Them (36 page)

T
he winter months passed, followed by the warmth of an early spring. Barlowe stepped onto the front porch, cradling a big box in his arms. He set the box down and turned to go back into the house, then paused and glanced at the “Sold” sign in the Gilmores' front yard.

Next door, a huge moving van hovered like a hulking dinosaur in front of the house. Its engine idled in a low growl, as two workers hefted an ugly sofa from its massive bowels and headed toward the steps.

A white man, flanked by a woman and two toddlers, carried suitcases up the walkway leading to the house.

Barlowe looked across the street. A few white people had already arrived at the Cafe Latte. They sat out on the patio with their morning papers, sipping espresso.

Barlowe took in a deep breath and rattled off the list in his head:
Tyrone, gone; Viola, gone; the mini-mart, gone; the church is sold, and the elders will be leavin soon.

And Mr. Smith and Zelda
…Before leaving, the old man had found a way to strike one final, defiant blow. Still, Barlowe would miss him. He would miss him very much.

Looking up and down the street, he spotted The Hawk. Lost in the massive county jail after some temp worker misplaced his file, The Hawk had languished on lockdown for a whole year. He was freed only recently, after the error was discovered.

Now he wandered aimlessly through the neighborhood, mumbling to himself and searching for someone he would never find.

Barlowe went inside the house and got another box. As he carried it down the steps, Sandy Gilmore's green Ford Taurus appeared from up the street. He hadn't seen her in a while.

She got out, waved to Barlowe and crossed the yard. “Hi.”

He set the box on the ground. “Hi.”

She smiled. It was a weak, embarrassed smile, done more out of habit than feeling.

“I had to make one last stop, to drop off this mailbox key to the people who bought our house.”

Barlowe looked toward the Gilmores' old place. The moving men marched back and forth like carpenter ants.

“Have you met your new neighbors?”

“No.”

“Their names are Mark and Catherine Squires. Nice people.”

“Yeah,” said Barlowe, dryly. “Yeah.”

Sandy noticed the boxes set at his feet. “Going somewhere?”

“No. Not really.”

She looked curiously at the other boxes he'd stacked on the porch. He made no effort to explain.

“So,” said Sandy, “what are you gonna do with yourself from here on out?”

“Well.” He took a deep breath and released. “For one thing, I'll be startin a new job soon…and I got a lady friend over in Grant Park. Me and her gonna travel some.”

“That's nice.” Sandy's face turned red. He could see her emotions bubbling up. He hoped she wouldn't start crying outdoors. He tried to distract her from her distress.

“Where you gonna go from here?”

“Honestly, I don't know,” said Sandy. “Right now, Sean and I need a little distance from town. We found a nice apartment up in Alpharetta. We'll stay put there until he's fully back to normal. Then we'll see what happens…It's a long road ahead—in many ways.”

“Yeah,” Barlowe said, looking off into the distance. “You right about that.”

“We'll have to see where God leads,” Sandy declared.

Barlowe said nothing to that.

Now she looked deep into his eyes. Whenever she looked at him like that, he knew she was about to spring one of her probing questions.

“Barlowe?”

“Yeah?”

“You still think I'm just a silly white girl looking for something interesting to do?”

He thought for a moment. “Yeah.”

She smiled. “I can't help it. See?” She pinched the white skin on her arm.

“Yeah, I see.” He smiled, too.

She looked at her watch. “Well. I guess I'd better go.”

He extended a hand. “Good-bye.”

She stepped forward and hugged him, tight, and held it there.

Barlowe's eyes danced up and down the street, checking to see if Miss Carol Lilly or somebody somewhere was watching.

Finally, Sandy let go. With the back of her hand, she wiped at tears that had formed in her eyes. She sniffled.

“Barlowe?”

“Yeah?”

“You still think there's too much water under the bridge?”

He looked up the street and saw Ricky Brown. Ricky had parked his Winn-Dixie grocery cart on the sidewalk. He picked up something off the ground and studied it close, like a person reading an interesting book.

“Is a
lot,
” said Barlowe.

“Well. I gotta keep trying. I
have
to try.”

“I know.”

She turned to leave, then stopped and looked back at him once more. She pulled a pen and paper from her purse and scribbled her new phone number. She handed him the paper.

“You'll keep in touch, won't you?”

“Yeah.” Barlowe stuffed the paper in his shirt pocket. “I'll keep in touch.”

It seemed like the right thing to say, but they both knew he wouldn't likely follow through.

Sandy said her last good-bye and went next door to drop off the key to the newest family in the Old Fourth Ward. Minutes later, she reappeared and rushed to her car. She tooted the horn at Barlowe one last time as she drove away.

He watched the car until it moved out of sight.

He picked up a box and walked across the street. Standing on the front porch of Mr. Smith's old house, which was now his new house, Barlowe looked around. Oddly, he thought about his old girlfriend, Nell. Wherever she was, he hoped she was happy. He wasn't mad at her anymore. He figured maybe he owed her a thank-you note, for lighting a fire under his butt.

He felt at peace with himself now. With Louise he was learning how to live.

He pulled out a key and opened the door to his new house. Before going inside, he peered across the street. The movers, now done unloading, headed toward their truck.

Barlowe's new neighbor appeared on the front porch, carrying something draped across his arms. It was a big old flag. He carefully unfurled it and spread it across the banisters, so that the stars and bars faced the street. The man went back inside and shut the door.

Barlowe looked at the flag and glanced up at the sky, maybe searching for a sign of the God that Sandy had mentioned a few minutes ago. There was a single cloud above, shaped like a big, gray carrot. He studied the cloud. He watched it for a long moment, until a bird came into view. It was a lone pigeon, flying high and away from there, its red tag fluttering in the wind.

Many thanks to the following: Faith Childs, my literary agent, who really got it from the start; Barbara Vance, my lecture agent, who recommended Faith; Malaika Adero at Atria, whose editorial guidance was both judicious and patient; Adrienne Ingrum (the feedback was timely); John Paine, who provided a fresh, incisive eye in the final lap; eternal gratitude, always, to my main man, Jeff Frank, who encouraged me in the beginning.

Thanks also to the people who inspired thoughts and ideas, whether they knew it or not: Warren “Mickey” Drewery, Greg Mabry, Miss Bussey in the Old Fourth Ward, Calvin “Chip” Roberts, Wendell “Cooder” Johnson, Harun Black, Dr. Leslie Harris (thanks for the support), Sharon Shahid, Larry Copeland, Linda Pulley.