Them (19 page)

“Hole on. Jus hole on a minute.”

When they were settled, he turned and faced Henny Penn across the room, looking him squarely in the eye.

“Tell me somethin, son.”

Henny sensed a lecture coming. He rolled his eyes. “Whut?”

“Son, whut make you thank bein ignant is a
political
act?”

Henny tugged his jacket collar and glowered at the preacher.

Reverend Pickering spoke with a patience that bordered on condescension. “In the Movement we never stooped to vi-lence. When I was wit Dr. Kang, me and Andrew Young and John Lewis took all kinda beatins upside the head. Whut we did in them times took a kinda courage you young folks nowadays don't know nuthin bout.”

Henny Penn cursed under his breath. “Sheeeitt!” He snorted and nodded to his crew. “I thought these niggas was serous. Fug dis. C'mon!” He straightened the wrinkles in his jogging suit and led his minions through the door.

Several other young people, impatient, edgy, got up and followed. Tyrone stood, too. Barlowe tugged at his pants and pulled him down.

Meanwhile, Clifford Barnes glanced nervously at an assistant, who returned a knowing nod. Barnes held up an arm, high enough to be clearly seen checking his watch. Then the councilman politely excused himself—“I have another commitment pending”—leaving the preacher to handle the flak.

When the politician had disappeared, Pickering pointed toward the door. “Dis fight ain't for the faint-hearted, no!”

He took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his brow and returned to the mission God had set him to.

“In all this time, nuthin's changed, my friends. Nuthin has changed, and nuthin will ever be the same.”

He thought of his good friend Jesse Jackson, and revved up the grandiloquence another notch. “Dese newcomers can't cohabitate! They gonna come in and nihilate!”

Those words charged the crowd again. Applause sailed up to the church rafters. Shouts and screams seemed to rain down from the heavens, as people leapt to their feet and roared.

Elated that he could still electrify a crowd, the preacher stood there recalling days long gone by. He pined for those days again, the days when righteous warriors took to the streets and boldly challenged stubborn segregationists.

Those days would return—he could feel it. The fire in the room was a heavenly sign. It was a sign that he'd come to the right conclusion that night when he knelt down to lay his burdens in God's expansive lap. The Lord was telling him—he was sure of it now—that he needed an old-fashioned civil rights march. Surveying this pumped-up crowd, he could tell the people here needed one, too.

Reverend Pickering hadn't had a good march since 1987, when he and Hosea Williams led 25,000 people up to Forsyth County to face down the Klan. What a grand march that was!

Indeed, Reverend Pickering's whole adult life had been defined by the march. Those marches during the Movement had brought a deep sense of purpose to his life. He missed the camaraderie of walking, arms locked with Martin, Coretta and countless other frontline soldiers, heading to the battlefield. He missed the rapt attention from news reporters and camera crews, who zoomed the eyes of the world on them.

High drama. Excitement. Danger. That was what the march was all about!

He longed for that excitement again. He needed it. Now the challenge was to convince the people that they needed what he needed. He had to lead them to it carefully, like a wife leads her husband to believe
her
idea is actually
his
idea.

Looking around the room, he sensed he was almost there. He pressed forward with a message aimed to close the deal.

“We can't step aside, no matter how powful the forces! We mus stand and fight!”

People shouted: “Yeah! Yeah!”

The preachers behind him flung their arms skyward and did the Holy Ghost dance.

“Yeah!! Yeah!!! Is tiiime!”

“Preach, brother!!

“Make it plain!!”

“Weellllllllll!!!”

The people got so fired up that Reverend Pickering was tempted to lead them—right then and there—into the streets for an impromptu, warm-up march. And why not? They were ripe as week-old apples, just plucked from the tree.

But he resisted the urge. People needed to be properly trained, organized. He calmed the crowd and prepared to launch a discussion about what should be done.

Barlowe sat erect, antsy. He suspected the preacher was about to lead the gathering to some frightful course of action that they might regret later on.

Reverend Pickering picked up steam. “I'll share wit y'all somethin Mah-tin tole me yeahs ago—I'll never forget—we were campaignin down in Missippi for votin rights! He came to my hotel room late one night, and he was troubled! He couldn't sleep! We had been beggin ol Pharaoh to do right by us! And ol Pharaoh—the white mayor in dat Missippi town—told us ta go straight ta hell!”

He paused. “Well, Mah-tin came to my room and we talked thangs through! Finally, after hours a pokin and probin for slutions, we came to the clusion that there was but one thang left to do!

“I'm tellin ya dis evenin that Mah-tin didn't wanna do it, and neither did I! But we knew we had to! And ventially he looked me in the eye—I'll never forget—he looked me in the eye and said dese wurds: ‘Owen, I'm fraid we gon have to march.'”

The reverend gazed out over the church gathering and paused to let the idea sink in and mix real nice like a Brunswick stew. Then he stirred the pot a little. He said what they were all waiting, now dying, to hear.

“Now I'm sayin to you people tonight: Lawd knows I don't wanna do it! But I'm fraid we gon have to march!”

There were cheers, and loud, thunderous applause. People standing around the walls pumped their fists in the air and yelled.

“Yeeaaahhh!!! Yeaaahhh!!! Yeeeaaahhh!! We gotta march!!”

Mr. Smith and Zelda and Tyrone all stood and clapped heartily. Barlowe stuck to his seat. Glancing around the room, he could see it coming. This train was starting to move.

He couldn't bear to sit there quietly. He had to speak up, say something that might slow things down and give folks more time to think.

Not knowing exactly what he would say, Barlowe raised a hand. After a few minutes basking in the glow of applause and cheers, the preacher recognized him, reluctantly.

Barlowe stood. He looked around the room, then turned and faced the reverend. He cleared his throat. Then: “You don't know me, but my name is Barlowe. Barlowe Reed. I don't wanna take up much time, but it seems to me that before we go marchin there's some things we need to talk about.”

Pickering beamed in, curious, skeptical.

“Yeah. We listenin. Whut we need to tawk about?”

Barlowe shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, I share the concerns bout the neighborhood. But I'm confused: How we gonna protest folks payin their own money to live where they wont?”

People looked at Barlowe, then turned to each other. They really hadn't thought about
that
.

Tyrone tapped him on the arm. “Whut you doin, man? Whut you doin?”

Barlowe ignored him. “And one more question…”

“Yeah. Go on.” Pickering strained to conceal his irritation.

Barlowe pointed southward. “Right there, just a few blocks up the street, is Martin Luther King's old home. And the next block down is his grave.”

Now there was complete silence in the room. Folks were anxious to hear the point.

“I was thinkin bout the fact that we talkin bout marchin to keep folks
out
. King fought so people could get in…So if we march, what are we sayin? Are we bein hypocrites?”

When he finished, he sat down, having already gone much further than he'd intended. Oddly, Sandy Gilmore crossed his mind.

The boys from the store looked at each other, mystified. Willie whispered to Ely: “Is dat ol Barlowe—Mr. Conspiracy—up dere changin his song?”

“Maybe the boy fell down this mornin and bumped his head.”

This crowd was in no mood for technicalities and complications. Barlowe braced himself for the sure attack.

The first shot was fired by Clarence Sykes, seated two rows ahead. Clarence turned around, twisting his mouth sideways when he spoke.

“C'mon, Barlowe. Be serous. We ain't on no schoolyard here. We playin for keeps, man.”

There was scattered applause, and a kind of eager hope among the people that Clarence—or somebody, for heaven's sake—would bail them out.

Clarence went on. “I been livin in the Ol Fo Wode all my life. I'm committed to stayin here. When you committed, you gotta be ready to stand and fight!”

“Yeah! Yeah!” More scattered applause.

The second strike came from Wendell Mabry, who stood straight up from his seat. He had a toothpick in his mouth, and he worked it round and round, beneath the tongue.

“Barlowe, you know you all right with me and all, but I gotta tell ya, you soundin kinda scary. You sound like you moe concerned bout ol massa than your own people.”

Barlowe fixed his gaze deep on Wendell's eyes. He raised up slowly, both fists balled in a knot.

“What you sayin, Wendell? What you sayin?”

“You heard me! I'm sayin what I just
said
!”

“Which is what, Wendell?”

“Which is what I just said!”

Barlowe made a move to get to the aisle, but Tyrone held him back.

Wendell didn't shudder or shrink. “So tell us, Barlowe. Whut
you
propose we do? Nothin?”

Barlowe squinted, breathing heavy. He wanted a clean shot at Wendell's throat.

Finally, when he had calmed down some, he spoke through clenched teeth. “I'm not proposin nothin, Wendell. I was just askin a simple question, thas all.”

Barlowe and Wendell faced off like that until Lula Simmons interjected. “Why don't we just reach out to the new people? Some of them are really nice.”

Wendell didn't even bother to look her way. “Lula, why don't you wake up and smell the coffee?”

“Now, now,” said Pickering. “Les remain civil heah.” Studying Barlowe, he let out a nervous chuckle. “Son, lemme be the furst to say dis: I give my en-tyre life to the struggle. Got the battle wounds to prove it, too.”

He yanked off his jacket and started to roll up his shirt sleeve to show his scars.

“You don't haveta show me nothin,” said Barlowe. “All I'm sayin is, this feels a little bit like the kind of meetin
they
used to have to keep
us
out.”

Silence again. Heads turned in unison toward Reverend Pickering, waiting for a comeback that would put them back on solid moral ground.

Pickering stepped away from the microphone. He raised an index finger to his cheek, weighing the young man's words. Finally, he said, after some reflection, “Tell me, son. How long you lived in dis neighborhood?”

“Some years,” said Barlowe.

“Uh, huh.
Some
yeahs…Well, I been livin here a li'l mo then twenny-five yeahs. And dis church been part a dis community for twenny-three. You follow me?”

Barlowe said nothing.

Reverend Pickering continued. “And tell me, young man. Whut is your line a wurk?”

“What?”

“Whut do you
do
to urn a livin?”

“I work at a print shop downtown.”

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. A print shop downtown.”

He was getting geared up to take this young punk to the woodshed. And he would have, too, if Mr. Smith hadn't raised a hand. Mr. Smith stood and spoke loudly, addressing the congregation.

“I been livin out chere for thurty yeahs, so I think I have a right to speak on this, too. I ain't happy bout what I see, neither.” He pointed at Barlowe. “But I know this main. He a
good
main. Live right cross the street from me. And I can tell ya, he not tryin to be no distraction. He jus tryin to tell us that maybe we gotta be careful, thas all.”

Mr. Smith never looked at Barlowe once while he spoke. Although the old man had come to his defense, Barlowe sensed he would have preferred they were sitting farther apart—maybe at separate ends of the earth.

“Okay, okay,” Reverend Pickering said, quickly. He had no quarrel with Mr. Smith, who was well regarded in the ward.

“We git your pernt. We git your pernt. We don't wont nobody to misunnerstand whut we tryin to do…”

Pickering addressed Barlowe. “Lemme say dis: We share The Dream. Mah-tin would flip in his grave if he thought we was doin udderwise. Your pernt is well taken, son. But dis here may be a li'l more complicated than you thank.