Barlowe stepped outside the print shop early one afternoon and glanced warily up at the cloudy sky. Showers had fallen steadily in the past few days, leaving the city hung-over from too much rain. The sun pushed briefly through stubborn clouds, but it appeared the rain would return. Barlowe wanted to beat the showers and head on home.
Driving home, Barlowe thought about the look on Billy Spivey’s face when he told him he was leaving work early. He could see it bothered Billy. There were several more print jobs to be run, but he couldn’t stop Barlowe from taking time off. So Billy shrugged, spit hard in his tobacco cup and stormed away.
In the months after he got the news about the stingy pay raise, Barlowe had taken more time off. He’d decided that if his bosses didn’t intend to do right by him, he would make sure he took care of himself. From now on he would do no more than was required and he would make sure he got everything he was entitled to. It would start with all that overtime he’d built up through the years. Until now, he rarely missed a day at work. He always went in early and stayed as long as it took to finish the job. Now things would change. He would see to that.
There would be even bigger changes, too, if some of his other plans came through. He was shopping himself around a bit to see if other printing operations in town might want his services.
Riding along a different route, he cut through the southern tip of downtown, past all the government buildings named after dead white men. He rode up Peachtree Street, beyond the towering skyscrapers, which stood as grotesque markers of a city trying too hard to prove its mottos were true. Atlanta had its professional sports teams and its glittering theaters and bustling crowds. But it also had its Confederate past (and present), which no amount of sloganeering could shed.
Likewise, Barlowe tussled with his own nagging doubts. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried to shake it, something inside was flawed, lacking. And the loneliness. The loneliness was there, too, always hovering over his shoulder. More and more, he lay awake late nights listening to disc jockeys play old-school songs that promised love around the bend. And more and more he asked himself, Around what bend? Where?
In his desperation, he was even moved one day to borrow a page from Tyrone’s playbook. He went to a Kroger grocery store and piddled around, hoping to meet somebody in the produce section. He saw a lone old lady in a blue trench coat and brown stockings, rolled up around the knees. She leaned heavily against a shelf, mulling over a single apple.
Lingering among the fruits and lettuce, he looked up and saw another woman, standing with a big bag of oranges cradled in her arms. He went over and commented about the shortage of apples in stock. She turned and walked away.
All he picked up in produce that day was fruit, and some of it had spoiled.
Before leaving the store, something else caught his eye, which now came back to mind. As he stood in the checkout line he noticed a black lady at the cash register. She had three young children, all shabbily dressed. The lady was dark, and she wore a scarf tied around her head. It was an American flag scarf, knotted in front, so that the ends stood up like bunny rabbit ears.
The white people in line stared hard until their foreheads crinkled. They searched each other’s eyes for answers, then stared at the black lady some more.
It was touch-and-go for a minute there. Barlowe enjoyed every bit of it. It brought a smile to his face as he thought about it now.
When he reached home, he stopped at the Auburn Avenue Mini-Mart and bought his lottery tickets. Then he went outdoors to challenge Willie on the checkerboard.
Tyrone had slipped off the job again, this time to go to some strip club. He phoned to see if Barlowe might want to come along and got the usual rejection.
Tyrone came in from the club earlier than usual and went straight to the back porch to feed his pigeons. He opened the cage. The animals jostled for position and rattled their feeding tray, spilling water onto the newspaper lining the cage bottom. He reached in and stuck an index finger near the guilty bird. The animal strutted forward and hopped on board. Tyrone brought both hands close to his face and confronted the creature, eye-to-eye.
“Vito, whas the matter wit you, boy?” He rubbed a finger over the bird’s head, softly stroking. “You got problems? Huh? Huh? Tawk to me, baby. Tawk to me!”
The creature cooed a short reply.
Tyrone picked up a box of seed next to the cage and filled the food tray. When the animals had pecked until their bellies bulged, they hustled toward the open door, the red ID tags dangling from their skinny legs.
He released them. Wings fluttered wildly as they rose up, up, upward and landed in the majestic oak tree in the yard next door. They looked down contentedly on the world below.
Tyrone watched and smiled, then went inside and fussed around in the kitchen, making himself a peanut butter sandwich.
Suddenly, a noise sounded outside. It sounded like a heavy-duty lawn mower revving up. Tyrone drifted toward the living room and away from the noise. Then he remembered he’d let the pigeons loose.
He rushed to the back porch in time to see the birds fluttering, frantic, away from the big oak tree. Two of the creatures flitted to another tree, shedding feathers as they flapped and flailed. The other bird took refuge on the neighbor’s roof.
An engine hummed, followed by a cracking sound. It was the big oak! It swayed back and forth, as though battling wind from a heavy storm. Tyrone’s eyes dropped from the top, to the bottom of the tree. He saw a man in goggles and work gloves leaning down with a power saw leveled at its base.
It was his new neighbor! He was chopping down the big oak tree!
The birds, more frazzled now, fluttered still farther off and away. They landed on the far end of the Gilmores’ roof.
“Shit!”
Tyrone set down his sandwich and bolted toward the neighbors’ yard. Sean was so intently focused on the tree that he didn’t see him bearing down. At some point, though, he felt a presence. Instinctively, he looked up in time to see his neighbor charging, fists clenched and eyes blazing.
Before he could react, Tyrone pounced. He thrust both hands around Sean’s neck and shook him until his teeth rattled.
“You stupid sumbitch! You stupid sumbitch!”
Sean dropped the power saw, which cut off, tripped by its safety switch. He tried to pry Tyrone’s hands loose.
While the two men wrestled, the tree swayed. It leaned toward Barlowe’s house, then appeared to correct itself. It leaned back and away from the Gilmores’ place and let out a crackling wail. Its half-cut bark, shredded by the sheer height and weight of the thing, tilted sharply, falling in a slow-motion tumble, crashing to the ground.
Tyrone seemed unaware of the noise and dust and crumbled mass of wood debris. He tightened his grip around Sean’s throat, determined to wring his neck.
“You stupid sumbitch!”
“Arrrggghhhhh!” Sean managed to rip off his goggles. “Arrrggghhhhhh!”
“Sumbitch!”
“Arrrggghhhhh!”
He gagged violently, trying with all his might to wrench Tyrone’s hands from his throat. He couldn’t. Tyrone jiggled his neck some more, eventually cutting off the breathing passage.
Sean let out a wheezing sound. “Heeeeeeeccchhhh! Heeeeccchhhh! Heeeeccchhhh!”
At some point, Sandy peeped out the kitchen window. Seeing her husband dangling in the clutches of the man next door, she dropped the silverware she’d been putting away and ran outside, screaming.
“Stop it! Stop it! Let him go! You’re hurting him!”
Tyrone had slipped into a violent trance. He squeezed tighter, even as Sandy began desperately pounding his back.
With one hand clutching his neighbor’s throat, Tyrone used his free hand to whip Sean’s limp arm behind him. He planned to snap it like a toothpick. He’d broken a man’s arm in a fight once. Snapped it right in two. He wanted to hear that familiar snapping sound. So he tightened the pressure, all the while studying Sean’s eyes. He liked what he saw: the arm and eyes, bending to his will.
Sandy pounded harder. “Stop it! Stop it!”
Tyrone leaned forward, to get more leverage.
“Stop it! Stop! Pleeasse! Please stop!”
Tyrone prepared to give the arm a final twist.
Suddenly, a hand, firm and heavy, grabbed his wrist. A familiar voice called his name:
“Ty. Ty. Let im go, man. Let im go, Ty.”
It was Barlowe. He had come home and heard the screaming out back.
“Let im go, Ty. Is all right, man. Let im go.”
Slowly, Tyrone released the white man from his grip. Sean slumped to the ground, like a flimsy burlap sack. With Sandy kneeling beside him, he clutched his throat, gasping.
Sandy rubbed Sean’s arm and moaned. “Oh-my-God! Oh-my-God! Sean, is it broken? Oh-my-God! Ooohhh, baby, I’m sorry; I’m sooo sorry, baby!”
Sean didn’t move. “I think it’s broken.”
Sandy gently rubbed the arm some more, then looked up past Tyrone and yelled at Barlowe.
“What’s the matter with him? He’s crazy! He’s crazy! He attacked my husband! For no reason at all, he attacked my husband!”
Tyrone spit on the ground. “Shut up, Becky.”
“The name is Sandy!”
“Same difference, bitch.”
Barlowe broke in. “Ty. Calm down, man. Chill.”
Two of Tyrone’s pigeons came fluttering back. They landed on the ground a few feet away and poked around in the dirt for bugs.
Barlowe turned to Tyrone. “What happened?”
Tyrone pointed at the fallen tree. “Looka what that sumbitch did! The tree, man! He cut down the gotdamn tree, and right while my birds was in it!”
Barlowe studied the fallen tree, wondering how he’d overlooked it before.
With help from Sandy, Sean sat up straight. Still holding his throat, he tried to find his voice.
“It’s my tree! That tree is on my property!”
Tyrone balled his fists and leaned down, ready to throw a punch.
Barlowe grabbed his arm. “Ty. Calm down.”
Sean was livid, and especially upset that his wife had witnessed his humiliation.
“I had every right to cut down that tree!”
Barlowe shook his head. “No you didn’t, partner.”
“It’s on my property.”
“No, partner. That tree stood between both our yards.”
“I happen to own the part of the yard that held the tree.” Sean lowered the volume now, careful not to provoke another attack. “I can prove it…We can compare deeds and lot drawings and I’ll show you…Shoot, I’ll show you if you get your deed—the tree belonged to me…You don’t have to believe me; go and get your deed.”
Barlowe lowered his eyes as Crawford came to mind.
“We don’t have to go through all that…It woulda made sense for you to tell us you were gonna cut down the tree…That tree kept things cool back here. It gave us shade, and you jus went and cut it down.”
Tyrone chimed in: “Stupid sumbitch!”
“You leave him alone!” Sandy shouted.
“Shut up, Becky!”
“It’s Sandy!”
Sean grimaced, more from embarrassment than pain. He had been nearly strangled by the neighbor. Now here was his wife stepping in like some protector.
With Sandy’s help, Sean climbed to his feet. He was woozy, unsteady.
“Nobody told me I needed permission to cut down a tree in my own yard. I did it for safety reasons.” He looked at Tyrone. “I had no idea I’d be attacked!”
Tyrone charged him again. “I’ll fuck you up, gray boy…”
Barlowe blocked his path and turned back to Sean.
“Safety?”
“That’s right. All kinds of shady people creep through here and hide behind that tree.”
Tyrone turned and stamped off, disgusted with the whole scene. He went to round up his birds.
Sandy began leading Sean slowly toward the house. Halfway there, he stopped and turned around. “We’ll show you the deed and the lot drawings.” He shot Barlowe a snotty look.
Barlowe shot him one back. “I don’t care bout your deed.”
Now he regretted having come home so soon. He wished he had played one more game of checkers—one more.
Then maybe Tyrone could have finished the job.