The Ghost of Atlanta

Chapter One

Andy Michael Pilgrim opened the car door, slammed his body hard against the seat, snapping his head in a rocking motion. He punished the palms of his hands, slapping them together over and over, creating loud popping sounds. His palms turned a bright tomato red.

Andy slid his fingers past each other and clasped the top of each hand until the vise-like pressure caused a searing pain that made him separate his hands. He clenched his fist and punched the vinyl car seat with his right hand. He prayed to God to make the mental anguish go away. Andy’s eyes watered as thoughts floated across scenes from his past.

The scenes kept repeating themselves until Andy finally sat up and wiped his eyes.

He breathed deeply, as the mental anguish eased. He calmed down and felt comfortable enough to drive his vehicle.

He knew he had to make that short drive from Winder to Statham, two small towns that haunted his life. Now, he would have the opportunity to confront ghosts from his youth living in those two northeast Georgia towns.

He turned the ignition on and drove the green Pinto in the direction of Winder’s business district. At a four-way intersection, he turned right onto Highway 29; that would take him to Statham, population less than 150.

Andy drove the nine miles Statham, where Highway 29 intersected with Broad Street, crossing the railroad track where the only stoplight in town was a guidepost that, not only gave physical direction, but a sense of past hurtful experiences as well.

As Andy sped up the hill and over the railroad tracks, he passed the mini-police station with its one interrogation room. It was big enough for one person to come through the front door as another person walked out the back door.

The setting sun’s golden light shimmered and bathed the old four-pillar posted white wooden houses that lined the streets of Statham.

As Andy turned left onto First Street, he passed familiar sights and sounds. A chilled sweat crept down his back as he drove into a black neighborhood where a paved road turned into a road cut from red Georgia clay.

Andy, who people sometimes called Mike, pulled into the driveway, parked the Pinto, and stared straight ahead into a grove of pine trees shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the branches.

Andy’s thoughts dragged him back in time.

He remembered, years ago, when he was living in the early nineteen sixties in Statham. The moment was vivid—he saw himself, in a past life, rushing out to Miss Jackson’s car with his suitcase; his grandmother Martha opening the door and pushing him onto the back seat, shutting the door and then slamming his suitcase into the trunk.

Miss Jackson was in the front seat while his grandmother, reaching through the open car window, gave him a goodbye kiss. His grandmother thanked Miss Jackson, as she pulled the car out of the driveway.

He was going to live in Brooklyn, New York.

The ghostly car drove right through his Pinto as he came face to face with his younger self. In his mind’s eye, he saw the car continue down the driveway and then speed up, heading down the road.

Andy cried.

His father came looking for him, kicking in the front door and drawing a gun on his own mother. His grandmother had gone to court and gotten a restraining order to keep her son off her property. They hadn’t spoken in years.

Andy’s father was a dangerous and violent man, frequently slapping his mother's face, giving a bloody nose, not to mention the emotional abuse he hit her with daily.

Andy lay in bed and heard his parents’ arguing.

Andy heard the slap against his mother’s face, breaking her nose. The blood spurted from her nose all over the bedroom floor. Andy cleaned up her blood.

Andy sobbed.

The vivid mental images from the past flashed in his mind over and over again, as Andy’s imagination kept pushing the replay button. Andy slammed his hands on the steering wheel. The images attacked his psyche.

He screamed.

These violent mental ghosts were from the sixties, but were present now, living in the eighties. His father had generated nothing but mental and physical pain throughout his past and now, in the present, other relatives were producing pain even more intense.

The emotional pain caused enough anxiety to create a throbbing sensation right behind his eyes. He thought of all the things he should have said, but hadn’t. He thought of all the things he should have done, but hadn’t. He wanted to make it all go away.

Andy rubbed his eyes to relieve the pressure. He opened his eyes and saw an empty house. The overgrown grass that surrounded the old house was almost up to his knees. The old house had been vacant for years; nobody cared for the place his grandparents had worked so hard to purchase. They made this house one of the best places to live in Statham.

Andy opened the car door and stepped onto the red clay dirt for the first time in over twenty years. He walked the fifty steps, sizing them like a surveyor, to the glass-covered front door, peered inside, and saw that life had ceased to exist in this house of pain.

Andy sniffed.

Instead of a musty smell coming from inside the broken glass pane near the top of the door, the aroma of a lemon pound cake, just coming out of the oven, was intoxicating.

The sweet odor gave him energy that made him walk around to the back of the seventy-year-old house. He peered through the dusty windowpane into the kitchen and saw himself, at the old-style wood-burning stove, baking a pound cake and his grandmother watching his every move.

He saw himself pouring the batter.

Andy looked up at his grandmother, Is this right?

Yes, baby.

Andy, who had those distinctive grey eyes, continued to pour the batter into the mixing bowl, as his grandmother added more and more wood to the stove.

Andy carried the batter in a pound cake pan to the wood-burning stove and put it in the oven.

Do you want me to wait?

No baby, go outside...we have an hour and a half.

Yes’m.

While his grandmother helped him put the final touches on the preparation for the cake, Andy looked at her and then finally got up the nerve to ask questions. Am I leaving Georgia?

Yes.

When am I leaving?

She laughed, Soon, Mr. Andy.

Will my dad try to stop me?

Yes… but I want you to listen to me…. Miss Jackson, your mother’s best friend, is coming to take you to the train station in Athens and then you will go to Brooklyn. She told me on the phone the other day that you will live in a beautiful brownstone.

What’s a brownstone?

It’s one of those fancy buildings up north. It must be nice for your mother to pick such a place. Now listen to your grandma, when Miss Jackson comes, get in the car quickly.

Yes ma’am.

If your father comes, I will handle him…. And, Andy?

Yes ma’am?

Don’t you look back. Your grandmother Martha loves you and I know all your grandparents are pulling for you, Mr. Andy. Be the best and never disappoint us.

I won’t, grandma.

Andy hugged his grandma, acting like a two-year-old, instead of a thirteen-year-old teenager, and cried on her shoulder.

She pushed him away, Now go outside and play.

Andy ran out the back door and into the backyard and played until it was time to take the lemon pound cake out of the oven.

A loud noise from behind his back, like someone stepping onto a dried stick, startled him. Andy jerked his head away from the window. He turned, peered around the corner of the old house. The Pinto was still sitting in the driveway and he realized he was back in the eighties.

He walked around the old house, looking at familiar childhood places, touched physical things that would be gone as the hands of time carved a new existence, knowing that some callous cousins would aid in the demise of the old home place.

Andy walked down the cleared path to the creek where he once caught those little minnows. He laughed out loud when he thought about the time Grandpa Jared caught him breaking watermelons and only eating the hearts of them. He had dusted his butt, which is an old southern term for an old-fashioned butt whipping.

Andy pulled off his socks and shoes and put his feet into the cold water. He moved his toes back and forth, splashing the water and laughing for the first time since he pulled into the driveway.

Putting his feet into a cold creek was something he couldn’t do in Brooklyn, unless he went to Coney Island and put his feet into the Atlantic Ocean. He kept treading water and laughing out loud.

He leaned back, stopped treading water, and peered into the swaying branches of the tall pine trees and saw light peeping through the branches. He breathed deeply, with gratitude, and remembered all the good things with that life had presented to him: a chance to go to a good college, The City College of New York, a productive writing career with The Bulletin in Philadelphia. Now, he had a chance to come home to Georgia and work at The Atlanta Defender.

He leaned farther back on his elbows, closing his eyes, and let positive mental thoughts wash over his body with good feelings. Andy remembered days with Fred, his childhood best friend, fishing for minnows in this creek.

He opened his eyes, pulled his feet from the water, wiped his pant legs, and put on his socks. He slipped on his shoes, jumped to his feet, and turned and ran back up the winding path, almost tripping over a branch. He sprinted past the old wooden barn with the door falling away from the hinges and saw rusted shovels, rakes, and other farm equipment leaning on the barn wall.

Andy’s mind raced back in time. He made his way to the clearing and stopped suddenly, and leaped behind a woodpile. He was nervous. He squeezed his eyes shut and heard screaming voices.

My wife shouldn’t have left. Why did she leave?

You know why? You beat and abused her… now what?

At least Andy will be here with me.

He shouldn’t. You’re bad! You’re my son and I love you, but you are not right for him. He’s sensitive and has a great future. He needs a man who cares… not one who yells at the top of his lungs, screams, curses and acts like a damn fool!

Momma!

You will not hurt him or destroy his spirit. I saw his face after you slapped him. I saw Golda’s face after you hit her and left those bruises. That’s not right. You ought to be ashamed. That’s not the way you were raised in my house. Your daddy and I didn’t raise you that way and you know it.

I don’t want to hear anymore… I’m leaving.

That’s the way… run away from all your problems.

Andy’s father got in his car and sped away. He left a dust trail as the car sped up First Avenue, toward the center of Statham, eventually he turned left onto Highway 29 toward Athens.

Andy jumped off the back porch and sprinted toward his grandmother and held her tight.

He cried.

Grandma Martha hugged him and then pushed him away gently.

She cupped his face, Andy, you will grow up to be an important person. Nobody will ever pull you or keep you down… not even your daddy.

Andy and his grandmother walked back toward the kitchen. He held her tight.

Let’s see that cake.

When they walked up the steps onto the back porch, opened the screen door, the aroma of the lemon pound cake was mouthwatering. When his grandmother opened the oven door, the scent of the cake was inviting him to taste something wonderful.

Andy watched as his grandmother doubled over the edge of her apron and picked up the hot cake and set it down on the kitchen table.

It’s done baking.

Andy was startled back to reality, leaving all the images of the past, when he heard someone calling his name.

Andy jumped from the behind the woodpile, Yo…. who you?

Easy man… don’t do anything.

Andy stared.

The stranger looked hard, Andy!

Yes… and you are?

The stranger smiled and walked toward Andy.

Andy stepped back.

It’s me… your cousin, Joe Boy.

Andy smiled.

Joe Boy raced toward Andy and hugged him warmly.

Andy, why in the world are you here at the old home place?

I’m chasing ghosts.

"Then you’ll find them here. I was walking down the street, when I saw this green Pinto with the Pennsylvania license plates. I thought to myself, who from up north would be here in Statham, Georgia? I said to myself, no, him and him it couldn’t be, not that cousin who left under mysterious circumstances so many years ago.

I looked… and I saw you peeping into the house. Then you disappeared for a while. I came over and looked around and I didn’t see you. Then I saw you come up the path and jump behind that old woodpile. I was worried. I saw the expression on your face change, that’s when I called your name.

Andy stared.

You okay?

Yes, I was remembering some intense past events from my life… it was a reflex.

Oh, things have changed around here.

Andy looked around at the old home place and shook his head, I can see.

I don’t mean just the run-down physical mess you see, but this old place will be sold soon… and those ghosts you were looking at will not have a home.

Ghosts?

"Yes, Andy, ghosts. They’re active because I can sense them too. I guess you caught a glimpse of them. You’re not the only person who can sense that they are here and walk around the old home place. Can you see how selling this place would be wrong? They won’t have a home when this place is torn down.

"People are greedy, even in the south. Your cousins are selling this place. I fought to keep them from selling this land that had been in the family since our great-great-great grandparents bought this land after the Civil War. They were some of the first black folks to own land.

Now… Justin and Marquis got a lawyer. The greedy sons of bitches… they didn’t tell anybody in the family.

Andy’s mouth opened wide. He could still sense, and even hear his grandma telling him to fight for the place like she’d fought for his survival.

This is our old homeplace. This is the ground that our roots are from… didn’t you see the TV mini series ‘Roots’? This land is special.

Special to our cousins means money.

Joe Boy, can it be stopped?

Yes and no… we have to fight.

Give me your phone number, address and we’ll keep in touch.

Joe Boy and Andy walked toward the Pinto, Andy found a pencil and paper there. A reporter never knew when he’d need to copy information.

It’s not only Justin and Marquis that are involved in this dirty mess, but your father’s other son might have something to say in the matter.

Andy stepped back, bumping his knee into the Pinto. Other son!

You don’t know?

Damn!

"You’ve been gone for twenty years…