Them

by Nathan McCall

  “See? That’s what I mean, Sean. I’m no longer sure you’re the person I thought you were.”

  “And I’m no longer sure I want to be.” He paused, seeming to stumble. “What I’m saying is, maybe I’m not committed to the degree that you are.”

  She turned her back to him and stared out the window. “I didn’t know there were degrees, Sean. I’ve always thought a person was either committed or not committed.”

  “I’m committed to the idea of what we’re doing,” he said. “But I don’t want to have to work this hard…I didn’t bargain for this…”

  “Then you’re not committed, Sean. It’s as simple as that. You’re not committed.”

  “Well, then. I guess I’m not.”

  They both went silent, each trying to figure out where to take the discussion from there. They remained silent for a long while, he concluding in his way, and she in hers, that it was impossible to know.

  Then Sandy spoke: “You’re starting to sound like someone who doesn’t care. I’ve never thought of you as apathetic.”

  “I’m not apathetic. Maybe I’m just indifferent…Is that a crime?”

  “It’s a crime if your indifference ends up hurting people.” She sniffled. “You don’t get it, do you? We really are hurting people.”

  He exploded. “Uh-huh, and they’re hurting us! Have you thought about that? Huh? We’re hurting, too!”

  “No, you don’t understand…”

  “Okay,” he said, “how about this: We’re hurting each other! That sound fair? We’re hurting each other! Everybody’s hurting! So let’s call it even, huh? Let’s call it even!”

  “But you don’t understand—”

  He waved her off. “Take it somewhere else, Sandy. I’m tired. I don’t wanna hear that crap.”

  “But—”

  “No buts!” He pointed at her. “No buts! These people are hurting us and they’re hurting themselves!”

  Sandy sniffled again. She pulled a paper towel from a nearby rack to wipe her eyes. “How can you say that with a straight face, Sean?”

  “Easy! Look at the bums walking the streets!” He was shouting now. “And what about the drunks? What about that drunk lady who was found dead near the house a while back? We didn’t force her to drink herself to death!”

  Sandy shouted back, “She might have been depressed, Sean! The lady might have been depressed! Did you ever think about that!?”

  Now Sean lowered his voice. “Yeah. She had plenty to be depressed about.”

  She studied his face. “What do you mean?”

  “Her drunk boyfriend, or whatever he was to her. Her drunk boyfriend in jail.”

  “In jail?” Sandy had wondered in passing what happened to the frumpy man she used to see staggering through her backyard. She had wondered about him when she saw Viola walking through the path alone. “In jail?”

  “Yeah. Jail.”

  “How do you know he’s in jail?”

  A devious grin spread across Sean’s face. He was angry now. And hurt. He felt entitled to be a little mean.

  “You haven’t seen him around here peeing on the fence lately, have you?”

  “No. But how do you know he’s in jail?”

  Sean picked up a green pepper and tossed it in the air like a baseball. “Because.”

  Sandy stared, suspicious. “Because what, Sean?”

  “Because I took care of it.”

  “What do you mean you took care of it? What do you mean?”

  Sean sensed now that he might have said too much. So what? He told himself that he didn’t care anymore. Why should he care? He looked at Sandy, his face a blank page. Why should he care?

  “I called the cops on him, that’s what.”

  Sandy’s eyes widened, incredulous. “You called the cops on him? When?”

  “One night.”

  “One night, when, Sean? Tell me!”

  “It’s been a while. It doesn’t matter. He probably got out and skipped town or something.”

  She glared at him, waiting.

  “Hell,” said Sean, “it wasn’t my fault. He came stumbling through here, drunk. I looked out the window and saw him out there, in the dark, sitting against our fence. He got up and peed on the fence…That’s the same guy who sneaked up on me that day. Remember?”

  She stared, silent.

  “So I called the cops and told them to get him away from us. They came and took him downtown.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Sandy.

  “Considering what happened to his old lady, who knows? I might have done him a favor. I might have saved him from himself.”

  Sandy’s eyes grew wider. “I don’t believe you.”

  Sean stepped around her and got a glass of water. “Well, you should believe me. And you should be grateful. Nobody should have to put up with drunk people walking through your yard all hours of the day and night.”

  Now she was furious. She could hardly believe what she had heard, and coming from her husband at that. Her husband!

  She started pounding Sean’s chest with her fists. “You! How could you bring yourself to do something like that?! I don’t believe you! I don’t believe you!”

  He grabbed her by both wrists, to stop the assault. “Christ, Sandy, what’s the matter with you? The man was breaking the law! I’m not apologizing! I’m not apologizing! My life has been hell since we moved out here! I’m fed up with this crap! My nerves are shot! It’s driving me crazy!”

  She stared at him, squinting. “I’m fed up, too, Sean. I’m fed up, too, with a lot of things—”

  She stopped short of blurting it out, but he knew what she meant. Tears welled in her eyes again. She covered her face with her hands and shook her head in disbelief. She turned and rushed from the room.

  Sean stood in the kitchen, drinking water and staring out the window. He could hear Sandy in the back of the house. She was sobbing and throwing things around.

  He felt lost. He didn’t know what else to say to her. Still, he was determined not to give in this time. She wasn’t qualified to lead him.

  He looked out the window, thinking and feeling lost. He spotted Barlowe across the way. He carried a rake and garden hoe. Sean studied him a moment. He wondered, who was he, anyway?

  Sandy reappeared in the living room, breaking his train of thought. She had her car keys and a small purse in her hand.

  Sean walked in. “Going somewhere?”

  “I’m going out! I’m going out for some fresh air! It feels too stuffy in here!” She slammed the door.

  “Sandy!”

  She got in her car and drove away. She turned left onto North Highland Avenue and headed toward the downtown connector. She planned to take a drive around the perimeter, to give herself room to think, to give herself time to cool down.

  She stopped at the red light at Boulevard. A dark, scruffy black man in tattered clothes and long, matted hair sat forlornly at the curb. Beside him was a bucket of dirty water, a bottle of Windex window cleaner and a smudgy cloth.

  Sandy had seen him on that corner many times. As soon as she pulled to a stop, the man leapt to his feet and approached the car. She handed him a quarter and waved him off. The man took the money, thanked her and moved on to the car behind her. It was a shiny green Jaguar, with a white couple inside. Sandy could see them in her rearview mirror. They wore nervous, red-faced smiles.

  Without waiting for permission, the street man aimed his Windex bottle at the windshield, sprayed and began wiping furiously, all the while smiling broadly. While the driver kept a close watch on the black man, his companion rifled through her purse for change. Finding none, she ripped out a dollar bill and handed it to her partner. The white man lowered his window, slightly, and slid the bill through the crack. The black man yanked it away and nodded. He stuffed it in his pocket and backed slowly away from the car.

  The light changed. Sandy glanced once more in the rearview mirror before driving off. She saw the black man. He reared
back and laughed out loud, turning his face upward, toward the sky.

  Chapter 42

  Minutes after his wife left, Sean went to his car and sped away. He figured he knew which direction Sandy would take. He got on I-85 South, heading toward the airport. He reached the perimeter and settled into the fast lane, picking up speed. Traffic was moderate, which meant he could have his way on the road.

  Eventually, he approached the exit for Augusta. He looked longingly at the cars heading that way. He had been to Augusta a few times on business. It seemed like a decent town; smaller and more manageable than Atlanta, for sure. Probably, he thought, a lot like Chattanooga.

  Sean wondered what turns life might offer if he took that Augusta exit and kept on going. It was somehow reassuring knowing a man could change the course of his life with one slight turn of the steering wheel. He thought: Every person should do that at least once in life. Every person should take off in a direction that offers no resistance or problems; just erase the chalkboard and start all over.

  He thought about that a lot these days. He needed a break from his life. He needed a break, like right now.

  By now the speedometer was pushing seventy. He figured he should be able to catch up to Sandy soon. He was more than halfway around the perimeter before it occurred to him how stupid he was. What were the chances of him finding her on the highway? And even if he did find her, what good would it do? She would be driving and he would be driving and there would be nothing he could do but toot the horn.

  How stupid. He felt sillier by the day. Each week, his life made less sense to him. He could thank the move to the Old Fourth Ward for that. He could thank the address from hell.

  Maybe he should head to Augusta. He could find a hotel and spend a few touristy days there.

  Maybe a stiff drink would be better.

  He got off at Interstate 20-West and exited at Moreland Avenue. He went to Manuel’s Tavern. Inside, he plopped down next to two men seated on stools at the bar. The men wore dirty jeans and leather vests, with bandannas tied around their heads. Bearded and pierced, they looked like they hadn’t bathed lately. They spoke in the Georgia hillbilly twang that annoyed Sean so much. Rednecks.

  Sean cringed and swiveled his stool, so that his back was turned to them. He ordered a scotch and sat there studying his reflection in a mirror that covered the wall behind the bar. He gulped down the first drink quickly and ordered another. A sudden gleam appeared in his eyes, like he had come upon a moment of clarity. At that moment he saw himself as he figured other men had seen him all along—as a wimp, a weak man who let his wife run his life. Maybe he had been unwilling or unable to see it before, but now he was aware: Sandy wore the pants in that house; always had.

  Sean recalled the time they spent in Forsyth. Shortly after they moved in, the neighbors on their block held a dinner party to welcome them. They were sitting around the table, talking about the long, stressful commute to Atlanta, when Sandy asked a question that seemed to set them off.

  “Where’s the nearest subway line?”

  The dinner guests around the table searched one another’s eyes and sniggered like they were all in on some private joke. Sean and Sandy exchanged furtive glances.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Well,” said one neighbor, Andy Leach. Andy had big horse teeth, which made him look like he had twice as many choppers as everybody else. He chuckled. “You’ve probably heard this one by now.”

  “Heard what?” asked Sean.

  Andy grinned like a Cheshire cat. “What they call the public transportation system in Atlanta.”

  “You mean MARTA?”

  “Yeah. You know what the letters stand for?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Moving African Americans Rapidly Through Atlanta.”

  Andy burst into a belly laugh.

  Sandy, disgusted, tried to move past the joke. “In Philly we caught the subway all the time. Actually, I’d prefer to catch the train to work.”

  “What they need to do,” added Sean, “is extend the line out here.”

  Another neighbor, Mike Scully, chimed in. Mike had moved to Georgia from Alabama decades before, back when, according to him, the state was populated with more “decent folks.”

  “The problem, you see, is that the subway runs two ways.” Mike’s tone was paternal. “As a general rule, folks out chere don’t care much for public transportation.” He turned up his nose. “Too risky. Too risky.”

  Then Scully shot Sean a scornful look and drawled, “I wouldn’t have mah wive even thankin a catchin a train back and forth to Lanta. The place is like Gomorrah.”

  Sean’s face turned red, defensive. “You don’t understand. Sandy is gonna think and do what she wants.”

  The tone was proud, though the facial expression was unconvincing.

  Somebody politely changed the subject, to ease the tension mounting in the room.

  That was how it was left at the dinner party that night. It was made clear, especially among the men, that the separation of city and suburb was akin to separation of church and state—and both were preordained by God.

  Recalling that dinner party now, Sean took a hard look at himself. He didn’t like what he saw: Sandy was the family leader, the head of their household. How did that happen? She wasn’t qualified to lead him.

  Now it came to him: He had been lazy, too laid back. He’d always left the strong opinions and big decisions to her. As her own father once said, he buckled and bowed too much to his wife. Once again, The Captain was right.

  Now, as he recalled that exchange, Sean sat in the bar brooding. He gulped down his drink and ordered yet another. He began to feel light-headed, so that even a gut-bucket country and western tune blaring from the speakers sounded good to him.

  At some point, after the third drink, a tall black man and a short white woman entered the bar and sat down in the booth directly behind Sean. The woman was petite, really small, with big, dreamy eyes and dark hair that fell down to her shoulders. The man was thick, with shoulders broad and round as bowling balls.

  The biker boys looked at the pair, glanced at each other and rolled their eyes. They finished their drinks and disappeared.

  Oddly, Sean thought again about the Augusta exit that he had passed up earlier. If he had veered off that exit, would anybody have faulted him? His life seemed tangled in a Boy Scout knot, and all the confusion stemmed from a simple address. If an address had made that much difference, then a change of address should do the same. Right?

  Something else occurred to him. If he were to set out on a new course, could he assume Sandy would come along? Would he even want her to come?

  Of course he would. He loved his wife, in spite of her risky optimism. He loved her now more than ever. She needed to be reeled in, that’s all.

  Which brought him back to the moment. He planned to reel her in. He ordered another drink. Against his will, he glanced again in the mirror. He could see the couple sitting in the booth behind him. The man and woman talked and laughed, sharing some private joke. At some point, the black man leaned over and kissed her, pressing her back against the wall.

  Sean decided to leave. He paid the bartender. As he rose, he stumbled back onto the stool. He glanced in the mirror. The black man was watching. The man grinned and leaned over and whispered something in his lady’s ear.

  She laughed out loud.

  Sean stumbled past the couple and out the door.

  The daylight was fading over the horizon now, moving toward pure darkness outside. Sandy circled the perimeter a few times. Riding along, she thought about her husband: her scared, insecure Sean. She was beginning to wonder if she knew him anymore. In the time since the move, she had learned a lot about Sean, and even more about herself. She thought about something Barlowe once said: “You think you know somethin. You don’t know the halfa things.”

  She wondered what he’d meant by that. She recalled that a college professor had once said something si
milar, but in a different vein. The professor said there were varying degrees of seeing. Some people walk into a crowded room and take in only the obvious, surface reality. Others walk into a room, he said, and take in ninety percent of what’s going on.

  So how much of reality did Sandy take in? She didn’t know. She was sure she saw more now than ever, though. She picked up things in the neighborhood now—furtive glances, body language—that would have escaped her before. In some ways, Sandy was developing new eyes. But what were those new eyes worth? And what difference would it make to anything?

  It all seemed so crazy.

  Halfway around the perimeter the second time, Sandy shifted to I-85, headed south. Her car sputtered near the North Druid Hills Road exit. She glanced at the dashboard. Her fuel supply was low. By her estimation, there was enough gas to make it home.

  She exited on Freedom Parkway and headed toward North Highland Avenue. It was dark when she approached the neighborhood. She felt tired, drained. She wanted to go home and get in bed.

  Driving slowly to preserve gas, she turned onto Glen Iris Drive. There were people, shadows really, out walking the streets. A black woman stood on the corner and gazed hopefully at the car as she passed. One block up, two young men stood off in the darkness, near a tree.

  The car sputtered again and made a rumbling sound. Sandy thought: If I can make these last few blocks. These last few—

  The engine died.

  Sandy steered the car to the curb. “Damn!” She turned the key. The engine groaned, but wouldn’t catch.

  She looked up and around, suddenly aware of where she was. To her left stood the Purple Palace. People went in and out, some carrying paper plates wrapped in aluminum foil. Off to her right, across the street, a group of teenagers played basketball on a portable hoop stationed beneath a streetlamp. Nearby, other people stood around and watched, some leaning against an apartment building, some squatting nearby, rolling dice.

  When Sandy’s car glided to a stop, heads turned and looked her way. She sat there wondering what to do. A car passed. She looked longingly, hoping the driver might stop to lend a hand. The car disappeared.