Them (31 page)

M
ore and more, life in the Old Fourth Ward was not like it used to be. Among blacks, the mounting influx of whites was eventually viewed like the notion of death: a grim inevitability that was greatly feared but had to be faced. It was regarded with a certain public acceptance, reserved with private prayers that a divine miracle would let it pass on by.

For Barlowe, life there seemed a bit like a brutal storm closing in: wind pounding violently against windows and doors, trying to burst inside and impose its will.

The storm built momentum when Barlowe heard the news about Reverend Pickering. Out of the blue one day, the preacher called a special meeting of a few select people (Barlowe and Mr. Smith were not invited) to announce that he had dropped his renewed plans for a protest march.

“Not enough fire in people's bellies,” he said.

That was only half the story. Word got out that some developer made the reverend an attractive offer, which resulted in the church being sold. High-end townhomes would be built on the site.

The storm didn't subside with the preacher, though. It seemed to gather steam with a sad revelation from Mr. Smith. For several weeks, Barlowe hadn't seen much of the old man. Then one day he spotted Mr. Smith in his front yard, hammering a stake into the ground. Sweating and breathing hard, the old man's back was turned to the street. Barlowe crossed over, approached and startled him.

“What you doin, Mr. Smith?”

Mr. Smith picked up a black-and-white cardboard sign from the ground and flipped it around so Barlowe could see:

FOR SALE

BY OWNER

Barlow recalled that Mr. Smith had always said you couldn't get him away from the Old Fourth Ward without a solid pine box, sealed with lots of nails. He pointed at the sign. “Whas this?”

“What do it look like, son?” As he spoke, the old man kept his focus on his work.

“Look like you puttin your house up for sale.”

“See. All that readin you do come in handy.”

“You serous?”

“Serous as a heart attack.”

“Why?”

“Cause I'm smarter than the average cracker, thas why.”

“That ain't how it look to me. Look to me like you sellin out.”

Mr. Smith stopped hammering and glared at Barlowe. “You know better 'n that, boy.
You
, of all people, know better.”

“So what, then? What you doin?”

Mr. Smith stood up straight, sliding a hand around to rub his aching back.

“I'll tell ya if you really wanna know.”

“Yeah. I wanna know.”

The old man explained: “I was sittin in my livin room, readin the paper not too long ago, and some white folks came knockin at the doe. I answered and they axed me how much I wont for my house. I decided to run them crackers off, so I gave em a crazy price. I gave em a price nobody in they right mind would pay.

“Ya know what?”

Barlowe waited.

“They said they wonted to buy it, anyway. Rascals looked me in the eye and didn't even blink. I thought they was kiddin at first. I was gittin ready to run em off. But one a the fellas promised they was serous. I'm tellin you, he looked me dead in the eye and said he had the money. Said it like I was sposed to be blown away, like I was gonna piss my pants soon as he mentioned that much money…Know what I did?”

“What?”

“I backed off then. Tole em I was just kiddin. Tole em I planned to die ri chere in this house. Tole em me and my woman gonna stay put and die here together, matter-a-fact, and be buried under the livin room.

“Them crackers didn't even twitch. All they said was for me to let em know if I change my mind. One of em give me a fancy bidness card wit a phone number on it. I put that thang on the dresser, but later on I tawked to Zelda bout it and we got to thankin. If white folks offered us that much money for this li'l ol place thout seein the whole thang inside, then it means the house is probably worf ten times mo. Know what I mean?”

Barlowe nodded.

“So I decided to outfox them coons. I'ma put this thang on the market for a while and see how big a fish I can ketch.”

He looked off into the distance, his rheumy eyes seeming to dim a bit. “We cain't stay here noway…You seen your tax bill lately?”

Barlowe didn't answer. The tax bill went directly to Crawford.

“Me and Zelda could stay here, but it won't be long fore we start feelin a pinch. We could live real comfortable off our pensions and the money we make from sellin this house. We could move into sisted livin and play bingo twice a day.”

“Sounds temptin.”

“You bet,” the old man said, ignoring the sarcasm in Barlowe's voice.

Looking at Mr. Smith's weary face, Barlowe thought he saw the old man's will starting to bend. It made him mad.

“Mr. Smith, you said you weren't gonna let nobody run you away. You said you were committed to the neighborhood.”

The old man closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side. “Hole on, boy. Jus hole on a minute. I was committed to the neighborhood we
had
.”

He started hammering again. He finished the chore and began gathering his tools. “If you know somebody black who might wanna buy, lemme know. Tell em I'll cut em some slack.”

They both knew the chances of finding a black buyer were slim to none. With neighborhood prices shooting up, poor blacks couldn't afford to buy. And middle-class blacks didn't seem much interested in old houses squeezed onto compact lots. They tended to rush to the sprawling suburbs surrounding Atlanta. They bought newer, bigger homes and posted “Private Residence” signs out front.

When he was done, Mr. Smith picked up his toolbox and started toward the house. “See ya later, son.”

Barlowe turned and slowly headed up the walk. It was his turn for community patrol.

 

Despite cold air outside, and gray skies overhead, the streets were alive. Several stray dogs wandered about. A few old people, wrapped in too many winter clothes, hobbled to and from their homes. Across the lane, a white man stood in front of his house, sweeping the walk.

Barlowe wandered down Randolph Street and ended up near the Purple Palace. Two young men dressed in heavy winter gear stood like sentries on the porch. As usual, the front door was ajar. Out in the littered yard, just a few feet away, a kitten lay dead on the ground.

Barlowe went several blocks in the opposite direction, then cut down a back street and curled around to the Sweet Auburn business district. He stopped in front of the tall, redbrick building that Martin Luther King made famous long ago. There was a blue neon-lighted sign out front, with letters embedded in a large cross: Ebenezer Baptist Church.

He stood there a moment and looked around, like he was waiting for something specific to happen. Then he willed himself to step into the lighted vestibule. He eased into the main sanctuary, past two ancient, white-gloved ushers, and took a seat in the very last pew. He sat there a minute and drew inside himself, thinking.

After a while, he got up and went out toward the courtyard of The King Center next door. He liked visiting The King Center, especially in winter, when the tourist crowds were down. He liked to go and sit at the wall directly in front of King's gravesite and drink in the beauty of the courtyard, which was filled with stocky shrubs and leafy flowers, even in winter. He sat sideways with one foot dangling off the edge of a low retaining wall surrounding the reflecting pool.

A chilly breeze blew in around the pool, sending faint ripples through the water. He looked through the clear water to the floor of the pool, where pennies had been tossed by visitors using it as a wishing well.

There used to be a lot more pennies there. Park rangers now discouraged visitors from pitching pennies into the pool. Homeless people, desperate for food or drugs, were known to wade into the water sometimes to fish out coins.

Staring at the water, Barlowe tried to guess the number of pennies still there. Probably, he figured, not enough to buy a sandwich and a pint. He shivered, then clasped the top button of his coat to keep the wind from whisking down his neck. His cheeks were red from the cold. He stared at King's concrete crypt, mounted on a wide stone platform in the center of the pool.

He wondered,
How did this man do what he did?

Barlowe had no idea. Nobody he knew had that kind of spunk. Maybe Mr. Smith was right about something he'd once said. Maybe young people nowadays were made from a cheaper metal than those who came before.

While he sat there thinking, a few visitors came and stood nearby, reflecting solemnly at the pool. A woman standing about fifteen feet away closed her eyes and tossed a penny into the water. Barlowe studied her, eyes closed and lips moving as she prayed. She stood still as a statue, facing the crypt with hands clasped together in front of her. Then she dropped slowly to her knees and prayed some more.

Barlowe wondered if she was praying to Jesus or to King. Did she even know the difference anymore? For some, it seemed, the difference had been blurred with time as King's myth continued to grow. Barlowe wondered if a hundred years from now the myths about King would have grown so much that there would even be stories—eyewitness accounts—of King rising from this very crypt.

Was that how it had happened with Jesus? Was he just a good man who was lifted up, deified more and more with each new telling of a tale about him?

When the woman finished praying, she got up and walked slowly away.

It was almost dark outside. Barlowe stood and stepped beyond the courtyard and started down Auburn Avenue. He crossed Boulevard Avenue and passed the old fire station.

Just up the walk, near King's birth home, he saw a woman walking toward him, pushing a twin-sized stroller. Dark and solemn, she appeared to be in her late fifties. The woman's face bore a self-conscious, embarrassed look. As she drew closer, Barlowe glanced down at the stroller and saw two white, apple-cheeked babies slouched in their seats. The babies were strapped in and bundled up, with thick blankets tucked under their tiny chins.

Barlowe's gaze shifted from the woman to the babies and back again. The woman passed, nodded and kept on stepping.

Up farther along the walk, he approached the Cafe Latte, with its tables and chairs out on the patio. The temperature was down to forty degrees. Still, a few white people sat outside, sipping cappuccino and chatting easily.

Barlowe wanted a hot chocolate to warm his insides, but he refused to go inside that place. He turned down a side street and kept on walking.

There were a few more blocks to patrol before he was done. Then he planned to go seek comfort and consolation from his woman, Louise Grimes.

It was dark outside when Sean and Sandy Gilmore started home from an emergency potluck gathering. There had been a brutal mugging, leading to more talk of people moving out. Gregory Barron, trying to calm frayed nerves, insisted that things would settle down in time. For some of the folks gathered in the house, those words were only mildly reassuring.

Nobody said it, but fear hung in the air and lingered until the meeting ended.

Walking home afterward, Sean mentioned, for the thousandth time, the need for Sandy and him to sell their house and move away. Sandy strolled along in silence. Now, thinking about the mugging, she began to wonder if Sean was right.

They walked down Irwin Street and turned onto Randolph. They were about a block from home when they heard footsteps from behind. Sean quickened his steps and nudged Sandy to keep pace. She shifted into faster, longer strides, while trying to avoid appearing hurried, afraid.

The footsteps were steady and louder now. The stalker seemed patient, content not to pass.

Sean and Sandy's house came into view, with all the security lights aglow. If only they could reach the radiance of the light, Sandy thought, maybe they'd be all right.

Sean's thoughts raced in another direction. His mind flipped a few months back to the day he walked into a gunshop and asked to see some “merchandise.” He needed a gun, he had decided, if for no reason other than to manage his own anxiety, which now seemed to be spiraling out of control.