Them

by Nathan McCall

  “Okay, okay,” Reverend Pickering said, quickly. He had no quarrel with Mr. Smith, who was well regarded in the ward.

  “We git your pernt. We git your pernt. We don’t wont nobody to misunnerstand whut we tryin to do…”

  Pickering addressed Barlowe. “Lemme say dis: We share The Dream. Mah-tin would flip in his grave if he thought we was doin udderwise. Your pernt is well taken, son. But dis here may be a li’l more complicated than you thank.

  “Unfortunely, we don’t have time to go into it all right now. We’ll have to pick up on dis discussion, maybe at the nex meetin.”

  And there would be another meeting, though when the date was set, some folks might conveniently be overlooked.

  After a brief discussion, they formed an ad hoc committee to study the matter. Of course, Reverend Pickering appointed himself as chair.

  The preacher ended the civic league meeting as they often had done during the Movement: They joined hands crossways, swayed slowly and sang that old civil rights battle song:

  We shall over-co-ome.

  We shall over-co-ome.

  We shall over-come, some da-aaa-aa-ayyy!

  Deeeeep in my heaart

  I do be-liee-eve that we shall overcome,

  Some day…

  Chapter 25

  After the meeting, Barlowe and Tyrone went outside and joined a group of people gathered along the sidewalk in front of the church. Mr. Smith grabbed Zelda’s hand and led her off without saying so much as one good-bye.

  Wendell was talking, holding court about the meeting, when Barlowe approached. He sliced a sentence in half and walked away.

  Others followed, leaving Tyrone and Barlowe standing alone.

  Tyrone stood there a moment, gritting his teeth. He rolled his eyes, looking up and down the street, away from Barlowe.

  Finally, when he couldn’t hold it any longer, he turned to his uncle. “Whut you do that fo?!”

  Barlowe kept quiet, thinking. After a long moment, he said, “Tell you the truth, Ty, I don’t know. Somethin bout that meetin didn’t feel right to me.”

  Tyrone looked off into the distance again. “I cain’t blieve it. You of all people. Always talkin that black shit.”

  Normally, Barlowe wouldn’t have let that one slide. He would have told his nephew to shut his mouth or he would shut it for him. But this day, after what he’d just done, he sensed something was different somehow, yet he didn’t know what it was. So he simply repeated:

  “It jus didn’t feel right.”

  Tyrone squinted, still glancing up and down the block. His eyes danced around in his head like his thoughts were racing.

  “I’m tellin ya, man. These whities. They need to be dealt with. Know what I’m sayin?”

  “Dealt with how, Ty?”

  Tyrone looked down at Barlowe’s shoes like he wanted to spit on them. “Never mind, man. Never mind.” He said a tight-lipped “Later” and started up the street.

  Barlowe stood outside the church alone, disconnected from his own emotions. Why had he done that, anyway? He had never done anything like that before.

  Well, at least he had made a point. And maybe he had bought some time.

  He decided to take a walk. Across the street and catty-corner from where he stood, he saw Miss Carol Lilly. She was bent over in her flower bed. He headed down the sidewalk, wondering: Bought time for what? What had he bought time for?

  He wasn’t sure. But he knew this: If somebody didn’t do something there would be trouble. He could feel it.

  He went up Randolph Street, toward the Purple Palace to look for Tyrone. He wanted to talk some more. He approached a group of children playing hopscotch along the walk. He walked right through the game, unaware that they were even there.

  Down near the Purple Palace, Tyrone was nowhere in sight. Across the street, Henny Penn and some of his boys huddled in a tight knot at the corner of an apartment building. Some knelt down, rolling dice. Others stood around, drinking wine.

  Barlowe considered going inside the Palace. He hadn’t been in there in quite a while. He could use a relaxing game of cards, or better still, a stiff drink. He would settle for the easy company of people—anybody not connected to that bizarre meeting he had just come from.

  Standing out front, he stared longingly at the doorway. A lone man, bug-eyed and morose, sat on the porch in a wooden chair. A brown bag rested between his legs, the neck of a forty-ounce peeking through the top. Ten feet away, on a bald patch of dirt yard, a plastic Big Wheel tricycle rested in the mud. A dazed-looking woman came through the door, her hair askew. She stumbled slowly across the yard.

  Barlowe turned around and headed home. On the way, he saw a white man walking toward him with a dog. It was the same white man whose dog had dumped in Mr. Smith’s yard a while back.

  Short and medium-built, the man had a clean-shaven face that made him look more like a grown-up boy. He carried a pooper scooper now and wore plastic gloves to gather his pet’s waste.

  As they approached each other, Barlowe noticed the deep blue eyes again. The man looked directly at him, searching his face.

  When they were about to pass, the man yanked the leash, pulling the dog in closer.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Barlowe said, weakly.

  The man’s lips parted again, and his blue eyes twinkled, like he wanted to say more.

  Barlowe wanted to speak, too, but he had no idea what he would say, even if he could coax a sound from his throat.

  As they passed, the man waved good-bye. It was a friendly wave, an awkward extra gesture.

  Barlowe wondered what it meant. Did the man know about the secret meeting? What about Sandy? Had she heard about it, too?

  What did he care? He dismissed it and continued on.

  He reached his walkway and stopped in front of the house, where something had caught his eye. About thirty yards away, at the boundary that separated his house from the Gilmores’ place, there was a six-foot wrought-iron fence.

  He stood there, baffled. Where did that come from? How long had it been there? Was it thrown up while he was away at work or had he simply failed to notice before?

  He walked around back and studied it closer. Beginning at the front corner of the Gilmores’ house, the fence wound around to the entire backyard. It was decorative, with pointy ornamental tips on top. The tips weren’t razor-sharp, but they were sharp enough to pierce the skin.

  He stared, wondering, what was the point? To keep somebody out? To keep somebody in? Or was it put there for decoration?

  Barlowe gazed toward the back door of the Gilmores’ house, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. What did she have to do with this?

  He waited several minutes. She didn’t appear.

  He thought again about the secret meeting. He thought about Wendell and Tyrone and the blue-eyed white man he’d just passed on the walk.

  He moved closer to the fence. With each hand he grabbed the vertical strands and gripped them tight. He stared through the stripes, like an inmate peering through prison bars.

  Chapter 26

  Barlowe worked at finishing his last print job for the day. As usual, he was far ahead of the rest of the boys. He had the press running at medium speed, doing a one-color job of twenty thousand sheets. He was feeling pretty good about the day—better than he’d felt since that church meeting. He planned to go home, suck down a few beers and skim through a travel book he’d picked up from the library the week before.

  Across the room he saw skinny Franky Doyle, who worked at the press a few feet away from his machine. As usual, Franky was goofing off, stalking a boy named Freddy up a narrow aisle. Freddy ran, and Franky chased, popping his backside with one of the cloths.

  Barlowe had returned to his work area and begun arranging printing plates for the next day’s run, when Billy Spivey appeared from out of nowhere. His britches hitched up high and jaw puffed with a wad of tobacco, Billy stopped at Barlowe’s machine.

  “Hey, Barlowe
.”

  “Billy.”

  “I got a big ol dragon for you to keel.”

  Barlowe kept his eyes fixed on his press.

  “Yeah, Billy? Whas up?”

  “They got one a them religious conventions goin on over at the World Congress Center. Alla sudden somebody remembered they need thirty thousand Jesus flyers, on the spot.”

  He spit in the cup, then smiled a nervous, brown-toothed smile.

  Barlowe grabbed more printing plates and checked his watch.

  “Thas not good, Billy. Is pretty close to quittin time.”

  Spivey checked his watch, too. “Yeah, you right bout that. Tell ya the truth it pisses me off. But the boss told em we could do it.” He spit in the cup. “You know Mr. Scott. He weren’t gonna let no bizness get away.”

  The foreman checked his watch again and shifted his weight to the other foot. “You can hep us out?”

  Barlowe nodded toward Franky, who had just returned to his machine.

  “What about him?”

  Billy half-turned around. He didn’t see Franky, but he knew he was there.

  “He goin to a concert tonight. Toby Keith and Reba McEntire. A man cain’t rightly pass up on Reba and Toby.”

  Barlowe hadn’t seen the books, but he was sure Franky was paid more than him. Of course it was supposed to be his imagination that there was something wrong with that.

  “Can you hep us out?”

  Barlowe cranked up the press speed, partly to drown out Spivey’s voice. The papers fired faster now.

  “Boss said we gotta do it, Barlowe. We may as well face it. It gotta get done.”

  Barlowe looked up from his machine. “Well, then. I guess it gotta be done, Billy.”

  The foreman smiled and slapped him across the back. “Thanks, buddy.” He spit in the cup, then hurried off.

  A piece of paper jammed in Barlowe’s press. He stopped the machine and pulled it out. The sheet was crumpled and splotched with ink. It had run catty-corner beneath the plate. He checked the tray up top to make sure the ink supply was strong. He cleaned the plate and wiped down the rollers, then cranked up the machine to finish the job.

  It took nearly two hours to complete the convention programs. The press run went without a hitch. When he was done, Barlowe entered the time in his log. He used to treat overtime like he used to treat money: He paid little attention to either one unless he really needed to. He needed both now, so he kept a strict time log, down to the minute.

  The job done, he left the shop. He got in his car and pulled away. He flicked on the radio, sank into the rhythm of an up-tempo jazz tune and melted into the traffic flow.

  The rush-hour traffic was heavy now, with city worker bees out in force. Women dressed in business suits and clunky sneakers rushed down walkways, toward parking lots. Men wearing cheap white shirts and wrinkled ties headed for the subway line.

  He cruised past Woodruff Park, where homeless men who learned to play chess in jail held makeshift tournaments on park benches until the big conventions came to town. Then the vagrants were rounded up like so much cattle and whisked back to jail until the conventions ended and the tourists left.

  Driving along, Barlowe wondered if Billy Spivey was trying to mess with his head. He wondered if the foreman was trying to set him up to be fired or get him pissed-off enough to quit.

  It made him shift his thinking about working for other shops. In fact, he had recently applied to a shop across town. He might take that job if they made him a decent offer. They might not treat him any better than he was being treated now, but they’d surely pay him something closer to what he was worth. Life being what it was, there likely would be trade-offs somehow.

  He stopped at a traffic light. A car filled with white people pulled alongside him in the next lane. He glanced at them, then shifted his attention to the string of folks parading down sidewalks. One man shuffled along in tattered clothes, his dark face a brooding testimony to life’s power to unhinge the soul.

  Barlowe glanced back at the white people in the car beside him. A woman in the front seat pointed at the derelict, who now sifted through a garbage can. Barlowe could see the woman’s lips moving. A backseat passenger flapped his jaws, too. They all laughed.

  Barlowe wondered what they were laughing at.

  The light changed, and he pulled away. Riding down the street, he thought about William Crawford. Maybe he could ask the old man if he’d accept a lower down payment. Barlowe had managed to save some more money, though there was still a good ways to go.

  Gliding along, he felt his spirit soothed some by the music on the radio. It was Johnny Hartman. He cruised and watched the world pass by as he got lost in the lyrics—lyrics about love; love lost and love found. He got so swept away by Johnny Hartman crooning against the backdrop of people walking the city streets that he decided to take the long way home.

  Down near Pine Street, whole platoons of homeless women and men lounged in the doorways of vacant buildings, waiting for the next shelter feeding time. Tourists with high-tech cameras hung around their necks walked in tight, nervous clusters, studying maps and keeping wary eyes out for beggars.

  Barlowe drove up Peachtree Street, on up by the peep show joints, to the intersection near the Fox Theater. He hung a right onto Ponce de Leon Avenue and went to the Krispy Kreme doughnut place.

  It was Wednesday evening. Glazed doughnuts went on sale on Wednesdays. He bought a dozen glazed and a quart of milk, then pulled back onto Ponce, trying to decide which way to go. If he turned left off Ponce he would run into the heart of Midtown, which was mostly white. If he turned right off Ponce, it would take him toward the Old Fourth Ward.

  Barlowe turned left. He wasn’t ready to go in yet. He rode around Midtown, eating doughnuts and taking in the city scenes. He approached a construction site, where the routine sound of progress drifted his way. It was the persistent knock of hammers against those gigantic nails; the clack of Sheetrock being hastily slapped onto building frames.

  A sign out front announced now-familiar news:

  COMING SOON!

  LUXURY CONDOS

  LOW $200s!

  Barlowe suddenly slammed on the brakes. A squirrel had run into the street. Caught in the middle of the road, the creature froze, then dashed off and leapt onto a tree trunk nearby. Barlowe turned down a narrow street, lined on both sides with trees and cars. He swung onto 10th Street and drove past Piedmont Park. He went straight through to Virginia-Highland and hung a right onto North Highland Avenue.

  On North Highland, the scene transformed into a world of cheery Yuppie clones. Everywhere, there were people, them, walking along sidewalks in groups of twos, threes and fours, strolling down happy lanes, some with springy Lab retrievers leading the way.

  WASPish and smug, they seemed to be out celebrating life.

  Life. Be in it.

  Barlowe stopped at a light and checked them out. One couple strolled along the walk licking ice cream cones. The woman wore blue leather flats and neatly creased silk pants. She had a sweater draped perfectly around her slender shoulders. The sleeves were cross-tied and hung loosely over her chest, like the models in the L.L. Bean catalogues.

  Her companion, a lanky man with moussed-up hair, wore creased denims and a burgundy knit shirt, with penny loafers and no socks.

  Barlowe wondered, Who taught these people how to live?

  People in Virginia-Highland looked like they all had enrolled in the same Life seminars: They married young—right around thirty—remained newlyweds for about eighteen months, then started families. They sprouted apple-cheeked babies (usually one, sometimes two), then traded in their Saabs and BMWs for SUVs and minivans. They settled into homes furnished by Ethan Allen, hired Hispanics to tend their lawns, and traded fitness club memberships for three-wheeled jogging strollers.

  Like rickshaws in India, those strollers were everywhere. The sidewalks of Virginia-Highland were flooded with them, running, panting behind three-wheeled strollers, w
ith wide-eyed, apple-cheeked babies riding high.

  Barlowe pulled to another stoplight. Folks sat outdoors at restaurants, laughing, chattering and drinking beer. In front of him, a pickup truck sat waiting for the light to change. There were bumper stickers pasted on each side of the flatbed door. On the left side, a sticker featured an American flag, plastered below these words:

  UNITED WE STAND!

  The truck had another flag, too. A faded picture of the Confederate flag adorned the right side of the flatbed gate.

  Barlowe sighed. He couldn’t seem to get away from flags. Even when he sat down to watch sports on TV, he noticed them, pasted on the backs of football players’ helmets and sewn across their jersey fronts. They were stitched on basketball players’ uniforms. Watching the Atlanta Hawks play one night, he spotted tiny flag stickers taped to the bottom corner of the basketball goals––on both ends of the floor!

  It was crazy.

  Now Barlowe stared at both flags in front of him and sucked his teeth, disgusted. Then, with no conscious thought about it, he released his foot from the brake pedal. The car eased forward, bumping the back of the pickup truck.

  The driver, a white man with a long, blond, irreverent mane, poked his head out the window. He flung open the door, spitting and cussing, and started toward the back to assess the damage.

  Barlowe got out, too. He walked slowly, fixing a stern gaze on the white man’s eyes. When the two men met, Barlowe got right up on him; he got right up in his face.

  “You got somethin to say to me, chief?” His fists were balled, tight, ready.

  The white man looked in Barlowe’s cold eyes and, oddly, thought about health insurance. He glimpsed his bumper, which was slightly dented.

  He forced a smile. “Ain’t enough damage thar to poke a finger at. Forgitaboutit.” He turned around, climbed in his truck and drove away.

  Barlowe left Virginia-Highland, too, heading toward home. He took North Highland up through the run-down industrial area and stopped at a corner grocery store. A sign pasted up high on the back wall inside the store announced that the Georgia lottery was up to five million dollars now.