Swimming Between Worlds

by Elaine Neil Orr

  Samuel was instantly up and at attention, all five feet seven, one hundred thirty-five pounds of him. Tacker pulled on his shirt, getting it inside out in his hurry.

  “Please, sir. How can I help you?” Samuel said.

  “I’m not here for you. I’m here for him,” Fray said, pointing at Tacker. “Get your things.” Other men in the corners of the room woke and stretched.

  “Where are we going?” Tacker said. “Are my parents okay?” His throat pulsed.

  “Your parents are fine.”

  Outside, smelling the river, Tacker was fully awake. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”

  “What’s going on is you’re coming with me to Ibadan.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Fray lunged, grabbing his shoulder. Tacker jerked free and backed onto the threshold of the house.

  “What in the hell is that on your arm?” Fray said.

  The day before, Anna Becker had painted Tacker’s arm with henna, her idea, and Tacker had obliged as he might accept a piece of fruitcake from a pretty girl even though he hated fruitcake. Except that with Anna he was probably bewitched.

  “It washes off,” Tacker said.

  “Wetin dey happen?” someone uttered.

  “Just come with me,” Fray said, his forehead beaded in sweat though the temperature was cool enough that Tacker suddenly remembered he had dreamed of snow. “You’re serving here at the will of the Clintok Corporation, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “‘Exemplify American values. Exhibit discipline, leadership, self-control.’ Any of that ring a bell with you?”

  “Please, sir,” Samuel said, slipping past Tacker to face Fray. “Let us have some discussion.”

  “No discussion,” Fray said, sidestepping Samuel, lurching at Tacker a second time.

  “Don’t touch me. I’ll come. But you’ve got nothing to complain about with me. I’ve done my job.”

  “And a little more than your job,” Fray said.

  “Please,” Samuel said to Tacker. “Wait for us to come with you.”

  “I’ll be in Ibadan when you get there,” Tacker said. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  Fray opened the passenger door. Tacker got in. Fray started the Jeep. Samuel ran next to the vehicle, slapping Tacker’s window until Fray picked up speed, though Tacker could still see Samuel in his mind’s eye, the man’s chest open to the sun as he stopped to catch his breath, his arms by his sides, his neatly trimmed hair and oval face with its broad mouth.

  Halfway to Ibadan, it occurred to Tacker that Fray might have thought there was something going on with Samuel. “All we did was drink a little palm wine,” he said. “Why are you doing this?”

  The man’s hair was so short Tacker could see the pink of his scalp. Veins bulged at his temples. “You’ve been reported more than once,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For getting tangled up in the culture.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ll talk in Ibadan.”

  Tacker slumped in the seat as the Jeep’s speed sliced the green world in two.

  * * *

  • • •

  DUSK IN WINSTON-SALEM. Tacker on his front porch.

  A light went on over a doorway across the street. He heard the strains of a Crickets song coming from somewhere, Buddy Holly. “That’ll Be the Day.” Buddy Holly, who was dead, fallen from the sky. The memory of bitter quinine came into Tacker’s mouth and he wondered if regret had a taste. A breeze came up and the chill went through his shirt and he felt the wound of his heart, but it seemed eased somehow, or dulled. He wasn’t sure which.

  Chapter Two

  EARLY IN OCTOBER Tacker looked up from the customer service desk to see a young woman in an old yard coat, too big for her, standing in the produce section, studying the apples. She put some in a bag and stopped, appearing to weigh her effort against their worth. The store phone rang and he took an order. When he looked back up, the woman was standing on the other side of the counter. She was a flower coming out of the old coat: a slender stem of neck, long mahogany-colored hair, pale skin, large eyes. As he looked at her, she cast her face back toward the produce and Tacker recognized her from high school, though she had been chubby then and wore her hair short. Now she was something else entirely, but her look was a little haunted then and it was a little haunted now. Dimly he recalled that she had been at the center of a sad story. Her father had died in a swimming accident at the coast. Monroe. Tacker couldn’t recall her first name. She was one of those girls who seemed to have been born to a higher station in life.

  “How can I help you?” he said.

  “Kate Monroe,” she said, turning her head back. “We were in high school together.”

  “Tacker Hart. I recognize you.”

  “That’s nice. I guess.” She produced a brief smile. “Look. I was wondering if you have a couple of boxes of apples. I remember they used to come in from Mount Airy this time of year.”

  “Right now all I have is what’s out. The crop’s running a month late. I can put some aside for you when they come in. We can deliver them.” He made a mental note to order two extra boxes. Her face brightened for a moment.

  “My parents always kept boxes of apples on the back porch to last through the winter.”

  “A fine tradition.” A grin broadened across Tacker’s face. Her chin jutted out just a little and this slight imperfection seemed to match her intensity about apples.

  “I’ll just pay when you bring them?”

  “Don’t you have a line of credit? Your family used to . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence. It seemed like maybe her mother had died too, though how could he know that?

  “Let’s start a new one,” she said, “under my name. I like Stayman and Winesap.” She put her hand to the back of her head where her hair folded into the coat. “I’ll write down the address.”

  In a moment she was heading out the door; 1229 Glade Street, she’d written, and her phone number. The note felt warm from her hand and Tacker wanted to keep it warm.

  * * *

  • • •

  A HEAVY RAIN came mid-October, thunder rumbling for hours. In the morning the sun broke through. Da Vinci rolled onto his back, stretching out his soft white underbelly. Tacker took a last sip of coffee and set the cup down on its saucer, the familiar click of ceramic reassuring. Folks dallied after a rain. A quiet morning at the store would give him time to catch up on inventory. He enjoyed the clean aisles, the symmetry of displays, pyramids of oranges.

  He walked out his front door, pulling it to. Every day, he felt sturdier. Still it seemed he was on vacation from the real point of living, a point he could only vaguely have described, though it had something to do with putting oneself at the edge of the world and staying there long enough to imagine something absolutely new. Outside, wind herded a curve of clouds at the far edge of sky and the air smelled of tobacco. The sidewalk was dark from the night’s rain and fall leaves lay sleek on the pavement. Here and there morning light fell in dazzling sprees. Tacker felt the key in his pocket, cool and solid against his knuckles. He’d be happy to see Kate Monroe drop by again. She’d seemed as dazed by her present life as he felt about his.

  Oaks still held their leaves and a gust of wind sent false rain onto his head. He wished for the cap he had left behind. At West End and First he took a sharp left, heading down the steep decline of First Street. A glint on the sidewalk caught his eye. He stopped and leaned over. At first he’d thought it was a girl’s ring but it was only a penny, the burnished edge shining. Standing, he sensed someone behind him. A young Negro stood ten feet away. He wore a trilby hat and a camel-colored jacket. Where had the guy come from? Where had the word Negro come from? Since he’d been home, the appellation seemed
bizarre. There were Negroes and coloreds and that South Carolina senator said niggras and lots of people said worse. “Morning,” Tacker said.

  The fellow tipped his hat. “Morning,” he said, his eyes looking to the right of Tacker.

  Tacker had never seen a Negro man his own age walking in West End. Unless they were working for a white family, Negroes rarely ventured past Church Street except to shop in a few downtown stores that everyone tacitly understood would admit them. Tacker started walking again and the fellow walked behind him. Tacker wanted to strike up a conversation but it was impossible. Why? The question angered him. In Nigeria he walked the lanes with friends all the time. They were garrulous, slapping his back good-naturedly, linking arms. Boys and men even held hands. There was a mellowness to it that he hadn’t known before, like the evenings they sat together with kerosene lamps and talked about new countries and farming yam and round houses versus square ones and girls and God and the problem of gaining English but losing your native tongue.

  Leaves clogged a storm drain. At the stoplight the Negro stood beside him. Tacker let him take off first and followed. For some reason he was afraid. Since coming back, he’d heard about rabble-rousers, black boys from up north showing up where they weren’t welcome and asking for a fight. Across the street, the fellow turned right, walking the length of Hart’s Grocery, in front of the advertisements for turkeys and hams and sweet potatoes plastered onto the window fronts, before gaining the parking lot on the other side and turning to approach the entrance. He adjusted his hat before reaching for the door.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Tacker said, stepping up. He pulled out the key.

  “Wanted to buy some milk this morning,” the man said, a look of surprise on his face.

  “I’m Tacker Hart. We open at nine.”

  The man turned to go.

  “You’ve walked all the way over here. You might as well get your milk,” Tacker said, relieved that they were talking. “What’s your name?”

  The fellow hesitated. “Gaines. Gaines Townson.”

  “I manage the store for my dad. Go on. Get the milk.”

  “You sure, now?”

  “The meat isn’t out.”

  “All I need is the milk—for my baby sister.” Gaines headed down the wrong aisle.

  “No,” Tacker said. “Let me show you.” He started for the far aisle, through the produce, back to the cooler. “What do you like?”

  Gaines reached for a quart of skim. “This’ll do,” he said.

  “Take the whole milk. Same price.”

  “All right.”

  At the checkout, Gaines handed Tacker a quarter. Tacker tried to catch his eye, but he was looking out the window. For the first time he seemed nervous, as if someone might think he was out of place. As surely they would.

  “I thank you,” he said, tipping his hat again.

  “There’s not something else you need?” Nostalgic for Ibadan, Tacker didn’t want to lose sight of the man in front of him. Couldn’t they talk about where he was from? Though Gaines was taller and more substantial, he reminded Tacker a little of his good friend Samuel, the way he moved his mouth, the column of his throat. But Gaines was out the door, holding the glass bottle cradled against his chest. Sunlight filled the front windows and Tacker lost him in the glare. Seconds later a scream of tires broke the air.

  Tacker spun around the counter, running for the door in the same instant.

  Outside the light was so bright he had to make a visor of his hands; a tang of rubber and ground metal filled the air; an elderly gentleman walked as fast as he could away from the store; a white woman in a blue suit and matching hat stood on the sidewalk to Tacker’s right, her mouth half-open, her hand up shielding her eyes. What Tacker saw next was all wrong. A green Buick pulled at a right angle to the street just in front of the store, two tires up on the sidewalk, the headlights practically kissing the storefront, the rear end sticking out into the street. The driver had swerved across oncoming traffic. Cars were backing up, horns blaring. Tacker stepped off the sidewalk into the street.

  “Gaines?” he called, his voice echoing in his ears. He didn’t see him anywhere, only his hat in the middle of the road. Two men were getting out of the Buick but Tacker had to get the hat. Where was Gaines? Dear God, don’t let him be sprawled out dead on the other side of the car. The road was clear. Tacker got down on all fours. Nothing under the car.

  Standing, he saw everything he had missed. The men had cornered Gaines at the storefront; they’d swerved to cut him off; Tacker had walked right past when he went to pick up the hat. Cool as a cowboy, the older fellow lassoed Gaines with a belt, pinned his arms, and pressed him against the plate glass of the front windows right below the TURKEYS, 12 CENTS A POUND sign. “Hey,” Tacker said, “what are you doing?” The milk bottle was sitting on the window ledge. The younger of the two men looked at him. He was a kid, really, a swath of dark hair cutting across his forehead.

  “Teach that nigger a lesson,” Tacker heard from somewhere. He scrabbled around the Buick, his heart whapping. The woman in the blue suit backed away. “Cut it out,” he yelled, close enough now that he could see the kid’s pocked face.

  They flipped Gaines around so he was facing the street and the boy kneed Gaines in the groin. He fell like a rag doll onto the sidewalk.

  “When a white lady is passing,” the older fellow said, “you get off the sidewalk.” The man’s belly sagged over his belt.

  “Let’s just cool down,” Tacker said, trying to imagine what his father would do.

  “Good idea,” the kid said. He leaned for the milk, opened the bottle with his teeth, took a gulp, and threw the bottle into the air, a waggle of white soaring for a moment before splattering on the asphalt with a boom, glass shattering like ice.

  “Let him go,” Tacker said. The kid smiled and kicked Gaines in the side. In the fleeting instant of that kick, Tacker saw himself on the floor of the University College Ibadan dorm room, tackled and bruised.

  Everything went into slow motion. A long, sharp whistle came from somewhere. The kid pulled his leg back again. A piece of glass glinted in the sun. Tacker pushed the old geezer away and elbowed the boy hard in the neck. His head went back and the soft white of his throat faced the sky, exposing the faint purple veins, his clavicle, the odd dimple in his chin. His hair fanned out when his leg gave.

  “What the hell?” the older fellow said, quietly, as if something holy had occurred. He took a step sideways, almost polite; Gaines remained unmoving, his hands like strung-up doves resting on his back. The woman in the blue suit stood in mock judgment, a gloved hand to her mouth.

  “Gaines,” Tacker said. “You okay?”

  Gaines opened and closed his eyes.

  “You some kind of nigger lover?” the old fellow said, but he said it like a revelation. He was still too close to Gaines. Tacker sensed danger in the backs of his legs, like he had known when someone meant to hurt him in a tackle. Then everything sped up. The boy was on his feet, moving like a nervous fighter in a ring.

  “You some kind of nigger lover?” he said, mimicking his older friend, maybe his father. He spat on the sidewalk. “You like these fancy niggers tipping their hats and winking at our women? He was taking up the whole sidewalk like a damned cock.”

  “Look here, now. This boy works for me.” Tacker was twisted up pretty tight. Pray to God Gaines wouldn’t dispute him.

  “Coming out the front of your store? Colored help comes and goes from the back,” the old fellow said, switching his toothpick to the side of his mouth.

  Tacker glanced at Gaines, still lying on the sidewalk. Without his arms free, he couldn’t even shield his head. A truck slowed its way around the Buick.

  “He was delivering that milk,” Tacker said, sidling over to put himself between Gaines and the others. “You gentlemen have had enough tro
uble for one morning.” His blood surged and he thought his skin would split.

  The kid lit a cigarette, took a drag, threw it down, and stubbed it with his toe. “You keep him in line or we’ll be back. We’ll be looking for him. You hear that, boy?” he said down to Gaines. “We got your number.”

  Tacker felt his heart clutch. “Shut the hell up. Just shut the hell up.”

  The kid pivoted. The men shambled to their car. Doors slammed. Tacker’s heart pumped hard as the Buick pulled away. The whole scene flashed again: Gaines on the ground, the poison-mouthed men, and the woman in blue playing her part like a queen, gone now.

  Gaines groaned and turned onto his side.

  “Let me help you,” Tacker said. “Careful. You might have a broken rib.”

  In a back room of the store, Tacker made Gaines lie on the old sofa his father had brought in years back, calling it and a dinged-up coffee table his lounge.

  “Easy does it,” he said. “I’ll get a damp cloth for your face. You’ve got a scrape there.”

  “What time is it?” Gaines said.

  “Must be eight thirty.” He looked at his watch. Only eight fifteen. “Here. Press this against your face. You ought to have some ointment.” The store had to be ready to open in forty-five minutes. He tapped Gaines’s hat out while Gaines wiped his face. “Almost good as new,” Tacker said, setting the hat on one of the armrests. Then he felt like a dolt. Gaines might think he meant he was good as new after a swipe with a washcloth. “Your family got a telephone?” Tacker said. “They might worry you’re not back yet.”

  Gaines looked at him, swung his legs to the floor, and sat up. “You know any colored folks with telephones? In Winston? Where you been, man?” He started to laugh, then caught his side and winced.