Them (6 page)

“What you got goin here?”

“Gonna git wit this gal I know,” said Tyrone. “We goin to Piedmont Park for a li'l bullshit picnic. Then is off to her place to knock some boots.”

When the horn sounded, Tyrone rushed outside, taking giant strides like a person scaling a stairway, two steps at once. Barlowe closed the blinds and sat down in the living room. That night, when he went to bed, a familiar jolt of loneliness shot through his bones. He hadn't been on a date in a while. He wondered if maybe he should start going out on the town, putting himself in places where he might meet some women.

He considered phoning Diane, a redhead he'd met a while back. Diane would come over in a heartbeat, if it wasn't her night for choir rehearsal.

But Diane was too tame. Barlowe craved someone edgy, wild—like Nell.

The image of Lucretia Wiggins returned to him. He fluffed the pillows, stretched out on his back and closed his eyes. He softly touched himself. He touched himself like he would want to be caressed if Lucretia or Nell was lying beside him now.

In time, he drifted off to sleep. He was roused later by a noise outside. It sounded a bit like rustling brush. When it sounded again, he lifted his head, straining to hear. He rested his head back on the pillow. His eyelids felt heavy. He needed sleep. He had a busy printing schedule the next day.

He finally drifted off to the sounds of the night: the sound of an old hoot owl's mating call; the sound of a freight train rumbling by; the sound of floppy tennis shoes, and a squeaky grocery cart being pushed, fast, down Randolph Street.

S
ean and Sandy Gilmore met at Joe Folkes's Midtown real estate office on a Saturday morning. They got in his Cadillac and cruised to the Old Fourth Ward. The first house Joe pointed out was a recent sale.

“One of
our
clients. Happy as can be. No children; no worries about crappy schools.” He looked at Sean. “You don't have children, do you?”

“No. No children,” said Sandy, speaking from the backseat. (She had told Sean before they left home, she didn't want to sit near that man.)

The house was impressive, a freshly painted, two-story, columned Victorian. Huge bay windows and a wraparound porch. Two flags hung out front. One, a large American flag, somehow struck Joe Folkes as out of place. Hanging from another column, the smaller flag was fluorescent orange, red, yellow, blue and purple. Over the next half-hour, they ran across two other houses decorated with multicolored Gay Pride flags.

“A good sign,” observed Joe. “I hear there were two more recent sales around here.”

He drove on, reciting the history of the Old Fourth Ward, emphasizing its ties to Martin Luther King. After a quick strategic pass by The King Center, they swung around to a vacant house on Randolph Street. Joe drove slowly, making sure the Gilmores got a good look at the Atlanta skyline peeking just above the treetops from where they were. When they pulled in front of the house, Sandy's eyes brightened. It was similar to the one they'd just seen. The yard was unkempt, and the roof clearly needed repairs, but overall, the structure appeared sound.

Joe smiled and toyed with his suit lapel. “A good paint job and some cosmetic work, and she'll be good as new.”

Sandy noted the nice, long porch facing downtown, providing a fantastic frontal skyline view.

“This one's a gem,” said Joe. He leaned over, whispering as though sharing a secret. “And the owner is very motivated, actually
pressed
, to sell.”

Sandy wasn't sure why, but a wave of guilt passed over her.

They got out of the car and scanned the block, as a stray dog crept past along the walk. Across the street, several men sat out next to the Auburn Avenue Mini-Mart. Off in the distance, Ricky Brown pushed his cart up the block.

“How safe is the area?” asked Sean.

Joe beamed. “Safer than a fat bank on payday.” He ushered them a few steps along the walk, to the point where Randolph Street intersected with Auburn Avenue. He pointed down Auburn.

“There's a police precinct less than five blocks away, and the area is crawling with federal park rangers. They protect The King Center and live right here in the neighborhood.

“Now.” He dabbed at his do. “Let's take a look at this gorgeous house.”

 

At the moment, Barlowe was lounging out back, on the screened-in portion of the porch. He had gone to the mailbox earlier and gotten his mail. As usual there were piles and piles of paper from advertisers vying for his attention. One brochure featured the smiling face of some clown running for a city council seat. Then there was a letter addressed personally to Barlowe, from the president of Chase Manhattan Bank. Did Barlowe know, the Chase president asked, that he had been approved for a new credit line? Fixed introductory APR, for up to 15 months!

There was harassment from others, too: Home Depot, Sears, a lighting store; a whole useless, overwhelming pile of paper.

But that wasn't the thing that bothered him most. The thing that bothered him most was the time devoted daily to ripping up every piece of junk mail sent his way; it was just one of the many time-consuming rituals that wear on the soul.

But he did it, dutifully. He tore up paper ads, one by one, making sure to rip his name and address apart lest somebody sift through the garbage and use his information to buy a computer, furnish a house or go on the vacation Barlowe had always wanted to take.

When he was done shredding, he drank a beer. He had begun dozing off, when three white people appeared around the side of the vacant house next door. At first he thought he might be dreaming. Then he heard the tall, funny-looking man talking loud, pointing this way and that, as though conducting a tour.

Whities!
Barlowe ducked indoors and out of sight. He went to the kitchen window and peeked through the blinds.
Whities! Right next door!

The seventy-year-old house next door was owned by an old woman named Hattie Phillips. It was a solid, spacious place, a once-fine Victorian that had fallen into disrepair. When the bills and burdens of living there became too much, Hattie Phillips went to live with her daughter and put the house up for rent. Lacking funds to renovate, she rented it to tenants as it was: with a few doors hanging loosely on squeaky hinges, and a leaky roof that required a rain bucket on the kitchen floor. The maintenance problems kept rents low and limited Hattie's tenants to people like Vincent and Irene Benton—the last family to lease before it would be placed on sale.

Unlike some of the more rowdy clans that had lived there, the Bentons were pleasant, hard-striving folks who always seemed one day late in life and two months behind on rent. Irene, a mousy woman, worked as a cook at Deacon Burton's soul food spot. Vincent, who was muscular and quiet, worked as a laborer. The family enjoyed brief periods of near-stability whenever Vincent got steady work.

Barlowe sometimes saw Vincent leave home early mornings, dressed in heavy industrial boots and camouflage fatigues. He wore a red bandanna tied around his head, which bobbed as he trudged with his lunch pail toward the bus stop on Irwin Street.

The Bentons were peaceful people, except in those anxious periods when Vincent was unemployed. Then things got stormy. Irene would get so uptight that she could be set off by most anything—a stray ball landing against the flimsy front screen door, or a broken window they couldn't afford to replace.

She'd explode, attacking their three children. “Git in this house fore I kill you, boy! I tole you to be careful with that stupid ball!”

The children would disappear inside, amid Irene's profane bursts. The commotion would die down until Vincent came home. Then a second wave of attacks would follow, more fierce and sustained than the first.

Barlowe could tell whenever Vincent was out of work. That's when the children came knocking at the door. “My mama said can we borrow some bread and milk till nex week?” Too young and naive to feel ashamed, they begged casually, as though asking for the time of day.

To offset the parents' humiliation, Barlowe sometimes knocked on the Bentons' door to borrow eggs or butter he didn't need. Irene showed her appreciation by playing along.

One winter evening, Vincent himself showed up at Barlowe's door, wearing a dingy T-shirt and that red bandanna.

“The lectricity been cut,” he said, plainly. His eyes dropped to the ground as he struggled to hold up under Barlowe's gaze. “I went downtown to pay the bill, but the lady tole me I had to ketch up the udder months, too. My money was a li'l short, so they cut off the power till I git the rest.”

It was dark outside. The winter moon, full and bright, looked like a great big lantern in the sky. Standing in the doorway, Barlowe felt a chilly breeze whip across his face. He glanced at the side window to the Bentons' house and thought he saw the glimmer of a candle. He imagined Irene and the children huddled in a single room around that single candle, trying to keep warm until the weather broke.

He looked at Vincent and thought to himself:
There's a thin line between me and him
.

“What you need me to do?”

For weeks, an orange industrial extension cord ran from one house to the other. Barlowe provided electricity to the Bentons until well after Vincent got another check.

The Bentons lasted a full three months after that. Barlowe came home from work one day and found their furniture and other belongings tossed along the curb. The family was nowhere in sight. Two street urchins had come upon the crumpled heap and begun patiently sorting the secrets of the Bentons' lives. The men worked in silence, stopping now and then to appraise a clock or try on a sweater. Sifting through the possessions, they looked like eager scavengers feasting on fallen prey.

And so it went with the house next door. People came and people went. Tenants hung on as long as they could before a frustrated Hattie Phillips was forced to drive them off.

The Bentons were gone. Now there were white people walking around outside the house, peering into windows like nosy ghosts. They headed back to the front, where the tall man used a key to open the door.

Barlowe studied the strangers as they went inside. “Huummmph!” He couldn't count the number of times he'd walked through
their
neighborhoods and had cops roll up on him. “Huummmph!”

He went to the phone and picked up the receiver, then put it down. He picked it up again and put it down once more. It occurred to him that he had never called the police before. Police had always been called on
him
. It felt weird even thinking about it the other way around.

He picked up the receiver a third time and dialed. A woman's voice came across the line.

“Yes, 911 emergency.”

Barlowe said nothing.

“Hello, 911.”

“Is this the po-lice?”

“Yes. Do you have an emergency to report?”

“Yeah.”

“Sir, speak quickly if this is an emergency.”

“There some spicious lookin people walkin round the house next door.”

“What are they doing, sir?”

“Look like they scopin the doors and windows to see if is locked.”

“What?”

“You need to send somebody, fast.”

“What's that address, sir?”

“What?”

“The address.”

“Mine or the one next door?”

“The house next door. I need the address?”

“I don't know that address.”

“Okay, sir, what's your address?”

Barlowe hesitated.
She askin too many fuggin questions
.

“Sir, I need you to speak quickly.”

“I'm at 1024 Randolph Street.”

“We'll send someone over right away.”

Barlowe hung up. He went back to the porch and peeked around the corner. He spotted The Hawk trudging through the pathway. Viola staggered two steps behind, carrying a brown paper bag, which she cradled like a newborn child. The two drunks disappeared around the corner.

Minutes later, the white people came outdoors and went around back again. Barlowe withdrew, making sure to keep out of sight. He checked his watch. Ten minutes passed, and still no cops.

Damn!

Meanwhile, Joe Folkes pressed on, pointing out features of the house and yard. The Gilmores listened intently, nodding in unison.

Barlowe peered out the window again. It appeared the white people were preparing to leave. They stood chatting at the corner of the house, partially hidden by the big oak tree.

Barlowe rushed to the front window and peeked outside. Still no sign of cops. He returned to the rear window and peered some more, then rushed back to the living room again. He paced back and forth, antsy, trying to decide what to do.

He concentrated, hard. For the first time in his life he actually
wanted
the police to show up somewhere. He went back and dialed again.

“Yes, 911.”

“I called about burglars damn-near a half-hour ago.”

“Yes, sir. Are you at 1024 Randolph?”

“Thas right. You already
got
that information.” His voice was tight, hostile.

“Well, sir—”

“Y'all gonna mess around and let them fuggin people get away!”

“Sir. Sir.”

“Y'all ain't—”

“Please, don't cuss at me, sir. We've already sent a car.”

“Where they at, then?! Where they at?!” He was shouting now.

“Sir, they should be there any minute.”

Barlowe slammed down the phone and growled. “Caesar!”

Outside, the white people strolled casually toward Joe Folkes's car. Finally, a police cruiser pulled in front of the house. Barlowe peeked from behind the living room blinds as two officers approached the trio. The officers tipped their hats.

“We got a call about prowlers.”

Joe Folkes stepped forward, smiling. “Prowlers? I'm a Realtor. These are my clients, and I'm showing this house.”

He wore a natty double-breasted suit, a silk-wool blend, Hugo Boss. As usual, his hair was meticulously teased.

One cop smiled, apologetic, and glanced at his partner. “Sorry…” He tipped his hat again. “Have a good day.”