Still, gossip flowed heavy in the streets, with conflicting accounts of what went down at the Purple Palace that night. Barlowe was eager to hear his nephew’s version. He went into Tyrone’s room and came to the sudden realization that it was unlikely that he would see or hear from Tyrone anytime soon. He looked at the two dresser drawers, which sat open and half empty, and he saw the closet door had been left ajar.
He opened a dresser near the headboard and began sifting around. In the top drawer, Tyrone had stacked a pile of sweatshirts and lined socks neatly along the edges. Beneath the pile, Barlowe found a brand-new Bible, lying open with a page marker. He picked it up and studied the page. Tyrone had marked an asterisk beside a single verse: Isaiah 59:1-3:
Behold, the Lord’s hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither his ear heavy, that it cannot hear. But your iniquities have separated between you and your God, and your sins have hid his face from you, that he will not hear. For your hands are defiled with blood, and your fingers with iniquity…
Beneath the Bible, Barlowe came upon a handful of Seventh-Day Adventist pamphlets, about fifty in all. Now he knew where Tyrone had recently been spending his Saturday afternoons.
Barlowe chuckled: Ol Ty. Followed some woman right into church.
He opened another drawer and found a box of bullets and three reefer sticks. He flushed the joints down the toilet and absentmindedly stuffed the bullets in his pocket.
Before leaving, he scanned the room one final time, half-hoping for a note or some sign to hang on to…There was nothing…
He went through the kitchen to the back porch. The birdcage was still open, like Tyrone had left it. Two of the pigeons had vanished. One bird stood alone on the Gilmores’ fence.
When the bird spotted Barlowe, it flew over and landed on top of the cage. Barlowe reached for the bag of birdseed nearby. Then he spotted the gun. He picked it up and stuffed it in his pocket, wondering if it had been fired at the Purple Palace.
The pigeon ate, then sauntered forward, waiting for Barlowe to extend a finger so that it could hop on board.
Barlowe recoiled and shooed the bird. “Uh-uh. Go.”
The bird fluttered back to the Gilmores’ fence.
The doorbell sounded, startling Barlowe. He took the box of bullets and placed it beneath the newspaper lining the cage bottom.
The bell rang again, followed by a heavy, insistent knock.
Barlowe went to the front of the house and peeked out front. Two policemen stood on the porch. Caesar. Barlowe opened the door.
“Tyrone Montgomery Reed?” The voice was attached to a burly man with pock-marked skin.
“No. I’m Barlowe Reed, his uncle.”
The other cop, short and thin, flung him a sideways look. “You got ID?”
Barlowe pulled out his wallet and flashed his driver’s license.
“We need to talk to you. May we come in?”
Barlowe stepped to the side and let them enter. The cops sat down and explained why they were there: Tyrone was wanted for questioning in connection with the neighborhood shooting, they said. They repeated most of what Barlowe already knew: One of the shooting victims, identified as James Belton, also known as Henny Penn, was hospitalized, in critical condition. Another man, Sean Gilmore, was about the same. The cops made no mention of Big Buck or some of the other people who were in the room that night.
“We’re wondering if you can help us find your nephew so we can find out from him what happened.”
“I don’t know nothin,” said Barlowe.
“Any idea where we might be able to look?”
“No. But I’ll be sure to contact you if I find out anythin.”
The burly cop leaned forward, to establish that they could speak in confidence. “We hear you and Mr. Belton got into a fistfight not too long ago. You wanna tell us about that?”
“It was nothin. A li’l misunderstandin, thas all.”
“That’s not what we heard.”
“I told you what I know…Anythin else you need to ask me?”
The cops scanned the room, like they thought maybe Tyrone might be hiding somewhere. Then: “No. That’s all for now.”
Barlowe moved to show them the door. Before he touched the knob, the bell sounded again. He opened it, and William Crawford walked in. The old man frowned when he saw the blue uniforms. He nodded a hello, then turned to his tenant.
“What’s going on here?”
“Who are you?” the thin cop asked.
“I’m the owner of this house; the landlord.”
“Can you tell us where we might find Mr. Tyrone Montgomery Reed? He’s listed at this address.”
Crawford furrowed a thick brow. “Barlowe here should be able to tell you that…. What do you want with Tyrone?”
“He’s the prime suspect in a shooting—”
Barlowe interrupted, “You didn’t say before that he was the prime suspect.”
“You didn’t ask,” the thin cop snapped.
“I’m askin now.”
The policeman stepped forward. Barlowe cocked his fists. Crawford shoved an arm between the two.
“Wait a minute. Please, Barlowe. Cooperate.”
“I been cooperatin the best I know.”
“No problem. We were about to leave.” The burly cop aimed a finger at Barlowe. “Be advised. We will be watching this house. If Mr. Reed shows up, we’re coming after him.”
“Suit yourself,” said Barlowe.
They left.
When they were gone, Barlowe remained in the doorway. He wanted Crawford to leave, too. Instead Crawford sat down hard on the couch. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.
“Barlowe, what in the world is this about?”
“There was a shootin.”
“I know there was a shooting. It’s been all over the news. But I had no idea Tyrone was involved.”
“Seems so.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Call you? For what? It didn’t happen here.”
“But it involved somebody living here.”
Barlowe rubbed a hand wearily behind his neck. “I still ain’t sure how much Tyrone was involved. From what I hear it was pitch-black in that room when the shootin started. To tell the truth, they ain’t figgered out who shot who.”
Crawford listened. When Barlowe was done, he snorted and wiped his face again. “I don’t like the sound of this. I don’t like somebody I’m renting to having troubles with the law.”
“Mister, you rentin to me. I ain’t had no trouble with the law.”
Crawford looked away and shook his head. He hadn’t picked up on the hostile tone. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
Barlowe shrugged. “Me, neither.”
“I can’t have this,” said Crawford. “I won’t have it.”
Barlowe looked him in the eye. “What are you sayin? You won’t have what?”
“I’m saying, young man, that I’ve had enough.”
“Enough a what, Mr. Crawford?” He took a step closer. “Enough a what?”
“I don’t do business with people who cause me trouble with the law…I mean, the complaint about the pigeons; that was enough.” He pointed toward the back of the house. “I told you two to get rid of those birds months ago. Now this…Somebody from this house involved in a shootout.”
Crawford wiped his face. “No, sir. This is too much. I’ve got my reputation, and a whole lotta other things to consider…Huumph. A shooting…I could lose this house behind something like that.”
Barlowe stared at him. It was a hard, violent stare. “So what are you sayin, man? Speak your mind.”
Crawford rubbed his chin and thought a moment. Then: “This is what I’m gonna do, son. I’m gonna put this house on the open market. If you’re prepared to buy at the asking price, then that’s all well and good. But if you can’t pay what I ask, then, well…”
A wry smile crept across Barlowe’s face. “That why you came
over, to tell me this?”
Crawford said nothing.
“Somebody already made a offer, didn’t they?”
Crawford looked away.
Barlowe nodded. “You got a offer on the table. Why didn’t you jus say so?”
“Well,” said Crawford, “you can’t expect me to give the house away.”
“No. I don’t spect you to give it away. Specially not to me. I wouldn’t buy it, neither—specially not from you.”
Crawford jerked his head, surprised. He rose from his seat. He was mad as hell. He wanted to give his tenant a good piece of his thinking. But something about Barlowe’s body language—he looked tense, taut—inspired him to hold his thoughts.
Crawford stepped to the door and placed a hand on the knob. “So it’s settled then.” His back was turned to Barlowe.
“Thas right, mister. Is settled.” Barlowe stepped forward. Before he could reach him, Crawford rushed out the door and down the steps.
When the landlord left, Barlowe stormed out back, furious. He went into the yard and piddled around in an absentminded, vacant way. He went to the shed and began rearranging tools that were already in their proper place. He looked around for something else to do.
For a while, he just stood there, out in the open, where he could be seen. He needed to talk. He hadn’t seen or heard from her since the shooting. Maybe she might show her face.
He waited there a long moment. When nothing happened, he went back to the porch and saw that the lone pigeon had returned to its cage. It hovered in a corner, with the door hung open. Barlowe reached in and extended an index finger. The pigeon hobbled forth and hopped aboard. Barlowe brought out his hand and held it high. He flung his arm, tossing the bird in the air.
The creature fluttered, then flew over to the Gilmores’ fence. From its perch the bird watched with interest as Barlowe took the box of bullets from beneath the newspaper in the cage. He carried the cage inside the house and closed the door.
Chapter 45
The winter months passed, followed by the warmth of an early spring. Barlowe stepped onto the front porch, cradling a big box in his arms. He set the box down and turned to go back into the house, then paused and glanced at the “Sold” sign in the Gilmores’ front yard.
Next door, a huge moving van hovered like a hulking dinosaur in front of the house. Its engine idled in a low growl, as two workers hefted an ugly sofa from its massive bowels and headed toward the steps.
A white man, flanked by a woman and two toddlers, carried suitcases up the walkway leading to the house.
Barlowe looked across the street. A few white people had already arrived at the Cafe Latte. They sat out on the patio with their morning papers, sipping espresso.
Barlowe took in a deep breath and rattled off the list in his head: Tyrone, gone; Viola, gone; the mini-mart, gone; the church is sold, and the elders will be leavin soon.
And Mr. Smith and Zelda…Before leaving, the old man had found a way to strike one final, defiant blow. Still, Barlowe would miss him. He would miss him very much.
Looking up and down the street, he spotted The Hawk. Lost in the massive county jail after some temp worker misplaced his file, The Hawk had languished on lockdown for a whole year. He was freed only recently, after the error was discovered.
Now he wandered aimlessly through the neighborhood, mumbling to himself and searching for someone he would never find.
Barlowe went inside the house and got another box. As he carried it down the steps, Sandy Gilmore’s green Ford Taurus appeared from up the street. He hadn’t seen her in a while.
She got out, waved to Barlowe and crossed the yard. “Hi.”
He set the box on the ground. “Hi.”
She smiled. It was a weak, embarrassed smile, done more out of habit than feeling.
“I had to make one last stop, to drop off this mailbox key to the people who bought our house.”
Barlowe looked toward the Gilmores’ old place. The moving men marched back and forth like carpenter ants.
“Have you met your new neighbors?”
“No.”
“Their names are Mark and Catherine Squires. Nice people.”
“Yeah,” said Barlowe, dryly. “Yeah.”
Sandy noticed the boxes set at his feet. “Going somewhere?”
“No. Not really.”
She looked curiously at the other boxes he’d stacked on the porch. He made no effort to explain.
“So,” said Sandy, “what are you gonna do with yourself from here on out?”
“Well.” He took a deep breath and released. “For one thing, I’ll be startin a new job soon…and I got a lady friend over in Grant Park. Me and her gonna travel some.”
“That’s nice.” Sandy’s face turned red. He could see her emotions bubbling up. He hoped she wouldn’t start crying outdoors. He tried to distract her from her distress.
“Where you gonna go from here?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” said Sandy. “Right now, Sean and I need a little distance from town. We found a nice apartment up in Alpharetta. We’ll stay put there until he’s fully back to normal. Then we’ll see what happens…It’s a long road ahead—in many ways.”
“Yeah,” Barlowe said, looking off into the distance. “You right about that.”
“We’ll have to see where God leads,” Sandy declared.
Barlowe said nothing to that.
Now she looked deep into his eyes. Whenever she looked at him like that, he knew she was about to spring one of her probing questions.
“Barlowe?”
“Yeah?”
“You still think I’m just a silly white girl looking for something interesting to do?”
He thought for a moment. “Yeah.”
She smiled. “I can’t help it. See?” She pinched the white skin on her arm.
“Yeah, I see.” He smiled, too.
She looked at her watch. “Well. I guess I’d better go.”
He extended a hand. “Good-bye.”
She stepped forward and hugged him, tight, and held it there.
Barlowe’s eyes danced up and down the street, checking to see if Miss Carol Lilly or somebody somewhere was watching.
Finally, Sandy let go. With the back of her hand, she wiped at tears that had formed in her eyes. She sniffled.
“Barlowe?”
“Yeah?”
“You still think there’s too much water under the bridge?”
He looked up the street and saw Ricky Brown. Ricky had parked his Winn-Dixie grocery cart on the sidewalk. He picked up something off the ground and studied it close, like a person reading an interesting book.
“Is a lot,” said Barlowe.
“Well. I gotta keep trying. I have to try.”
“I know.”
She turned to leave, then stopped and looked back at him once more. She pulled a pen and paper from her purse and scribbled her new phone number. She handed him the paper.
“You’ll keep in touch, won’t you?”
“Yeah.” Barlowe stuffed the paper in his shirt pocket. “I’ll keep in touch.”
It seemed like the right thing to say, but they both knew he wouldn’t likely follow through.
Sandy said her last good-bye and went next door to drop off the key to the newest family in the Old Fourth Ward. Minutes later, she reappeared and rushed to her car. She tooted the horn at Barlowe one last time as she drove away.
He watched the car until it moved out of sight.
He picked up a box and walked across the street. Standing on the front porch of Mr. Smith’s old house, which was now his new house, Barlowe looked around. Oddly, he thought about his old girlfriend, Nell. Wherever she was, he hoped she was happy. He wasn’t mad at her anymore. He figured maybe he owed her a thank-you note, for lighting a fire under his butt.
He felt at peace with himself now. With Louise he was learning how to live.
He pulled out a key and opened the door to his new house. Before go
ing inside, he peered across the street. The movers, now done unloading, headed toward their truck.
Barlowe’s new neighbor appeared on the front porch, carrying something draped across his arms. It was a big old flag. He carefully unfurled it and spread it across the banisters, so that the stars and bars faced the street. The man went back inside and shut the door.
Barlowe looked at the flag and glanced up at the sky, maybe searching for a sign of the God that Sandy had mentioned a few minutes ago. There was a single cloud above, shaped like a big, gray carrot. He studied the cloud. He watched it for a long moment, until a bird came into view. It was a lone pigeon, flying high and away from there, its red tag fluttering in the wind.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to the following: Faith Childs, my literary agent, who really got it from the start; Barbara Vance, my lecture agent, who recommended Faith; Malaika Adero at Atria, whose editorial guidance was both judicious and patient; Adrienne Ingrum (the feedback was timely); John Paine, who provided a fresh, incisive eye in the final lap; eternal gratitude, always, to my main man, Jeff Frank, who encouraged me in the beginning.
Thanks also to the people who inspired thoughts and ideas, whether they knew it or not: Warren “Mickey” Drewery, Greg Mabry, Miss Bussey in the Old Fourth Ward, Calvin “Chip” Roberts, Wendell “Cooder” Johnson, Harun Black, Dr. Leslie Harris (thanks for the support), Sharon Shahid, Larry Copeland, Linda Pulley.
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