be able to make it.  Mae Ramsey had died under strange circumstances.  I thought to myself that if I had not gotten myself all involved with the house, I would be going to Claudia’s for what would undoubtedly be an amazing night.  Because there was no turning back now, that was not to be.

I looked around to see a Glynn County police officer walking calmly down the hall.  Tall and well built, he had a slight protruding paunch.  His ruddy complexion hinted at a certain congeniality, but that was betrayed by his cold eyes and his thin lips.  His gun hung on his hip, a reminder of the ultimate power of the state.

“I’m Officer Jack Nelson, Glynn County Police,” he announced, putting the emphasis on the po, as in POlice.  “Someone’s dead?  Not unusual for a hospital, is it?”  The doctor in blue, Sherman Roth, originally from Queens, a graduate of Tulane Medical School who had remained in the South, told Nelson the circumstances surrounding Mae Ramsey’s death.

“How old was she?”

Roth checked her chart.

“Ninety three.”

Nelson shrugged.  “ That’s not unusual for someone to die at ninety three.  Did someone pull the plug after she died?  That would be reasonable, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t think so,” Roth interjected.  “ I saw her an hour and a half ago and she was stable.  It’s why we took her out of intensive care.”

“Did anyone see her after that?”

“I did,” said the nurse.

“And who are you?”

“Ashley Mock, Registered Nurse.  I looked in on her not very long ago, before making my rounds.”

Nelson looked at his watch.

“It’s one o’clock now.  So that would have been about twelve o’clock?”

“Approximately.”

“And was everything in order?”

“I think so.”

“But the respirator and the feeding tube could have been detached and you might have not noticed it?”

“Look, I’m not one of those wacko nurses that go around putting patients in grave danger so they can save them and be heroes.  I just assumed everything was in order.  Frankly, I didn’t look that closely.  I just looked at Mrs. Ramsey and straightened her sheets.  Then I left.”

“You were sure she was alive?”

“She was sleeping.”

“But she could have been dead.”

The nurse didn’t answer.  Sherman Roth told Nelson that when he was in Mae Ramsey’s room, the respirator and feeding tubes were both attached and functioning properly.

“So unless someone else was in the room after you, doctor, and you Nurse…”

“Mock. That’s M O C K.”

The police officer wrote down her name and asked Sherman Roth for his, which he also jotted down on his pad.  Then, he took everybody else’s name and where they could be reached.

“Who was in the room after both of you?

“I don’t know,” said Roth.

“Who are you?” he asked Grafton and me.

We explained who we were and why we were there.

“Did you both go into her room at the same time?”

“No, “ I explained, “I went in by myself to ask her to sign the papers.  Mr. Grafton….”

“I was in the men’s room.  I have a prostate problem.”

Nelson nodded. “So do I.  Gotta get up five times a night.  Gets the missus real bothered.”

“Mr….”  He looked at his pad. “Mr. Westerfield, how long were you alone with Mrs. Ramsey.”

“Gosh, not long.  I went over to her bed to see if she was awake. It was then that I noticed that the respirator and feeding tube were both detached.   Mrs. Ramsey didn’t respond when I tried to wake her so I ran out for help.  I thought she was dead.”

“Who would want to kill a ninety three year old lady?  If she was killed.  I’m going to go and file my report. Leave the body alone.  There has to be an autopsy.”

Nelson took out his cell.  He requested an autopsy.  Then he turned to Dolores.

“Who are you?”

“I’m her niece, Dolores Pinkney.  I was in the supermarket, shopping.  I got the news on my cell.  God has finally called her and she is safe with Jesus.”

Hers was the calmness that comes with absolute religious faith that is either a gift or a form of insanity.

“And you got here after everything happened?”

“That’s right, officer.  I have to plan the funeral and take care of her will.”

“Another officer will be relieving me at the scene in a couple of minutes.  Nobody can leave until he says so.”  It seemed less than that when a black police officer arrived to replace Nelson.

“I’m Officer Wayne Thigpen.  No one can leave until I say so.”

“I have other patients, “ Roth explained.

“So do I,” Nurse Mock added.

“O.K. but don’t leave the building.  If I want either of you, I’ll have you paged.”

Thigpen was about five ten, and maybe two hundred and fifty pounds. He looked like a center on the Chicago Bears.  He had gigantic thighs and bulging biceps.  Only a total fool would have messed with him.  Nelson whispered something to him and left.   Roth and Mock asked for permission to treat other patients, and Thigpen cautiously granted it.

“Like I said, no one leaves the building.”

Roth shrugged.   “I never leave.”

With that, he took off with Nurse Mock, leaving Dolores, Grafton and me alone with Thigpen.

“You live ninety-three years in peace and then someone knocks you off.  It just ain’t right.  I have to admit, there was much less violence around here when everything was segregated.  But then, I wouldn’t have this job,” he chuckled.  “Can someone get some chairs so we can sit down?”

He stopped a Mexican orderly and ordered him to get chairs.

“Chairs?  You mean to sit?”

“Exactly.”

“ Si, I get.”

He was back in a flash with three folding chairs and set them up along with wall.

“Thanks, buddy,” Thigpen grinned.

When the orderly was out of sight, Thigpen launched a tirade against Mexicans and immigration.  The coroner’s people arrived to interrupt him and took the body to the morgue, not a fitting end for Mae Ramsey, who was known as Mother Ramsey at her church, where she was venerated.  The funeral had to wait for the autopsy, Thigpen told Dolores. He made a call, and then put his phone back in his pocket.

“I guess you all can go.

I rang up Claudia.  Thank God, she was in.  I told her I could make it after all.  I felt relieved.  The sale of the house would probably have to be postponed, but once Dolores inherited it, she would sell it to me.  Grafton would take care of everything.  I went down to the beach to eat a sandwich. Then, I got some writing in.  By the time I had showered and dressed, it was time to head over to Claudia’s.

We had Old Cubans on the balcony, where she had set the table for dinner.  There is nothing like an Old Cuban to make you feel mellow fast.  Some bassa nova was playing in the background.  Claudia looked ravishing, in her off the shoulder blouse and long side-slit skirt.

“So what happened to the old lady?  How did she die?”

“No one quite knows.  You know she had a stroke, but someone told Grafton, probably her niece, that she was conscious.  Ned Grafton and I went over there for her to sign the papers so I could buy the house.  I found her lying in the bed, comatose.  Someone must have detached the respirator and the feeding tube.  The police are investigating.  Can you imagine?  A little house and all this trouble. I can’t believe it.  When it’s all straightened out, though, I’m confident I will have it.  I like it here.  I can write here.”

“Is that all?”

“Obviously not.  Otherwise, why would I be here?”

“For a quick fling?”

“Not true.  You know it.”

She threw her head back and laughed.  We had another round of Old Cubans and I became more confident of everything.

“What about Celeste, your wife?  I’m your mistress, which is O.K. but do you want to keep this up this way?  She’ll find out eventually and then what?”

I took a swallow of the Old Cuban.  It was rich, dark and potent.

“I don’t actually know, really.  Things will work themselves out.  They always do.”

“Do they?  I can see a messy divorce.  She’ll be coming down after you buy the house.  This is a small island.  Everyone talks.  Gossip is what makes this place go around.  I’m on Brunswick, yes, but I’m on the island a lot.  I have lots of friends.  No way can you keep this a secret.”

“You’re probably right.  I’m being a hypocrite.  I need to change my life, all of it

“Then why did you become a lawyer?”

“It was a big mistake although  I’ve made some money at it.  At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do, go to law school.  Every other person at Princeton was doing it. Be in the real world, maybe go into politics.  But over the years, I realized I was lying to myself.  And if I don’t do this now, I’ll be far too old to do it later.  I know there are people who have published novels in their seventies, but I could be dead by then. No, it’s now or never.”

“Am I your muse?”

“I hadn’t thought about it that way, but now that I think about it, maybe you are.  No, you are my muse.  Let’s drink to that.”

After a third round of Old Cubans, neither of us was feeling any pain.  Claudia changed the music to Afro-Cuban and emerged with an exquisite shrimp stew.

“It’s from Bahia,” she explained.

“The music?”

“No, the stew, silly.  My mother’s recipe.  I love everything Brazilian. “

“So why did you come here?”

We were both seated at the table, with the stew in a colorful bowl in the middle.  She lit the candles, and sat opposite me.  Her perfume was intoxicating.

Claudia then told me how she always wanted to be an artist, but her father didn’t approve.  He wanted her to study literature and get married to a doctor.  He had her life all planned out for her.  She made a compromise.  She asked him if she could study literature in America, and he agreed.  She was accepted at NYU and took an apartment in the Village.  Without telling her father, she began to study art at night.  Then, she found a cheap studio and started painting in a unique, savage, almost primitive style.  A friend introduced her to a gallery owner who gave her a show.  She got some great reviews and the paintings sold.  When her father was in New York from Sao Paolo on business, he visited her and discovered what she had been doing. There was a huge argument and he stormed off.  Her mother wrote to her, telling her she approved of what she was doing but that her father was old fashioned.  He expected her to obey him.  Then, she got the news that he had suffered a heart attack and died.  Fortunately, he had not cut her out of his will.  She was financially independent and could paint full time.

“So how did you end up here?”

“Is this ‘ending up?’  I like it here.  I live and work here, my gallery is in New York, and I travel.”

“But why here?  Why did you leave New York?”

“That’s a long story, but I’ll make it quick.  It was a guy, a writer, would you believe?  I met him in New York but he was from Atlanta.  I was madly in love, so I followed him there.   He liked to go to St. Simons for vacations, and I fell in love with the place.  Our plan was to build a house here, with a painting studio for me, a writing studio for him.

“So what happened?”

“Why do some people become alcoholics?  There’s no explaining it.   He lost it.  It was all his mother’s fault, he kept saying. I told him that was a lot of crap.  It’s never your mother’s fault.  It’s your own. Even if she was a tyrannical bitch, you can tell her to fuck off, or you can negotiate you freedom.  A person is responsible for her own self-esteem. Anyway, I couldn’t take it any more, so I got a divorce.  He committed suicide.  I was in a terrible funk, so I drove down here and stayed in a hotel on the beach.   I was torn.  I loved the island, but it had been our dream.  So I found Brunswick and rented this place.  I keep telling myself I should get a house.  Or maybe still build one.  I work well here.  New York is not an option for me now.  I don’t like it anymore.  It’s all about money.  It gets harder and harder for artists to live there.  A hedge fund manager will buy a Pollock for a hundred million, just to possess it, but people like him drive the artists out of the city.  They annihilate Tribeca by putting up hideous apartment buildings.   Buying art has become a mania because these guys know they are total philistines and they desperately need to escape from that.  So this is what they do.  But I can’t complain. They buy my stuff.  So it’s a contradiction. I’m part of the system, I play along.”

We were drinking a good Chilean red.  It went quickly and she opened another bottle.  We were both drunk.

“Let’s dance,” she said.

The beat of the Afro-Cuban music was highly erotic.  I got up from the table and I put my hand around her waist and the other on her shoulder.  She started to undulate and looked at me.  Her dark eyes drew me in.

“You could drown in my eyes.”

I felt as though I were drowning.  I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She pressed closer to me and soon we were kissing, her tongue darting in and out of my mouth.  I put my hand on her breast and she led me into the bedroom.  She was even more excited this time than the last.  I thought I was going to explode and I did.  When we woke up, it was already ten o’clock.  I had a terrific hangover.  Claudia cleared away the remnants of the dinner party and brought out coffee.

“So, that wasn’t too bad,” she smiled.

“An understatement.”

We sat on the balcony for maybe half an hour.

“I have to get back to work,” she said.

“Me too.”

We kissed and I went down the stairs to the BMW, waving goodbye.  I felt giddy, better than I had felt in years.  I drove back over the bridge, the marshes of Glynn spread out before me in their entire splendor.  Yes, I thought, this is the place and that house is just right.  I would phone Grafton and get things moving.  As I pulled into my parking space, I spied officers Nelson and Thigpen standing in front of my condo.  I approached them.  It was Nelson who spoke.

“I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Mae Ramsey,”

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” Sarah Palin looks in the mirror and it answers back to her horror, “Michele Bachmann.”

And while Palin wanders around Alaska with fewer and fewer viewers of her reality TV show, Bachmann basks in glory as the leader of the Tea Party Caucus in the House of Representatives., the Queen of The American Spectator and of the forces in the Republican Party that are determined to destroy Palin and make Mitt Romney president with Bachmann as his running mate.

With her beaming, perfect smile, good looks, flowing locks and splended figure, Bachmann is Palin’s worst nightmare, even though Palin campaigned for her in her reelection campaign in Minnesota where Democrats poured fortunes into the race to defeat her. Thanks in part to Palin, Bachmann pulled it out. But Bachmann is for Bachmann and look for her to stab Palin in the back by supporting Mitt Romney and campaigning for him in Iowa, New Hampshire and South Carolina, effectively knocking Palin out of the presidential sweepstakes.

Bachman will be perfect on the ticket with Romney with her over-the-top Christian fundamentalist Creationism. Though she manages to present it as anodyne, it will negate any fear and resentment over Romney’s Mormonism. The two of them will look as if they came from central casting. Mr. Perfect and Mrs. Christian, exactly what the Republicans need to front for their subservience to the plutocracy. And  while Palinwill have the Murdoch media empire behind her – Fox News, The Wall Street Journal, The Weekly Standard and The New York Post – Romney/Bachmann will have the The National Review, The American Spectator and all those in the GOP who believe McCane should have picked Bachmann instead of Palin as his running mate. And they are legion.

But who is this person and what is she all about? If Sara Palin is vacuous, Michele Bachmann is certifiably insane. Should Romeny be elected and somehow die, the thought of Michele Bachmann as president of the United States is positively terrifying. It would be the end of everything. A former tax attorney with the IRS, she attended Oral Roberts Law School which should tell you something right there. Oral Roberts, for those who might not know, was the first televangelist and a lunatic who went around “healing” people by pressing his hand on their foreheads and shouting “Heal!” How, with these credentials, she has managed to run a mental health business with her husband is bewildering.

Everything about her is bogus, including the farm she runs, also with her husband, which makes very little money but has raked in over $200,000 in farm subsidies. This from a person who claims to detest the federal government and says she wants to cut virtually every major program including phasing out both Social Security and Medicare. She also wants to mandate the teaching of Christianity and Creationism in the schools and when this was voted down by her local school board she went into a blind rage, resigned and stormed out. She is anti-abortion to the extent that she would not allow for an abortion for a woman or underage girl who has been raped. She tells her supporters that they must be “armed” and wants to hold an investigation of members of Congress to determine if they are “pro-American” or “anti-American”. Yikes.

In addition to her five children she has had 23 foster children, which must have brought in some substantial cabbage from the state, another boondoggle from the government she is intent on dismantling. The fact that the people in the blue State of Minnesota keep voting for her reveals the secret power that she has over people. Her complete hypocrisy is unmatched in American politics but the fact that she cannot comprehend why she is a hypocrite for taking money from government programs whilst she poses as an enemy of that very state is an indication of how detached she is from reality. Which, in a sense, makes her perfect for her times.

What is also fascination about Michele Bachmann is how she manages to be simultaneously stunning attractive yet also grotesque. A monster of seductive femininity and limitless ambition, she makes Palin look like an idealist. The cat fight that is coming between the two of them will be a spectacle that will show how distorted feminism has become. That Palin claims to be a ‘hockey mom’ and Bachman a ‘farmer’s wife’ are laughable.

Don’t be fooled. We are dealing with a very strange and dangerous force that will lead America into a new dark age of tyrannical, right wing ideology. Of an entirely new dimension, it will present us with the curious phenomenon of white dudes pretending to be aggressive and masculine while actually harboring fantasies of domination by a beautiful and strong woman who is totally out of her mind. Heaven help us.