Them (27 page)

The black folks' hands shot straight up in the air.

Barron nodded to the secretary, who recorded the count.

Then, speaking louder, he called for a show of hands from those in favor of his proposal.

Jake Waxman, his blue eyes raging, stood and interrupted. He had been sitting quietly off to the side, and against a wall.

“Wait. I think there's a huge misunderstanding here. Let's talk some more before taking action.”

One of the deacons shot back at him: “There ain't no misunderstandin. There ain't none a-tall.”

Jake appeared startled, stung by the hostility directed at him. He started to respond, then shrank back, dejected. Without saying anything more, he got up and left the building, followed by a frustrated Eric Harper.

The remaining whites raised their hands, signaling they supported Barron's plan. They voted eagerly—all except Sandy, who rested her hands, palms down, in her lap.

Barlowe watched closely, waiting, as she scanned the room. The others also waited to see what she would do. After a long moment, Barron stepped close to her and leaned over, like he thought she might have fallen ill.

“Ma'am. Did you hear what I just said?”

Sandy glanced toward the blacks in back. Her lips quivered, but no words came out.

“Ma'am?”

She turned and studied the whites nearby. Their eyes scolded her.

“Please, ma'am. We
must
move forward.” Barron turned pleadingly to Sean, whose face shone red as a Christmas bow.

Sean elbowed Sandy. She ignored him. He nudged her again.

Finally, she spoke so softly the folks in back could barely hear.

“I, I abstain.”

Greg Barron looked again at Sean, then back at his wife. “As you wish, ma'am. As you wish.”

Barron consulted the secretary on the count, then announced to the crowd: “The ayes have a clear majority. The security proposal will go forward.”

Barlowe sat there, lost, speechless. He looked to the preacher for some kind of response. The preacher remained silent a long moment, staring in wonderment. Then he turned to Barron and curled his lips.

“Boy, you got the devil in you, sho as I'm bone.”

Barron cleared his throat. “Sir, I really wish you would refrain from personal attacks. I mean, we
do
have a system in place here.”

Pickering nodded and glared at Barron. “Gwon and do what you wont wit yo
system
.”

He rose and strutted from the room.

The deacons looked at each other and hunched their shoulders, unsure if he had left for good or simply gone to take a bathroom break.

Barlowe waited for the preacher's return, all the while thinking that now he knew: They needed the reverend. Now he knew. They needed him more than ever.

When several minutes passed and the preacher had not come back, one of the deacons went to check on his whereabouts. He returned and whispered into another deacon's ear. They gathered their papers and left the room.

Soon, other blacks got up and followed, one by one: Mr. Smith and his wife, Zelda; Marvetta and Miss Carol Lilly; Clarence; even Lula Simmons rushed out in a huff.

Wendell Mabry walked through the doorway, mumbling something about taking the matter to the parking lot.

Barron kept quiet. After Wendell left, he nodded, triumphant: “That settles it. My proposal stands.”

Now Barlowe remained as the only black in the room. He still held out hope that the preacher would return. Finally, he stood and stared, incredulous, at the white people, whose faces looked to him like big cotton balls lined neatly across several rows. He casually pushed down a pant leg riding up one of his calves. He took his time gathering himself, then headed, as though sleepwalking, for the door.

He reached the front of the room, stopped and aimed an accusing finger: “This is
wrong
! Ever single one a you know is wrong!”

The whites stared at their hands or pretended to study their meeting agendas or counted ridges in the ceiling.

On the way out, Barlowe's eyes met Sandy's for a flicker of a moment. She looked at him and lowered her gaze to the floor.

T
he Cafe Latte held its grand opening on a Saturday morning. The boys shuffled over from the rooming house to see what had become of the place they once knew as the Auburn Avenue Mini-Mart. For months, the men had been curious to know what all the racket and construction noise was about. Now they would see for themselves.

They strolled up the walk and stopped about five feet from the front entrance, noting some of the changes outdoors. There was a newly paved patio area, with lounge chairs and tables scattered about, to create the feel of a sidewalk cafe. On each side of the front entrance were huge shrubs, set in large, decorative flowerpots.

People—mostly friends of the new owner, come to lend their support—milled around outside. A woman with spiked pink hair and black hip-huggers floated through the crowd. Body piercing ran from her navel up to the bottom of a slinky black blouse. The woman stood talking to a man dressed in a jacket and pants, also black. The back of his head looked like a porcupine.

Ely gawked at the woman, fascinated by the silver stud that flicked from her tongue.

When the boys neared, she stopped talking and stared. Her companion spotted the elders, too, and took a few steps in their direction.

“Hi. Can we help you?”

“No,” said Amos. “I don't think so.”

The man pointed toward the front door. “The owner's inside.” He chuckled. “It's the creepy dude with the weird goatee.”

“Preciate that.” Amos turned and walked away, trailed by his two partners. Once inside, they all scanned the room.

“Looka here, looka here. Much to-do bout nothin.”

The grocery store had been gutted inside and redone in somebody's idea of a funky motif. The new place was sparsely furnished, with wooden chairs and tables scattered about. Up front there was an L-shaped counter, encased in glass. Behind the glass were cakes, pastries and muffins on display. Off to the side, against a wall, another counter was filled with napkins, straws, sugar and special coffee spices.

The place was filled with
them
; not a single soul the boys knew by name. The men took their places off to the side and along a wall while people milled around, chatting and sipping drinks with foam running from the top. The faint sound of jazzman Jimmy Smith drifted in from overhead.

The men scanned a big menu written in chalk on a huge blackboard suspended from the ceiling.

“Pitiful,” Ely said, grimly shaking his head. “A whole buncha fancy words for the same ol thang.”

It amazed the boys to see the transformation of a place that once seemed so permanent. Already, the mini-mart seemed a distant memory, a figment of their cloudy imaginations. The day would come, the men suspected, when no one would know it had ever been.

Eventually, a young man with sun-bleached dreadlocks came over, smiling. He extended a hand.

“Hi. My name is Jonathan. I'm the owner here.”

“Hi,” said Willie. The two others nodded silent, subdued hellos.

Jonathan sported a thick mustache and a dense but narrow blond goatee. He had the look of an old-time Trotskyite. An apron wrapped around his waist, he wore a plaid shirt and blue jeans underneath.

Jonathan appeared to be about thirty-two, which Amos later said pissed him off. He handed out menus, printed on laminated paper.

“I'll be right back. If there's anything I can help you with, lemme know?”

He smiled and sauntered off.

Amos studied the menu and turned up his nose: latte; mocha; espresso; steamers; frappe; cappuccino.

“Chai? What the gotdamn hell is chai?”

Jonathan returned, his face still plastered with a stupid grin.

“Can I get you boys anything?”

The men looked at each other. They had grown so close they sometimes registered the same thoughts, and at the exact same time:
Boys? Boys? What can this boy get us in a place like this? A place that ain't got no soda crackers and sardines stuffed along the aisles; a place that ain't got no beer and wine in the back; no Vienna sausages on aisle two, or pig ear sandwiches, sold up front
.

What can this boy get for us?

“No,” said Amos, speaking in a proper tone reserved for whites. “We won't be havin nothin taday.”

He handed the
boy
his menu back.

“Fine,” said Jonathan, cheerily. “You're welcome to stay and look around.”

He smiled, struggling to work through an awkward moment.

“You boys live in the neighborhood?”

“Yeah,” said Ely. “How bout you?” He hadn't seen the white boy around, but you could never be too sure these days.

“No,” said Jonathan. “I live in Virginia-Highland, but I may be moving over here. This neighborhood is really cool.”

Is cool all right, you li'l sumbitch
. That was what the “boys” thought—all at once.

Just then, Barlowe walked through the doors. The elders were happy to see another dark, familiar face. When he came over, the young proprietor smiled and extended a hand.

“Hi, my name is Jonathan. I'm the owner here.”

“Good to meet you.” Barlowe looked around.

“You live out here?”

“Yeah. Across the street.”

“In the yellow house?”

“Right. The yellow house is
mine
.”

“Cool.” Jonathan smiled. “Hey, can I get you anything?”

“I'll have a cappuccino blast.”

The boys were impressed that Barlowe didn't stumble over his tongue trying to pronounce the name of that fancy drink. Jonathan hurried off to the counter and shouted the order to a worker.

When he was gone, Willie turned to Barlowe and twisted his mouth sideways, to make sure no white folks read his lips.

“Whatever happened to a plain ol cup a coffee? Know what I mean?”

“This
is
coffee, stupid,” said Amos. He leaned close to Barlowe. “You can tell he ain't never been nowhere.”

Willie aimed an index finger. “I bet I been more places than
you
.”

While the two men argued, a green-haired couple strolled past. They, too, were dressed in Goth black from head to toe. They eyed the cluster of black men and flashed tight-lipped smiles, then went outdoors.

“I done seen enough a Halloween,” said Ely. “Les get outta here.”

The boys said good-bye and left Barlowe standing there. On the way out, they passed a young white man coming in. He also had a Trotskyite goatee. He wore a black beret and dark sunshades that covered half his face. He sported two earrings in each ear and carried a computer bag.

He waved at Jonathan and headed to a corner table, where he sat down and plugged in his computer. He looked comfortable, like he had come to that place at the same time every day for the past twenty years.

Jonathan brought Barlowe his drink. When Barlowe reached for his wallet, the owner held up a forbidding hand.

“No. No. It's on me, dude. I'm glad to be meeting new folks from the neighborhood.”

Jonathan zipped to the counter and turned up the volume on a Coltrane number. He closed his eyes and bobbed his head.

Barlowe watched as more whites showed up and mingled easily around the room. They seemed friendly enough. Still, he felt uneasy, out of place.

“Well,” he said to Jonathan. “I guess I better go.”

Just as he turned to leave, Sandy Gilmore bounced in. She waved cheerily and smiled, approaching the two men.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” said the proprietor, extending a hand. “My name is Jonathan. I'm the owner.”

“I'm
so
glad you're here.” Sandy looked around with an approving smile. “This place is great. It's really nice. Isn't this great, Barlowe?”

“Yeah,” Barlowe said, dryly. “Great.”

Jonathan peered at the two, surprised they knew each other. He frowned, without really meaning to frown.

“I gotta check on the customers. Lemme know if you have any questions.”

“No, stay here a minute,” said Sandy. “I wanna talk to you. I'm gonna get a latte. I'll be right back.”

“No, I'll get it. Stay put.” Jonathan rushed off to place the order.

When he'd gone, Sandy and Barlowe stood silently. He was ready to leave. He didn't feel much like talking to her.

“This is gonna be good for the neighborhood,” Sandy observed. “This is great.”

“You said that already,” Barlowe snarled. “You said it. Is great.”

Sandy recoiled. “Whoa! Somebody's in a funky mood.”

Jonathan returned with her drink and instantly picked up the tension flowing between those two. Bad energy. Bad energy made him uneasy. He rushed off again, pretending to be pulled away by duty.

“I'm gonna head on home,” said Barlowe. He took a few steps toward the door.

Sandy followed. “You don't look so well. Is everything okay?”

“I'm good. Got things to do, thas all.”

“I'll walk with you if you give me a minute. This drink's too full. I wanna sip it down some before it spills.”

Barlowe stepped just outside the door. Sandy stopped directly in front of him. He leaned back a bit, to create more space.

“I like the way they've produced this patio feel,” she said, panning the area outside.

Barlowe said nothing. It occurred to him that this was the first time they'd talked in any place other than their backyards. Now they were out in the open, out in public, and he was aware.

“You seem to have a lot on your mind,” said Sandy. “You wanna talk?”

“No, I'm fine.”

He was trying to recall if she'd ever stood so close to him before. Then it struck him. It was the fence. He had grown used to talking to her through the fence.

“C'mon, what's the matter, Barlowe?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then caught sight of Miss Carol Lilly. She came waddling up, clutching a shiny pocketbook. She was coming to see the new place, too.

On her way up the walk, she gave Sandy a cold once-over. For reasons that weren't completely clear to him, Barlowe hoped she'd join the conversation.

“Hi, Miss Carol Lilly.”

She nodded. Only it wasn't a hello nod. It was a nod that said she knew what time it was. A nod that said she had caught him, red-handed, and now she knew. He went
that
way.

Barlowe looked into Miss Carol Lilly's eyes, then climbed into her head and peeked around. He didn't like what he saw.

She brushed past Barlowe and Sandy and went inside. She reappeared five minutes later and brushed past them again.

“Humph!”

She hurried off. As she made her way up the sidewalk, Sandy smiled. “She seems like a nice old lady.”

Barlowe grew more agitated. “Whas up with you, anyway?”

Sandy frowned. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, whas up with all the cheer? You come in here singin bout how great this place is, and you don't even unnerstand.”

“What is it I don't understand?”

“Is crazy,” said Barlowe. He took a step away from her. “Is crazy.”

“What are you talking about? What don't I understand?”

He looked at her, shaking his head. “Where do you get these ideas from, anyway?”

“What ideas? You're not being clear. You're not being articulate at all today.”

“Forget it.”

“No, tell me.” She grabbed his arm. “What don't I understand?”

Barlowe pushed her hand away. “Somethin ain't workin, lady. Somethin ain't workin.”

Customers, lounging around, stopped talking and looked their way. Sandy seemed oblivious to the stares.

“Oh, I get it,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I know. It's the civic league meeting, isn't it?”

He didn't respond.

“That's what's bothering you, isn't it?”

She could tell from his facial expression that she was right. It was the first time they'd seen each other since the meeting.

Now standing on the patio of the Cafe Latte, Barlowe recalled the session. He remembered the sunken look in her eyes, and the disgust returned all over again. He wanted to get away from her. He turned to leave. She grabbed his arm once more.

“Wait a minute. Tell me what's the matter.”

He stopped. “You don't even know what happened.”

“So that's what you think, huh? You think I didn't see?”