Them

by Nathan McCall

  Something about the frigid look on Barlowe’s face inspired Crawford to move quickly. He hurried around the side of the house, and made off in his car.

  Later that evening, Barlowe sat at a dinner table with his back ramrod straight. The table was lighted with a single candle and covered with a very white tablecloth. The room was dimly lit, intimate. Waiters and waitresses, starched to the bone and heads held high, scurried back and forth to the dining area, taking and delivering orders.

  Barlowe panned the restaurant. The diners, well-heeled and sophisticated, were engaged in quiet conversations. He blinked, half in disbelief: He was having dinner with Louise Grimes.

  A waiter with a white cloth draped across his arm appeared at their table and handed Louise a wine list. “Madam.”

  She glanced at Barlowe and turned to the waiter. “We’ll need a few minutes to decide.”

  Barlowe used the opening to excuse himself. Inside the men’s room he stared in the mirror. Except for the few times he went to church, he couldn’t recall the last time he had been dressed up like this. He wore the gray jacket to the only suit he owned. Earlier that day, he had rushed to the Men’s Wearhouse in search of a shirt to match the plain brown pants. The ensemble was no stunning fashion statement, but it seemed appropriate for the occasion.

  Now appraising himself, he realized one of the shirt buttons was misaligned. He wondered if Louise had noticed. He reworked all the buttons until the alignments were right. He studied himself in the mirror one final time and returned to the table, where Louise was perusing the dinner menu.

  She handed Barlowe the wine list. He concentrated with furrowed brows.

  The waiter returned. “Have you decided?”

  “I won’t be having any wine,” said Louise.

  “Me, neither,” Barlowe quickly added. (What he really wanted was a nice, cold beer.)

  Barlowe picked up his menu and began to read. Again, Louise noticed his uneasiness. After a moment, she closed her menu and laid it on the table. She leaned forward and looked into his eyes. “Can I make a request?”

  He shifted, nervous. “A request?”

  “Yes, a request.”

  “Go head.”

  “Let’s get away from here.”

  He looked around. “You wanna leave?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go. This place was recommended to me by a girlfriend on my job. It’s nice, but I’m in the mood for something more casual.”

  They ended up at Gladys Knight’s soul food restaurant on Peachtree Street. The place was crowded, but they managed to get a booth against a wall. Louise ordered the smothered chicken dinner. Barlowe got turkey wings and collard greens.

  As they waited to be served, Barlowe stared at her, enamored. At that moment he was recalling the ecstasy that he would always associate with Louise Grimes. It began when Louise arranged for him to get a concert ticket. When Barlowe appeared at Spelman’s concert hall and tapped her on the shoulder, she seemed delighted to see him there.

  “Hiiiii!!” They sat together.

  Barlowe had been to concerts before, but he had never experienced anything like Sweet Honey in the Rock. With no music accompanying them, the black women took to the stage in African garb and sang with voices so strong and clean it sent shudders through him. For two whole hours, they sang love songs and praise songs; they told musical folktales about slavery and oppression.

  From time to time, Louise glanced sideways, pleased to see Barlowe so thoroughly enthralled. For him, it was nearly a religious experience sitting in a place where he was surrounded by kindred spirits. He left feeling inspired, hopeful.

  He phoned Louise later to express gratitude for inviting him. Then he clumsily asked her out.

  Now here they were, on their first official date.

  After they had ordered, they eased into the conversational dance. Barlowe could see that, like him, Louise was rusty. After a while, they both settled down.

  “Everything about you says ‘city girl.’” (That was a line Tyrone might use.)

  “Actually, I’m from the country,” said Louise. “A place called Waycross, Georgia. You familiar with Waycross?”

  “Never been, but I know about it.”

  “I’m a country girl at heart, but my heart has never been confined to the country…Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “It’s strange,” she said. “I could never live there again, but I could never totally leave, either. I go home a lot. I need to go. It helps me keep my grounding.”

  Grounding. That’s what he liked about Louise. She had grounding, and a refreshing wholesomeness about her, too; not the nervous, twitchy wholesomeness of young virgins, but the healthy, hydrated look of people living clean.

  “I don’t go home much,” said Barlowe. “Maybe I should go more often, huh?”

  “Yes, you should, even if home holds some bad memories. At its worst, it’s still a kind of compass.”

  Barlowe smiled.

  They talked some more. In time, Barlowe realized Tyrone wasn’t hanging around anymore, leaning over his shoulder, whispering in his ear. Barlowe didn’t need Tyrone now. Louise was drawn to him.

  While soul music played softly overhead, a steady stream of people came and left. Barlowe and Louise talked for hours, about his job hunt, their families, houses and, of course, Caesar and That War.

  “Please,” said Louise. “Don’t let me get started about That War.”

  He was perfectly willing to hear her rant. In fact, he wanted to hear it. So Louise ranted, and Barlowe listened. While she talked, it occurred to him that he would never have had such a conversation with Nell. The closest Nell had come to showing the mildest concern about politics was when she’d complained of rising gas prices.

  “It’s crazy, dumb,” Louise was saying. “Sometimes I wanna leave this place.”

  While she spoke, Barlowe stared adoringly, admiring her dimples. He could hardly believe he was spending time with such a woman. He wanted to tell her that. In a fit of unabashed gratitude he wanted to say: “Where have you been? I been lookin for you, even when I didn’t know what I was lookin for.”

  Barlowe dared not say that, though, for fear that such words, though true, might come off sounding phony, contrived.

  He had no idea that nothing would have pleased Louise Grimes more than to hear those words.

  Chapter 33

  Barlowe got home late, after midnight. Tyrone was lying on the living room couch. He had fallen asleep watching an old gangster movie. It was a Thursday. Tyrone rarely came in that early, even on weekdays. Normally, he would stumble in late at night, half-high, and go to bed. Then he’d get up the next morning and head to work to get some rest.

  When Barlowe stepped in and latched the door, Tyrone yawned and looked him up and down. This new lady was special. Tyrone could tell. Barlowe had gone to the barbershop and gotten his woolly head trimmed. And he had on street clothes instead of khakis.

  “Hey, Unk.” He yawned again. “How’d it go?”

  Barlowe smiled. “Best evenin I had in a long, long time.”

  “Did you fuck her?”

  “Not in a way you’d understand.”

  Tyrone grinned and sat up straight.

  Barlowe started toward his room.

  Tyrone turned serious now. “I got somethin I need to tawk to you bout.”

  Barlowe stopped and waited. “I’m listenin.”

  “Not now. I’m kinda bummed out right now. Les rap tomorra.”

  “Lemme know when you ready.” Barlowe went to his room and closed the door.

  Before falling asleep, he lay in the dark wondering what was on Tyrone’s mind. He wondered if it had anything to do with the mailbox next door. It had been a while since that fire. To date, no arrests had been made. Still, it crossed Barlowe’s mind from time to time.

  The next day, Tyrone came home and went straight to his room without saying so much as one hello. He remained in there, quiet, for a few hours, then
finally came back out.

  Barlowe was sitting in the living room, reading the paper. He had the business pages sprawled across the coffee table, trying to crack the mystery of stocks and bonds.

  Tyrone crept into the room and sat down across from him. His mood seemed low. “Yo, Unk.”

  “Yeah?” Barlowe kept his eyes fixed on the long list of stock quotes running from the top to the bottom of the page.

  “I got somethin heavy to lay on you.”

  “What?”

  Tyrone stared at the coffee table, like something specific there had caught his eye. Then he looked up squarely at Barlowe.

  “You won’t blieve what happened.”

  “What?”

  “Somebody snitched.”

  Barlowe folded the paper. “What?”

  Tyrone crossed his legs and swung one foot up and down. He swung it high a few times, accidentally kicking the coffee table.

  “Some a us left work after lunch to go to a bar. When we got back the supervisor was waitin in the locker room. He had already punched our time cards. Tole us to git out and not come back.”

  “You got fired?”

  “Somebody snitched. I bet not find out who it was.”

  The gravity of Tyrone’s words lowered into Barlowe’s lap like a wrecking ball being eased down slow.

  “What you gonna do?”

  “I’ma find somethin, somewhere…You know me. I’ma carry mine.”

  Barlowe held off telling Tyrone what Crawford said about getting rid of his birds. A man didn’t need to take in too much hardship at once.

  “You’ll find somethin,” he said. “You’ll find somethin.”

  Tyrone got up and started toward his room. Barlowe called to him.

  “Ty.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know what you thinkin…Don’t worry bout this house. It don’t matter to me.”

  Tyrone searched his eyes.

  “You don’t wont it no moe?”

  “Naw.”

  “How come?”

  Barlowe thought about Crawford. The old man had come there fishing, he was sure.

  “I’m startin to think that maybe it wont meant to be.”

  Tyrone breathed a relieved sigh.

  “Good. I was startin to worry bout you.”

  “Why?”

  “Crawford had you goin for a minute. He had you jumpin through hoops and shit.”

  “It was never gonna come to that.”

  “I don’t know. He had you goin.”

  “Well, it don’t matter now.” Barlowe thought for a moment. “It don’t pay to wont somethin too much. I don’t ever wanna get like that again.”

  True to his word, Tyrone found work in less than a month. In fact, he did better than that. He started his own business, installing sound systems in people’s cars. In a stroke of luck he worked out an informal partnership with an Asian businessman at a Greenbriar strip mall.

  Tyrone happened to be browsing inside an electronics shop, next to the place that sold gold teeth, when the owner, a man named Kwan Li, sold a customer a car stereo system. Tyrone overheard the customer ask Kwan Li where he could get the system installed.

  Li hunched his shoulders. “Everybody ask same question. Tly Cirkit City.”

  Tyrone took a chance. “Yo.” Both Kwan Li and the customer turned around. “I can put that in for you.”

  Using tools that Li loaned him, he went outdoors and installed the stereo, wiring and all, in thirty minutes. Li came outside and checked as Tyrone put the finishing touches on the job. It turned out to be expert work.

  When Li saw the customer’s satisfaction, he was sold. He made a proposal after the client left: “You do same for udder customer?”

  He didn’t want much payment, Li said; only ten dollars for each referral he sent Tyrone.

  “Deal.”

  Kwan Li seemed happy. An on-site installation service could give him a competitive edge on other area electronics shops. He was further pleased to learn that Tyrone was a good worker, and highly skilled. He could install the latest stereos, speakers and amplifiers, and he ran wiring so well it looked like it was factory installed.

  Tyrone was happy with the arrangement, too. Just like that, he’d gone from the unemployment line to being in business for himself. He charged between $50 and $100 per job, depending on the work required.

  It took no time at all for word to spread about the quality of Tyrone’s work. Most of his business came from young men driving big, old American cars with faded paint and shiny rims. They came in seeking high-powered systems driven by lots of bass.

  After his first successful month as a legitimate businessman, Tyrone came home one day, ready to celebrate.

  “Hey Unk. You wanna come wit me?”

  “Where?”

  “I’m goin to the nekkid club. They got a real stallion over there, six feet tall! Big ol juicy gal! You down?”

  “Naw.”

  “C’mon, man. Is on me.”

  Barlowe didn’t feel like going out. But the occasion called for…something…

  “All right. Les go.”

  Set in a back alley, the club was located near downtown. Stashed in a smoke-filled basement, it was packed with men and women sitting around tables in threes and fours, smoking, drinking and talking loud.

  Barlowe and Tyrone sat at a table near the back. As he sat down and ordered a drink, an odd, satisfied look slid across Tyrone’s face. It pleased him to see Barlowe in such a raunchy place. It proved his uncle was no better than him, even though he sometimes acted otherwise.

  Tyrone still resented the way Barlowe had embarrassed him in front of Lucretia a while back, lecturing him like he was a child. He acted so straitlaced sometimes it got on Tyrone’s nerves. Now here he was, hanging out in a club like normal people.

  A waitress came over. Her face was empty, vapid, like maybe she had worked there a tad too long. She perked up, though, when she saw Tyrone.

  “Hey, baby boy! Where you been?”

  He slid a hand solemnly across his heart, like he was about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. “Ever time I see you I get a taste for chocolate.”

  Her mouth twisted into a playful frown. “Whut you wont, boy? Whut you wont?”

  “Gimme a scotch, baby. And tell that barman to make it strong. I got problems.”

  Barlowe ordered a beer—not domestic; foreign.

  When the waitress returned, Tyrone stuffed a five-spot in her bra, which seemed to make her happy. He and Barlowe held their drinks high and clinked glasses in a toast. Then they reared back in their seats and soaked up the scene.

  The place was cloudy and loud and dark; not pitch-dark, but filled with the kind of faint light that comes through vaguely in disturbing dreams. All around the room, men cheered as a sixty-year-old stripper danced onstage. A bundle of soft tissue in a one-piece swimsuit, she did a tricky three-step number. Wearing street clothes she was an easy guess for somebody’s grandma.

  Laughing and clapping from time to time, Tyrone and Barlowe watched the old lady carry on. After a while, Tyrone slouched down low, settling in. It occurred to him that, despite their occasional petty differences, he rather liked living with Barlowe. Living with Barlowe made him feel like he had structure in his life, which his life lacked otherwise.

  It was strange, though. In all his years growing up in Milledgeville, the two of them had never been real close, not even after the death of Tyrone’s daddy, Barlowe’s oldest brother. Tyrone was a young boy then, and Barlowe a teenager. Tyrone had thought his uncle was a bit strange. Now, after living with him, he felt like he understood him more. Barlowe was just his own peculiar person, trying to understand how the world worked, and trying to figure out how to make it work for him.

  Sitting across from Tyrone, one leg resting comfortably across a knee, Barlowe sipped beer and retreated into his own head, thinking about Louise Grimes.

  At some point, one of the veteran dancers, a white woman in a frilly dress,
walked close to their table and winked. Tyrone slapped her bottom and grabbed her around the waist. He pulled her in close and whispered in her ear.

  There were four white men sitting at a table nearby. When Tyrone grabbed the waitress, one of the men glowered and nudged another.

  Barlowe wondered what was being said.

  Tyrone groped the white woman and turned her loose. He beamed across the room at another woman, who was finishing a table dance for a few hard-luck-looking boys. She caught sight of Tyrone craving her and sensed another call to duty.

  She glided over. “Well, well. If it ain’t Mr. Ty-Rone.”

  “Hey, Chloe.”

  “Ain’t seen you in a while.”

  He looked at her sincerely and placed his glass on the floor. “I wont you to put yo big toe in my drink.”

  Chloe giggled and slipped one foot from a stiletto. She dipped a toe and giggled some more. Tyrone picked up his drink and gulped it all. Chloe slid into his lap and pulled his head gently into her ample breasts. She treated him to some lap motion and waved over a friend for Barlowe.

  The friend was a real hot looker, with a big, elaborate weave and long, curly nails, painted white. When she walked her flesh jiggled, but Barlowe could see what her shape used to be.

  She flopped onto his lap and draped an arm around his neck. “Hey, cowboy.”

  “Hey.” Barlowe lifted her off his lap and away from him. He pressed a single dollar bill into the woman’s underpants, which were loose from being tugged a lot. She looked at the dollar, cursed and walked away.

  Chloe hung around, though. While Tyrone sought consolation in Chloe’s bosom, Barlowe relaxed and took in the scene. Soon he glanced at his watch. Already he was growing bored. After a while, he finished his drink, stood and cleared his throat.

  “Ty, I’m gonna head on home.”

  Tyrone was still lost in Chloe’s bosom, which vaguely reminded him of his mama. Hearing Barlowe, he came up for air.

  “Okay, Unk. I’ll catch a cab. See ya in a li’l while.”

  He returned to the breasts, and Barlowe walked out the door.

  It was late when Barlowe got home. He got out of the car and stumbled toward the front door, looking for his house key in the dark. He moved slowly, his head spinning from the drinks he’d thrown down. He staggered on the sidewalk and stopped a moment to get his bearings.