Them

by Nathan McCall

  “There are implicit guidelines,” noted Lula. “Implicit guidelines are always useful.”

  Wendell snorted like an angry bull. “Whasa matter wit y’all!? Dontcha unnerstand? We can make up some daggone rules!”

  “No we cain’t,” Miss Carol Lilly grunted. “Everbody know all we ever jerdged people on is how perty they yards and gardens were. We ain’t never axed nobody how they yards got that way.

  “And you can see well as anybody that some a them got some perty yards. They got ’xotic flowers and plants that I ain’t even seen befoe.”

  She was right. With all the hemming and hawing about the perils of “whitey” coming in, there was no denying that the neighborhood was slowly flowering into a more attractive place. One couple had installed a Chinese water garden, complete with marble sculptures. Out front they’d planted stocky shrubs and elephant ears, and lined each side of their walk with monkey grass.

  Another white family had settled on a funky southwestern motif, with cacti imported all the way from the Nevada desert. No question; it was beautiful.

  Barlowe had noticed that the people next door to him did their own yard work. But what consolation was that? They were still there, weren’t they? For weeks after the Gilmores moved in, he would wake up mornings and look outdoors, hoping they had somehow disappeared.

  Clarence Sykes, Wendell’s friend and poker buddy, had remained quiet throughout most of the debate. Now he weighed in, prompted mostly by a simmering resentment that the women on the committee seemed to be running things.

  “What it gon look like if you give them that award wit all these black people livin out chere?”

  “Hush, Clance,” said Miss Carol Lilly. “Ain’t nobody stopped other folks out chere from competin. They coulda got out in they yards and planted, just like them white folks done.”

  Wendell yanked the toothpick from his mouth and snapped it in two. “You know well as me, folks ain’t got spare change to be puttin down fertlizer every time the dang seasons change.”

  “Oh, reaallly?” An exasperated Lula clucked her tongue. “Then how much does it cost to bend your posterior down and pick up trash?”

  Other committee members kept quiet on that point. They recalled the many Saturdays they’d spent in that very room, wracking their brains to find ways to persuade neighbors to show more community pride. Some people maintained their yards quite nicely, while others seemed not to care at all.

  “I don’t know why we keep having the dang competition in the first place,” Clarence complained. “The same three people win alla time, anyway. We should let somebody else win.”

  “Mr. Sykes.” Lula sounded very weary now. “What part of this conversation don’t you comprehend? That’s exactly what we’re proposing to do—allow someone else to win.”

  He waved her off. “Oh, woman, you know what I mean.”

  The debate raged on like that for another ten minutes until other committee members spoke up. After his initial outburst, Barlowe kept quiet and listened. He had definite views, and more to say, but being a renter, he felt less entitled to force debate with people who owned their homes.

  Meanwhile, somebody in the middle row raised a hand. “Maybe we need to brainstorm ways of doing a better job getting the word out about the competition.”

  It was a fine-boned young woman named Marvetta Green. Smart, pretty and confident, Marvetta was one of several single black women to recently buy homes in the ward. Barlowe had met her before, and they’d chatted briefly. He looked upon her with new interest now.

  “Clearly, we need to do more to expand the pool of people who compete for the award.”

  “Been there, done that.” Miss Carol Lilly’s gruff tone suggested she doubted a woman with a waistline trim as Marvetta’s had anything of use or substance to say. Some years back, Miss Carol Lilly had lost her husband to a trim-hipped woman. The only thing she had to show for her ceaseless pain was the house she was awarded in the divorce.

  “It—jus—ain’t—gonna—work.” She uttered each word slowly, as if Marvetta was dim-witted or hard of hearing.

  Marvetta shot back. “Have you put flyers on people’s doors? Have you offered better prizes than the plaques you normally hand out to winners?”

  “Prizes like what?”

  “Instead of a plaque we could offer cash prizes or free grass and flower seeds.”

  “I think thas a good idea!” Wendell was interested to hear what else the pretty gal had to say.

  Miss Carol Lilly shot him a look that carried the force of a backhand.

  “We ain’t got a dime in the budget as it is. How we gonna offer somethin we ain’t got?”

  “Maybe we on the committee could all pitch in somethin extra.” When he spoke, Barlowe glanced at Marvetta, but she had turned her attention to Lula Simmons, who raised her hand.

  “You can do anything you want to attract more people, but don’t be surprised or offended when our Caucasian neighbors start showing up. A few have already approached me and inquired about the committee. So we must be right and proper in our positions. We must be fair in how we conduct our—”

  Marvetta broke in. “As the committee that oversees the selection process, we’re well within our rights to dictate the criteria for the award. Let’s reexamine the wording. Maybe it’s time to update the language.”

  Except for Lula, whose pursed lips signaled she was quite displeased, the committee veterans looked sideways at each other, wondering why they hadn’t thought of that.

  “Thas right!” barked Wendell. “We’ll review the daggone guidelines!”

  Lula pouted, acutely aware that she was outnumbered.

  With Marvetta’s guidance the wording was doctored so expertly that it appeared the award criteria had been left the same.

  The original document said: Winners are awarded the Green Thumb Prize based on the overall beauty of their yards, shrubs and flower beds.

  The committee simply tacked on extra language: Winners are awarded the Green Thumb Prize based on the overall beauty of their yards, shrubs and flower beds, as a result of work wrought by their own hands.

  For good measure, committee members cast anonymous ballots to select a winner.

  In the final vote, one of the old retirees—a black woman who had lived in the Old Fourth Ward for twenty years—won the Green Thumb Prize.

  For the time being, all was right again with the world.

  Chapter 18

  With the meeting over, committee members mingled briefly, some chatting about the outcome of the vote. Barlowe noticed Marvetta Green preparing to leave. He took a step in her direction but was halted by a voice calling to him from across the room. It was Miss Carol Lilly. She yoo-hooed, waving him over with a flabby arm.

  “I ever tell you bout my niece?”

  “No, ma’am. You didn’t.” He glanced toward the door, looking for Marvetta.

  “Pretty gal,” crowed Miss Carol Lilly. “I want you should meet her.”

  Barlowe scratched his chin, unsure what to say to that.

  “My niece got meat on her bones.” Miss Carol Lilly rolled her eyes, glancing at Marvetta across the room. “And honey, that girl can burn! I tole her bout you one day, and she bout grinned from ear to ear.”

  Barlowe suspected what brought on the sudden matchmaking interest from Miss Carol Lilly. She had spied him coming in from church one day, dressed in the only suit he owned. She’d pegged him as a nice man, and eligible, with a steady job. Now there was a bull’seye marked on his chest.

  “Smiled ear to ear, huh?”

  “Yeah. I want you should meet her.”

  Barlowe was hornier than a cat in summer heat. Still, he wondered, what sense was there in getting tangled up with somebody blood-tied to Miss Carol Lilly? If relations flopped, it could mean trouble. And what if the niece was just like Miss Carol Lilly—heavy-breasted and full of Christian cheer?

  Glancing at his watch, Barlowe told Miss Carol Lilly he’d love to hear more, some ot
her time, but now he had to leave.

  She waddled out the front door, waving good-bye.

  Barlowe chitchatted with a few other committee members and tried not to seem so clearly interested in Marvetta Green. At the moment, Wendell Mabry had her hemmed up in a corner, grinning up close in her face like she was some tasty church dinner he planned to devour.

  Finally, the remaining committee members shuffled toward the exit. When Marvetta got outdoors, Barlowe rushed to catch up.

  “Marvetta, you walkin home?”

  “Yes. You going that way?”

  “Matter of fact, I am.”

  They strolled and talked, mostly about the beautification drive and the neighborhood. Up ahead, Viola and The Hawk stumbled past the mini-mart.

  “Thanks for helpin us out in there. We were stuck, bad. That coulda gone on for days.”

  “That Carol Lilly,” said Marvetta, “is an effortless ass.”

  An effortless ass. He liked the way she put her words together. An effortless ass. He wished he could put words together like that.

  “How’d you vote?” asked Barlowe.

  “I’m not telling. How’d you vote?”

  “I ain’t tellin, neither.”

  They chuckled and walked and talked some more. Strolling along, Barlowe stole a better look. Marvetta had a mod, artsy look about her, which he really liked. She wore tinted sunshades, and beyond them he saw deep-set, intelligent eyes. Unlike the librarian Rachel Worthman, Marvetta’s eyes revealed light and life, and maybe even a little fire. She wore a cute gray blouse with matching shorts and a straw hat with little plastic flowers poking out. She wore sandals, and her toenails were painted bright red. She was easy on the eyes, all right. All the pieces right in place.

  Barlowe told her about the house that he rented but planned to buy. She told him about her renovation project a few blocks over from where he lived. She was restoring her 1920s Queen Anne cottage.

  “I just had stained glass put in the window on the stairway landing and I’m having skylights installed in my bedroom…Wanna see?”

  “Sure.”

  Barlowe felt a sudden rush. Just what did she want him to see? Her house? Only her house? Was she being friendly, or what?

  He picked up the pace, every few steps sneaking a peek at those bright red toenails.

  They reached Marvetta’s place on Bradley Street. It was a long, narrow two-story house, unlike his place, which was short and squat. She had decorated her yard with flowers and put in an elegant oak door, with a stained-glass window out front.

  Inside, she showed him around, gliding through the living room like a museum guide. She knew the house’s history and had even collected gossip about the former owners. She explained in detail the work she’d had done, and outlined other projects she was planning to do.

  Barlowe noted that Marvetta’s decorating taste was much more sophisticated than Nell’s. Nell had furnished her condo with lots of cheap brass and flashy chairs. But Marvetta had classic furniture, and cultured artwork lined the walls. Strolling through, Barlowe glanced at family photos and noted there were no pictures or signs of a boyfriend. She led him to her bedroom upstairs and showed him around. Seeing no lovers’ photos in there, either, he guessed again that she had no man to speak of. Maybe she was separated or divorced.

  He fixed his eyes on her queen-size bed. It was a tall canopy, covered with a blue comforter and lots of frilly pillows. Barlowe imagined himself stretched out there after making love. He could see himself lying on his back, his hands resting contentedly behind his head.

  The room overlooked a backyard surrounded by leafy trees. The trees shielded a view of her neighbor’s house, giving it a closed-in, private, courtyard feel.

  “I’m gonna have large windows placed here, and a French door leading to a balcony. I wanna be able to sit out there and read the paper on weekend mornings.”

  Barlowe imagined himself sitting out there reading the paper, too. “This is real nice,” he said. “Real nice.”

  “Gracias.”

  When they returned downstairs, he felt a mild tension surging through his thigh.

  “Can I use your bathroom?”

  “It’s right down the hall.”

  He rushed to the bathroom and closed the door. He stood there a moment, eyes closed, and took in a deep breath, trying to force excess air from his chest. He opened his eyes with the sudden awareness of where he was: inside the home of a beautiful woman; a beautiful woman who happened to live close enough for him to drop by from time to time to borrow a cup of sugar.

  Marvetta was a few steps up from the young, rough-hewn women he was used to. He wondered what she thought of him. There was no real way of knowing. She was friendly, but there was no vibe, no yearning or energy popping from her pores.

  Now he looked around. On top of the toilet was a box of pink tissue; an ornamental bowl on the counter, filled with potpourri. The door to the medicine cabinet was slightly cracked. He leaned over and peeked. On the end of the shelf nearest him, there was nail polish and hair remover.

  His imagination caught fire. In his mind’s eye, he could see Marvetta in this bathroom, doing very private things. He stared at the toilet and pictured her sitting there, her beautiful raw bottom, right there on that seat.

  He felt closer to her now. He unzipped his pants and relieved himself. When he was done, he critiqued himself in the full-length mirror behind the door. His khaki uniform was crisp and clean, but the belt and work shoes were a bit worn. He decided he needed to do better.

  Suddenly, he heard footsteps. She was headed toward the back of the house. He went into the living room, sat down and picked up Ebony magazine. How long had he been gone? Five minutes? Ten? How long?

  Marvetta sat down across from him and crossed her legs. “Can I get you anything? Juice or tea?”

  “No, thanks.” He could see light strands of hair running down her forearms. He tried to avoid staring.

  “So, Mr. Barlowe.” She homed in on him. “Tell me, what has life been like for you?”

  The question struck him as odd. “I ain’t too sure I know how to answer that.”

  “Try answering it straight.” She smiled.

  “Well.” He cleared his throat. “Life is complicated. Seems like it comes at you every day.”

  “Sometimes you get weekends off.”

  “Sometimes. Yeah.”

  “Are you from Atlanta?”

  “No. Milledgeville.”

  “You grew up there?”

  “Yep. A country boy. And you?”

  “I was born here.”

  “What high school did you go to?”

  “Booker T. Washington.”

  He wanted to ask her age.

  “When did you graduate?” asked Marvetta.

  “I didn’t.”

  “You dropped out?”

  “Leventh grade…Well, actually, they axed me to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “I had problems.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  He found her directness stimulating.

  “I didn’t like some a the things they tried to tell me.”

  “Things like what?”

  “It was like they tried to pretend the world made sense…I guess it made sense for them, but not for me…The stuff they taught…Crazy. It jus didn’t make sense.”

  “Like Christopher?”

  “Yeah, Christopher.”

  Marvetta leaned back in her seat and nodded, a knowing look spreading across her face. She waited. He paused.

  “That was bad enough,” he said, “but then they tried to make me write that stuff down on paper…It was one thing to say it. It was another to have to write it down. It was like writing it down made it permanent. Know what I mean?”

  “I see.”

  He paused again, then: “After a while, I told the teacher I wouldn’t write down some a that stuff, and nobody was gonna make me. So they kicked me out. Told me to come back when I wa
s ready to learn.

  “I left and never went back. Took up printing in trade school. After that, I got a job. Been workin ever since.”

  He finished talking and looked at Marvetta, wondering what she was thinking. She appeared concerned.

  “In hindsight, do you think that was the best way to handle that situation?”

  “It was the best I knew.”

  “Well.” She seemed to be searching for the right words. “You took a stand. Sometimes that can cost you.”

  He wondered if it was costing him now.

  They talked some more. He learned Marvetta was an engineer. She had a mother and three sisters in Brooklyn.

  After a while, she glanced at her watch. “My! Time has flown!” She stood up. “I’m afraid I’ve gotta get ready for an engagement…Going out to dinner with friends.”

  Barlowe strained to think of something to say. He felt embarrassed that he’d stayed too long. Oddly, he found himself thinking of Tyrone. What would Tyrone say right now?

  “Would you like to get a bite to eat sometime?” It came out sounding awkward, rehearsed.

  “What?”

  “Or I could cook. I’m decent at cookin certain stuff.”

  Marvetta shifted to another foot. Her body language suggested she had suffered the discomfort of the clumsy come-on before.

  “Actually, my schedule is pretty intense. I’m not sure I could swing dinner anytime soon.”

  “Okay, then. Maybe we can do somethin when you’re free—a movie or somethin.”

  “We’ll see.”

  She walked Barlowe to the door and said good-bye. He left. Heading down her walkway he felt lonelier than a Carolina country road.

  On the way home, he stopped at the Auburn Avenue Mini-Mart. He greeted the boys sitting outside, then went in and browsed around. He bought his lottery tickets and a soda from Juliette James and stepped back out onto the walk. He sat down to play a few games of checkers. He couldn’t get his mind off Marvetta Green. Nice woman. Pretty, and friendly, but not my type.

  He lost three games straight, then went on home. Barlowe climbed the steps and lumbered to the door, eager to bring the day to an end. He slid the key into the hole, then suddenly froze. He thought he heard a noise. It sounded like a scream. Muffled but shrill, it seemed to come from inside the house. He leaned in, holding his head against the door, and listened again. The screaming stopped. Now there was a low, guttural moan.