Them (15 page)

Barlowe went slack-jawed. After a moment, he collected himself. He slammed the door and cleared his throat. “Ahem.”

Tyrone opened one eye. “Oh, maann!” Now both eyes opened. He shoved the woman aside. She swung around, startled, then turned away. She yanked her panties from the floor and used them to hide her face.

Tyrone rose and strained to clear his head. “Unk! Oh, man! I ain't know you was comin home!”

Barlowe's face pinched tight. “Ty. You promised to respect the house.”

Tyrone sat up straight, struggling to gather himself. “Unk. This here is my, er, friend…She came over to see my, ah, pigeons.”

The woman kept her face averted, refusing to turn around. She didn't have to. Barlowe knew those Coke-bottle hips anywhere: It was Lucretia Wiggins, in all her naked glory.

Barlowe stood there a long moment, staring in disbelief. Then he realized he'd been watching too long. Once again, he cleared his throat, which was dry as parchment paper.

“Ty. I tell you what. I'm gonna make a run. I'll be back in fifteen minutes…Clean up the place, okay?”

“Okay, Unk…” Tyrone hurriedly gathered the sofa pillows, which had been tossed to the floor. “Hey, man, I'm
real
sorry. I swear, I ain't know you was comin home.”

“We'll talk later.” The tone was blunt.

Now Lucretia turned and stared at him. Her lips curled, like maybe she was annoyed about being interrupted.

Barlowe left and slammed the door. His heart pounding, he went to his car.
Now what?

He needed to get away, to catch his breath. He drove around and stopped at the Caribbean restaurant on Auburn Avenue. Inside, he grabbed a table in the far corner. He ordered a soft drink and stared blankly out the window, thinking.

He and Tyrone would have to have another talk, about house rules and goals and things like that. Barlowe told himself that he might need to remind Tyrone about agreements they made when he first moved in.

Tyrone had been living with him for three years now, ever since he got out of prison. After serving his second bid for assault, he'd gone up for parole, twice, and been denied. Tyrone probably would have been turned down a third time if his people hadn't stepped in to help him out. Parole board members refused to release him without firm guarantees that he could meet two conditions: First, he would have to leave Milledgeville—the police chief didn't want him there. Next, he would have to be released into the custody of a relative. Since Barlowe was the only family member to leave home and remain in Georgia, their people appealed to him for help. “He family.” They said it like all of a sudden the word meant so much more to them.

Tyrone appealed to Barlowe, too, in rambling, five- and ten-page letters, sent from the joint. He wrote about the confidence he'd gained from learning an electrical trade. He swore to the high heavens that he had changed for good this time. “I'm family,” he'd said, begging Barlowe to take him in. “I'm family.”

Barlowe consented, reluctantly, to take in Tyrone until he found work and established himself. It was risky, but what choice was there? He was family.

Except for a few petty aggravations, things had worked out all right with Tyrone, at least enough for his uncle to let him extend the stay. Besides, Barlowe needed help with the rent. Most times, Tyrone could be counted on to come up with his half, even when he wasn't working regular. As long as he paid his share there was no real reason not to let him stay.

So Tyrone stayed. They rotated cooking and washing dishes and, as much as could reasonably be expected of two single men, kept the house presentable. Things between them were going well, until this business with Lucretia.

Now a flash of jealousy surged through Barlowe. He downed a few drinks and left. When he got home, Tyrone and Lucretia were nowhere in sight. On the way through the living room, he stopped and stared at the couch. In his mind's eye he saw Lucretia again. She was
stacked,
just like he'd imagined; firm hips spread smooth as butter on toasted bread.

The shape of her body, the texture of her skin, reminded him of someone he preferred not to think about. Almost against his will, he recalled the time he lived with Nell. It was a luscious memory, until he got to the part when she kicked him out…

H
e could tell by the way Nell sounded that day that it wasn't a birdcall. Lying in bed, still groggy-eyed, he suspected something was up when she summoned him from the safety of the living room. It was a Saturday morning, when her son, Boo, was awake, instead of late at night, when the boy would be sound asleep. And it wasn't the singsong birdcall voice this time. It was the flat, almost hostile tone reserved for white folks trying to sell you something you don't
ever
want to buy.

Barlowe got up and stumbled out in his boxer shorts, stubbing a toe on a toy along the way. When he reached the living room, Nell sent Boo outside to play. Then she sat down, lit a cigarette and looked at him.

“I need some space, Barlowe. I need to think about some thangs.”

“Space?”

She gazed at him, incredulous, like the question was a prime example of The Problem.

“Yeah, space. You know. Time. Alone.”

As usual, they tried to talk things over. As always, it ended in frustration.

“I'm sorry, Barlowe,” she said, finally. “You cain't have the milk without the cow.”

You cain't have the milk without the cow
. He had heard her say that so many times it was starting to sound like some kind of Buddhist chant.
You cain't have the milk without the cow
.

Barlowe raked a hand through his nappy head and went to the fridge and popped a beer.

“I'm sorry you feel that way, Nell.”

Nell took a long, labored drag on the cigarette. “I'm sorry, too.” She assured him she knew he was a good man at heart. But in matters pertaining to women, she said, he still had some distance to cover.

Barlowe got up slowly and went to the bedroom to get dressed. On the way out, he stopped in the living room and took in her face. Nell was pretty in a natural way, without all the manicures and facials, which of course she got for free. She had a mustard-colored silk scarf wrapped around her head. He could see the hair pulled back tight underneath.

“I'll come back later to get the rest a my things.”

“Okay.” That was all she said. “Okay.”

Nell said good-bye, and Barlowe left. It was the first time she fired him.

 

Barlowe drove to Atlanta from Nell's place in Clayton County. He bought his lottery tickets and stopped off at a newspaper stand, then headed downtown to Mitchell Street. Along the way, he passed clusters of homeless people curled up spoon-like in knots along sidewalks and in the entranceways of department stores. He stopped at a bar where he hung out sometimes. The bar was officially closed, but the front door was ajar. There were two workers inside, cleaning up, preparing to open in the afternoon. One, a tall, reedy man with a vicious overbite and bulging eyes, swept the floor. He took short, slow strokes with the broom like he intended to stretch out the chore for the rest of the day.

The bartender, a man called Roach, was busy taking upturned chairs down from the tables. Roach was a big bruiser with amateur jailhouse tattoos splattered on his fat forearms.

“Wrong place, my man,” Roach said, when Barlowe's frame filled the doorway. “Waffle House over on Riverdale Road.”

Barlowe took a few steps inside. “Roach, I need to squat a minute and work through some things.”

Roach saw the confusion in Barlowe's eyes. He had seen that brand of confusion many times before, and even in his own mirror once.

“Tell ya what,” he said in a gravelly voice. “I cain't sell you no likker this early, but you can come in and squat and think for free.”

His newspaper tucked under one arm, Barlowe shuffled to a stool down at the far end, near the men's bathroom. He relived the exchange with Nell.

You cain't have the milk without the cow.

Being thrown out like that had brought back harsh memories of the time he was kicked out of school. The school thing still ate at him sometimes, even after all these years. And although he had done okay for himself since then, he felt sometimes like a man walking around with a big hole in his chest.

Nell.

As he sat at the bar with his legs crossed, he reminded himself that he had to move forward. Nell was now in the past. And right now the present posed a very real challenge that demanded his full attention: He was homeless—a half-step from the men he'd just seen lying on the sidewalks.

He spread the newspaper across the top of the bar and began studying the classifieds. He studied hard, the sluggish
swish, swish, swish
of the worker's broom the only sound cutting through the quiet in the room.

Meanwhile, Roach finished with the chairs, went behind the counter and began arranging glasses and bottles a certain way. He worked in silence awhile, then made his way down to the other end, close to where Barlowe sat. He leaned over and whispered, though there was nobody around to overhear.

“She got ya by the short hairs, huh?”

Barlowe kept his eyes fixed on the newspaper. “Worse than that, Roach. She put me out.”

Roach nodded knowingly and left him alone. He went down to the other end of the bar and started pulling big bottles of liquor from boxes set on the floor. Minutes later, he returned.

“I had a li'l gal did that to me once. Was knock-kneed and slew-footed. Knock-kneed and slew-footed, and still had the goddamned nerve to throw me out.” Roach shook his huge head. “Women. Know what I said to myself after that?”

Barlowe looked at him but didn't answer.

“I said, ‘Gawd bless the chile…'”

The big man left again and returned a minute later. He set a shot of scotch in front of Barlowe and walked away.

Barlowe drank and scanned the paper for apartment rentals. It occurred to him that each listing on that page carried the promise of a different fate. On the less complicated side of things, he knew what he needed. He needed a place close to the print shop downtown, where he worked. His old car couldn't stand another year of long commutes.

And considering the pathetic state of his bank account, he needed a place where the rent was cheap.

He zeroed in on an obscure ad that, in its sheer economy, suggested it might offer what he was looking for:

Classic house for rent: Affordable!!!

Historic in-town neighborhood.

Later, he checked into a fleabag motel. He stretched out on the sunken mattress and listened to the muffled moans floating through the walls of the room next door. Then he drifted off to sleep, half-thinking he'd wake up in the morning beside Nell.

The next day, Barlowe pulled into the neighborhood and crept along, reading mailbox numbers. He found the address listed in the newspaper: 1024 Randolph Street.

He parked and glanced at the house. It looked nothing like the description in the ad. A one-story frame, it appeared to lean slightly to one side, like it was being propped up by two-by-fours. The gutters drooped, and paint peeled from the siding.

He scanned the lane. As streets went it seemed like a fairly lively place. There was a rowdy card game going on in the front yard of the house next door. A rap tune blared the standard bitch-ho anthem from somewhere a few doors down.

Not a good sign for starters,
thought Barlowe.
Maybe I should look somewhere else.

After what he had been through—being kicked out of Nell's apartment, with no forewarning at all—he craved a quiet sanctuary, someplace where he could hear himself think.

He did a broad sweep of the surrounding area. There was a grocery store across the way. A sign out front announced it was the Auburn Avenue Mini-Mart. Several men lounged in chairs outside. A stray dog strutted past, moving casually down the center of the sidewalk, as though headed somewhere important.

Barlowe got out of the car and leaned in to get the classifieds. He turned around and nearly bumped a tall, gaunt man standing there. The man stood so close Barlowe could name the brand of whiskey on his breath.

“Brudderman. Can you hep me out? I jes need somethin to eat.”

What kinda neighborhood is this, where a man can't turn his back without somebody creepin up?

“Brudderman.”

Before Barlowe could dig in his pocket for change, a gray car pulled up to the curb. A white man sprang out. The man rushed up to him.

“You the feller called yesterday?”

“Yeah. This place still for rent?”

“Yep.” The man extended a hand. “I'm Crawford. William Crawford.”

Crawford pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, which seemed to be sweating for no reason. Then he noticed the beggar standing there.

“Go! Go on way from here!”

Crawford steered Barlowe toward the rental property, looking him up and down.

From the walkway the house appeared empty inside. As they stepped through the front door a dark shadow dashed out back. Feet tramped loudly off the porch, and the kitchen door was left flung wide open.

Crawford pretended not to notice the commotion.

They stepped further inside and were greeted by a potbellied cockroach strolling across the floor. It moved at a leisurely pace, stopping midway to rest a bit. Crawford took two quick steps forward and kicked it, hard. The roach slammed against the baseboard and pretended to lapse into a coma.

“Lemme tell you,” Crawford said, wiping his sweaty forehead again. “You called right on time, cause there's a lady wants this place, bad.”

Barlowe ignored the hard sell, his thoughts drifting back and forth between now and yesterday. He wondered what Nell was doing. He wondered if she'd met someone.

He noticed the house carried a strong odor. “Whas that smell?”

“Oh, probably just a little mildew from the rain. Sprinkle some charcoal around here and it'll take it right away.”

They toured the rooms and soon pegged the source of the fumes. Set in a corner of the back bedroom was a fresh pile of, well, shit. Human shit, to be exact, a full bowel movement, no more than a few minutes old.

Crawford mumbled. “Damn bums…Don't worry. We'll take care of that.”

Strike three
:
A man startin fresh needs to be able to sleep peaceably at night without fear of strangers walkin in.

The tour ended in the kitchen. Barlowe opened the icebox and the door collapsed onto a single hinge.

“I can fix that,” Crawford offered. “No problem. No problem at all.”

Barlowe peered through the rear kitchen window. The backyard looked like it was used for cattle grazing.

Now Crawford checked his watch, like he had somewhere vital to be.

“Well, son, whatcha think?”

Barlowe walked a few steps away, still inspecting. He thought he should look around at other places. There was still plenty of daylight left. He turned and looked at the front door, thinking again about Nell.
Maybe I should call. Maybe she changed her mind
.

“Tell you what.” Crawford appeared nervous, jittery. “You seem like a nice young man. Give me one month's rent, and I'll forgo the deposit for now.”

Barlowe pondered.

“Give me half a month right now—one hundred fifty—and we can square the rest later.”

Barlowe weighed the second proposition, considering the classifieds in his hand. Three hundred a month seemed about as good a deal as you could get for a house standing on its own.

He looked at Crawford. “I'll take it.”

Even as he uttered the words, he wondered if he was making a mistake.

Crawford whipped out a one-year lease from nowhere and produced a shiny key. He got the lease signed, took the man's check and hurried off.

Barlowe drifted back to the living room, where the cockroach had resumed its stroll. He wasn't sure why, but he suddenly felt gripped by panic, flooded with doubts. The whole place felt creepy.

He hated being wishy-washy, but he decided to tell Crawford he'd changed his mind. He would go back to that mangy motel and take more time to think things through.

He rushed to the door and looked outside, in both directions up and down the street. Crawford had disappeared—vanished into thin air, it seemed, without even driving off.

Barlowe sighed.
Now
what had he gotten himself into?

Of course, he had no idea—he couldn't have known. He had cast his lot in a quaint, struggling neighborhood called the Old Fourth Ward.