Them (33 page)

He grabbed her by both wrists, to stop the assault. “Christ, Sandy, what's the matter with you? The man was breaking the law! I'm not apologizing! I'm not apologizing! My life has been hell since we moved out here! I'm fed up with this crap! My nerves are shot! It's driving me crazy!”

She stared at him, squinting. “I'm fed up, too, Sean. I'm fed up, too, with a lot of things—”

She stopped short of blurting it out, but he knew what she meant. Tears welled in her eyes again. She covered her face with her hands and shook her head in disbelief. She turned and rushed from the room.

Sean stood in the kitchen, drinking water and staring out the window. He could hear Sandy in the back of the house. She was sobbing and throwing things around.

He felt lost. He didn't know what else to say to her. Still, he was determined not to give in this time. She wasn't qualified to lead him.

He looked out the window, thinking and feeling lost. He spotted Barlowe across the way. He carried a rake and garden hoe. Sean studied him a moment. He wondered, who was he, anyway?

Sandy reappeared in the living room, breaking his train of thought. She had her car keys and a small purse in her hand.

Sean walked in. “Going somewhere?”

“I'm going
out
! I'm going out for some fresh air! It feels too stuffy in here!” She slammed the door.

“Sandy!”

She got in her car and drove away. She turned left onto North Highland Avenue and headed toward the downtown connector. She planned to take a drive around the perimeter, to give herself room to think, to give herself time to cool down.

She stopped at the red light at Boulevard. A dark, scruffy black man in tattered clothes and long, matted hair sat forlornly at the curb. Beside him was a bucket of dirty water, a bottle of Windex window cleaner and a smudgy cloth.

Sandy had seen him on that corner many times. As soon as she pulled to a stop, the man leapt to his feet and approached the car. She handed him a quarter and waved him off. The man took the money, thanked her and moved on to the car behind her. It was a shiny green Jaguar, with a white couple inside. Sandy could see them in her rearview mirror. They wore nervous, red-faced smiles.

Without waiting for permission, the street man aimed his Windex bottle at the windshield, sprayed and began wiping furiously, all the while smiling broadly. While the driver kept a close watch on the black man, his companion rifled through her purse for change. Finding none, she ripped out a dollar bill and handed it to her partner. The white man lowered his window, slightly, and slid the bill through the crack. The black man yanked it away and nodded. He stuffed it in his pocket and backed slowly away from the car.

The light changed. Sandy glanced once more in the rearview mirror before driving off. She saw the black man. He reared back and laughed out loud, turning his face upward, toward the sky.

M
inutes after his wife left, Sean went to his car and sped away. He figured he knew which direction Sandy would take. He got on I-85 South, heading toward the airport. He reached the perimeter and settled into the fast lane, picking up speed. Traffic was moderate, which meant he could have his way on the road.

Eventually, he approached the exit for Augusta. He looked longingly at the cars heading that way. He had been to Augusta a few times on business. It seemed like a decent town; smaller and more manageable than Atlanta, for sure. Probably, he thought, a lot like Chattanooga.

Sean wondered what turns life might offer if he took that Augusta exit and kept on going. It was somehow reassuring knowing a man could change the course of his life with one slight turn of the steering wheel. He thought:
Every person should do that at least once in life. Every person should take off in a direction that offers no resistance or problems; just erase the chalkboard and start all over.

He thought about that a lot these days. He needed a break from his life. He needed a break, like right now.

By now the speedometer was pushing seventy. He figured he should be able to catch up to Sandy soon. He was more than halfway around the perimeter before it occurred to him how stupid he was. What were the chances of him finding her on the highway? And even if he did find her, what good would it do? She would be driving and he would be driving and there would be nothing he could do but toot the horn.

How stupid. He felt sillier by the day. Each week, his life made less sense to him. He could thank the move to the Old Fourth Ward for that. He could thank the address from hell.

Maybe he should head to Augusta. He could find a hotel and spend a few touristy days there.

Maybe a stiff drink would be better.

He got off at Interstate 20-West and exited at Moreland Avenue. He went to Manuel's Tavern. Inside, he plopped down next to two men seated on stools at the bar. The men wore dirty jeans and leather vests, with bandannas tied around their heads. Bearded and pierced, they looked like they hadn't bathed lately. They spoke in the Georgia hillbilly twang that annoyed Sean so much.
Rednecks.

Sean cringed and swiveled his stool, so that his back was turned to them. He ordered a scotch and sat there studying his reflection in a mirror that covered the wall behind the bar. He gulped down the first drink quickly and ordered another. A sudden gleam appeared in his eyes, like he had come upon a moment of clarity. At that moment he saw himself as he figured other men had seen him all along—as a wimp, a weak man who let his wife run his life. Maybe he had been unwilling or unable to see it before, but now he was aware: Sandy wore the pants in that house; always had.

Sean recalled the time they spent in Forsyth. Shortly after they moved in, the neighbors on their block held a dinner party to welcome them. They were sitting around the table, talking about the long, stressful commute to Atlanta, when Sandy asked a question that seemed to set them off.

“Where's the nearest subway line?”

The dinner guests around the table searched one another's eyes and sniggered like they were all in on some private joke. Sean and Sandy exchanged furtive glances.

“What's so funny?”

“Well,” said one neighbor, Andy Leach. Andy had big horse teeth, which made him look like he had twice as many choppers as everybody else. He chuckled. “You've probably heard this one by now.”

“Heard what?” asked Sean.

Andy grinned like a Cheshire cat. “What they call the public transportation system in Atlanta.”

“You mean MARTA?”

“Yeah. You know what the letters stand for?”

“No. I don't.”

“Moving African Americans Rapidly Through Atlanta.”

Andy burst into a belly laugh.

Sandy, disgusted, tried to move past the joke. “In Philly we caught the subway all the time. Actually, I'd prefer to catch the train to work.”

“What they need to do,” added Sean, “is extend the line out here.”

Another neighbor, Mike Scully, chimed in. Mike had moved to Georgia from Alabama decades before, back when, according to him, the state was populated with more “decent folks.”

“The problem, you see, is that the subway runs
two
ways.” Mike's tone was paternal. “As a general rule, folks out chere don't care much for public transportation.” He turned up his nose. “Too risky. Too risky.”

Then Scully shot Sean a scornful look and drawled, “I wouldn't have
mah
wive even thankin a catchin a train back and forth to Lanta. The place is like Gomorrah.”

Sean's face turned red, defensive. “You don't understand. Sandy is gonna think and do what she wants.”

The tone was proud, though the facial expression was unconvincing.

Somebody politely changed the subject, to ease the tension mounting in the room.

That was how it was left at the dinner party that night. It was made clear, especially among the men, that the separation of city and suburb was akin to separation of church and state—and both were preordained by God.

Recalling that dinner party now, Sean took a hard look at himself. He didn't like what he saw: Sandy was the family leader, the head of their household. How did that happen? She wasn't qualified to lead him.

Now it came to him: He had been lazy, too laid back. He'd always left the strong opinions and big decisions to her. As her own father once said, he buckled and bowed too much to his wife. Once again, The Captain was right.

Now, as he recalled that exchange, Sean sat in the bar brooding. He gulped down his drink and ordered yet another. He began to feel light-headed, so that even a gut-bucket country and western tune blaring from the speakers sounded good to him.

At some point, after the third drink, a tall black man and a short white woman entered the bar and sat down in the booth directly behind Sean. The woman was petite, really small, with big, dreamy eyes and dark hair that fell down to her shoulders. The man was thick, with shoulders broad and round as bowling balls.

The biker boys looked at the pair, glanced at each other and rolled their eyes. They finished their drinks and disappeared.

Oddly, Sean thought again about the Augusta exit that he had passed up earlier. If he had veered off that exit, would anybody have faulted him? His life seemed tangled in a Boy Scout knot, and all the confusion stemmed from a simple address. If an address had made that much difference, then a change of address should do the same. Right?

Something else occurred to him. If he were to set out on a new course, could he assume Sandy would come along? Would he even
want
her to come?

Of course he would. He loved his wife, in spite of her risky optimism. He loved her now more than ever. She needed to be reeled in, that's all.

Which brought him back to the moment. He planned to reel her in. He ordered another drink. Against his will, he glanced again in the mirror. He could see the couple sitting in the booth behind him. The man and woman talked and laughed, sharing some private joke. At some point, the black man leaned over and kissed her, pressing her back against the wall.

Sean decided to leave. He paid the bartender. As he rose, he stumbled back onto the stool. He glanced in the mirror. The black man was watching. The man grinned and leaned over and whispered something in his lady's ear.

She laughed out loud.

Sean stumbled past the couple and out the door.

 

The daylight was fading over the horizon now, moving toward pure darkness outside. Sandy circled the perimeter a few times. Riding along, she thought about her husband: her scared, insecure Sean. She was beginning to wonder if she knew him anymore. In the time since the move, she had learned a lot about Sean, and even more about herself. She thought about something Barlowe once said: “You think you know somethin. You don't know the halfa things.”

She wondered what he'd meant by that. She recalled that a college professor had once said something similar, but in a different vein. The professor said there were varying degrees of seeing. Some people walk into a crowded room and take in only the obvious, surface reality. Others walk into a room, he said, and take in ninety percent of what's going on.

So how much of reality did Sandy take in? She didn't know. She was sure she saw more now than ever, though. She picked up things in the neighborhood now—furtive glances, body language—that would have escaped her before. In some ways, Sandy was developing new eyes. But what were those new eyes worth? And what difference would it make to anything?

It all seemed so crazy.

Halfway around the perimeter the second time, Sandy shifted to I-85, headed south. Her car sputtered near the North Druid Hills Road exit. She glanced at the dashboard. Her fuel supply was low. By her estimation, there was enough gas to make it home.

She exited on Freedom Parkway and headed toward North Highland Avenue. It was dark when she approached the neighborhood. She felt tired, drained. She wanted to go home and get in bed.

Driving slowly to preserve gas, she turned onto Glen Iris Drive. There were people, shadows really, out walking the streets. A black woman stood on the corner and gazed hopefully at the car as she passed. One block up, two young men stood off in the darkness, near a tree.

The car sputtered again and made a rumbling sound. Sandy thought:
If I can make these last few blocks. These last few
—

The engine died.

Sandy steered the car to the curb. “Damn!” She turned the key. The engine groaned, but wouldn't catch.

She looked up and around, suddenly aware of where she was. To her left stood the Purple Palace. People went in and out, some carrying paper plates wrapped in aluminum foil. Off to her right, across the street, a group of teenagers played basketball on a portable hoop stationed beneath a streetlamp. Nearby, other people stood around and watched, some leaning against an apartment building, some squatting nearby, rolling dice.

When Sandy's car glided to a stop, heads turned and looked her way. She sat there wondering what to do. A car passed. She looked longingly, hoping the driver might stop to lend a hand. The car disappeared.

At some point, an errant pass sent a basketball bouncing hard off the lamp pole. It ricocheted, then rolled into the street and beneath Sandy's car.

A teenager retrieved the ball. He dribbled it fancily through his legs. Eyeing Sandy sitting in the car, he walked over and cupped a hand against a window.

She sat still, stiff as a pole. The long stem of her slender neck stretched upward as she stared back at him.

He spoke, rapid-fire, so fast she couldn't understand. “Whasamatterlady? Yourcarwontcrank?”

Sandy turned away and looked straight ahead.

Voices called to him. “Milk! Give it up, man! Throw me the gotdamn ball!”

The boy called Milk rapped a knuckle on the window. “Lady, youneedsomehelptocrankyourcar?”

Somebody called again for the ball. The boy called Milk flung it back to the group. He stayed there, eyeing Sandy.

“Umtryinahepthewhitelady, man! Cantyouseehercarwontcrank?!”

Some of the boys resumed playing. Others, now curious, strutted toward the car. Some circled around front, near the hood; others drifted around back, inspecting the license plates.

Sandy was growing scared now and, at the same time, embarrassed about her fear. She tried to calm herself. What was there to be afraid of?

She heard the young men talking, whispering. “Maybe she need gas.”

The boy called Milk walked around to the driver's side window. “Heylady. Youneedgas?”

Sandy ignored him. She heard someone say, “Ol white bitch. Cat got her tongue.”

Sandy thought about the recent mugging. Then she decided she couldn't just sit there. She had to move. Her house was only a few blocks away. She had to get home. She could come back tomorrow with Sean and get the car, but right now she had to go.

Four boys mingled on her side of the car. They peered inside, studying the front seat, the back, the floors, like there was something specific they were searching for.

Sandy inhaled deeply, to collect herself. She exhaled hard, then kicked off her shoes. She had to run. She had to get away.

She slid to the passenger's side, away from the boys. She grabbed the door handle and bolted out. She took off racing, barefoot, down the street, with voices calling to her from behind.

“Hey lady! Lady!”

She dashed, screaming, “Help! Somebody please help!!”

The boys looked at each other and hunched their shoulders. A few chuckled and pointed at Sandy. “Whadda hell wrong wit hur?”

One of the boys opened the car door and checked the front seat. “Look! She left her keys and pocketbook!”

“Don't mess wit it!” another warned. “Don't touch nothin. You take that lady shit, the lawman be comin down. Les roll, man. Les git way from here.”