Them (29 page)

B
arlowe lay in bed after an evening of long, vigorous lovemaking. Louise had fallen asleep beside him. He stared, engrossed, at her TV, which broadcasted bad news, conflict, from around the globe. There was That War going on, half a world away. He watched the latest dispatch and listened with the volume down low: There had been another bombing. More people killed.

On the TV screen, the camera panned to dusty, battered, clay-baked buildings, reduced to smoldering ashes. Clusters of people with contorted faces anguished over the loss of more lives––over the loss of their way of life––as they collected mangled bodies and rushed them to hospitals and morgues.

Standing amid the chaos, a news reporter interviewed a man described as “a high-ranking U.S. official.” Dressed in a tie, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, the high-ranking U.S. official assured the reporter, over and over, that Americans were there to liberate.

The camera then cut to a man standing on the crowded street. Bearded and scruffy, the man, arms flailing, pointed to scattered fires raging here and there, a result of the bombs dropped to liberate.

Over and over, the man shouted, in clipped English: “The Americans are occupiers! The Americans are occupiers!”

Occupiers.

Barlowe turned off the TV and went back to sleep.

 

The morning light filtered in through the second-floor window on Ormond Drive and splashed across Barlowe's groggy face. A bird landed on the sill, chirping and fluttering its wings, shaking off icy water from an early bath.

Barlowe gazed past the bird and stared dreamily at the winter sky. It was a Sunday. The morning had come and he felt the kind of contentment a man feels when he's had a good meal and retired to the easy chair to digest his food and rest himself.

Earlier that morning, he had watched through bleary eyes as Louise got up from bed, slid into a sheer black nightgown and left the room. Now he could hear her moving around downstairs. Now there were pots and pans clanging; there was the whiff of bacon wafting in the air and the faint sound of a small kitchen radio playing Mississippi blues.

Barlowe lay in bed, thinking. He felt pretty good about the moment, and even better about the woman downstairs. There was no real reason not to trust the goodness of what he felt. Still, he sensed himself holding back a little.

Something struck him as odd. He had been seeing Louise steadily for several months now and, so far, there was nothing wrong. How could there be a real relationship with nothing wrong? Surely there had to be demons prowling around somewhere behind her dimpled smile. Everybody had demons, didn't they?

So what were Louise's demons? When would they come out and expose themselves?

It seemed almost a law of nature that if she had demons Barlowe wouldn't find out until late in the game, when it counted most. He wouldn't likely find out until after they had gotten married and maybe had their second child. Then demons might appear. He might stumble up on a lifelong gambling habit she couldn't break, or struggles with anger management or a private addiction to prescription drugs.

Everybody had demons, didn't they?

Maybe not. Maybe Barlowe's ship had finally come in. Maybe Louise was one of the few people in the world passed over by demons. Maybe there were demons haunting
him
.

He suspected what might be nagging him: He didn't trust life to turn out right.
Could well be
, he thought, turning over on his side.
Could well be
.

“Barlowe!” Louise called from the bottom of the stairs. “Breakfast ready!”

He rolled again onto his back and lifted his head. “All right!”

He climbed out of bed and hobbled to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He now had his own toothbrush there. It hung on a silver rack, beside hers. She had given it to him one weekend, without a big ceremony or commitment speech. When he came back the next week, he found the toothbrush still there, resting in the same slot where he'd left it. She hadn't taken it down to hide from anybody.

He gazed at himself in the mirror. Did he really think there might be somebody else sniffing around? Not really. Then he remembered Nell. Nell proved you never can claim to know anything for sure. She proved things can up and disappear.

Still…

“Barlowe, c'mon! The biscuits are gettin cold!”

He washed up good, went downstairs and took a seat at a small kitchen table. Wearing fuzzy slippers, Louise stood at the stove with her back to him, putting the finishing touches on breakfast.

“I got you somethin here that'll stick to your stomach.”

“Good, baby. I'm hongry.”

He studied her there in that sheer nightgown. It was sleeveless, and it fell down to the middle of her thighs. He could see through that gown to the contours of her body. Hers wasn't the shape of a nightclub dancer, but she was sexy just the same.

Barlowe picked up the morning newspaper from the day before, which Louise had left on the table. He liked sitting at her table. Just beyond it there was a sliding glass door with two long windowpanes that offered a bright, clear view outside. He looked out to the small backyard, which rose into a steep, tree-lined grassy knoll. Beyond the knoll was an apartment complex, and a basketball court across the way. Barlowe could hear a ball bouncing. He could see teenagers playing out there. Some ran up and down the court, passing, shooting, jumping, while others stood on the sidelines, shivering in the cold. The morning frost had begun to fade, but he could tell from the way they shivered that it would be a while before the temperature climbed.

Watching the boys it occurred to him that he'd give almost anything to be that carefree again. He'd love to have nothing more weighing on his head than choosing sides for a pickup game.

He shifted his sights back and forth between the teenagers and lovely Louise, standing at the stove in her sheer black nightgown, preparing a breakfast of biscuits and eggs and fried potatoes.

He liked Louise a lot. She had been to college, but she wasn't caught up in the glitz and glitter of such things. She was down-to-earth, wise and calm, even when she was upset. In fact, she was one of the purest spirits he'd ever seen in a woman not married to the church.

As she'd told him on their first date, Louise sprang from a family of simple rural folks. Barlowe actually went home with her once to meet her people, and even went with the family to Sunday service. The family church was so small you could talk across the room without raising your voice. Most of the people there were Louise's kin, and many looked alike. High foreheads and a reddish-brown-to-dark skin tone that testified to blacks and Indians crossing paths.

Sitting in the church service, Barlowe felt the stirrings of something warm and natural. After the visit, he was glad he had gone. It solidified his sense of who she was.

Louise wasn't perfect, whatever that meant. Barlowe was too old now to be concerned with perfect. Still, it somehow bothered him that he couldn't pinpoint some character flaw that proved she was a real live human being.

In their months of dating there was only one habit he could count as anything even close to a vice: coffee. The woman was crazy about coffee. Two cups in the morning were a given. Another cup during the day, a need.

And not just that: Louise was a high-end coffee lover. She drank the gourmet stuff, which required special trips to special coffee stores. She had an expensive, high-powered coffeemaker that percolated like it ran on diesel fuel. She used amaretto and French vanilla dairy creamers, and instead of plain white coffee filters, she preferred the special unbleached brown.

It wasn't just the utensils that brought the obsession through. It was the look in Louise's eyes when she handled coffee. It was the look of the addict measuring drugs.

As vices went, that was about it, about all he could find that might remotely be considered a flaw in Louise Grimes: coffee.

So why did doubt still swirl in his head?

He suspected it was this: The relationship had come too easy. Nothing worthwhile had ever come easy to him. Things that came easy tended to disappear. Like his mama: There one day, sure as the sun; gone the next, like a snowflake melted from the heat of that same reliable sun. His mama's death, which came suddenly when he was a young man, had been enough to make him question whether there was anything in life a body could count as real.

Looking at Louise now, he told himself that he'd be a fool to pass on what he saw.

For her part, Louise trusted what she felt inside. It freed her to fully embrace the time they spent together. When she first met him, she had been in the throes of a relationship drought that had surely gone on longer than God intended. So she was convinced that the romance with Barlowe was a blessing to be savored.

Unlike some of those slick mirages she had suffered in the past, he was an honest, face-value kind of man; worldly wise and tough as nails, yet possessed of a raw innocence, a vulnerability that appealed to her.

Whenever he told her how much he appreciated her, she knew she could believe every word. She had waited two lifetimes to experience this kind of trust. She had no intention of tainting it with fear.

Standing at the stove, she acknowledged that, sure, there were some rough edges to Barlowe Reed. But it was mostly cosmetic stuff, nothing a good barber and manicurist couldn't make disappear.

The bottom line was, he was decent, and she liked him a lot. If forced to frame it in words, she might even have to call it love.

Now she took some biscuits out of the oven. Barlowe got up and went over to help, piling potatoes on her plate. She grabbed his hand. “No, no, no. Too much. What you tryin to do?”

“Eat,” he said, smiling. “I'm hongry. I want you to eat with me.”

She shot him a suspicious, playful look. “I know what you want. You want me to blow up to two hundred pounds.”

“Not hardly.”

“Yes you do. You wanna fatten me up like a big, old hog, then you'll leave me for some trim young thing in a blonde wig and spike heels.”

“The heels maybe, but not the wig.” He slipped his arms around her waist, thinking again about the trip to Waycross. “I'd wont you, even if you were two hundred pounds.”

He cupped her face in his rough, ink-stained hands. Her smile stretched all the way across her face, like it had been drawn by a child with crayon on construction paper.

Barlowe tapped her bottom and returned to the table. Louise set his plate down in front of him. They sat there and ate and read the day-old paper, every now and then breaking off to chat about some news item they ran across.

Once, after they had been there awhile, Barlowe looked up at Louise and then scanned the room. At that moment he felt settled, more fully in touch with what life could be. He thought,
Maybe this is it. Maybe she can show me how to live
.

He sat there quiet for a long time. The newspaper was spread wide open, but he wasn't reading anymore.

Finally, Louise broke the silence. “Where do you stand with the house these days?”

He didn't answer.

“You got the down payment money now?”

She had shown him on paper how to save more, and faster, by banking his dollars instead of playing the lottery.

“I'm savin,” he said. “I'm savin.”

He thought of Crawford. Tyrone also crossed his mind. Tyrone wasn't working, yet he'd come home one day and handed Barlowe $300, cash, out of the blue. He didn't tell him where he got it and Barlowe was half-scared to ask.

Tyrone seemed to be avoiding him these days. Barlowe knew he was spending more time gambling down at the Purple Palace. Not good. Barlowe intended to talk with his nephew about that.

He considered his own job at the print shop. Some days he felt tired and unsure how long he could last.

Louise broke the silence, as if she'd read the flow of his thoughts.

“I'm here for you, Barlowe. I'm here, no matter what.” She placed a hand gently on top of his wrist and gave him a reassuring pat.

“Thanks,” he said, simply.
Trust it,
he told himself. Somehow he knew now: It was safe to let the barriers down. He looked into Louise's eyes, then reached over and kissed her once.

After breakfast, they went back upstairs and made love some more.

H
ours later, Barlowe and Louise lay side by side staring up at the ceiling. She asked him again about the house.

“You in or out?”

“I'm in.”

“Oh? Last time we talked about it you said you were out.”

“Yeah, well I changed my mind.”

“Oh?”

He had told her about the civic league meeting, about how Reverend Pickering walked out and didn't come back. Some time had passed since then, but it still weighed heavy on him.

“Sometimes you gotta stay and fight,” he said.

“And what are you fightin for?”

He looked at her strangely.

“There's a difference between fighting and just raising hell. You gotta know the difference, Barlowe.”

He stared at Louise, looking straight through her. He didn't know what to say, so he got dressed. He put on his clothes and left for home.

When he reached the house, he looked at the spot where he had found Viola's body. Often when he pulled up to the curb, he thought of her. He recalled her frail body lying there that night, stiff as wood. He thought of how he had touched her skin, and remembered how cold and still it was.

He thought about it again. Viola was dead and buried. He had seen her passing through his yard so many times, and yet she had been a stranger to him. The world was filled with strangers, people working and living close together, with no real sense of who their neighbors were.

A vague sadness swept over him.

He started toward the house, then turned and stopped. He heard loud talking coming from somewhere up the street. He looked north and saw a police cruiser parked crooked with one wheel angled on the curb. There was a commotion, and people dashing toward the car.

He rushed up the street to see what was going on. He came upon two cops standing there. One policeman held Ricky Brown jacked up against the squad car. Ricky stood bent over with his chest pinned against the hood. His wrists were handcuffed behind him. A few feet away, his grocery cart lay on its side, with all his precious junk spilled on the ground.

By the time Barlowe got there, a crowd of spectators had begun to form. In a few minutes, more folks were drawn to the scene. They began grumbling among themselves as the cops prepared to shove Ricky into the car.

One man with wavy hair shouted out to the policemen, “What you arrestin im for?”

The cop, a short, stocky black man, warned him off. “Go on, now. Lemme do my work!”

Nobody obeyed. Instead, more people showed up and began shouting at the cops. “What you doin to im? Let im go!”

“He was out here pokin through these people's garbage.” As he spoke, the lawman nodded toward the house in front of them. Barlowe recognized it as one of the new white families' homes.

“Leave im alone!” The demand came from another man standing a few feet back, in the middle of the swelling crowd. “He don't bother nobody! Leave im alone!”

“Mind your bidness,” the cop barked. He glanced at his younger partner, who unsnapped his billy club.

More people gathered. Mr. Smith came out, as did bug-eyed Randy from down the street. Amos and Willie and Ely eventually heard the commotion and showed up, too. They all looked at Ricky, then stared at the cops, wondering what to do.

His face still pinned to the top of the hood, Ricky strained to peer up at the crowd. His eyes were wide, terrified, like a scared bird. He seemed confused, stunned that so much fuss swirled around him.

Wendell Mabry appeared, a toothpick dangling from his mouth. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd. When somebody told him what happened, Wendell pointed the toothpick at the policemen.

“That man weren't doin nothin but collectin trash! Once people throw trash in the garbage it mean they don't want it no mo!”

“This is
private
garbage,” the lawman barked. “It belong to the people who live here. Now move on!”

Standing near Wendell, one woman hissed, “Trash is
public
, fool! We can tell that by lookin at
you
!”

The cop glanced at his rookie partner. Barlowe could see him thinking, maybe going through the police procedure manual in his head.

People came from out of the woodwork now—from out of their houses or from up the street; some folks passed in cars and doubled back.

Miss Carol Lilly waddled down from her front yard. When she saw Barlowe, she rolled her eyes.

Another man heckled the cops. “Gotdamned Uncle Toms! Out chere protectin white folks' trash!”

The complaint seemed to incite the crowd. Somebody else shouted: “Need to have they asses whupped!”

The idea caught on like a new dance. Two men behind Barlowe whispered. “Rush em fore they grab they guns.”

“Look at em! Need to have they asses whupped!”

The white people whose trash was being disputed stayed indoors. They kneeled at their living room windows, peeping through half-closed blinds. People could see them clearly from the street.

Barlowe stood there, taking in the scene, wondering what to do. As a member of the public safety committee, this was his first real crisis. He wondered where he fit into things.

“Move on!” one cop ordered. His partner got on the radio.

Nobody moved. Instead, the shouts continued, now turning into bitter taunts: “You go to hell!”

“Out chere guardin white folks' trash!”

“Need to have they asses whupped!”

Barlowe felt that strange sensation—that tightness in his chest—coming on again. He grew light-headed.

“I done seen it all!” one man near him yelled. “Arrestin somebody for collectin trash!”

“Need to have they asses whupped!”

As the crowd swelled, the younger cop rested a hand on his gun. He looked nervous, agitated.

Henny Penn and some of the boys from around the Purple Palace drifted down. Barlowe wondered how many guns were in that bunch. Other young men and teenagers stood there glaring hatefully at the cops. They were hyped, primed for action.

Another squad car rolled in suddenly and came to a screeching halt. Three more policemen bailed out.

The sight of more cops incited people even more.

“Look at em. Rollin up in here like we sposed to get scared!”

“Need to have they asses whupped!”

Somebody behind Barlowe broke a bottle against the curb and held the jagged edges high. “Let em come!”

Another bottle shattered. “Yeah! Come on!”

Up front, Wendell fussed with one of the cops, still pointing the toothpick in his face.

Barlowe recognized one of the men who'd gotten out of the squad car. It was the precinct captain. He had spoken to him once at a public safety meeting.

Tall and top-heavy muscular, the captain stood erect and faced the crowd. He drew a billy club in one hand and tapped it into the other open palm like he planned to crack some skulls. He scanned the crowd.

“All right! I'm gonna tell ya
one
time! Once! Clear out from here and there won't be no trouble! Go on home and let us do our jobs!”

“Kiiiiissssss mmmyyy blaaacck aaaasssssss!”

The shout came from somewhere in back of the crowd.

“C'mon! Brang it!”

The lawman turned to his troops and nodded. Several officers advanced a few steps toward Wendell and a group of men at the front of the crowd. Barlowe stood there, tension pounding heavy in his chest. He feared what was coming. He had to do something.

He stepped forward, pushing his way in between the cops and the crowd of people edging closer. He approached the captain.

“Officer.”

The policeman stiffened. “Get back!”

“Officer, my name is Barlowe. Barlowe Reed. We met before.”

The officer looked upon him as though he were diseased. “And?”

“I'm on the public safety committee out here. Can I speak to you a minute?”

The captain kept one eye on Barlowe and the other glued to the crowd. “You wanna talk, you need to go to the precinct commander. I don't do no whole lotta talkin.”

“Officer,” said Barlowe. He pointed at Ricky. “I know this man. This man don't bother nobody. He just collects garbage round here.”

He could see Ricky, his face still pressed hard against the hood, straining to hear what was being said.

“He don't have no right to be goin through people's trash,” the captain insisted. “They don't want nobody goin through their things.”

“But officer—”

“People got a right to privacy. Thas their right. Unnerstand?”

Then Barlowe lost it. That feeling in his chest, that feeling that had been shoving itself forward for some time now, heaved up and out. Before he could think about it clear, he was talking loud—nearly yelling—arms flailing in the air.

“This is crazy! Don't you see?! Is crazy!”

The cop tried to shout him down. “Hey!”

“Is crazy! Here we are standin out here, arguin over somebody's trash! We arguin over
trash
! Hell, for all you know
we
are trash! Don't you see!?
We
are like garbage to be thrown away!”

“Move on!” said the captain. “I'm tellin you one more time.”

“
You
are garbage!” Barlowe pointed a finger in the captain's face. “You can be thrown out, too!”

The policeman took a step toward him, then stopped. The people grew quiet, watching, waiting for the certain blow to the head. The folks with broken bottles tightened their grips. Others squeezed sticks and bricks and clenched their bare fists. The people waited, but nothing happened.

Instead, the police captain remained quiet. He stood there, staring into space, thinking. After a long while, he spoke. He spoke so softly people in the back of the crowd had to strain to hear.

“All right, then. All right. Tell you what.” He looked at Ricky. “We'll let im go this time. We'll let im go.” He pointed at Barlowe. “But you tell im to stay outta these folks' trash. If we get called again, we gonna do our job. You unnerstand?”

Barlowe said nothing.

“You unnerstand? We gotta do our job.”

Barlowe didn't care for the man's tone, but that was less important now. “I understand.”

The captain turned around and went to the cop holding Ricky pressed against the car. He nodded. The officer pulled out his keys and unlocked the cuffs.

Ricky Brown stood there a moment, scared and confused. He rubbed his wrists, then turned his grocery cart upright. He gathered most of the trash that had spilled out. Without saying a word, he took off down the street. The sound of the cart's squeaky wheel pierced the tense silence on the block.

Keeping their eyes fastened to the angry crowd, the policemen backed up slowly, making sure to cover one another.

They climbed in their cars and drove away.

When they were gone, some people in the crowd cheered.

“Hot damn!”

“Toldja! Punks!”

“Uncle Toms, protectin white folks' trash!”

Wendell stopped by to give Barlowe a pat on the back. “You tole them sonsabitches good.”

Somebody spoke over his shoulder. “We shoulda whupped they ass!”

Barlowe said nothing. He stood there, quiet. The cops were gone and Ricky was free, but he didn't feel so good inside. Something tugged at him, and he had to get it off his chest.

He stepped onto a dirty milk crate that Ricky had left behind. He looked at the crowd. People gazed back at him, wondering what he would say. Folks looked like they expected some kind of victory speech.

Barlowe sensed what they wanted. It only seemed to make things worse.

“You feel good, huh? You feel like we done somethin!”

People looked at each other, surprised by the sharpness of the tone.

“Why you feel so good?” he asked. “You really think we done somethin? Huh? Well, lemme tell you what we've done! We ain't done nothin! Nothin at all! Thas what we done!
Nothin!
”

People looked at each other, then stared at Barlowe, wondering what was wrong with him.

He continued: “You ain't done nothin but make some noise! Thas whas so funny! You ain't done nothin but make noise!”

The people stared, still shocked. What was he saying, and why?

Barlowe shook his head. “We pitiful. Pathetic.” He stepped down from the crate.

There was silence. Nobody in the crowd said anything for a while. People stood there gazing at him and shrugging their shoulders as if to say, “Whas the matter with
him
?”