Them (24 page)

“C
ome on, Sandy! We're late!”

“I'll be there in a minute!”

Sean rose from a living room chair, put on his jacket and waited. A sharp pain shot through his head, forcing him to sit down again. He needed aspirin. He had taken aspirin just an hour ago, which meant he'd have to hold off and tough it out—again.

Ever since Tyrone had nearly choked him to death, Sean had not been himself. First he'd been hounded by constant fear. Now he experienced full-blown panic attacks—intense, charged moments when he felt as if he might jump out of his skin.

There was virtually no relief in sleep, either. He had nightmares about intruders. He had visions of
them
, bursting into his home, some choking him to death while others had their way with his screaming wife in another room.

It was horrifying.
Maybe I need to see a doctor
, he thought.

Now Sandy appeared from the kitchen carrying a covered dish. She joined him at the front door.

The Gilmores had been invited to Eric and Katheryn Harper's place, two streets over. Katheryn had framed the invite as an “informal potluck dinner.” Sandy hadn't thought much about that description at first. Now it gnawed at her.

The invite came on the heels of news that someone had thrown a brick through the plate glass window of a white couple's house. There had been a burglary at another home after that, followed by a testy civic league meeting that ended in an ugly shouting match.

The Harpers lived on Irwin Street. Their huge home, a hundred-year-old Colonial Revival, with a second-floor dormer window, was widely considered the most fabulously restored house in the neighborhood.

The Gilmores were among the last dinner guests to arrive. After exchanging hellos, Sandy scanned the well-appointed room, noting the sameness in the faces of the people there. Among the guests, about twenty in all, Greg Barron and his wife, Melissa, were there; Danny and his partner, Keith, had come; Sara and Ted Murphy showed up. Blue-eyed Jake Waxman, a bachelor, came without a date. Bill Buckner and his wife, Alice, also dropped in.

Now it crystallized for Sandy why she'd avoided talking to Barlowe earlier in the backyard that day: She was unsure if any of
them
had been invited. She couldn't bear to talk to him and not mention the gathering. At the same time, she wondered why she felt obligated to mention it to him.

Standing in the Harpers' expansive living room, with its glorious wrought-iron stairway winding to the second floor, she shifted uneasily on her heels.

Relax. You're here. Don't think too much.

She was distracted by Katheryn Harper. A tall, lean brunette with a full mane of hair cascading down to her shoulders, Kathy gently took her arm and led her in.

“We're so glad you could come.” Her voice was warm, sincere. “We've been meaning to do this for some time now.”

“Yes,” Sean said, smiling. “We should have been getting together all along.”

We? We? Who's we?
Sandy would ask him to explain that remark when they got home.

Eric Harper, a soft-spoken man with sensitive, penetrating eyes, brought them each a glass of wine. He ushered them into the dining room, to an oblong table filled with food. Some guests milled around the table, appraising the various potluck dishes and exchanging favorite recipes: tuna casserole, beef tips, pork chops, lamb stew, etc.

“Aaaahhh! Lasagna!” Ted Murphy cried. “Who brought lasagna?”

Sandy curtsied, smiling.

“God bless you, my dear! God bless you!”

“It's vegetarian.” Sean said it as though issuing a warning.

“My favorite,” said Ted. “I don't eat meat.”

The Harpers directed their guests to the dinnerware. They formed a buffet line and sat around a huge table, where they ate, drank more wine and splintered off into several clustered conversations.

Sean plunged into playful sports banter with Bill Buckner. Sandy was glad to see him so animated.

She was drawn to a chat among women dispensing their takes on books they'd read. She was pleased to learn that Sara Murphy shared her love of poetry, and even did some writing herself. She found Sara quite engaging, so much so that they agreed to keep each other informed about poetry readings around town.

During exchanges, Sandy learned more about some of her neighbors. She discovered Bill practiced civil law; Kathy worked in corporate accounts for IBM. Jake Waxman was a young high school history teacher, and Eric, a therapist, volunteered for Habitat for Humanity, building homes for the poor.

Intriguing people with intriguing lives: perfect for a dinner party.

As they sat in the gorgeous house, with elaborate chandeliers hanging above their heads, it was hard to imagine the conflicts raging just beyond those doors. They all ate heartily and tried to forget.

Midway through the meal, Eric tapped a spoon against a glass. The chatter subsided as guests turned their attention to him.

“Kathy and I want to thank you all for coming out this evening.” Eric remained seated, to keep the mood informal. “With all the excitement that's been going on, we thought this gathering would be a good way for us to better get to know one another, to mingle and talk about something unrelated to community problems.”

He paused. “We know it's been tough for some of you.” His eyes fell on Sean and Sandy. “We just want to say, ‘Hang in there.' Things will get better in time.

“With that said, let's just eat, drink and enjoy ourselves.”

The dinner guests held up their glasses in a toast. “Cheers!” An awkward silence followed. Kathy Harper, ever the gracious hostess, moved to rescue the moment.

“You heard Eric! Serious stuff aside! No politics or social discourse permitted tonight!”

Having downed her third glass of wine, she was slightly tipsy now. She rose from the table and pointed to the living room bar, where stronger libations were stored. She glided to the stereo, snapping her fingers. “Whaddaya say we party a little!”

Some folks sprang from their seats and danced to the nostalgic rhythms of Diana Ross and the Supremes. Others finished eating, wandered to the living room and gathered around the well-stocked bar. Over the next few hours, every corner of the main floor filled with chatter. Laughter grew louder as glasses were filled, emptied and filled again.

Sandy stood off to the side with a glass in her hand, thinking, watching. She studied the dinner guests, whose boozy faces glowed with gratitude, glee and mostly relief.

Relief from what?

This: The strain that was ever-present at civic league meetings. A white person could hardly make a harmless remark without risk of inviting a rant from one of
them
.

And this, too: Relief from being made to feel guilty about simply wanting to improve the neighborhood.

Relief.

The dinner guests' delighted faces made it clear. A private gathering like this was sorely needed, a time to relax and get smashed—a chance to simply
be
.

Standing there, Sandy realized that she also craved relief. It left her feeling guilty, and slightly defeated. She struggled to reconcile the guilt with the undeniable fact that for once in a long while she was enjoying herself.

Still, she constantly shooed away pesky intruding thoughts:
Maybe they weren't invited for fear they would feel uneasy
. She willed herself to seek distraction. She floated around, dipping in and out of conversations in search of airy banter, or even empty gossip (she hated empty gossip) that might whisk her away from nagging guilt.

She approached one group and heard Ted ask Greg Barron, “How's the petition drive going?”

Greg replied with a sullen silence, prompting Danny to fill in.

“Dead in the water. For the life of me, I can't understand why they were so opposed to that…”

“Something's gotta be done,” Barron added. He panned the faces in the cluster.

Sandy surmised from the affirming nods that some grim consensus had been reached without a vote. Beyond eye contact, no tally was needed; no more, no less than tacit affirmation of natural kinship bonds.

Determined to honor the hosts' directive to avoid serious talk, Sandy drifted off in search of another cell. Along the way, she passed Kathy Harper, who now was being twirled wildly on the dance floor by the man named Frank. While she flailed and dipped and shimmied, her voice filled the room with ecstatic screams.

Sandy joined Sean in a smaller group, certain he'd be engrossed in shallow conversation.

“I think we're about to turn the corner,” she heard someone say as she approached.

“You really believe that?” Alice Buckner's voice was high-pitched, grating. “Or are you force-feeding yourself the optimist view?”

Sean jumped in. He held an empty glass. Sandy could see that he was fairly lit: “I think things will improve once everybody calms down and accepts that this is not personal. This is
not
personal. This is about real estate.”

Jake Waxman, his blue eyes sparkling, fired a pointed question. “Is real estate or community the issue here?”

Sean blinked, startled. “Well…um, actually…”

He avoided looking at Sandy. That was precisely the kind of question
she
would raise.

She sensed the avoidance and cooperated, keeping her eyes averted as Sean rummaged through his head for a coherent response.

Jake stood there, coiled, waiting.

Kathy Harper, now fully wasted, unwittingly rescued the moment again. Flouncing wildly to the beat of a Four Tops classic, she attempted a '50s swing maneuver. She slipped through Frank's outstretched arms and loudly hit the floor.
Splat!

All eyes shifted to the fallen hostess. The commotion spared Sean, momentarily at least, the strain of addressing Jake's social angst.

Again, Sandy slithered away in search of superficial talk. She spotted some people across the room, holding court near the fireplace. She poked in her head and found to her dismay that they were exchanging neighborhood horror tales. They eventually got themselves all worked up, outraged over the injustices they were subjected to. “Tyrannies!” someone shouted.

Meanwhile, Bill, the lawyer, now blind-high, began misquoting pertinent sections of the Constitution.

Throughout the house, the ranks of the disheartened seemed to swell as the evening wore on. The effects of the liquor dug in deeper, unleashing pent-up resentments that clearly had been mounting for some time now.

Then, when the libations had claimed near-total control in the house, someone, speaking in garbled words and phrases, recalled the stubborn will of Martin Luther King. It was as if King's own spirit had been channeled through those doors to pledge allegiance to their cause.

With the gritty sound of the Temptations bellowing through the speakers, some smashed soul shouted above the music, invoking a civil rights battle cry:

 

We shall not be moved!

 

Some—among them Sara and Eric and Sandy and Jake—distanced themselves from the drunken pep rally that followed. They each staked out a secluded space and watched in painful silence while the loaded partygoers locked arm-in-arm and sang, kicking their legs way up high in a ragtag chorus line:

 

Weeee shall nooott bee!

We shall not be moved!

Weeee shall nooott bee!

We shall not be moved!

 

Studying the scene, Sandy thought, oddly, of Barlowe, then homed in on Sean, her staggering husband. Apparently recovered from Jake's affront, Sean had wriggled his way into the middle of the raucous troupe.

It could well have been her imagination, but it appeared to Sandy that he kicked his legs higher than everyone else.

W
illiam Crawford appeared at the house, unannounced, and started toward the door. Barlowe had been outside working. He caught up with him on the porch.

“Mr. Crawford.”

“Oh, hi, son. I was just about to ring the bell.”

Barlowe took off his gardening gloves. “What can I do for you?”

“I came to check the water pipes.”

“The pipes? Tyrone call about the pipes?”

The mention of Tyrone made the old man's glasses fog.

“No, Tyrone didn't call…He here now?”

“No. He didn't come home last night.”

Crawford seemed disappointed. “Oh. Well, I need to check the pipes. It's been a while since I checked the pipes…”

They went inside and looked around. Barlowe stood over Crawford in the kitchen as he knelt down and checked beneath the sink. He stuck in his head and rattled a few pipes, then came out and stood up straight, smiling nervously.

“They look all right to me. Mind if I check outside?”

“Fine, but wait right here before we go, Mr. Crawford. I got somethin to give you.”

Barlowe ducked into his bedroom and plucked up something from a dresser drawer. Crawford could see him scribbling on paper. Barlowe returned with an envelope, which he handed to Crawford.

The landlord looked at it. “What's this?”

“A check for some a the down payment we talked about. I'll have the rest in a little while.”

Crawford took the envelope, reluctantly, and stuffed it in his shirt pocket without checking the amount. He leaned against the countertop, wiped sweat from his brow, then turned and headed onto the back porch.

The birds cooed and shuffled around inside the cage.

Crawford turned to Barlowe. He had a solemn look about him. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” He dropped his eyes. “I'm afraid you're gonna have to get rid of the birds.”

A strange, dry sensation filled Barlowe's throat. “Mr. Crawford, those are Tyrone's birds. You know how he is about his birds.”

Crawford held up his hand with the palm open. “Nothing I can do about that. Sorry. It's city code.”

“Mr. Crawford, you knew all along about the birds. You were here when Tyrone first brought em in.”

Crawford scratched his head and looked away. “Yeah, well somebody called downtown and complained.” He turned and stepped off the back porch and onto the ground.

Barlowe followed. “Who called?”

“That's not important, Barlowe. The bottom line is, it's the law. The city says it's a health hazard raising wild animals in town. They could have diseases, you know?”

Crawford went around to the side of the house. Again, Barlowe followed close behind. The old man knelt down and squeezed into a crawlspace. He came out five minutes later, brushing dirt from his pants.

He scanned the yard, like he was searching for something else to inspect.

“Well,” he declared, finally, “I gotta go.” He took a few steps, stopped and turned around. “I really do need you to get rid of the birds. Tell Tyrone to find em another home.”

“Right. Will do.” Barlowe seethed.

Crawford made another move to leave, then stopped again and reached inside his shirt pocket. He handed Barlowe the envelope back.

“Wait till I tell you I'm ready to sell. Then we can talk money.”

Something about the frigid look on Barlowe's face inspired Crawford to move quickly. He hurried around the side of the house, and made off in his car.

 

Later that evening, Barlowe sat at a dinner table with his back ramrod straight. The table was lighted with a single candle and covered with a very white tablecloth. The room was dimly lit, intimate. Waiters and waitresses, starched to the bone and heads held high, scurried back and forth to the dining area, taking and delivering orders.

Barlowe panned the restaurant. The diners, well-heeled and sophisticated, were engaged in quiet conversations. He blinked, half in disbelief: He was having dinner with Louise Grimes.

A waiter with a white cloth draped across his arm appeared at their table and handed Louise a wine list. “Madam.”

She glanced at Barlowe and turned to the waiter. “We'll need a few minutes to decide.”

Barlowe used the opening to excuse himself. Inside the men's room he stared in the mirror. Except for the few times he went to church, he couldn't recall the last time he had been dressed up like this. He wore the gray jacket to the only suit he owned. Earlier that day, he had rushed to the Men's Wearhouse in search of a shirt to match the plain brown pants. The ensemble was no stunning fashion statement, but it seemed appropriate for the occasion.

Now appraising himself, he realized one of the shirt buttons was misaligned. He wondered if Louise had noticed. He reworked all the buttons until the alignments were right. He studied himself in the mirror one final time and returned to the table, where Louise was perusing the dinner menu.

She handed Barlowe the wine list. He concentrated with furrowed brows.

The waiter returned. “Have you decided?”

“I won't be having any wine,” said Louise.

“Me, neither,” Barlowe quickly added. (What he really wanted was a nice, cold beer.)

Barlowe picked up his menu and began to read. Again, Louise noticed his uneasiness. After a moment, she closed her menu and laid it on the table. She leaned forward and looked into his eyes. “Can I make a request?”

He shifted, nervous. “A request?”

“Yes, a request.”

“Go head.”

“Let's get away from here.”

He looked around. “You wanna leave?”

“Yeah. Let's go. This place was recommended to me by a girlfriend on my job. It's nice, but I'm in the mood for something more casual.”

They ended up at Gladys Knight's soul food restaurant on Peachtree Street. The place was crowded, but they managed to get a booth against a wall. Louise ordered the smothered chicken dinner. Barlowe got turkey wings and collard greens.

As they waited to be served, Barlowe stared at her, enamored. At that moment he was recalling the ecstasy that he would always associate with Louise Grimes. It began when Louise arranged for him to get a concert ticket. When Barlowe appeared at Spelman's concert hall and tapped her on the shoulder, she seemed delighted to see him there.

“Hiiiii!!” They sat together.

Barlowe had been to concerts before, but he had never experienced anything like Sweet Honey in the Rock. With no music accompanying them, the black women took to the stage in African garb and sang with voices so strong and clean it sent shudders through him. For two whole hours, they sang love songs and praise songs; they told musical folktales about slavery and oppression.

From time to time, Louise glanced sideways, pleased to see Barlowe so thoroughly enthralled. For him, it was nearly a religious experience sitting in a place where he was surrounded by kindred spirits. He left feeling inspired, hopeful.

He phoned Louise later to express gratitude for inviting him. Then he clumsily asked her out.

Now here they were, on their first official date.

After they had ordered, they eased into the conversational dance. Barlowe could see that, like him, Louise was rusty. After a while, they both settled down.

“Everything about you says ‘city girl.'” (That was a line Tyrone might use.)

“Actually, I'm from the country,” said Louise. “A place called Waycross, Georgia. You familiar with Waycross?”

“Never been, but I know about it.”

“I'm a country girl at heart, but my heart has never been confined to the country…Does that make sense?”

“Yeah. I know.”

“It's strange,” she said. “I could never live there again, but I could never totally leave, either. I go home a lot. I
need
to go. It helps me keep my grounding.”

Grounding. That's what he liked about Louise. She had grounding, and a refreshing wholesomeness about her, too; not the nervous, twitchy wholesomeness of young virgins, but the healthy, hydrated look of people living clean.

“I don't go home much,” said Barlowe. “Maybe I should go more often, huh?”

“Yes, you
should
, even if home holds some bad memories. At its worst, it's still a kind of compass.”

Barlowe smiled.

They talked some more. In time, Barlowe realized Tyrone wasn't hanging around anymore, leaning over his shoulder, whispering in his ear. Barlowe didn't need Tyrone now. Louise was drawn to
him
.

While soul music played softly overhead, a steady stream of people came and left. Barlowe and Louise talked for hours, about his job hunt, their families, houses and, of course, Caesar and That War.

“Please,” said Louise. “Don't let me get started about That War.”

He was perfectly willing to hear her rant. In fact, he
wanted
to hear it. So Louise ranted, and Barlowe listened. While she talked, it occurred to him that he would never have had such a conversation with Nell. The closest Nell had come to showing the mildest concern about politics was when she'd complained of rising gas prices.

“It's crazy, dumb,” Louise was saying. “Sometimes I wanna leave this place.”

While she spoke, Barlowe stared adoringly, admiring her dimples. He could hardly believe he was spending time with such a woman. He wanted to tell her that. In a fit of unabashed gratitude he wanted to say: “Where have you been? I been lookin for you, even when I didn't know what I was lookin for.”

Barlowe dared not say that, though, for fear that such words, though true, might come off sounding phony, contrived.

He had no idea that nothing would have pleased Louise Grimes more than to hear those words.