Them (26 page)

Nothing.

Barlowe turned her over and stared a long moment. Her wig had spilled off, and foam ran from her mouth. A layer of dirt had splattered across one side of her face.

He rushed into the house to get a flashlight. He returned outside and shined the light. He got down on his hands and knees to see if he could hear a heartbeat. None. He checked for a pulse. Now he sat up straight, rearing back.

He spoke to himself out loud: “She dead.”

 

The official cause of death was listed as liver failure, but people in the neighborhood had their own take on what killed Viola. They guessed she died of heartbreak over the mysterious disappearance of The Hawk. He hadn't been seen or heard from for some time now. After The Hawk vanished, they said, Viola's heavy drinking shifted into overdrive. Near the end, she drank so much she could hardly walk. People would find her slumped on the ground, usually somewhere in the several blocks between Davenport's house and the place she'd shared with her man for twenty years.

Viola's body remained at Hogabrook Funeral Home on Auburn Avenue for a whole week before morticians gave up trying to track down next of kin. Finally, she was given a modest city burial.

Davenport and a few of the others showed up, sober. They listened intently as some tired, baldheaded preacher recited a few kind words about a lady he had never known alive. They hung around and watched as city workers shoveled the rich, red Georgia clay onto Viola's grave.

T
he whites arrived early for the neighborhood meeting. They sat up front, arms folded and legs crossed, confident that, finally, the universe was evolving as it should. Moments before the meeting was set to start, the faithful few blacks trickled in and headed directly to the back of the room like they had been ordered there. Once seated, some slouched at the ends of aisles, looking dazed, cross, unsure of themselves.

And for good reason. A civic league election had been held the month before. A new league president was put in place. Now it was official: Power in the Old Fourth Ward had changed hands.

The shift, it seemed, had happened overnight…

 

Worried by apparent signs that they were losing ground, blacks asked the Reverend Pickering to run for the president's seat. Whites didn't have to draft a candidate. Their man, Gregory W. Barron, stepped forward and offered himself.

Before the election, most blacks in the ward had no idea who he was. Seeing the face on campaign literature, Barlowe recognized him right away as one of the men who'd approached him on the sidewalk to press the petition for the bicycle path.

On the day of the election, a blustery winter morning, neighborhood blacks mostly stayed home or eased out to buy their lotto tickets or went for groceries. Whites were still a minority in the ward, but they came out in numbers sufficient to eke out a four-vote victory margin.

Soon after the election, the local newspaper ran a story in the Sunday edition, front page, above the fold. Barlowe was one of the first people in the ward to pick up the paper that day. He rose at five, as usual; got a cup of coffee, as usual; and spread the paper across the kitchen table. He grunted, sipped and read some more, then grunted again when he reached this part:

Barlowe grunted some more, then got on the phone to Wendell Mabry. Wendell read the news story and buzzed Clarence Sykes. Clarence skimmed the article and called Miss Carol Lilly, setting off a ripple of phones ringing from house to house.

Later, the black people of the ward ventured outdoors, yoo-hooing at mailboxes and across rickety fences. They asked each other, and themselves, over and over: If the place was wilderness before
they
showed up, then what have
we
been doin here all this time? Are we, then, invisible? Are we objects, like trees that line the streets? What are we, then? What? Trees?

For weeks after the news article appeared, blacks around there referred sarcastically to each other as “nigger-trees” and called the white folks “pi-neers.” They'd say, “A few pi-neers came through here scroungin agin today,” or “I'm so sick a pi-neers I don't know what to do!”

Meanwhile, the broader view throughout the city held that the story boosted Atlanta's national image. In media interviews, Clifford Barnes, the newly elected mayor, held up the Old Fourth Ward as a shining symbol of racial harmony.

For his part, Gregory Barron welcomed every bit of the newfound acclaim. A University of Georgia boy with local roots that reached back to the Civil War, he cited the election and news article as proof that he had a real, live mandate to turn the community around. It would start this day, with his first meeting as president of the civic league…

 

Standing before the gathering in a new blue suit, Barron opened the session with a solemn reciting of the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag. (That was Barlowe's cue to go take a piss.) Then Barron launched head-on into his new agenda. He appointed whites to key positions on every civic league committee, including the one that issued the annual Green Thumb Award.

With that move, the meeting assumed the tone and tenor of a football game, with issues booted back and forth by opposing sides. They argued, sometimes vocally, but mostly in the privacy of their heads:

Why,
the blacks wondered,
do white folks have to come in takin over and changing things? Jee-sus! Who in the hell do they think they are?

Why was it too much to ask,
the whites wanted to know,
to clean up the general appearance of the Old Fourth Ward? Why can't we put a stop to those spontaneous social gatherings, where men loitered, drank and played Spades, for God's sake, slamming cards down hard on wobbly tables, cussing and yelling back and forth?

As if the rowdy card games weren't bad enough, they hosted frontyard cookouts, where folks hovered around hideous steel drums, barbecuing chicken and ribs, with thick, black smoke billowing forth.

My God!

In an effort to move the meeting forward, Barron formed a committee to study neighborhood commercial establishments. They could start, he suggested, by requiring all businesses to spruce up their premises to comply more fully with historic preservation guidelines.

That proposal drew a quick rebuke from Wendell Mabry, who yanked a dangling toothpick from his mouth. Where, he asked, would mom-and-pop store owners get money for such a thing?

In the spirit of goodwill, Barron appointed Wendell to chair a committee to research the issue. Then he steered the discussion to another money matter: the budget. How, Barron wondered aloud, could precious community dollars be better used? He gazed toward the ceiling, as though waiting for some crystal vision to drop. The people followed the direction of his eyes, straining to see what it was he thought he saw.

“I'm thinking badly needed cosmetic improvements. More street-lamps; maybe concrete pillars, placed at each entrance to the neighborhood.”

Mr. Smith cleared his throat, then stood and raised an objection. “We gotta think about the winna.”

“What?”

“The cole weatha.”

“Oh.”

“Ever year, a lotta folks round heah go sometimes thout heat cause they can't ford oil. Usually we donate some a that money to hep em out.”

“Yes,” said Barron, glancing impatiently at his watch. “Yes.”

He moved to the next agenda item, then paused again upon reflection. “Those oil heaters. Don't they create fire hazards?”

Mr. Smith scratched his head. “If you ain't careful, sometimes they catch fie. But—”

“We may want to investigate that.”

Something about the word “investigate” made blacks in the room stiffen. It stirred visions of pinstriped lawyers scouring dusty city books for ancient codes banning the things. It stirred fears of the old and the poor floating, slowly and quietly, up shit creek.

As Barron droned on in a throaty voice—he was saying something about his long-term vision now—Barlowe studied him closely. His voice carried no distinct southern inflection, though he clearly was a son of the South. Gone from that voice was the hint of humility that Barlowe recalled from the first time they met. Now the man's tone was cocky, insistent.

Barlowe's eyes remained fixed on Barron, but his thoughts shifted to Louise Grimes. He and Louise were growing much closer. He was thinking that maybe, if things didn't work out here, he could move in with her. That thought was partly inspired by the man in front of him, the man flaunting grand visions that seemed so foreign to him: “We can organize a springtime tour of homes and hoist big, colorful banners on lampposts along both sides of the streets.”

The way Barlowe figured, the thought about Louise also was tied to timing—knowing when to fight and when to quit scuffling and move on in life. The time to fight, it seemed, had come and gone.

While Barlowe sat there, wallowing in every regret he had carried since second grade, a dark shadow filled the doorway, just to the right of Greg Barron. The shadow appeared sideways at first, as if the person was talking to someone nearby. Then the shadow turned, and Barlowe could see him flush.

It was Reverend Pickering. Dressed in one of his shiny suits, he stepped into the doorway, drawing all eyes his way. Flanked by an entourage of stoop-shouldered deacons, the preacher walked in, slow and deliberate-like.

Gregory Barron stopped in mid-sentence and watched with open dread as Pickering headed toward a cluster of vacant seats. Then he collected himself and cleared his throat. The next agenda item, he announced, pacing the floor, was a plan to confront “horrendous crime.” To underscore its urgency, he directed his new secretary to hand out leaflets outlining his crime-fighting plan. According to the plan, they first would shut down houses of ill repute. Then they would attack rampant vandalism.

When he had allowed the attendants sufficient time to review his document, Barron made his pitch: “The solution is simple. We need private security patrols.”

Hearing that, Marvetta Green shot out of her seat, without waiting to be recognized. “We don't need that out here.” Her voice was tight, agitated. “We don't—”

Before she could finish, an explosion erupted from the front.

“Oh,
yes
we do!” Sean Gilmore had sprung to his feet. “We can't rely on the police! They're not dependable!”

Barlowe stared at Sean, then peered at Sandy, whose face contorted, pained. After a long, anxious moment, she tugged gently at the bottom of her husband's shirt. Sean brushed the hand away. She whispered something and tugged again. He sat down this time.

All the while, Reverend Pickering sat with his arms folded and stared down at his wingtip shoes. From time to time, he bit his bottom lip and shook his head sadly, as if admonishing the shoes,
I told you so
.

Eventually, the preacher raised a hand. When Barron recognized him, he stood and slapped the anti-crime leaflet against his knee, gazing in exaggerated disbelief.

“Tell me, son. What is
dis
?”

Barron didn't answer.

“Is dis somebody sharin they sense a humor? Tell me so I'll know when to laugh.”

Barron struggled, awkwardly at first, to rebound from the affront. Then he remembered the broken windows. He considered the street urchins. He pondered property values.

He pounded a fist into an open palm. “No, you read correctly. This is serious.”

Reverend Pickering paused with a long, angry silence that seemed to suck the air from the room. He tucked away his reading glasses and stepped further into the aisle, to give himself more room to operate.

“It's funny sittin here hearin you tawk bout crime,” he said, starting in a slow Baptist cadence. “We never knew we should feel so insecure till
you
folks tole us so.”

“Nobody said—”

The preacher cut Barron off. “We have always viewed our neighborhood as a ragtag human stew of many parts: part comical, part sad, part noble, wit some crumbs of riffraff sprinkled in.” He paused, chuckling. “But now we know better, thanks to you: Dis place is a hopeless den of iniquity, a death trap. Upstandin people should fear fo they lives.”

Hearing those words, Mr. Smith and the others in back clapped loudly. A few nodded like they were finally getting their money's worth.

Barlowe watched and listened closely, every now and then glancing up front at Sandy. She sat motionless, paying rapt attention to the preacher. She appeared baffled by his persona, and rattled by the tension in the room.

Beside her, Sean sat erect, sometimes frowning. At one point he scanned the room and met Barlowe's stare. There was a look of vague recognition, confused slightly by the sight of Barlowe away from the backyard.

Greg Barron appeared a bit shaken now, yet determined not to let the preacher hijack his meeting. He pointed at his wristwatch and cleared his throat.

“We'd love to hear all that you have to say on this matter, sir. I'm sorry, but your time is up.”

Reverend Pickering shook his head. “Oh, now you wanna invoke time.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but time is—”

“Oh, you!”

“Sir!”

“Now—”

“Sir! Sir!”

“Now this is about time!”

Barron was visibly pissed; so pissed that he began shouting: “We don't need your divisiveness in this neighborhood!”

A smile sour as buttermilk spread across the preacher's face. He scanned the room, waiting for others to acknowledge the absurdity of Barron's claim.

“So lemme make sho I got this right.”

“Sir!”

“I'm divis—”

“Sir!”

“
I'm
divisive for callin
you
divisive?” Pickering placed a hand on his forehead, feigning shock. “My Lawd! The world done turned upside down!”

Barron hunched his back like a cornered cat and pointed a finger at the preacher. “Well all right, then, sir! We can settle this! We can settle this right now by taking a vote!” He turned and addressed the gathering. “All those opposed to my proposal to hire security patrols, let me see by a show of hands.”