Them

by Nathan McCall

  Sandy blinked hard when their eyes met. A flash, a memory forced her to look away. The old black woman before her bore an eerie likeness to the longtime family maid, Ethel Fields. Ethel was the only true superwoman Sandy had ever known. Ethel had been there proudly looking on when Sandy took her first baby steps. Ethel taught her to ride a two-wheel bike and pulled her first shaky tooth. She rocked her to sleep on countless nights when Sandy’s parents were out socializing.

  It seemed Ethel had always been there. And while she nurse-maided Sandy and her older brother, Jared, she somehow managed to raise her own five children, and later, took in a stranded grandchild or two.

  Sandy had always wondered what became of Ethel. She was haunted by her likeness everywhere. In college she saw Ethel in the faces of the old black women who cleaned the toilets in her dorm; she saw Ethel in the sassy school cafeteria cooks who stood in the serving lines in crisp white uniforms and black hairnets. She saw sleepy-eyed likenesses of Ethel on early mornings, peering from bus stop shelters in the drizzling rain, waiting to be whisked to crosstown jobs.

  Now Sandy saw her sitting across the table in white gloves, preparing to sign over the only house she’d ever owned.

  A flood of memories gushed through Sandy’s head:

  Returning home with her mother from a shopping spree…

  Sandy figured Ethel must have been close to fifty, though she looked much younger. Ethel was an attractive woman, especially when she wore her hair pulled back tight against her face. She had skin the color of chestnut, and dark, alert eyes, set above full lips that required no coloring at all.

  A can of furniture spray, a woman’s shoe and a crumpled dust cloth, strewn curiously across the living room floor…

  The resemblance to Hattie Phillips was so strong Sandy could hardly concentrate when the attorney referenced the closing documents for their review. “I’m going to ask each of you to take a minute to read over the contents on page eight. As you can see…”

  Ethel had been there when they left home. Now she was nowhere to be found…

  The words on the pages of the legal document in front of Sandy faded into one big blur.

  “As you’ll notice,” the lawyer was saying, “the property’s boundaries are specified on page seventeen. According to the original deed, the property…”

  Sean nudged Sandy to see if she understood the point about the property boundaries. She ignored him. She couldn’t focus.

  “Mom, where’s Ethel?”

  Her mother’s response was one of practiced calm. With pursed lips, she steeled herself as she had often done through the years when confronted with damning evidence of her husband’s sloppy indiscretions.

  A week later, Ethel was quietly let go, dismissed. Just like that, she disappeared…

  The lawyer droned on, but Sandy didn’t hear. She was upset now, all over again. She pushed her chair back from the conference room table and stood up straight.

  “I…”

  The lawyer stopped in midsentence. All eyes shifted to her.

  “I…” Blood drained from her face. “I’m not sure I can go through with this.”

  Suddenly, and without explanation, she stormed outside. Sean followed, trailed by a puzzled Joe Folkes. The others looked on in surprise. Moments later, Joe returned, sheepish and pale. He smiled nervously and tugged at his tie.

  “I’m really sorry. My client is not feeling well. She needs a minute to collect herself.”

  Hattie grunted. “Hunh.”

  “I wonder,” Joe said, “if we could take a brief unscheduled break.”

  Hattie grunted again, took off her gloves and plopped them on the table. She clutched her shiny pocketbook close to her chest and cut an eye at her agent. The agent, a young black man in bifocals, whispered something and patted her reassuringly on the wrist.

  Outside, Sean tried to comfort his wife; he trusted he’d learn the reasons behind her outburst later. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine. I need a drink of water, that’s all.”

  Joe Folkes, nearly sick with the thought of losing his commission, came back and tried to rally his clients. He whispered low, like he was scared the people inside the building could hear through walls.

  “You can’t pass this up! Trust me! It’s a steal!”

  Sandy whipped around and hissed, “Please! If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use that word!”

  She bolted to a restaurant next to the lawyer’s office. She went in the ladies’ room and vomited. Moments later, she returned to the front parking lot and fell into Sean’s embrace.

  Ethel came back to her once more:

  “Mother, why?!”

  “Shhhhhh! Sandy, you know your father’s heart is not that strong. He doesn’t need anything to upset him now.”

  Yes, her father. Sandy recalled her father’s dismissive response, the brash cluck of the tongue, when Sean first told him where they’d decided to move. “Well,” her father had said, gently shaking cubes in a glass of sherry, “you can kiss that investment good-bye.”

  Sean held his ground. “Well, Mr. Peterson, this is not just about the money. It’s something Sandy and I feel we need to try…”

  Her father folded his fat arms and assumed his usual smug expression. “And just what is it you intend to try?”

  Sean fumbled around for the right comeback. Finally, he said: “Hell, nobody even tries anymore!”

  Sandy had been so proud of her husband in that moment. It was the first time he’d actually stood up to her father. So many times, her father had tried to make Sean feel like less than a man for failing to insulate her from the harshness of the world. This time, Sean stood up to him. She was pleasantly surprised by that.

  At the closing, a half-hour passed before Sandy could bring herself to return to the conference room table. During that time, Sean reminded her of their mission, which she had defined: a commitment to building bridges. He also reminded her, twice, of what Joe Folkes had said about the black woman selling the place. “Remember? He said she badly needed money.”

  That said, Sandy took a deep breath and went indoors. She sat down slowly and scanned the room, searching the bewildered faces until she met Hattie Phillips’s stinging gaze.

  “I’m very sorry. I was feeling nauseous. I needed some fresh air.”

  When the documents had been reviewed, Sandy took a pen in her trembling hand and signed her name on the dotted line.

  Chapter 10

  For Sean and Sandy, the actual move was preceded by a small army of painters, plumbers, carpenters and electricians, who stormed in to prepare the way. The workers began restoring Hattie Phillips’s once-dilapidated house into a solid, well-built home. They added a new roof, replaced old pipes and fixed whatever else needed repair.

  The Gilmores moved in a week after the work was done and happily began settling in. They had moved there from Forsyth County, a rural area some thirty miles north of Atlanta. They were thrilled to be stationed in the heart of a bustling city, only a five-minute drive from downtown, with quick access to the interstate. They were close to restaurants, parks, theaters and concert halls—all in short supply in rural Forsyth.

  But there were trade-offs, too: In that first month, the Gilmores met none of their new neighbors. When they’d first moved to Forsyth from Philadelphia, folks paraded over, welcoming them with freshly baked cakes and cookies. Nobody came to the door this time. There were no bright smiles or “How do you dos” when they saw neighbors out and about.

  During dinner one day, Sean and Sandy noted the cold reception they’d received so far. They agreed some initial distrust on the part of the locals was to be expected. So they took it upon themselves to initiate acquaintances with the people of the Old Fourth Ward. They printed flyers and stuffed them in mailboxes all along Randolph Street:

  WE’RE YOUR NEW NEIGHBORS!

  COME MEET AND MINGLE

  WITH LEMONADE AND A SWEET!

  SATURDAY 2–3:30 P.M.r />
  1022 RANDOLPH STREET

  SEE YOU THERE!

  The doorbell rang at exactly 1:59. Sean answered and greeted an elderly woman, dressed to the nines, high heels and all.

  “Hi!” She smiled. “My name is Lula. Lula Simmons. Welcome to the neighborhood!”

  Lula had plastered on a layer of makeup thick as pancake batter. Her hair was tied back in a spinster’s bun, and she wore big-framed glasses that looked like car windshields.

  She stepped in and feasted her eyes on the Gilmores, their faces aglow. Lula clasped her hands together, barely able to contain herself.

  “This is wonderful! Just wonderful!”

  “Yes,” said Sean. His eyes darted to Sandy. “We’re glad to meet you, too.” He stepped back. “Come in. Come in and make yourself comfortable.”

  Lula glided past Sean and Sandy and inspected the living room. With apparent disappointment, she eyed the plain blue couch and simple scatter rugs. She’d obviously expected better from them.

  “Well.” Sandy took in a deep breath, “We’re glad you’re here. Won’t you have something to eat or drink?”

  “Why, thank you.”

  Lula floated into the dining room and scanned a table filled with light refreshments. Stepping closer, she mumbled something under her breath about “rabbit food.” She plucked a homemade oatmeal cookie from a batch and took a dainty nibble.

  For the next half-hour, Sean and Sandy listened as Lula raved, a bit too much, they thought, about how happy—thrilled was the word she used—she was to have them in the neighborhood.

  It was weird. The lady even spooked Sandy.

  Speaking perfect textbook English, Lula recounted her whole life story. She was a retired elementary school principal, she said; a transplant from Washington, D.C. She moved to Atlanta after her fourth husband died. She went on like that in endless detail, even reciting the French names and peculiar habits of the various poodles she’d owned over the years.

  With Lula’s story complete, they small-talked—about weather, traffic, anything to fill the awkward pauses. All the while, they pretended not to notice that no one else had shown up yet.

  Sandy was relieved when it ended. On the way out, Lula stopped in the doorway and clasped her wrinkled hands again.

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help with your transition. Anything. I mean that, too.” She patted Sandy’s arm, reassuringly. “And don’t worry. Folks will get over it. You’ll fit in just fine.”

  When Lula had gone, Sean and Sandy went into the dining room and began wrapping leftover food. They worked in silence, keeping their disappointment to themselves.

  For the rest of that day, they both wondered, what had they gotten themselves into? A month had passed and they hadn’t exchanged so much as one hello, not even with neighbors on either side of them. On one side was an old woman. (Joe Folkes said she was in her eighties and hardly ever showed her face.) On the other side were two young, mysterious men. The Gilmores saw them come and go, but they never got a chance to say hello.

  The day after the fruitless meet-and-greet, Sandy happened to peek out the kitchen window while washing dishes. She spotted Barlowe out back, unwrapping a water hose. She watched as he sprayed the patchy lawn and watered the base of the tall oak tree.

  At one point, he turned around and looked her way, intuitively sensing he was being watched. Sandy dropped her gaze. A moment later, she looked up and met Barlowe’s studied glare. Awkwardly, they both turned away, neither acknowledging the other.

  Sitting on the front porch later that day, Sandy told Sean about the uneasy moment with their next-door neighbor. “I like our house,” she said, simply.

  “Yes, me, too.”

  They fell silent. Then, from out of the blue, Sean muttered, “I wonder what that old lady meant when she said, ‘Folks will get over it.’” He turned to Sandy. “You think it’ll be all right?”

  “I’m not worried,” she lied. “People are people. You wait. Before long, we’ll make new friends and have them over from time-to-time to share a glass of chardonnay.”

  From their new porch in front of their new house they played Chinese checkers, marked time and took in that gorgeous skyline view.

  Chapter 11

  In the decades before the Gilmores showed up, the people of the Old Fourth Ward had remained fairly anonymous. Not by design, mind you. Barring routine forays to other parts of town, they were simply too consumed by life’s unyielding grind to be concerned with much of anything else. If life was running on most cylinders, which it seldom did, they counted themselves blessed to make frayed ends meet and avoid the sudden shadow of the repo man. A job lost or some hoped-for ship that failed to dock could result in a steep plunge off one of life’s brutal cliffs. Except for neighbors living close enough to eyewitness the fall, the descent went largely unnoticed; anonymous.

  Such was life for the people of the Old Fourth Ward. For years, they tended their business, gave what their government asked of them and learned to expect little back from that same government, which noted their existence mainly during tax collections and census counts.

  So it came as some surprise when they began to notice a sudden outside interest in the neigborhood. It had long been accepted as undisputed fact that white folks had forgotten they were there.

  Another month passed, and nothing changed. Nobody came to the Gilmores’ house. Nobody said hello when they passed in the street. Nobody made eye contact, if they could help it. It was enough to make a body feel downright isolated.

  Sandy hated that feeling. Lounging in the living room one day, flipping restlessly through People magazine, she suddenly stood up straight. She felt jumpy. She needed to do something, at least to try.

  Earlier, she’d seen a few men playing dominoes outside the Auburn Avenue Mini-Mart. She had never gone into the store before. It seemed like some fraternity house or private club she was not yet a member of.

  Her instinct about the store was more on point than she might have imagined. The mini-mart was one of the most revered institutions in the Old Fourth Ward. The store was founded by a man named Cornell James. As a young buck coming up, Cornell was a sharp crapshooter who could roll sevens and elevens, almost at will. After being dragged kicking and screaming to Vietnam, he made good use of his gambling skills. He ran the rounds to soldiers’ barracks on payday every month. Often rolling with fixed dice, Cornell would clean out the troops before they tramped off on weekend leave to blow their money on booze and whores.

  Cornell had the presence of mind to send his substantial winnings home to his young bride, Alberta, who promptly socked it away in keeping with their future plans. When Cornell returned from war in 1975, he and Alberta were set to start. They didn’t have to beg white folks for what they needed, and surely wouldn’t get: a business loan. They bought a home in the Old Fourth Ward and opened the mini-mart.

  Cornell worked hard to get the place going, then died of a heart attack two decades later. Alberta ran the store for a short while and turned it over to their eldest daughter, Juliette. Juliette James proved to be a better business manager than both of her parents put together. She served patrons with a friendly smile, but when managing customers and accounts she was as hard-nosed and savvy as they came. On the day after she took over, in 1999, she posted a sign in big red letters on the cash register at the front of the store:

  IN GOD WE TRUST

  ALL OTHERS MUST PAY

  Thanks to Juliette’s business knack, the mini-mart became a marvel in efficiency. It could compete head-to-head with most any grocery chain in town. There was another store just around the corner, but the mini-mart claimed most folks’ loyalty. The people viewed it as a special point of pride that it had been black-owned and -operated for so many years.

  Of course, that bit of history had preceded Sandy. Whenever she needed things for the house, she usually drove to the Winn-Dixie, less than a mile away.

  Standing in her living room now, she told hersel
f that this might be the time to take some symbolic step toward establishing herself in the community. Then it hit her: Shampoo! She was out of shampoo! She would run over to the mini-mart.

  Barlowe had gone to the store to buy the lottery Quik Pik and shoot the breeze. The boys were all there, standing around, socializing outside. Amos had a kitten that he’d found wandering through an alleyway. He’d cleaned it, fed it and claimed it as his own. The kitten was female but he named it Caesar, just to get a rise from Barlowe.

  With Barlowe looking on, laughing, Amos held little Caesar in his lap and explained the complexities of the creature’s mind. Ely and Willie insisted normal black people didn’t own cats.

  “I don’t give a shit,” Amos declared, “what black people own.”

  Just then, Lucretia Wiggins sashayed around the corner. Barlowe was the first among the men to spot her. She wore a snug lime-colored midriff top, with her dark, flat belly peeking out.

  One day, about a week before, he had bumped into her coming out of the store. When they collided, she looked up at him and smiled. Barlowe fumbled in his head for something to say; something witty that might jump-start a conversation. But nothing came to mind. The moment passed, and Lucretia went inside. He determined to be quicker on his feet next time around.

  Now Ely saw Lucretia head into the store. He poured himself a soda chaser and held the Coke bottle aloft.

  “Um! Eye Candy! She shaped like this here bottle ri chere.”

  Willie chuckled. “She wouldn’t want you, Ely, wit them dead man’s teef…What you gonna do wit a gal lak that?”

  “Shoot,” groused Ely. “Them young boys don’t wanna do nothin but hump up-and-down on her alla time.” He beat a knotted fist against his flat chest. “I know wha to do…I’d treat her lak a real woman; take her out to a movie, buy her a hot dog and stuff like that.”