THE DEPARTMENT OF Public Works had taken its sweet time, but the lamppost that Brian Underhill had nearly knocked down was finally being repaired. Three white men in hard hats, sweaty T-shirts, and aggrieved expressions arrived one day around noon, the sun high and punishing as they took ladders from the roof of their truck.
A block away, the seven remaining Negro officers were having lunch together at Mae’s Spot. In the back, they’d dragged together two tables to accommodate them and were feasting on ribs and collards, mac and cheese, and pitchers of sweet tea.
“Good luck at Morehouse,” Smith proclaimed.
Glasses in the air, they toasted to Xavier Little, who had worked his final shift the night before.
Little had decided to go back to school and finish his degree. Maybe he would rejoin them once he had the diploma in hand, he told them. Lucius didn’t believe him, though. The job was not for him. So now there were seven, and each wondered which of them might make it six.
They swapped stories about their families, trying to talk about the job as little as possible. Those conversations could occur in more discreet surroundings, far from civilians’ ears. In public like this, though, they were all honored to have the job, they deeply respected their community, they worked well with the white officers, and none would ever think of relinquishing such an exalted position.
“Buddy of mine,” Smith said. “He just told me his uncle’s house burned down, in Hanford Park.”
“There aren’t any colored folk in Hanford Park,” Champ Jennings said.
“There ain’t now. He was the first. Built it about a month ago. He and his family were away for the weekend, and someone burned it down.”
“I heard the fire department didn’t get there until there was nothing left,” Boggs said.
After they’d finished eating and were sitting there too full to move, Little got emotional. He said he was sorry for letting them down. He told them he’d wanted to be better at this, wanted to be stronger. His eyes were watering and some of them nodded and others looked away.
Then Smith made a joke about Spelman girls, and they all laughed even though it wasn’t that funny, everyone relieved that the spell was broken and they could get up now and leave.
Outside they all shook Little’s hand again and told him not be a stranger, then they went their separate ways for a few hours, until roll call.
Lucius walked toward an apartment he wanted to check out, as he had decided to start looking for a place of his own. Not least because he had a date next week with Julie Cannon, and though he certainly didn’t expect to be taking her home that night, he also didn’t want to let slip that he lived with his parents. A rented room would be a waste of money, he could hear his father saying, and he would be better off saving for a mortgage that one of the Negro-owned banks could extend to him, but Lucius didn’t care. He needed his own space, needed to escape some shadows.
As he walked down Auburn, he passed the lamppost repair. Two of the white men were rifling through tools in their truck, and the third was high above on a ladder.
The man on the ladder hocked and spat. A circle of saliva landed not far from where Lucius had been about to step.
Maybe the man had just spat from up high and hadn’t been looking. Or maybe he had aimed it that way. Lucius thought he heard a mutter from above but he wasn’t certain. Nor would he look up, as that would have meant staring into the sun, not to mention giving the man the satisfaction.
The white man was very precariously placed indeed. All it would take is a gentle shove to knock the ladder down. Just the lightest push.
Officer Boggs kept his shoulders straight as he walked past the ladder, looking forward to seeing the lamp aglow when he’d next walk the Auburn Avenue beat.