Them (17 page)

B
arlowe slipped on a cap and went to the back porch, preparing to work in the yard. Locked in the cage behind him, one of the pigeons cooed mildly, then sidestepped its way across the horizontal bar. It bumped into another bird. Wings fluttered wildly as conflict ensued over the infringement of space.

Space. Conflict. The Old Fourth Ward.

Barlowe went into the yard, leaving the pigeons to work out their differences. He plundered the toolshed and pulled out a rake and garbage bags. Hands on hips, he surveyed the yard. It seemed almost naked back there, exposed with the big oak gone. More light filtered through now, leaving less shade protection from the glaring sun.

He slipped on gardening gloves and went to work. Lately, he'd begun to take yard work more seriously. Members of the Beautification Committee, Miss Carol Lilly insisted, should set a good example. Besides, Barlowe reminded himself, if all went according to plans, he would one day own this house. Which meant he should beautify the land surrounding it.

Barlowe was fairly good at gardening. It was a carryover from the farming he'd done growing up. So he began to go outdoors more often on days like this, days when the skies were clear and the sun was bright enough to make a farmer's son smile and remember the gritty feel of the soil and the salty smell of skin moistened by sweat dripping from the brow. He thought of his daddy in Milledgeville. His daddy who could outwork a Georgia mule. His daddy used to love days like this.

Barlowe piddled around, potting plants and gathering pine needles to freshen flower beds. The needles had fallen like snowflakes, especially on the property next door, where most of the pine trees stood. In past years, when Hattie Phillips owned the house, her tenants gladly let Barlowe collect pine needles. It was one less maintenance worry for them.

White people lived there now. Barlowe wouldn't dare ask them for pine straw, and especially not after what Tyrone had done. From now on, Barlowe would have to make do with the pine needles that fell in his yard.

He busied himself, raking pine straw into neat little piles, sometimes stopping to transfer portions to flower beds around front. After several trips back and forth, he bent down low to scoop the last clump of a pile. He had shifted to another bale, when a voice called out from across the way.

“Why do you hate us?”

It was a woman's voice. It came from behind, just over his shoulder. He turned around and saw his neighbor, the white woman, standing there. With one swift sweep of the eye, he gave her the up and down. She appeared to be his age, maybe older. You never could be too sure with
them
. She wore blue jeans and a shirt. Her arms were folded tightly against her chest, like she was cold. She looked a bit out of sorts, nervous, like she was unsure why she was standing there.

Barlowe leaned on his rake and stared at her. “Nobody hates you, lady.”

Sandy took a few steps forward, stopping at an imaginary boundary to her yard. “It would be hard to prove that by my husband and me. We move here thinking we've found the ideal place to live, and he gets attacked by the next-door neighbor.”

Yes,
Barlowe thought.
The husband
. He had met her husband at the mailbox once. The exchange had been a short, awkward one. He could sense the man's uneasiness with him. Now here was his wife giving it a turn.

Sandy stepped a few feet closer. “In all the hysteria over the tree, I never got a chance to introduce myself. My name is Sandy. Sandy Gilmore.” She extended a hand.

Barlowe nodded hello, then clenched his rake, signaling he had work to do.

“I wanna thank you,” said Sandy, “for what you did for Sean. I still don't know what got into your housemate. But if you hadn't shown up when you did, I think he really would have done some serious harm.”

“Thas my nephew,” Barlowe said, by way of correction. “He's real protective of his birds.”

He wondered,
Why hadn't they called the cops?
For hours after the incident he and Tyrone waited anxiously for the policeman's rap at the door, maybe followed by an arrest warrant and assault charges. They had even tried to estimate how much Barlowe would have to post for bail.

But no one came.

Sandy seemed to sense Barlowe's need to understand.

“Sean and I discussed the whole thing later, and we agreed that you were right about something you said. As a courtesy we should have let you know that we planned to chop down that big oak tree, even if it was on our property.”

Barlowe said nothing.

“Anyway. Enough about that,” said Sandy. “So. Are you an Atlanta native?”

“I'm from a small town not too far from here.”

“We're from Philadelphia. We came here a few years ago.”

Barlowe made no attempt to keep the conversation going.

“So.” She zeroed in. “You didn't answer my question.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Why do you hate us?”

“I toldja. Nobody hates you.”

Sandy folded her arms again across her chest. “Well, what is it then, around here, this
attitude
toward us?”

He began raking. He didn't care to talk to her. He bent down to collect another pile of pine needles.

Sandy appeared unfazed by the contempt, which seemed to ooze from his pores. “Well?” She stood there, clearly prepared to wait for an answer, however long it took.

They both kept quiet for a long while. Finally, Barlowe said, “Maybe is what you
do
that people round here don't like so much.”

Sandy felt a sudden surge of anger coming on. “And exactly what do we
do
?”

He glared but kept quiet.

A wry smile from her. “I know. ‘There goes the neighborhood.' Right?”

“Yeah. ‘There goes the neighborhood.'”

“How can you say such a thing? You don't even
know
us.”

“Oh, we
know
you.” He nodded. “We know you.”

“What does that mean?”

He waved, dismissive.

“How do you know me? Huh? How are you capable of knowing me? This is the first time we've even talked.”

She was pissed now. He could see it, and he resented that. What right did
she
have to be pissed about anything?

He waved her off again, signaling he didn't want to talk. He dropped his rake and went indoors.

 

Knock, knock, knock.

Barlowe appeared in the doorway with a damp dish towel in his hand, wondering why the visitor didn't ring the bell. There was a white man standing there, with a woman, about an inch taller, hovering behind.

“Excuse me. Are you the owner?”

Barlowe clenched his teeth. “Can I help you?”

Slack-jawed and doofus-looking, the man glanced at his companion, then back at Barlowe.

“We've been admiring your house, and we thought we'd stop by to ask if we could see it inside.”

“No,” said Barlowe, wiping his hands on the towel. “No.”

The woman chimed in. “Are you planning to sell anytime soon? Because if you are, we—”

Barlowe slammed the door and returned to the kitchen. Tyrone stood at the counter making an egg sandwich. He leaned against the counter.

“I don't blieve it.”

“Believe what?” asked Barlowe.

“Them same whities come by here a week ago, axin a whole buncha gotdamn questions. I tole em we was rentin.” He took a bite from the sandwich. “Cain't blieve they right back agin.”

Barlowe hung the dish towel on the refrigerator door and regarded Tyrone with some surprise. “You talked to em before?”

“Yeah. They kept axin questions till I tole em don't ax me nothin else. I ran em off.”

“Recently?”

“Bout a week ago.”

“You told em we were rentin?”

“Yeah, they was axin all kinda questions bout how much we paid for the house, and stuff like that. I tole em they axin the wrong people, and don't be axin us, cause we don't know.”

He took another big bite from the sandwich.

Barlowe sighed. “Ty.”

“Yo?”

“From now on, do me a favor.”

“Whut?”

“When folks come to the door, don't answer. If you do answer, tell em they need to talk to
me
. Okay?”

Tyrone seemed surprised. “Whasa matter? What I do?”

“Nothin. Jus don't give out information bout this house.”

Tyrone sucked his teeth in frustration. “Aight. Aight. Next time they come through, I'll just run they ass on out.”

“Whatever. Jus don't talk to em.”

“Okay, man. Don't get mad at me. I dint know.” He polished off the rest of the sandwich and lingered in the kitchen a moment.

“Hey, Unk.”

“What?”

“You still pissed off cause a what happened with that white dude nex doe?”

“Naw.”

“You sho?”

Barlowe didn't respond.

“He got off real lucky,” said Tyrone. “If you hadna come back there I was gonna eat im for lunch. He was bout to be barbecued.”

“Then I'm glad I showed up,” said Barlowe.

Tyrone shook his head. “You gettin soft on me, Unk. You cain't be gettin soft on me. We country boys from Milledgeville.”

He went to his room, came out a few minutes later and left the house.

Barlowe went outdoors to work in the yard. When he stepped out there, he heard loud rap music. He couldn't tell where it was coming from.

He dropped the rake and went out front. He could hear the music clearer now. He crossed the street and went up the walk. Two doors up from Miss Carol Lilly's place, he stopped at a wood frame house with a short, wooden fence out front. He went in the gate and up six stairs and spotted Jacoby Mott, along with three of his high school friends. Lounging in flimsy wicker chairs, the boys were stretched out on the porch.

Jacoby lived with his mama and older sister. He could be a good boy when he wanted, but he was a boy just the same.

When Barlowe approached the porch, Jacoby and the three boys jumped, startled. The music was so loud they hadn't heard him come through the gate. One of the boys, a buck-toothed kid with hair done up in looping braids, held something shiny in his hands. He quickly stuffed it under his shirt when he saw Barlowe's face.

“Jacoby.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Barlowe?” Jacoby looked nervous, guilty.

“Your mama home?”

“No, sir. She and my sister went to the stoe.”

“You think everybody out here wanna hear this cussin music blastin up and down the street?”

“No, sir.”

“Don't you think you oughta turn it down?”

Jacoby got mad about being talked to like that in front of his friends. He wanted to sass Barlowe, maybe talk back a little to save face. But something about Barlowe, the sturdy, hard-bodied frame and the quiet fierceness in his eyes, let him know he'd best not try. So Jacoby jumped up and rushed in the house. He turned down the music and returned to the porch.

“Thanks, Jacoby.”

“Yes, sir.”

Barlowe went back across the street. He rounded the corner of the house and saw Sandy in her yard, working. It had been several days since they first talked. He looked at her and started toward the shed. She came directly over and confronted him, not bothering to say hello.

“I wanna say something about a comment you made the other day.”

He picked up a tool and began raking an area near his foot, on ground he'd already combed.

Sandy moved two steps closer. “You questioned our motives for moving here. I think you may have made some wrong assumptions. For all you know, we may have actually come here to help.”

No response from him.

“Look. I can't speak for everybody moving here; I can only tell you, there is no ill intent on the part of my husband and me.”

Barlowe shrugged. “However it starts out, lady, the endin's the same.”

“You don't understand,” said Sandy. “We—my husband and me—hate what we see happening to this country…I mean, that man in Texas who was dragged to death some years back…That was awful. There's still lots of work to be done.”

He nodded. “I see…”

“What is it you see, Mr.—I still don't know your name.”

“The name is Barlowe. Barlowe Reed.”