He bought a bunch of tickets. On the way out he thought about what he could do if he won the lottery. He would buy a new house, one bigger and better than the one he was in. He’d buy a new car, too—this time, a foreign brand. And he would take himself on a nice vacation. He had never gone on a real vacation before. He took time off work every now and then, but he never had extra money to go anywhere, except to an occasional baseball game.
He could do a lot of things if he won the lottery. He could even quit his job.
He went back in the store and bought four more tickets.
Heading home, he stopped at a light down near Glen Iris Drive. Just as he was about to pull away, a woman sprang from nowhere and stumbled in front of the car. She waved wildly for him to stop. Barlowe slammed on the brakes, barely missing her thigh. She rushed to the passenger-side door. When he rolled down the window, she poked her head inside.
“I ain’t had nothin to eat. I need a ride. Gimme a ride a few streets over.”
The woman was brown-skinned, with an oval face that looked like it might have been pretty once. Her hair was thrown back on her head like she had left somewhere in a hurry. Her eyes had the glazed look that he saw in Tyrone sometimes.
She looked wild-eyed, desperate.
Barlowe hesitated, then leaned across the seat and pulled the door handle. She climbed in and slumped back heavily on the seat.
As they rode along in silence, she leaned her head back on the headrest and closed her eyes. Barlowe stole a closer look. The woman was plump, with meaty thighs that hugged her dirty jeans. She wore a simple gold-colored blouse, with three buttons loose at the top.
He wondered if she was clean.
“You say you need to go a few blocks over?”
“Uh-huh.” She opened her eyes, then closed them again.
“You all right, lady?”
“Yeah. I jus got outta jail. I only had money for bus fare home. I’m hongry.” She looked at him. “I need fi dollars to get somethin to eat.”
Barlowe drew his wallet, pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it over.
The woman stuffed it away, quickly. She pointed a finger, directing him where to go. He drove down a narrow street. She motioned for him to turn. He drove a few blocks until the street dead-ended.
“Park here,” she said, matter-of-factly.
He turned the car around and parked, then scanned the area. It was a lonely, desolate place. No real signs of life; not even a squirrel or a stray dog walking about. There were a few boarded, abandoned houses nearby; a few others had newspapers plastered across front windows, or battered cars sitting out front.
The woman gazed straight ahead, her eyes not focused on anything. She began to rub her breasts. She caressed herself as though she’d forgotten Barlowe was there.
He panned the area again, then peered at the woman. Her eyes were closed.
Barlowe shut his eyes, too. Soon he felt fingers creep onto his crotch. He grabbed the woman’s hand near the wrist, but left it resting in its place. His heart pounded, and his manhood stiffened.
Relax.
He released his hold on the woman’s hand and tried not to think. Sweat beads formed on his brow.
The woman unzipped his pants and leaned down low, moving her hand up and down. Barlowe felt a warm, moist sensation.
Relax.
She worked his manhood. He trembled and heard himself moan. He leaned the seat back a little, almost against his will.
Relax.
The pressure inside him rose. It rose slowly, then gushed forth. He released, freeing a thousand pent-up tensions in staccato bursts.
When it was over, the woman sat up straight. Once more, she leaned back on the headrest and closed her eyes.
Barlowe zipped his pants. He started the car and drove away.
The woman directed him a few blocks over. He pulled in front of a shabby house, with shingles missing from the roof. Several men stood out front, smoking cigarettes and talking. Before Barlowe stopped the car, the woman leaned on the door. She seemed in a hurry now.
Without looking back, she climbed from the car and rushed toward the house. Barlowe glanced in his rearview mirror in time to see the woman vanish through the doorway. He drove off, eager to get home. He intended to take a long, hot bath and give himself a good talking-to.
He hoped Tyrone was away. He wanted to get a cold beer and sit alone with the lights turned off.
It was dark outside now. He reached Randolph Street and found he could barely get onto his end of the block. A crowd had gathered along the sidewalks, spilling over into the middle of the road.
Closer to his place, the crowd grew dense. He saw familiar faces. Willie and Ely and Amos had drifted over from the Auburn Avenue Mini-Mart; Mr. Smith and Zelda were out there; even Viola and The Hawk had stopped to see what the hoo-ha was all about.
Barlowe pulled to the curb in front of his house. That’s when he saw. People stood around, staring at the Gilmores’ place. Sean and Sandy stood on the sidewalk, side by side, with their arms folded, staring blankly into space. Twenty feet away, their mailbox had gone up in flames. Smoke billowed ten feet high.
Sirens blared from up the street as a fire engine raced toward the scene.
The fire burned fiercely, its flames ascending the wooden mailbox pole, reaching well beyond the top. Flames flickered and smoke curled and swirled toward the blackened sky.
Barlowe got out of the car and took his place among the people. They watched in silence, the light from the flames reflecting off their faces.
Lapping the edges of the charred mailbox, the flames formed the shape of the old rugged cross.
Part III
Chapter 27
For days after the mailbox fire the old folks in the ward sat on their front porches and whispered in solemn tones about how it was a near-abomination that somebody would do such a thing. Despite severe misgivings about them, the old folks’ Christian faith forbade them from reveling in someone else’s misery. And they surely couldn’t condone (not outwardly, at least) violent acts of retribution.
But inwardly it was different. Inwardly, the old folks got a certain glee, a twitch, you might say, in knowing somebody put a size-twelve shoe up white folks’ ass.
Soon after the fire, word spread through the neighborhood that the Auburn Avenue Mini-Mart had been sold. The next day, somebody flung a baseball through a white family’s window.
Later, the old folks sat on their front porches and waved their flags privately. In a curious blend of Christian faith and pagan spite, they cheered the young lions for having the good gall (or bad judgment) to raise such hell.
And they kept a hopeful eye out for more such “developments.”
As Barlowe stepped outdoors and headed toward his car, a street crew approached with city workers dangling off the back of a truck. Like soldiers leaping from an army tank, they attacked an ancient pothole. They poured in tar and packed it tight, then steam-rolled the spot and smoothed it out until the hole disappeared.
Barlowe muttered: “Caesar.”
Mr. Smith called to him from across the street. “C’mon over here, boy, and tawk to me. Tell me somethin good fore I die.”
Mr. Smith had gotten get rid of his old car. Now he spent much of his time outside, piddling in the yard.
Barlowe went over and greeted his neighbor. “You see the game last night?”
“I watched the first quarter or so, then turned the dang thang off. I ain’t gonna waste time on a team coached bad as that. Life too short for messin round.”
“Give em time, Mr. Smith. They’ll come around.”
The irony wasn’t lost on either of them: The younger man preaching patience to the old.
While they stood there, a police cruiser rounded the corner and stopped at the curb near the Gilmores’ place. They sat there a moment, spying around.
Mr. Smith studied the policemen and shook his head. “Um, um, um. Place been swarmin wit em.”
“Some
people glad to see more cops, Mr. Smith.”
The old man narrowed his eyes. “Now, see. There you go agin.”
“What?”
“You know whut. Talkin Republican.”
Barlowe hunched his shoulders. “What?”
“Don’t forget. I went out on a long tree limb for you at that there church meetin. I cain’t do that agin.”
“I toldja, Mr. Smith. Somethin wasn’t right about that meetin. I think Pickerin is a hypocrite. I can’t stand hypocrites.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes you gotta do wrong to make things right.”
Barlowe wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. He was about to ask when Mr. Smith leaned over and gave him an elbow nudge.
“Hey. You heard anythin else bout that fie?”
“No, you?”
“Heard they ain’t got a single lead. Been a whole week, and they don’t know no moe than they did befo.”
“Too bad.”
Mr. Smith winked. “Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t…”
Barlowe frowned.
“Shoot,” the old man groused. “Nobody was hurt or nothin.”
“Somebody coulda been hurt, Mr. Smith. That fire coulda shot cross the grass and caught onto them folks’s house.”
“Coulda, woulda. It didn’t happen, did it?”
Barlowe didn’t respond. He looked at the ground, scraping a foot at a stray piece of wood.
“I know what you thinkin. You thinkin a ol man like me shouldn’t be that way.”
“I ain’t judgin you, Mr. Smith.”
“You can jerdge all you wont. Don’t make me no nevermind…. Shoot. I done paid my dues.”
They both remained quiet a long moment. Finally, Mr. Smith began to reminisce. The old man looked off into the distance, his rheumy banjo eyes seeing a place and time Barlowe wasn’t privy to.
“I used ta work over at the cotton mill, ya know. Worked there for twenny-five years fore they laid me off. The foeman didn’t like me cause I looked him in the eye when I tawked to im. Looked im straight in the eye, jus like I’m lookin at you right now. He didn’t like that commin from a colored man.
“Him and me locked horns bout somethin one day, and I tole im I weren’t scared a him. Told im he put his paints on one leg at a time, jus like me. After that, I knew he was gon come at me first chance he got. And he did. Come to me one day bout a month later and said, ‘Bennett, I’m sorry to tell you this, but we gotta let you go.’ Thas what he said: ‘We gotta cut staff.’
“It woulda been a whole diffrent thang if he had said they were lettin some other people go, but that weren’t the case. Looked past all them young white schoolboys and picked me out.
“I had a wife and chilren. I had been loyal to that compney a long, long time.”
He swallowed hard. “Me and Zelda struggled for a whole year after that. Lived hand-to-mouf, wit me workin odd jobs for a whole year. We almost lost this house.
“When I got another job, I promised myself that weren’t gonna happen no moe. I scrimped and saved every penny I made that didn’t go to the house and groceries. Saved my money so if they ever came at me like that agin I could tell em where to go.”
Mr. Smith smiled as another sight crystallized. “Soon as I got back on my feet good, know what I did?”
Barlowe shook his head. “No.”
“Went out and got me a shiny, red convertible…Know that cah you used ta see sittin out chere?”
“Yeah.”
“That was it. Bought it from a white man, too. It was used but it was clean.
“Zelda near-bout had a fit when I brought it home. I didn’t kere bout her raisin sand. I needed that cah for me. I needed that cah for me.
“I use ta ride round Lanta wit the top down. It could be fo-ty degrees outside and I’d still have that top peeled back. I used ta like the feel a the wind on my face and bein out in the open while I cruised round. I used ta like the way it made me feel inside. It made me feel like I didn’t have so much pressin me down. I could be feelin low bout somethin and I’d get in that cah and drive fast down the street and let the wind blow my trouble away.
“I used ta love the way white folks looked at me when I drove that thang. They looked at me like they was mad as hell. They looked like they was wonderin how I got that cah. They thank they the only ones sposed to live that free.
“Looka here: One day I got a pint a likker in me and got to feelin crazy. I drove that cah up to the cotton mill. It was drizzlin outside. I shoulda had the top up, but that likker was tawkin to me, real loud, so I kept it down. I drove that cah up to the cotton mill wit my nappy hair blowin in the wind and rain. I wonted to show them crackers I was still standin. My pockets was hurtin, bad, but they didn’t know. I drove up there in my shiny convertible and pretended I was comin to see how they was doin.”
Barlowe laughed.
“My ol foeman met me out on the loadin dock. Stood there and chitchatted all nice, like we was long-lost friends. I knew what he was up to. He wonted to know how I got that cah.
“And the whole time I tawked to him, I looked him straight in the eye. Looked him straight in the eye, jus like I’m lookin at you.
“I showed him he couldn’t break me. Showed him I’m a man, jes like him. When we finished tawkin, I went and said hello to some a the boys. I could see that cracker still lookin from cross the warehouse when I got in my convertible to leave. I waved good-bye fore I pulled away.
“I know it ruint his day. I bet it ruint his whole week.”
Mr. Smith chuckled. “I knew I was gonna be all right after that. I knew they couldn’t break me.
“But I still struggled. Struggled for a long time. Yo generation don’t know nothin bout struggle.”
“Some a us do.”
“No you don’t,” the old man snapped. “You wouldn’t know struggle if you tripped over it.”
Barlowe was about to argue the point, when Sandy Gilmore’s Ford Taurus appeared from up the street, headed their way. Barlowe acted like he didn’t notice. Sandy drove past the two men and honked the horn. Barlowe threw up a feeble wave and shifted angles, so that his back faced her house.
The old man eyed him closely. “All that glitters ain’t gold.”
Barlowe wondered what that meant. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Besides, seeing Sandy reminded him of something else on his mind. He had been wondering if Tyrone was involved in that mailbox fire.
He pushed it from his thoughts.
“Well, Mr. Smith. I better go. I got some more things to do this evenin.”
Mr. Smith smiled. “A fella gotta go when he gotta go…She perty?”
“No, not that,” Barlowe said.
“Well, do whut you need, whatever it is.” Mr. Smith turned and started toward his house. “Tawk to you later.”
Likewise, Barlowe went in the house and closed the door.
It took only a hot minute to slip into gardening clothes. Barlowe changed and went out back. He picked up a few flowerpots and carried them over to the edge of the yard, near the Gilmores’ fence. He set the pots on the ground, kneeled down and began plucking dead and dying leaves.
Minutes later, Sandy came outside, also wearing gardening clothes. She walked straight to the spot where Barlowe worked, leaned down low and began ripping up crabgrass from her side of the fence.
“This stuff is getting out of hand.” She kept her eyes fixed on the ground.
“I know.” Barlowe didn’t look at her, either. “I got weeds runnin long the edges of the house.”
“I’m trying to catch mine before it gets too bad.” Her tone was tight, not as lighthearted as usual. “Guess I’ll get some weed killer for this stuff. It grows too fast; too much of it to pull from between the fence posts every time.”
“Yeah,” said Barlowe. “Weed killer should do it.”
Finally, he stopped what he was doing and looked directly at her. “I’m sorry bout what happened with your mailbox and all.”
He hadn’t spoken to
Sandy since shortly before the fire. Neither she nor her husband had been out much since then.
He wondered if she thought Tyrone was involved.
Sandy looked up, her face flushed red. “Yeah, well I’m sorry about that, too. To tell you the truth I’m sorry about a lot of things. And frustrated. That’s it. I’m frustrated.”
She flung a clump of crabgrass off to the side. “I’m sorry that my husband and I are so misunderstood around here. And I’m sorry that people can’t seem to let go of the past.”
She sat up on her knees. “Is there nothing else to think about?” Her tone was almost pleading now. “I mean, will we ever be able to move on?”
Barlowe started digging again. “Maybe not in the way you think.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“Maybe not in the way you think.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Too much water.”
“Water?”
“Too much water under the bridge.”
A pained expression spread across Sandy’s face. “You—What a morbid view.”
He shrugged again. “It is what it is.”
At that moment she felt in herself the potential to actually hate Barlowe, right along with the rest of them. It startled her to know she could feel that way. It crossed her mind, if only for a flash, and as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t deny that she had the potential to hate.
These people were starting to wear on her. How could they reject her? Many times she’d defended them—their peculiar habits and behaviors—in dinner party debates, and now they were rejecting her. It seemed unfair.
“You know what bothers me most?”
“No, Sandy. What bothers you most?”
That was the first time she’d heard him call her name. In the time she had known him, he had avoided addressing her directly. She had wondered if he even remembered her name.
“What bothers me,” she said, her anguished pitch rising again, “is I’m sick of people making these sweeping judgments. I’m telling you, it’s crazy. It’s just crazy, and I don’t understand.”
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