Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do (5 page)

6

T
HE BLUE DOOR LED ME THROUGH
a small foyer with four silver mailboxes. The unit numbers were displayed, but no names. At the top of a short flight of stairs were two apartments. The door was open to the one on the left where the Bob Marley concert was still in progress. A woman with her back to me was touching up some detail work around the big front windows with a small paintbrush and singing loudly off-key in the way I do only when I'm sure there's no chance anybody will hear my croaking.

I hesitated in the doorway, reluctant to startle and embarrass her. I was thinking that whoever named her Aretha must not have heard her sing, when she turned and saw me standing there.

“Oh! Sorry!” she said, moving to turn down the volume on the boom box in the corner of the room. “I didn't hear you come up. Are you here to look at the place?”

“Yes,” I said. “I met Mr. Hamilton downstairs. Are you Aretha?”

“One and the same,” she said. “I'm Regina,” I said, enjoying the strength of her handshake.

Aretha looked to be in her mid-twenties, tall and pleasantly round with a bright, open face. She wore her hair in a close-cropped afro with three gold hoops of diminishing size in each ear and a tiny gold nose ring. Her small, well-shaped head, delicately balanced on her long neck, gave her the air of a wild swan, serenely confident of its own beauty without taking credit for it.

“I'm just doing spot finishing,” she said. “I painted the whole place a week ago.” She looked around with justifiable pride and grinned. “I'm a better painter than I am a singer.”

She got that right. The spotless walls were a very pale gray, as were the rugs. There was a love seat covered in what appeared to be black suede, two chairs, and a small, round coffee table in the living room. Another small table and two chairs, at the far end of the room defined a dining area.

“I didn't realize it was furnished,” I said, pleasantly surprised. My plan had been to head for the nearest Aaron Rents, but this place looked like an upscale hotel.

“Do you have your own furniture?” Aretha asked, opening the front blinds, exposing the large windows on the street side of the apartment. Light flooded the already airy room.

“No,” I said. “I'm doing a project over at Morehouse, but I actually live in D.C., so this is perfect.”

On one wall there were three large black-and-white photographs ofsmiling children. Shot close, printed over-size, and hung at eye level, they were such a cheerfully alive presence that I almost expected to hear a giggle.

“The light is one of the best things about this place,” Aretha said. “I used to come up here and paint sometimes just because I was in love with the light.”

“You're an artist?” I asked, sticking my head into the small kitchen. With its own window over the sink, it was as bright and cheery as the living room.

“I'm mostly a painter, but I'm doing more photography these days.”

“Did you take these?” I indicated the smiling portraits.

“Yep. Those are my babies.”

She didn't look old enough to have that many children. My surprise must have been more obvious then I intended.

“Not my biological babies,” she said, laughing. “These are my friends' kids from home. Meet Diamante, Lil' Sonny, Daryl and Duane, they're brothers; Deena's twins, Kimmy and Karen; and this little pumpkin is my goddaughter, Mavis.”

She pointed to each little happy face in turn and rattled off their names like a good teacher introducing her class to the new vice principal. Her affection for them was obvious, and it came shining through in the photographs she had taken of each one.

“They're beautiful,” I said, meaning to praise her work.

She laughed again. “They look like angels, don't they? With their little bad asses!”

“Is there an alarm?” I asked, conscious of all those windows and a back door with no bars.

Aretha shook her head. “You won't need one. There aren't any break-ins around here.”

“What?”

She smiled like she had heard this reaction before. “There are no break-ins around here. No rapes either.”

I looked at her, and she returned my gaze as if to say,
Would you like me to repeat it?

“No rapes in Atlanta?”

“Not Atlanta,” she said, “just around here.”

“What's
around here
?”

“Here in this neighborhood,” she said. “In West End.”

“No rapes in West End?” I knew I was repeating everything she said, but that was a pretty bold statement.

She looked pleased that I was catching her drift. “Exactly.”

“Well, that's great, but—”

“Isn't it?” she said brightly. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

“How is that possible?”

“Mr. Hamilton doesn't let the men act a fool.”

“Act a fool
how
?”

She looked disappointed. “See? That's what sisters always do. I tell you the men around here don't prey on us and you start asking for the particulars.”

“I didn't mean to doubt you, it's just …”
What the hell?
Maybe it's true. “It's just wonderful.”

“I didn't mean to snap at you like that,” she said, smiling again. “I just know what Mr. Hamilton has done for this neighborhood and sometimes people don't get it.”

“How is he as a landlord?” I said, nudging us back into more neutral ground.

She grinned. “The best.”

Down the short hallway, the smaller oftwo bedrooms was also done in shades of gray and was refreshingly empty, almost like a monk's room might be. No clutter anywhere. There was a double bed in one corner, a small dresser, and one straight-back chair. The only homey touch was an antique quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

“No pictures in here?”

She shook her head. “We keep this room plain. Mr. Hamilton says sometimes when you're away from home, it's good to have a place to sleep that doesn't impose itself on your dreams.”

I liked the idea and the room immediately. Camping out here for a while would be a pleasure, not a sacrifice.

“Are you an artist?”

“No,” I said. “Why?”

The young mother pointed out the man on the ladder to her child and the man, feeling their eyes on him, waved at the child, who waved back with his free hand and turned to smile at his mother for bringing to his attention such an amazing sight as a man on a stepladder, cheerfully scooping debris from his gutters on a bright, almost spring morning. From where I watched, I could see his mother smile back and shift the groceries to a more comfortable position without breaking stride.

It begins with you
, Beth always tells her audience.
A boy who is going to see himself standing on the world stage must first see the world through his mother's eyes. If that world is defined by bad drugs, bad men, and a complete absence of joy, that is what your son will think the world is made of because that is what he learned from you!

I turned to find Aretha watching me. I had only one more question. “Why did you paint the door downstairs blue?”

She grinned. “I heard it's considered good luck in some North African countries to paint your front door that color. Sometimes, people put their kids' handprints in the design as additional protection against the evil eye, but Mr. Hamilton wasn't crazy about the hand thing, so I just left it plain.”

“I think this place will do just fine,” I said. “I think I'll take it.”

Her smile lit up her whole face, and I was aware again of how unself-consciously beautiful she was. “Welcome to the building,” she said, and shook my hand again as we headed toward the door.

“Do you live here, too?”

“Right downstairs.”

It hadn't occurred to me, but that only increased the apartment's overall desirability. Another interesting woman on the premises is always a plus.

“Thanks for showing me the place.”

“No problem.”

As I started down the stairs, I glanced at the door across the hall from mine. “Who lives there?”

“That's Mr. Hamilton's place,” Aretha said. “Didn't he tell you?”

7

T
HE
W
EST
E
ND
N
EWS
M
ADE
a great first impression. Well-stocked and well-lit, the place was browser friendly with comfortable chairs scattered around, making it easy to linger and enjoy the smell of fresh coffee in the air. Behind the small counter an old man in black pants, pressed so often they were shiny, and a big white apron was fiddling with a gleaming cappuccino machine. He nodded pleasantly in my direction as a young man reading the
South China Morning Post
waited patiently for his midmorning caffeine.

I started toward him to ask if Blue Hamilton was around when a tall, thickly built man came toward me.

“Ms. Burns?” His voice was a low rumble, but he smiled pleasantly.

“That's me,” I said. “I'm looking for Mr. Hamilton.”

“He's expecting you. Would you follow me, please?”

He sounded like an usher, but he sure didn't look like one. Though his wide shoulders were minimized by the careful cut of his expensive suit, he was a big guy.
Bodyguard big.
Maybe he was one of the ways my landlord kept the men from acting a fool. He looked like a pretty powerful deterrent to me.

My guide led me to the back of the store, through neat rows of magazine racks and newspapers that seemed to be arranged alphabetically by country of origin. Down a short hallway, he opened another door with a frostedglass window, and the space suddenly opened out into what looked like an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor, without the Ben & Jerry's. There were three tables with four chairs apiece spaced a discreet distance apart, as if to allow for multiple confidential conversations.

Blue Hamilton was standing beside the one in the middle. He was wearing a beautiful black silk suit, a blindingly white shirt, and a tastefully understated tie. He smiled and came forward to greet me as soon as I stepped into the room, and I found that having already experienced his amazing eyes earlier did not mean I was ready for them this time. In the movies, anybody with those eyes would have been either an alien, or possessed, or both. If he was trying to make sure I didn't miss him this lifetime around, he had sure taken care of that problem.

“Ms. Burns,” he said, “welcome. Please have a seat.” He pulled out a chair for me with old-fashioned courtliness at the table where he had been drinking espresso and reading the
New York Times
. The tiny twist of lemon peel was still curled on the saucer under the dainty demitasse cup. The tall man stood waiting for further instructions.

“Can I offer you a cup of espresso?” Mr. Hamilton asked, his voice working those
s
's. “Cappuccino?”

“Cappuccino would be great,” I said, looking around a little.

The floor was covered in those little white octagonal tiles trimmed in black that are always cool to the touch, no matter how hot it gets outside. The walls were bare, except for six large framed photographs of smiling children. I recognized Aretha's work. The tops ofthe tables were pale pink marble. The tall man glided out the door and left us alone.

“I'd like to take the apartment,” I said.

He nodded like he wasn't the least bit surprised, reached into his inside breast pocket, and pulled out two keys.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said, handing them across the table.

“Thank you,” I said, but I didn't move to pick them up, a little flustered at how fast everything was moving. “But you haven't even told me what the rent is yet.”

“A hundred dollars a month,” he said casually. “No deposit, no advance.”

“You can get a lot more than a hundred dollars a month for that apartment,” I said, instantly wary. “Why are you willing to let me have it so cheap?”

“I'm not in it for the money.”

“What are you in it for?”

Before he could answer, the tall man returned with a steaming cappuccino for me and another espresso for his boss. Mr. Hamilton waited until he glided back out before responding to my question.

“I'm a businessman, Ms. Burns. I own a lot of real estate, but the building you saw today is my home. It's the first place I bought when I came off the road for good, so it means a lot to me. I usually don't rent it out at all.”

“Then why make an exception for me?” I pressed him a little. The universe said I can't be ungrateful. It didn't say I'm not supposed to be careful.

“Would you be more comfortable if I said a thousand dollars a month?”

A thousand dollars a month?
That wouldn't leave me enough to pay the weasel! “I can't pay a thousand dollars a month!”

He grinned at me. “So have we agreed you're going to take the place and now we're just haggling about the rent?”

Why was I trying to talk him out of renting me the place I wanted? Whether or not he had been searching the winds of time for me like Aunt Abbie seemed to think, this was no time to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“You're right.” I smiled. “The place is perfect for me. Can we start again?”

“Of course.”

He extended his hand. “Ms. Burns, I'm Blue Hamilton. I understand you're interested in one of my properties over on Lawton Street. Is that right?”

He fell so easily into the charade that I couldn't help grinning.

“I'm not paying over three hundred,” I said, pulling a figure out of the air, but knowing that a hundred dollars a month would make me feel beholden, and I didn't know him well enough yet to want to owe him.

“You're in luck,” he said. “That unit rents for two fifty.”

“You've got a deal.”

“Do you want it in writing?”

“Your handshake's good enough for me,” I said.

“I want to assure you,” he said as we shook hands again, “that you will be completely safe coming and going at your convenience.”

“You have that kind of control over crime in this neighborhood, do you?” I said, smiling pleasantly so he wouldn't take it the wrong way.

He smiled back. “I would never offer space to someone whose safety I couldn't guarantee.”

This was truly a scene out of
The Godfather
. All this brother needed was a consigliere waiting outside the door with a list of people requesting an audience, I thought, as the tall man's shadow appeared in the window of the frosted-glass door. He knocked softly and stuck his head in. Mr. Hamilton nodded almost imperceptibly, and the man withdrew without speaking.

“Is tomorrow too soon to move in?” I asked, conscious ofnot keeping him from his duties, whatever they might be.

“Tomorrow is fine.”

He didn't seem to be worried about time, but we had finished our business and our coffees. It was time for me to head back to my hotel. This had been a long day, and I was meeting Beth at her house for breakfast at seven thirty in the morning. I stood up.

“I don't want to keep you,” I said, getting up to go. “How hard is it to get a cab out front?”

Blue stood up immediately. “Not impossible, but I'm on my way downtown. Can I drop you somewhere?”

“I'm staying at Paschal's over on Northside Drive,” I said.

Paschal's Motel is an Atlanta institution, legendary for their famous fried chicken and for their frequent feeding ofbroke civil rights workers during the sixties as a way to support the movement without ruffling anybody's feathers. They had recently moved to an expanded facility and I wondered suddenly if Paschal's was in the
no men acting a fool zone
that Aretha had been talking about.

“Paschal's is right on the way,” he said, reaching for his coat on a hook near the door.

We climbed into the back of the black Lincoln for the ten-minute ride, and, in the dim confines of the car, his eyes glowed like sapphires. I wonder how long it takes to get used to having a friend with eyes like that. Not that we're friends, but if we were, could I sit beside him and not notice those eyes? I mean, don't Shaquille O'Neal's friends eventually get used to how tall he is?

“You're quite a negotiator,” he said. “You're not a lawyer, are you?”

“I'm a journalist.”

He raised his eyebrows slightly like he might want to reconsider renting me a place after all.

“I'm working as a consultant to a project at Morehouse,” I said quickly. “They're naming a building after Son Davis, and they need some help pulling it all together.”

“He deserves it.”

“Did you know him?”

“I respected his work.”

“That's nice to hear,” I said. “We were friends.”

“Then he's lucky.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you can be sure they tell his story the way he'd want it to be told.”

Spoken like a man who didn't know Beth Davis. The way
she
wants it to be told.

“That's my job,” I said.

Paschal's was coming up on the right. I congratulated myself for not commenting on his eyes, or falling into them, during the brief ride.

“I do appreciate the lift, Mr. Hamilton,” I said.

“My pleasure, and please call me Blue.” He smiled.

I smiled back.
“Blue.”

The Lincoln glided to a stop in front of the hotel, and the driver stepped out to get the door.

“I'll be out of town on a fishing trip for the next couple of days,” he said, “but Aretha always knows where to reach me. I hope you will feel free to contact me if I can be of any assistance.”

“You're going fishing dressed like that?” I said, sliding toward the open door.

“Always,” he said, with another slow smile. “Let's the fish know I mean business.”