Them (8 page)

T
he closing on the house at 1022 Randolph Street took place on neutral ground. It was held in the conference room of a real estate lawyer's office, down on Peachtree Street. The attorney, a short, jowly man in a dull gray suit, was there with his secretary, who was already glancing impatiently at her watch.

Flanked by her selling agent, Hattie Phillips showed up at the closing dressed in her Sunday best—white gloves, a shiny blue dress and matching heels, with little fake diamonds sprinkled at the toe. Her head was crowned with a bold, bright blue hat, feathered and furred all around.

The Gilmores were much more casually dressed, in blue jeans and sneakers. They looked like they'd run out to pick up bread from the grocery store.

Joe Folkes, his usual dapper self, sat with his long legs crossed and monogrammed pen ready.

The parties took seats on opposite sides of the table and tried not to look adversarial. They all smiled politely, nodded and, as much as possible, avoided eye contact. The attorney handed the parties a thick packet of closing documents and launched the process in earnest with formal introductions around the table. Amid the introductions, Hattie Phillips turned to acknowledge Sandy Gilmore, eye-to-eye, which was only fitting with so much money changing hands.

Sandy blinked hard when their eyes met. A flash, a memory forced her to look away. The old black woman before her bore an eerie likeness to the longtime family maid, Ethel Fields. Ethel was the only true superwoman Sandy had ever known. Ethel had been there proudly looking on when Sandy took her first baby steps. Ethel taught her to ride a two-wheel bike and pulled her first shaky tooth. She rocked her to sleep on countless nights when Sandy's parents were out socializing.

It seemed Ethel had always been there. And while she nurse-maided Sandy and her older brother, Jared, she somehow managed to raise her own five children, and later, took in a stranded grandchild or two.

Sandy had always wondered what became of Ethel. She was haunted by her likeness everywhere. In college she saw Ethel in the faces of the old black women who cleaned the toilets in her dorm; she saw Ethel in the sassy school cafeteria cooks who stood in the serving lines in crisp white uniforms and black hairnets. She saw sleepy-eyed likenesses of Ethel on early mornings, peering from bus stop shelters in the drizzling rain, waiting to be whisked to crosstown jobs.

Now Sandy saw her sitting across the table in white gloves, preparing to sign over the only house she'd ever owned.

A flood of memories gushed through Sandy's head:

 

Returning home with her mother from a shopping spree…

 

Sandy figured Ethel must have been close to fifty, though she looked much younger. Ethel was an attractive woman, especially when she wore her hair pulled back tight against her face. She had skin the color of chestnut, and dark, alert eyes, set above full lips that required no coloring at all.

 

A can of furniture spray, a woman's shoe and a crumpled dust cloth, strewn curiously across the living room floor…

 

The resemblance to Hattie Phillips was so strong Sandy could hardly concentrate when the attorney referenced the closing documents for their review. “I'm going to ask each of you to take a minute to read over the contents on page eight. As you can see…”

 

Ethel had been there when they left home. Now she was nowhere to be found…

 

The words on the pages of the legal document in front of Sandy faded into one big blur.

“As you'll notice,” the lawyer was saying, “the property's boundaries are specified on page seventeen. According to the original deed, the property…”

Sean nudged Sandy to see if she understood the point about the property boundaries. She ignored him. She couldn't focus.

 

“Mom, where's Ethel?”

Her mother's response was one of practiced calm. With pursed lips, she steeled herself as she had often done through the years when confronted with damning evidence of her husband's sloppy indiscretions.

A week later, Ethel was quietly let go, dismissed. Just like that, she disappeared…

 

The lawyer droned on, but Sandy didn't hear. She was upset now, all over again. She pushed her chair back from the conference room table and stood up straight.

“I…”

The lawyer stopped in midsentence. All eyes shifted to her.

“I…” Blood drained from her face. “I'm not sure I can go through with this.”

Suddenly, and without explanation, she stormed outside. Sean followed, trailed by a puzzled Joe Folkes. The others looked on in surprise. Moments later, Joe returned, sheepish and pale. He smiled nervously and tugged at his tie.

“I'm really sorry. My client is not feeling well. She needs a minute to collect herself.”

Hattie grunted. “Hunh.”

“I wonder,” Joe said, “if we could take a brief unscheduled break.”

Hattie grunted again, took off her gloves and plopped them on the table. She clutched her shiny pocketbook close to her chest and cut an eye at her agent. The agent, a young black man in bifocals, whispered something and patted her reassuringly on the wrist.

Outside, Sean tried to comfort his wife; he trusted he'd learn the reasons behind her outburst later. “You all right?”

“I'm fine. I need a drink of water, that's all.”

Joe Folkes, nearly sick with the thought of losing his commission, came back and tried to rally his clients. He whispered low, like he was scared the people inside the building could hear through walls.

“You can't pass this up! Trust me! It's a
steal
!”

Sandy whipped around and hissed, “Please! If you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you didn't use that word!”

She bolted to a restaurant next to the lawyer's office. She went in the ladies' room and vomited. Moments later, she returned to the front parking lot and fell into Sean's embrace.

Ethel came back to her once more:

 

“Mother, why?!”

“Shhhhhh! Sandy, you know your father's heart is not that strong. He doesn't need anything to upset him now.”

 

Yes, her father. Sandy recalled her father's dismissive response, the brash cluck of the tongue, when Sean first told him where they'd decided to move. “Well,” her father had said, gently shaking cubes in a glass of sherry, “you can kiss that investment good-bye.”

Sean held his ground. “Well, Mr. Peterson, this is not just about the money. It's something Sandy and I feel we need to try…”

Her father folded his fat arms and assumed his usual smug expression. “And just
what
is it you intend to try?”

Sean fumbled around for the right comeback. Finally, he said: “Hell, nobody even
tries
anymore!”

Sandy had been so proud of her husband in that moment. It was the first time he'd actually stood up to her father. So many times, her father had tried to make Sean feel like less than a man for failing to insulate her from the harshness of the world. This time, Sean stood up to him. She was pleasantly surprised by that.

At the closing, a half-hour passed before Sandy could bring herself to return to the conference room table. During that time, Sean reminded her of their mission, which
she
had defined: a commitment to building bridges. He also reminded her, twice, of what Joe Folkes had said about the black woman selling the place. “Remember? He said she badly needed money.”

That said, Sandy took a deep breath and went indoors. She sat down slowly and scanned the room, searching the bewildered faces until she met Hattie Phillips's stinging gaze.

“I'm very sorry. I was feeling nauseous. I needed some fresh air.”

When the documents had been reviewed, Sandy took a pen in her trembling hand and signed her name on the dotted line.

F
or Sean and Sandy, the actual move was preceded by a small army of painters, plumbers, carpenters and electricians, who stormed in to prepare the way. The workers began restoring Hattie Phillips's once-dilapidated house into a solid, well-built home. They added a new roof, replaced old pipes and fixed whatever else needed repair.

The Gilmores moved in a week after the work was done and happily began settling in. They had moved there from Forsyth County, a rural area some thirty miles north of Atlanta. They were thrilled to be stationed in the heart of a bustling city, only a five-minute drive from downtown, with quick access to the interstate. They were close to restaurants, parks, theaters and concert halls—all in short supply in rural Forsyth.

But there were trade-offs, too: In that first month, the Gilmores met none of their new neighbors. When they'd first moved to Forsyth from Philadelphia, folks paraded over, welcoming them with freshly baked cakes and cookies. Nobody came to the door this time. There were no bright smiles or “How do you dos” when they saw neighbors out and about.

During dinner one day, Sean and Sandy noted the cold reception they'd received so far. They agreed some initial distrust on the part of the locals was to be expected. So they took it upon themselves to initiate acquaintances with the people of the Old Fourth Ward. They printed flyers and stuffed them in mailboxes all along Randolph Street:

WE'RE YOUR NEW NEIGHBORS!

COME MEET AND MINGLE

WITH LEMONADE AND A SWEET!

SATURDAY 2–3:30 P.M.

1022 RANDOLPH STREET

SEE YOU THERE!

The doorbell rang at exactly 1:59. Sean answered and greeted an elderly woman, dressed to the nines, high heels and all.

“Hi!” She smiled. “My name is Lula. Lula Simmons. Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Lula had plastered on a layer of makeup thick as pancake batter. Her hair was tied back in a spinster's bun, and she wore big-framed glasses that looked like car windshields.

She stepped in and feasted her eyes on the Gilmores, their faces aglow. Lula clasped her hands together, barely able to contain herself.

“This is wonderful! Just wonderful!”

“Yes,” said Sean. His eyes darted to Sandy. “We're glad to meet you, too.” He stepped back. “Come in. Come in and make yourself comfortable.”

Lula glided past Sean and Sandy and inspected the living room. With apparent disappointment, she eyed the plain blue couch and simple scatter rugs. She'd obviously expected better from
them
.

“Well.” Sandy took in a deep breath, “We're glad you're here. Won't you have something to eat or drink?”

“Why, thank you.”

Lula floated into the dining room and scanned a table filled with light refreshments. Stepping closer, she mumbled something under her breath about “rabbit food.” She plucked a homemade oatmeal cookie from a batch and took a dainty nibble.

For the next half-hour, Sean and Sandy listened as Lula raved, a bit too much, they thought, about how happy—
thrilled
was the word she used—she was to have them in the neighborhood.

It was weird. The lady even spooked Sandy.

Speaking perfect textbook English, Lula recounted her whole life story. She was a retired elementary school principal, she said; a transplant from Washington, D.C. She moved to Atlanta after her fourth husband died. She went on like that in endless detail, even reciting the French names and peculiar habits of the various poodles she'd owned over the years.

With Lula's story complete, they small-talked—about weather, traffic, anything to fill the awkward pauses. All the while, they pretended not to notice that no one else had shown up yet.

Sandy was relieved when it ended. On the way out, Lula stopped in the doorway and clasped her wrinkled hands again.

“Let me know if there's anything I can do to help with your transition. Anything. I mean that, too.” She patted Sandy's arm, reassuringly. “And don't worry. Folks will get over it. You'll fit in just fine.”

When Lula had gone, Sean and Sandy went into the dining room and began wrapping leftover food. They worked in silence, keeping their disappointment to themselves.

For the rest of that day, they both wondered, what had they gotten themselves into? A month had passed and they hadn't exchanged so much as one hello, not even with neighbors on either side of them. On one side was an old woman. (Joe Folkes said she was in her eighties and hardly ever showed her face.) On the other side were two young, mysterious men. The Gilmores saw them come and go, but they never got a chance to say hello.

The day after the fruitless meet-and-greet, Sandy happened to peek out the kitchen window while washing dishes. She spotted Barlowe out back, unwrapping a water hose. She watched as he sprayed the patchy lawn and watered the base of the tall oak tree.

At one point, he turned around and looked her way, intuitively sensing he was being watched. Sandy dropped her gaze. A moment later, she looked up and met Barlowe's studied glare. Awkwardly, they both turned away, neither acknowledging the other.

Sitting on the front porch later that day, Sandy told Sean about the uneasy moment with their next-door neighbor. “I like our house,” she said, simply.

“Yes, me, too.”

They fell silent. Then, from out of the blue, Sean muttered, “I wonder what that old lady meant when she said, ‘Folks will get over it.'” He turned to Sandy. “You think it'll be all right?”

“I'm not worried,” she lied. “People are people. You wait. Before long, we'll make new friends and have them over from time-to-time to share a glass of chardonnay.”

From their new porch in front of their new house they played Chinese checkers, marked time and took in that gorgeous skyline view.