Them

by Nathan McCall

  Barlowe nodded.

  “So I decided to outfox them coons. I’ma put this thang on the market for a while and see how big a fish I can ketch.”

  He looked off into the distance, his rheumy eyes seeming to dim a bit. “We cain’t stay here noway…You seen your tax bill lately?”

  Barlowe didn’t answer. The tax bill went directly to Crawford.

  “Me and Zelda could stay here, but it won’t be long fore we start feelin a pinch. We could live real comfortable off our pensions and the money we make from sellin this house. We could move into sisted livin and play bingo twice a day.”

  “Sounds temptin.”

  “You bet,” the old man said, ignoring the sarcasm in Barlowe’s voice.

  Looking at Mr. Smith’s weary face, Barlowe thought he saw the old man’s will starting to bend. It made him mad.

  “Mr. Smith, you said you weren’t gonna let nobody run you away. You said you were committed to the neighborhood.”

  The old man closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side. “Hole on, boy. Jus hole on a minute. I was committed to the neighborhood we had.”

  He started hammering again. He finished the chore and began gathering his tools. “If you know somebody black who might wanna buy, lemme know. Tell em I’ll cut em some slack.”

  They both knew the chances of finding a black buyer were slim to none. With neighborhood prices shooting up, poor blacks couldn’t afford to buy. And middle-class blacks didn’t seem much interested in old houses squeezed onto compact lots. They tended to rush to the sprawling suburbs surrounding Atlanta. They bought newer, bigger homes and posted “Private Residence” signs out front.

  When he was done, Mr. Smith picked up his toolbox and started toward the house. “See ya later, son.”

  Barlowe turned and slowly headed up the walk. It was his turn for community patrol.

  Despite cold air outside, and gray skies overhead, the streets were alive. Several stray dogs wandered about. A few old people, wrapped in too many winter clothes, hobbled to and from their homes. Across the lane, a white man stood in front of his house, sweeping the walk.

  Barlowe wandered down Randolph Street and ended up near the Purple Palace. Two young men dressed in heavy winter gear stood like sentries on the porch. As usual, the front door was ajar. Out in the littered yard, just a few feet away, a kitten lay dead on the ground.

  Barlowe went several blocks in the opposite direction, then cut down a back street and curled around to the Sweet Auburn business district. He stopped in front of the tall, redbrick building that Martin Luther King made famous long ago. There was a blue neon-lighted sign out front, with letters embedded in a large cross: Ebenezer Baptist Church.

  He stood there a moment and looked around, like he was waiting for something specific to happen. Then he willed himself to step into the lighted vestibule. He eased into the main sanctuary, past two ancient, white-gloved ushers, and took a seat in the very last pew. He sat there a minute and drew inside himself, thinking.

  After a while, he got up and went out toward the courtyard of The King Center next door. He liked visiting The King Center, especially in winter, when the tourist crowds were down. He liked to go and sit at the wall directly in front of King’s gravesite and drink in the beauty of the courtyard, which was filled with stocky shrubs and leafy flowers, even in winter. He sat sideways with one foot dangling off the edge of a low retaining wall surrounding the reflecting pool.

  A chilly breeze blew in around the pool, sending faint ripples through the water. He looked through the clear water to the floor of the pool, where pennies had been tossed by visitors using it as a wishing well.

  There used to be a lot more pennies there. Park rangers now discouraged visitors from pitching pennies into the pool. Homeless people, desperate for food or drugs, were known to wade into the water sometimes to fish out coins.

  Staring at the water, Barlowe tried to guess the number of pennies still there. Probably, he figured, not enough to buy a sandwich and a pint. He shivered, then clasped the top button of his coat to keep the wind from whisking down his neck. His cheeks were red from the cold. He stared at King’s concrete crypt, mounted on a wide stone platform in the center of the pool.

  He wondered, How did this man do what he did?

  Barlowe had no idea. Nobody he knew had that kind of spunk. Maybe Mr. Smith was right about something he’d once said. Maybe young people nowadays were made from a cheaper metal than those who came before.

  While he sat there thinking, a few visitors came and stood nearby, reflecting solemnly at the pool. A woman standing about fifteen feet away closed her eyes and tossed a penny into the water. Barlowe studied her, eyes closed and lips moving as she prayed. She stood still as a statue, facing the crypt with hands clasped together in front of her. Then she dropped slowly to her knees and prayed some more.

  Barlowe wondered if she was praying to Jesus or to King. Did she even know the difference anymore? For some, it seemed, the difference had been blurred with time as King’s myth continued to grow. Barlowe wondered if a hundred years from now the myths about King would have grown so much that there would even be stories—eyewitness accounts—of King rising from this very crypt.

  Was that how it had happened with Jesus? Was he just a good man who was lifted up, deified more and more with each new telling of a tale about him?

  When the woman finished praying, she got up and walked slowly away.

  It was almost dark outside. Barlowe stood and stepped beyond the courtyard and started down Auburn Avenue. He crossed Boulevard Avenue and passed the old fire station.

  Just up the walk, near King’s birth home, he saw a woman walking toward him, pushing a twin-sized stroller. Dark and solemn, she appeared to be in her late fifties. The woman’s face bore a self-conscious, embarrassed look. As she drew closer, Barlowe glanced down at the stroller and saw two white, apple-cheeked babies slouched in their seats. The babies were strapped in and bundled up, with thick blankets tucked under their tiny chins.

  Barlowe’s gaze shifted from the woman to the babies and back again. The woman passed, nodded and kept on stepping.

  Up farther along the walk, he approached the Cafe Latte, with its tables and chairs out on the patio. The temperature was down to forty degrees. Still, a few white people sat outside, sipping cappuccino and chatting easily.

  Barlowe wanted a hot chocolate to warm his insides, but he refused to go inside that place. He turned down a side street and kept on walking.

  There were a few more blocks to patrol before he was done. Then he planned to go seek comfort and consolation from his woman, Louise Grimes.

  It was dark outside when Sean and Sandy Gilmore started home from an emergency potluck gathering. There had been a brutal mugging, leading to more talk of people moving out. Gregory Barron, trying to calm frayed nerves, insisted that things would settle down in time. For some of the folks gathered in the house, those words were only mildly reassuring.

  Nobody said it, but fear hung in the air and lingered until the meeting ended.

  Walking home afterward, Sean mentioned, for the thousandth time, the need for Sandy and him to sell their house and move away. Sandy strolled along in silence. Now, thinking about the mugging, she began to wonder if Sean was right.

  They walked down Irwin Street and turned onto Randolph. They were about a block from home when they heard footsteps from behind. Sean quickened his steps and nudged Sandy to keep pace. She shifted into faster, longer strides, while trying to avoid appearing hurried, afraid.

  The footsteps were steady and louder now. The stalker seemed patient, content not to pass.

  Sean and Sandy’s house came into view, with all the security lights aglow. If only they could reach the radiance of the light, Sandy thought, maybe they’d be all right.

  Sean’s thoughts raced in another direction. His mind flipped a few months back to the day he walked into a gunshop and asked to see some “merchandise.” He needed a gun, he ha
d decided, if for no reason other than to manage his own anxiety, which now seemed to be spiraling out of control.

  When he went into the store, the owner smiled and patiently explained the range and power of his deadly stock, taking care to encourage Sean to hold and handle each gun he showed an interest in.

  “This here one takes hollow points,” the man said, setting a cannon on the counter.

  “What are hollow points?”

  A city boy. A novice. The man’s smile disappeared. He gently took the gun from Sean and returned it to the glass-enclosed case.

  “Hollow points will drill a hole clean through a man to the other side, and tear up ever bita flesh and bone along the way,” the store owner explained. “It’s what I use…”

  After three trips to the store, Sean settled on a plain .32 revolver, which seemed a perfect fit for his smallish hands. The store owner noticed Sean’s palms sweating as he tried to follow instructions on loading the weapon and locking the hammer.

  Later, Sean spent some time practicing at a local range (he sneaked off whenever Sandy went to her meditation class). Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he practiced aiming on his own. So on his way home with Sandy that night, he felt fully prepared.

  The footsteps behind him seemed closer still. Straining to hear, he estimated there were at least two people trailing. He could handle two. He slipped a hand inside his jacket.

  Let them come. Fucking thugs. Let them come!

  Silently, he began to count off numbers to time his move. One…two…He had practiced timing himself: One…two…three…now!

  In a flash, he shoved Sandy aside. She shrieked and stumbled to the ground. In one fluid motion, Sean drew the gun, swung around and cocked the hammer. Fucking thugs!

  Sandy turned over, looked behind them and screamed. “No, Sean!! No!!”

  Sean leveled the pistol and aimed to fire. He had the bastard right in sight.

  “No, Sean, don’t!!!”

  Heeding his wife, Sean hesitated. He eased the tension in his trigger finger and turned toward Sandy. Before he could refocus his attention, he felt a heavy force pounce on him. The attacker yanked his coat over his head, so that he was trapped, arms and head straitjacketed by his own clothes.

  A hand, strong as a vise, snatched the gun and raised it high, preparing to slam down and crush his skull.

  Sandy sprang from the ground and rushed forward. “Please! It was a mistake! We’re sorry! Please!”

  Sean flailed wildly, struggling to disentangle himself. He heard a man’s voice growl at him. “You better learn what to do with this…” The man tossed the gun to the ground.

  In a moment, Sean wrenched himself free from his coat. He straightened up and regained his bearings in time to see that one man, not two, had walked in the darkness behind them. It was no predator. It was Barlowe, returning from his neighborhood safety patrol.

  Barlowe stormed up the walk and went indoors.

  Chapter 41

  Days later, Sandy was standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, when Barlowe appeared in his backyard. She watched curiously as he stood there, staring into space. He headed slowly to the porch, then reappeared. She watched him piddle around, unraveling the hose.

  He seemed fidgety.

  Sandy dried her hands and went to the front of the house, into the living room, where Sean had settled down to read the paper.

  “Sean.” She plopped down on the edge of his chair. “Didn’t you say you were going to the store?”

  He kept his eyes glued to the paper. Ever since the near-shooting, he’d tried to manage his embarrassment by avoiding eye contact with her.

  “I wanted to pick up something from the pharmacy,” he said, “but I decided it can wait.”

  She smiled. “Well, actually, I need a few things for dinner tonight.”

  He looked up at her. “I thought we were having leftovers.”

  A few beads of moisture formed on her nose. “We can have leftovers tomorrow. I’m in the mood for something else.” She tossed him a pleading look. “Please.”

  He crumpled the paper. “What do you need?”

  “I thought I’d make spaghetti, but I don’t have sauce.”

  “Yes we do. I saw some in the cabinet this afternoon.”

  He went into the kitchen. Opening the cabinet door, he pointed at the spaghetti sauce—a big jar, right up front.

  “We need more than this?”

  “Oh.” She looked sheepish. “I didn’t see that. I guess that’ll be enough.”

  She moved to the refrigerator now and opened the door. She rummaged around inside and turned to him. “Peppers. We need green peppers, and dressing for a salad.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes. I think that’s it.”

  He slipped on a jacket and was out the door. As soon as he pulled out of the driveway, Sandy rushed through the house and went out back. Barlowe was still out there standing around.

  “Hey,” she said, approaching the fence. “How you doing?”

  “I’m doin.”

  “I was about to start supper. Just thought I’d come out and say hello.”

  “Hi.”

  His mood was low. She could tell. She moved closer to the fence.

  “Barlowe.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Look, I’m really sorry about what happened the other night.”

  His eyes turned sharp, angry. “I coulda been killed, you know? I could be dead right now.”

  “I know. I know.” The gravity of the incident came back to her. “You have no idea how bad I feel. I think Sean feels bad about it, too.”

  “I suggest he stay clear a me. I ain’t responsible for what I might do.”

  They both remained quiet, thinking. Then Sandy said, “You’ve gotta admit things have been pretty uptight around here. There was a mugging, you know? Everybody has been on edge.”

  Barlowe chuckled. “On edge.”

  “Listen,” she said, “before the other night, I had decided to pull back a bit. I was tired and feeling somewhat overwhelmed by all that’s been happening. But after the gun incident I realized I can’t pull back now. I’m in too deep—we all are—whether we want to be or not.”

  Barlowe leaned forward and peered in her eyes, recalling the stories his daddy used to tell when he was a boy. “Men have been killed over the likes of you.”

  Her face pinched tight. “That’s not what the other night was about. And nobody’s ever been killed over me.”

  “Coulda happened the other night.”

  Sandy’s face flushed. She grew visibly upset.

  “Could you handle a man bein killed over you?” Barlowe asked.

  “Look, I said I’m sorry…Why would you ask me such a thing?”

  “Because. It coulda happened.”

  “No, it couldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have let it happen.”

  He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “The man drew a gun on me. What could you do?”

  “You’re being awfully mean today,” said Sandy. “Maybe I should just go back in the house.”

  She waited, hoping he would apologize. She wanted him to ask her to stay and talk some more.

  Barlowe said nothing. He just stared at her.

  “Well, I guess we’d better talk some other time,” said Sandy.

  “Yeah.”

  She left. Once indoors, she began taking out food for dinner. She busied herself chopping onions. While she worked, she thought about Barlowe. He seemed so troubled, annoyed. She felt tortured, stuck and at a loss. It was strange. She was sure that on some level she was in touch with him, the essence of who he was. At the same time, she had never felt so close to—and simultaneously distant from—anyone before. With Barlowe there was always that wall, ever standing, that she couldn’t breach.

  She stood at the sink, measuring the range of her conflicted emotions as she ran water into a pot.

  Then a voice from behind startled her. “Did you enjoy your little
neighborly chat?”

  She jerked around. “Sean. I didn’t hear you come in.” She wondered what time it was. How long had she been outside? Sean had already taken off his jacket and set the store items on the counter. She hadn’t noticed the groceries when she came in.

  Sean stared at his wife. His face was red, livid. “What is it, anyway?”

  Sandy turned her back and began rinsing green peppers. “What is what, Sean?”

  “You know what. What is it with you and the guy next door?”

  “I told you, his name is Barlowe.”

  “Whatever.” He pounded the countertop. “Answer my question.”

  “We talk, that’s all.”

  He looked at her strange. “About what?”

  “About…things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “I don’t know.” She thought for a moment. “We talk about the way things are.”

  Sean pointed outside. “And what does he know? No, lemme guess. He’s a nice guy, caring, like you, right.”

  “Oh, don’t be sensitive, Sean. It doesn’t wear well on you.”

  He exploded. “Actually, I’ve got good reason to be sensitive right now: My neighborhood feels like goddamned Iraq and my wife is suddenly sending me on bogus errands so she can sneak out for intimate chats with the black guy next door!”

  “Sean, you almost shot the black guy next door! Remember?”

  “Whatever. In any case, there’s a lot to be sensitive about.”

  She stopped cleaning peppers and turned around, facing him. Her eyes were moist.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “I’m the one who should be crying.”

  She grabbed him by both arms and looked into his eyes. “Sean. You’re scaring me.”

  “Scaring you? How?”

  “You didn’t even tell me you owned a gun! How could you buy a gun—a gun!—and not tell me?!”

  He looked away. “Because. I knew what you would say.”