Swimming Between Worlds

by Elaine Neil Orr

  The Winston-Salem day was overcast and the smell of tobacco thick. Tacker backed the Indian out of the garage. Since early March, he’d kept his ear to the ground for news of city projects other than a bathhouse. The cleared lot near Arbor Road was destined for a fire station. Maybe Tom knew something about it. Stucco could be effective in that location, with arched bays and a clay tile roof.

  Tacker knocked at the door of the studio and Tom answered. He looked familiar but different too, a little heavier, and he was definitely losing some hair.

  “Tacker Hart,” Tom announced. “Come on in.”

  The room was large and airy, walls of unfinished pine, gangly philodendron plants sitting atop bookcases. A drafting table faced a glassed wall and beyond the glass appeared a goldfish pond. On a long table in the center of the room, designs were anchored with smooth stones. The man might be losing a little hair, but he bore an electric energy.

  “So how have you been?” Tom said.

  “Great. Itching to get back into architecture.”

  “Said in your letter you’ve been working for your father.”

  “Yeah. He needed me for a while. But I’ve got time to work on renderings—until I can get back to architecture full-time and follow up with my license. Sounds like you’ve been going gangbusters.”

  “Lots of residential building going on,” Tom said. “Have a seat.”

  Tacker took a chair that looked handcrafted, made with canvas on wood, and he relaxed into it.

  “Tell me about this Clintok assignment,” Tom said, taking the chair behind his desk.

  Tacker interlaced his fingers, remembering just in time not to crack his knuckles. His face felt hot. “The big thing was a design for national high schools, or secondary schools. They were going to be built all over the place. I don’t know how many—hundreds.” He leaned forward in his seat. “We wrote all the construction documents, built a model, so it could be implemented anywhere. My team shepherded the first one, did the hiring, even helped lay the foundation. Part of the point was to train Nigerians in architecture. There’s not a college in the country that offers degrees in practical sciences.” He took a deep breath.

  “So you worked on it start to finish.”

  Right here was the big, huge, stinking problem.

  “That was the assignment,” Tacker managed. “Learned a lot about concrete footings.” He tried to smile.

  “Interesting,” Tom said. “So how did you find Africa?”

  “Well, it’s hot,” Tacker said. “I liked it. I learned a lot.”

  “What besides footings?”

  “How to improvise, for one. Electricity’s unreliable, so we chose a building site at the bottom of a hill and erected water cisterns uphill. Concrete makes a great decorative wall that looks almost weightless. Scaffolding was bamboo. When we started the first classroom building, we had beams in place but the roofing didn’t arrive. Rainy season was on the way and we couldn’t take a chance, so the town rallied and put up a temporary thatch roof. The rains came twice and not a drop of water got through. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “The weather sounds like Florida.”

  “Florida squared,” Tacker said, relaxing again.

  “In your letter you mentioned an interest in public buildings.”

  “Won the civics award in high school. I guess I can’t escape it,” Tacker said. “What could be better than buildings that are going to last? Like Reynolds High?”

  Tom swiveled in his chair. “I hear you,” he said. “Winston’s at a turning point the way it’s growing. We can retain its character and change at the same time—if we plan well.”

  Tacker thought of Nigerian cities: a Barclays Bank next to the old king’s palace with its long whitewashed wall. He thought about integrating lunch counters. That seemed like a great change that would improve character.

  “You drink tea?” Tom said.

  “No, thanks.”

  Tom plugged in a squat electric teapot. “You hear of Hammond and Smith Architects? They’ve got new office space on North Cherry Street. They’ve asked me to join their firm. Meanwhile I’ve got plenty I can offer you. And if it works out, maybe you can come on board when you’re ready.”

  Had he heard the man correctly? Could he really have skated past the Clintok debacle that easily? “Sounds great.”

  Tom steeped his tea and stirred in two teaspoons of sugar.

  “I’ll take you on a tour of the house in a minute.”

  Tacker wasn’t sure he could bear this much success in a man not yet thirty years old who had the same background he did.

  Tom sipped his hot brew. “The only public building we’re bidding on right now is an addition to a branch library on Fairlawn. I’ve got my foot in the door with General Electric. They’re putting in a new plant on Reynolda Road. Of course there are lots of houses if you want residential. Did you do schematic designs in . . . I’m forgetting. Where were you with the Clintok assignment?

  “Nigeria. Schematic drawings, models, you name it. We had an MIT fellow leading the project, a Nigerian,” Tacker said.

  “Is that right?” Tom blew on his tea. “Oh, I almost forgot. I just took on a Firestone franchise coming in on Fifth, not far from you.”

  “Tell me about it,” Tacker said.

  “A showroom with a fold-plate roof and a deep overhang, big aluminum-frame windows.” He began to sift through folders. “If I remember correctly, the seven bays are flat roofed. A stone-veneered end wall. I’ve got the paperwork here somewhere.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  Tom found the folder. “Take a look at their specifications. Go to the site. Let me know if you have questions.” He handed Tacker the folder. “Let’s take a look at the house.”

  “Sure thing,” Tacker said. Buoyed by his success, he could bear to look at the man’s house. Tom carried his teacup through every room. It was a great place, with lots of windows, a beamed, slanted ceiling in the living room, and a slate foyer and four bedrooms; so they were planning on children, though there was no evidence of any yet. Tom had made the hallways nice and wide. But it wasn’t a foursquare and it wasn’t a house Tacker envied. The teak dining table maybe. They walked out onto the back patio. Tacker looked at his watch. “So, when would you like for me to have something for you?”

  “A week or two? We’ll go from there.”

  They walked toward the Indian. “Nice bike,” Tom said. “By the way, I heard you were at one of those protests.”

  Tacker was so surprised he almost laughed. “Yes, I was,” he said.

  “Interesting,” Tom said. “Hey, I’ve got to get back to work. Call me when you have the rendering.”

  So that was it.

  * * *

  • • •

  GAINES WAS WORKING mysteriously with the movement two or three nights a week. He’d moved out of his mom’s house so she wouldn’t be a target—“If anyone wanted to try something funny with me,” Gaines explained. It rattled Tacker but he wasn’t going to change his course. He’d given the man his word that his job was safe. He offered to keep Valentine at the store while Gaines was elsewhere. Around eight, Gaines picked her up and took her to his mom’s house before going wherever it was he had found a bed. While Tacker finished up paperwork and put in orders, Valentine drew pictures and made paper chains. When they got hungry they made supper out of beanie weenies straight from the can and circles of pineapple. Pretty quickly Tacker tired of the suppers and decided he would take Valentine to the foursquare for a hot meal. He parked in front of the house and they walked next door to meet the neighbor, Miss Smith, an older woman who appeared never to have married. Tacker had made a habit of taking her paper up to her porch and more than once he’d picked up fallen limbs in her backyard.

  “Good evening, Miss Smith,” he said when she answered the door. “I want you to meet Valen
tine. I’m going to have her with me now and again. She’s the niece of my family’s maid, who died recently. Her older brother will stop by from time to time to pick her up. If you see any other neighbors, feel free to mention it.” He smiled largely.

  Miss Smith looked down at Valentine and back at Tacker.

  “Well, she looks as clean as any child I ever saw,” she said.

  “Valentine, say hello to Miss Smith.”

  “Hello, Miss Smith,” Valentine said.

  “Now, isn’t she well-behaved. I’ve got my gravy simmering, Mr. Hart. Thank you for coming by.” Miss Smith squinted and patted Valentine on the head.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Tacker said to Valentine as they crossed back into his yard.

  “She smelled funny,” Valentine said.

  Tacker stifled a laugh. “I’m glad you kept that to yourself,” he said.

  After that evening, he kept Valentine at his house rather than the store and Gaines would show up at the back door, his friend’s car idling on Jarvis Street. One evening, opening his pantry, Tacker got an idea. “Valentine, I’ve got a little repair work to do,” he said. “Will you help me out?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Months back Tacker had discovered that da Vinci was escaping through a hole at the back of the pantry; it led to the porch where the screen was loose on a couple of windows. “See there,” he said as Valentine peered into the closet. “Da Vinci is getting out on his own whenever I leave this door open. I’m afraid he might get hurt. Stay right here. I’ll be back.”

  Tacker had kept the plywood board with the vile message that had been left in front of Hart’s. He retrieved it, careful to keep the lettered side away from Valentine’s eye. It fit handily between the two studs where he’d discovered the opening. “Looky there. Perfect fit,” he said. “Now I need you to hand me those nails I set on the counter.”

  Valentine did as he asked, but the old studs were hard with age and the box nails he was using weren’t making much of a dent. The unexpected challenge was sobering and Tacker had the ominous feeling that there were other things lurking in hidden corners that he had not reckoned with yet. Fifteen minutes later, he’d done an adequate job.

  “Someone left that board at the grocery, wanting to be mean,” he said, standing to stretch his legs. “But we’ve turned it around and made it work for us.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  She nodded her head, serious as rain, and Tacker wondered if already she sensed ominous things lurking in corners.

  * * *

  • • •

  A FEW DAYS later, Gaines showed up at the back door of the foursquare. “Put it right here,” he said, coming into the kitchen where Tacker and Valentine were washing up dishes.

  Tacker slid his palm across Gaines’s.

  “What’s up?” Tacker said.

  “Wait for it.” Gaines breathed in and his chest expanded. “We have founded the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee. Over in Raleigh. At Shaw University. Yes, sir. We’re moving. This thing is rolling, man.”

  “You were over in Raleigh tonight? How’d you make it there and back?”

  “One of the other men went. He called to tell us.”

  Valentine spoke. “What’s moving?”

  “We are, sister, but not out of Winston. We’re moving out of oppression.”

  “What’s that?” Valentine said.

  “When someone tells you to get up and help yourself then throws you down and puts his foot on your back. Tells you to run but straps a big weight on your shoulders.”

  “I don’t want any foot on my back,” Valentine said.

  “Won’t ever happen if I can help it,” Gaines said.

  Tacker thought of Joshua and wondered who had stepped on his back, and he looked at Valentine, strong and fragile at the same time, like a dandelion—until someone did step on her back, which would happen in this country, and then she would be bent and nothing would make her that strong again, or that straight.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE NEXT EVENING Tacker waited until dark before riding the Indian to the empty lot on Fifth, designated for the Firestone. With Samuel, he’d learned the art of viewing land by moonlight, when a person could better detect small rises and falls in the land. The lot was marked by a slight copse on the right-hand side, and a lone dogwood, just leafing, stood in the center of it. It seemed a good omen. He took some notes and thought about Kate. Their courtship had been so intermittent and almost monastic that he often imagined her a lover in another country who could not be reached by letter or telegram or telephone, this though she was only five blocks away, and he wondered if his love for her would be lessened if he ever attained it.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  KATE FOUND GREAT pleasure in taking her new car to the service station, standing next to the driver’s side door, getting the tank filled and the oil checked, and watching the attendant. She’d kept on the lookout for a shoe-shine boy and a younger brother near the library but with no luck. The Journal had purchased several more of her photographs and she had met the editor who’d purchased her first picture. He was a short man with a cigar and round glasses and a bald head. “Well, aren’t you the cat’s eye,” he said when she walked in. “I don’t know what that means,” she said. “I’m not sure I do either,” he said. “My old man used to say it to all the ladies on Sunday.” He looked at her pictures, puffed on his cigar, tapped a single index finger on his desktop, and took a deep, almost desperate sigh. “You’re on to something,” he said finally. She adored him immediately. “I tell you what,” he said. “Keep comin’ by. I can’t offer you a job right now, but I’ll print some of your pictures.” “Thank you. I will,” she said. “Get yourself down to Trade and snap some pictures of those tobacco men. And go to the ladies’ shindigs, too, you know, the Junior League and what all.” “I will,” she said.

  * * *

  • • •

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON SHE made a surprise visit to Tacker’s foursquare. He was unlike any other man she knew. Off-puttingly casual about his career, off-puttingly pious about his moral vision, yet enormously attractive for the risks he took and—she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit it—enormously attractive period.

  A slender Negro girl came to the door, outfitted in a pink dress with a white pinafore, white socks, and brown shoes. She held Tacker’s cat.

  “Hello,” she said. “We can’t let da Vinci out.”

  “Is Tacker here?” Kate said, leaning toward the girl, stroking the cat’s fur. Da Vinci was shedding and reams of hair followed her hand and held for a moment in the air before settling on Tacker’s wood floor.

  “Yes, ma’am. This is his house,” the girl said.

  “I’m Miss Kate. What’s your name?”

  “Valentine,” she said. “Mr. Tacker and I were working on his motorcycle. Now he’s getting cleaned up. Then he’s taking me home on his big bike. But I guess you can stay.” Something about the way the girl held her head reminded Kate of the boy who wanted a book.

  Kate heard the hiss of the radiator and then there was Tacker, entering from beyond the stairway where Kate knew his bedroom to be though she had not seen it. He was barefoot, wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt, towel drying his hair, his movement like an overflow of energy. Kate was still standing slightly to the right of the door. Valentine had settled on a rug—a new purchase?—in front of Tacker’s fireplace, singing to the cat.

  “Kate,” he said. He let the towel fall loose at his side and looked at her, inscrutable, and then his forehead relaxed and a smile lifted his face.

  “Hi,” she said. The moment was overfull, like a glass of water that would spill if she picked it up, and Kate knew it was one of only a few such perfect moments she would ever be allowed. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes. Tacker was still s
tanding in front of her, still smiling, when she opened them.

  “Just a minute. I’ll be right back,” he said.

  He returned in a blue shirt, buttoned up but not tucked in, and crossed the space between them. When he reached her, he put his palm to the side of her face and kissed her. He turned to the little girl and gestured in her direction.

  “You meet Valentine? She’s Gaines’s little sister.”

  “Yes. She’s a very capable young lady,” Kate said.

  “I need to get her home. Do you have time to stay?”

  “Oh, sure. I can wait. Or we can take my new car. I got it a few days ago, a secondhand Nash Metropolitan.” She rushed her words, feeling herself in a tumble.

  Tacker looked befuddled, as he had that first day in Hart’s when she asked what he had been doing since he’d gotten back home. But he regained himself quickly. “What do you think, Valentine? Want to take a drive in Miss Kate’s new car?”

  “Okay. But you haven’t got your shoes on. Can I have some Life Savers?”