Them (14 page)

W
ith the meeting over, committee members mingled briefly, some chatting about the outcome of the vote. Barlowe noticed Marvetta Green preparing to leave. He took a step in her direction but was halted by a voice calling to him from across the room. It was Miss Carol Lilly. She yoo-hooed, waving him over with a flabby arm.

“I ever tell you bout my niece?”

“No, ma'am. You didn't.” He glanced toward the door, looking for Marvetta.

“Pretty gal,” crowed Miss Carol Lilly. “I want you should meet her.”

Barlowe scratched his chin, unsure what to say to that.

“My niece got meat on her bones.” Miss Carol Lilly rolled her eyes, glancing at Marvetta across the room. “And honey, that girl can
burn
! I tole her bout you one day, and she bout grinned from ear to ear.”

Barlowe suspected what brought on the sudden matchmaking interest from Miss Carol Lilly. She had spied him coming in from church one day, dressed in the only suit he owned. She'd pegged him as a nice man, and eligible, with a steady job. Now there was a bull'seye marked on his chest.

“Smiled ear to ear, huh?”

“Yeah. I want you should meet her.”

Barlowe was hornier than a cat in summer heat. Still, he wondered, what sense was there in getting tangled up with somebody blood-tied to Miss Carol Lilly? If relations flopped, it could mean trouble. And what if the niece was just like Miss Carol Lilly—heavy-breasted and full of Christian cheer?

Glancing at his watch, Barlowe told Miss Carol Lilly he'd love to hear more, some other time, but now he had to leave.

She waddled out the front door, waving good-bye.

Barlowe chitchatted with a few other committee members and tried not to seem so clearly interested in Marvetta Green. At the moment, Wendell Mabry had her hemmed up in a corner, grinning up close in her face like she was some tasty church dinner he planned to devour.

Finally, the remaining committee members shuffled toward the exit. When Marvetta got outdoors, Barlowe rushed to catch up.

“Marvetta, you walkin home?”

“Yes. You going that way?”

“Matter of fact, I am.”

They strolled and talked, mostly about the beautification drive and the neighborhood. Up ahead, Viola and The Hawk stumbled past the mini-mart.

“Thanks for helpin us out in there. We were stuck, bad. That coulda gone on for days.”

“That Carol Lilly,” said Marvetta, “is an effortless ass.”

An effortless ass
. He liked the way she put her words together.
An effortless ass
. He wished he could put words together like that.

“How'd you vote?” asked Barlowe.

“I'm not telling. How'd
you
vote?”

“I ain't tellin, neither.”

They chuckled and walked and talked some more. Strolling along, Barlowe stole a better look. Marvetta had a mod, artsy look about her, which he really liked. She wore tinted sunshades, and beyond them he saw deep-set, intelligent eyes. Unlike the librarian Rachel Worthman, Marvetta's eyes revealed light and life, and maybe even a little fire. She wore a cute gray blouse with matching shorts and a straw hat with little plastic flowers poking out. She wore sandals, and her toenails were painted bright red. She was easy on the eyes, all right. All the pieces right in place.

Barlowe told her about the house that he rented but planned to buy. She told him about her renovation project a few blocks over from where he lived. She was restoring her 1920s Queen Anne cottage.

“I just had stained glass put in the window on the stairway landing and I'm having skylights installed in my bedroom…Wanna see?”

“Sure.”

Barlowe felt a sudden rush. Just what did she want him to see? Her house? Only her house? Was she being friendly, or what?

He picked up the pace, every few steps sneaking a peek at those bright red toenails.

They reached Marvetta's place on Bradley Street. It was a long, narrow two-story house, unlike his place, which was short and squat. She had decorated her yard with flowers and put in an elegant oak door, with a stained-glass window out front.

Inside, she showed him around, gliding through the living room like a museum guide. She knew the house's history and had even collected gossip about the former owners. She explained in detail the work she'd had done, and outlined other projects she was planning to do.

Barlowe noted that Marvetta's decorating taste was much more sophisticated than Nell's. Nell had furnished her condo with lots of cheap brass and flashy chairs. But Marvetta had classic furniture, and cultured artwork lined the walls. Strolling through, Barlowe glanced at family photos and noted there were no pictures or signs of a boyfriend. She led him to her bedroom upstairs and showed him around. Seeing no lovers' photos in there, either, he guessed again that she had no man to speak of. Maybe she was separated or divorced.

He fixed his eyes on her queen-size bed. It was a tall canopy, covered with a blue comforter and lots of frilly pillows. Barlowe imagined himself stretched out there after making love. He could see himself lying on his back, his hands resting contentedly behind his head.

The room overlooked a backyard surrounded by leafy trees. The trees shielded a view of her neighbor's house, giving it a closed-in, private, courtyard feel.

“I'm gonna have large windows placed here, and a French door leading to a balcony. I wanna be able to sit out there and read the paper on weekend mornings.”

Barlowe imagined himself sitting out there reading the paper, too. “This is real nice,” he said. “Real nice.”

“Gracias.”

When they returned downstairs, he felt a mild tension surging through his thigh.

“Can I use your bathroom?”

“It's right down the hall.”

He rushed to the bathroom and closed the door. He stood there a moment, eyes closed, and took in a deep breath, trying to force excess air from his chest. He opened his eyes with the sudden awareness of where he was: inside the home of a beautiful woman; a beautiful woman who happened to live close enough for him to drop by from time to time to borrow a cup of sugar.

Marvetta was a few steps up from the young, rough-hewn women he was used to. He wondered what she thought of him. There was no real way of knowing. She was friendly, but there was no
vibe
, no yearning or energy popping from her pores.

Now he looked around. On top of the toilet was a box of pink tissue; an ornamental bowl on the counter, filled with potpourri. The door to the medicine cabinet was slightly cracked. He leaned over and peeked. On the end of the shelf nearest him, there was nail polish and hair remover.

His imagination caught fire. In his mind's eye, he could see Marvetta in this bathroom, doing very private things. He stared at the toilet and pictured her sitting there, her beautiful raw bottom, right there on that seat.

He felt closer to her now. He unzipped his pants and relieved himself. When he was done, he critiqued himself in the full-length mirror behind the door. His khaki uniform was crisp and clean, but the belt and work shoes were a bit worn. He decided he needed to do better.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps. She was headed toward the back of the house. He went into the living room, sat down and picked up
Ebony
magazine. How long had he been gone? Five minutes? Ten? How long?

Marvetta sat down across from him and crossed her legs. “Can I get you anything? Juice or tea?”

“No, thanks.” He could see light strands of hair running down her forearms. He tried to avoid staring.

“So, Mr. Barlowe.” She homed in on him. “Tell me, what has life been like for you?”

The question struck him as odd. “I ain't too sure I know how to answer that.”

“Try answering it straight.” She smiled.

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “Life is complicated. Seems like it comes at you every day.”

“Sometimes you get weekends off.”

“Sometimes. Yeah.”

“Are you from Atlanta?”

“No. Milledgeville.”

“You grew up there?”

“Yep. A country boy. And you?”

“I was born here.”

“What high school did you go to?”

“Booker T. Washington.”

He wanted to ask her age.

“When did you graduate?” asked Marvetta.

“I didn't.”

“You dropped out?”

“Leventh grade…Well, actually, they axed me to leave.”

“Why?”

“I had problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

He found her directness stimulating.

“I didn't like some a the things they tried to tell me.”

“Things like what?”

“It was like they tried to pretend the world made sense…I guess it made sense for them, but not for me…The stuff they taught…Crazy. It jus didn't make sense.”

“Like Christopher?”

“Yeah, Christopher.”

Marvetta leaned back in her seat and nodded, a knowing look spreading across her face. She waited. He paused.

“That was bad enough,” he said, “but then they tried to make me write that stuff down on paper…It was one thing to
say
it. It was another to have to write it down. It was like writing it down made it permanent. Know what I mean?”

“I see.”

He paused again, then: “After a while, I told the teacher I wouldn't write down some a that stuff, and nobody was gonna make me. So they kicked me out. Told me to come back when I was ready to learn.

“I left and never went back. Took up printing in trade school. After that, I got a job. Been workin ever since.”

He finished talking and looked at Marvetta, wondering what she was thinking. She appeared concerned.

“In hindsight, do you think that was the best way to handle that situation?”

“It was the best I knew.”

“Well.” She seemed to be searching for the right words. “You took a stand. Sometimes that can cost you.”

He wondered if it was costing him now.

They talked some more. He learned Marvetta was an engineer. She had a mother and three sisters in Brooklyn.

After a while, she glanced at her watch. “My! Time has flown!” She stood up. “I'm afraid I've gotta get ready for an engagement…Going out to dinner with friends.”

Barlowe strained to think of something to say. He felt embarrassed that he'd stayed too long. Oddly, he found himself thinking of Tyrone. What would Tyrone say right now?

“Would you like to get a bite to eat sometime?” It came out sounding awkward, rehearsed.

“What?”

“Or I could cook. I'm decent at cookin certain stuff.”

Marvetta shifted to another foot. Her body language suggested she had suffered the discomfort of the clumsy come-on before.

“Actually, my schedule is pretty intense. I'm not sure I could swing dinner anytime soon.”

“Okay, then. Maybe we can do somethin when you're free—a movie or somethin.”

“We'll see.”

She walked Barlowe to the door and said good-bye. He left. Heading down her walkway he felt lonelier than a Carolina country road.

 

On the way home, he stopped at the Auburn Avenue Mini-Mart. He greeted the boys sitting outside, then went in and browsed around. He bought his lottery tickets and a soda from Juliette James and stepped back out onto the walk. He sat down to play a few games of checkers. He couldn't get his mind off Marvetta Green.
Nice woman. Pretty, and friendly, but not my type
.

He lost three games straight, then went on home. Barlowe climbed the steps and lumbered to the door, eager to bring the day to an end. He slid the key into the hole, then suddenly froze. He thought he heard a noise. It sounded like a scream. Muffled but shrill, it seemed to come from inside the house. He leaned in, holding his head against the door, and listened again. The screaming stopped. Now there was a low, guttural moan.

His mind ran the range of possibilities. What if it was a daytime burglar? What if it was more than one? He considered dashing across to Mr. Smith's house to call the cops, but there might not be time for that. Besides, cops around there were too slow. They always took their time showing up.

He heard noise again; this time it came in short staccato bursts. He had to do something! He had to do something fast!

He took a deep breath and exhaled hard. Then, in one furious motion he turned the key and burst through the door. A spray of sunlight flooded the room and mingled with a thick cloud of reefer smoke. Instinctively, he checked to see if the stereo and TV were still in place. Then he caught something—a movement—in his peripheral view. It came from the sofa. He turned and his eyes nearly popped from the sockets. Right there on the couch was a naked woman. Tyrone was stretched out lying beneath her and on his back. His pants were pulled down to the ankles. Shirtless and smug, he lay there, eyes closed and hands resting behind his head.