Chapter 27

For days after the mailbox fire the old folks in the ward sat on their front porches and whispered in solemn tones about how it was a near-abomination that somebody would do such a thing. Despite severe misgivings about them, the old folks’ Christian faith forbade them from reveling in someone else’s misery. And they surely couldn’t condone (not outwardly, at least) violent acts of retribution.

But inwardly it was different. Inwardly, the old folks got a certain glee, a twitch, you might say, in knowing somebody put a size-twelve shoe up white folks’ ass.

Soon after the fire, word spread through the neighborhood that the Auburn Avenue Mini-Mart had been sold. The next day, somebody flung a baseball through a white family’s window.

Later, the old folks sat on their front porches and waved their flags privately. In a curious blend of Christian faith and pagan spite, they cheered the young lions for having the good gall (or bad judgment) to raise such hell.

And they kept a hopeful eye out for more such “developments.”

As Barlowe stepped outdoors and headed toward his car, a street crew approached with city workers dangling off the back of a truck. Like soldiers leaping from an army tank, they attacked an ancient pothole. They poured in tar and packed it tight, then steam-rolled the spot and smoothed it out until the hole disappeared.

Barlowe muttered: “Caesar.”

Mr. Smith called to him from across the street. “C’mon over here, boy, and tawk to me. Tell me somethin good fore I die.”

Mr. Smith had gotten get rid of his old car. Now he spent much of his time outside, piddling in the yard.

Barlowe went over and greeted his neighbor. “You see the game last night?”

“I watched the first quarter or so, then turned the dang thang off. I ain’t gonna waste time on a team coached bad as that. Life too short for messin round.”

“Give em time, Mr. Smith. They’ll come around.”

The irony wasn’t lost on either of them: The younger man preaching patience to the old.

While they stood there, a police cruiser rounded the corner and stopped at the curb near the Gilmores’ place. They sat there a moment, spying around.

Mr. Smith studied the policemen and shook his head. “Um, um, um. Place been swarmin wit em.”

“Some people glad to see more cops, Mr. Smith.”

The old man narrowed his eyes. “Now, see. There you go agin.”

“What?”

“You know whut. Talkin Republican.”

Barlowe hunched his shoulders. “What?”

“Don’t forget. I went out on a long tree limb for you at that there church meetin. I cain’t do that agin.”

“I toldja, Mr. Smith. Somethin wasn’t right about that meetin. I think Pickerin is a hypocrite. I can’t stand hypocrites.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes you gotta do wrong to make things right.”

Barlowe wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. He was about to ask when Mr. Smith leaned over and gave him an elbow nudge.

“Hey. You heard anythin else bout that fie?”

“No, you?”

“Heard they ain’t got a single lead. Been a whole week, and they don’t know no moe than they did befo.”

“Too bad.”

Mr. Smith winked. “Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t…”

Barlowe frowned.

“Shoot,” the old man groused. “Nobody was hurt or nothin.”

“Somebody coulda been hurt, Mr. Smith. That fire coulda shot cross the grass and caught onto them folks’s house.”

“Coulda, woulda. It didn’t happen, did it?”

Barlowe didn’t respond. He looked at the ground, scraping a foot at a stray piece of wood.

“I know what you thinkin. You thinkin a ol man like me shouldn’t be that way.”

“I ain’t judgin you, Mr. Smith.”

“You can jerdge all you wont. Don’t make me no nevermind…. Shoot. I done paid my dues.”

They both remained quiet a long moment. Finally, Mr. Smith began to reminisce. The old man looked off into the distance, his rheumy banjo eyes seeing a place and time Barlowe wasn’t privy to.

“I used ta work over at the cotton mill, ya know. Worked there for twenny-five years fore they laid me off. The foeman didn’t like me cause I looked him in the eye when I tawked to im. Looked im straight in the eye, jus like I’m lookin at you right now. He didn’t like that commin from a colored man.

“Him and me locked horns bout somethin one day, and I tole im I weren’t scared a him. Told im he put his paints on one leg at a time, jus like me. After that, I knew he was gon come at me first chance he got. And he did. Come to me one day bout a month later and said, ‘Bennett, I’m sorry to tell you this, but we gotta let you go.’ Thas what he said: ‘We gotta cut staff.’

“It woulda been a whole diffrent thang if he had said they were lettin some other people go, but that weren’t the case. Looked past all them young white schoolboys and picked me out.

“I had a wife and chilren. I had been loyal to that compney a long, long time.”

He swallowed hard. “Me and Zelda struggled for a whole year after that. Lived hand-to-mouf, wit me workin odd jobs for a whole year. We almost lost this house.

“When I got another job, I promised myself that weren’t gonna happen no moe. I scrimped and saved every penny I made that didn’t go to the house and groceries. Saved my money so if they ever came at me like that agin I could tell em where to go.”

Mr. Smith smiled as another sight crystallized. “Soon as I got back on my feet good, know what I did?”

Barlowe shook his head. “No.”

“Went out and got me a shiny, red convertible…Know that cah you used ta see sittin out chere?”

“Yeah.”

“That was it. Bought it from a white man, too. It was used but it was clean.

“Zelda near-bout had a fit when I brought it home. I didn’t kere bout her raisin sand. I needed that cah for me. I needed that cah for me.

“I use ta ride round Lanta wit the top down. It could be fo-ty degrees outside and I’d still have that top peeled back. I used ta like the feel a the wind on my face and bein out in the open while I cruised round. I used ta like the way it made me feel inside. It made me feel like I didn’t have so much pressin me down. I could be feelin low bout somethin and I’d get in that cah and drive fast down the street and let the wind blow my trouble away.

“I used ta love the way white folks looked at me when I drove that thang. They looked at me like they was mad as hell. They looked like they was wonderin how I got that cah. They thank they the only ones sposed to live that free.

“Looka here: One day I got a pint a likker in me and got to feelin crazy. I drove that cah up to the cotton mill. It was drizzlin outside. I shoulda had the top up, but that likker was tawkin to me, real loud, so I kept it down. I drove that cah up to the cotton mill wit my nappy hair blowin in the wind and rain. I wonted to show them crackers I was still standin. My pockets was hurtin, bad, but they didn’t know. I drove up there in my shiny convertible and pretended I was comin to see how they was doin.”

Barlowe laughed.

“My ol foeman met me out on the loadin dock. Stood there and chitchatted all nice, like we was long-lost friends. I knew what he was up to. He wonted to know how I got that cah.

“And the whole time I tawked to him, I looked him straight in the eye. Looked him straight in the eye, jus like I’m lookin at you.

“I showed him he couldn’t break me. Showed him I’m a man, jes like him. When we finished tawkin, I went and said hello to some a the boys. I could see that cracker still lookin from cross the warehouse when I got in my convertible to leave. I waved good-bye fore I pulled away.

“I know it ruint his day. I bet it ruint his whole week.”

Mr. Smith chuckled. “I knew I was gonna be all right after that. I knew they couldn’t break me.

“But I still struggled. Struggled for a long time. Yo generation don’t know nothin bout struggle.”

“Some a us do.”

“No you don’t,” the old man snapped. “You wouldn’t know struggle if you tripped over it.”

Barlowe was about to argue the point, when Sandy Gilmore’s Ford Taurus appeared from up the street, headed their way. Barlowe acted like he didn’t notice. Sandy drove past the two men and honked the horn. Barlowe threw up a feeble wave and shifted angles, so that his back faced her house.

The old man eyed him closely. “All that glitters ain’t gold.”

Barlowe wondered what that meant. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Besides, seeing Sandy reminded him of something else on his mind. He had been wondering if Tyrone was involved in that mailbox fire.

He pushed it from his thoughts.

“Well, Mr. Smith. I better go. I got some more things to do this evenin.”

Mr. Smith smiled. “A fella gotta go when he gotta go…She perty?”

“No, not that,” Barlowe said.

“Well, do whut you need, whatever it is.” Mr. Smith turned and started toward his house. “Tawk to you later.”

Likewise, Barlowe went in the house and closed the door.

It took only a hot minute to slip into gardening clothes. Barlowe changed and went out back. He picked up a few flowerpots and carried them over to the edge of the yard, near the Gilmores’ fence. He set the pots on the ground, kneeled down and began plucking dead and dying leaves.

Minutes later, Sandy came outside, also wearing gardening clothes. She walked straight to the spot where Barlowe worked, leaned down low and began ripping up crabgrass from her side of the fence.

“This stuff is getting out of hand.” She kept her eyes fixed on the ground.

“I know.” Barlowe didn’t look at her, either. “I got weeds runnin long the edges of the house.”

“I’m trying to catch mine before it gets too bad.” Her tone was tight, not as lighthearted as usual. “Guess I’ll get some weed killer for this stuff. It grows too fast; too much of it to pull from between the fence posts every time.”

“Yeah,” said Barlowe. “Weed killer should do it.”

Finally, he stopped what he was doing and looked directly at her. “I’m sorry bout what happened with your mailbox and all.”

He hadn’t spoken to Sandy since shortly before the fire. Neither she nor her husband had been out much since then.

He wondered if she thought Tyrone was involved.

Sandy looked up, her face flushed red. “Yeah, well I’m sorry about that, too. To tell you the truth I’m sorry about a lot of things. And frustrated. That’s it. I’m frustrated.”

She flung a clump of crabgrass off to the side. “I’m sorry that my husband and I are so misunderstood around here. And I’m sorry that people can’t seem to let go of the past.”

She sat up on her knees. “Is there nothing else to think about?” Her tone was almost pleading now. “I mean, will we ever be able to move on?”

Barlowe started digging again. “Maybe not in the way you think.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“Maybe not in the way you think.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Too much water.”

“Water?”

“Too much water under the bridge.”

A pained expression spread across Sandy’s face. “You—What a morbid view.”

He shrugged again. “It is what it is.”

At that moment she felt in herself the potential to actually hate Barlowe, right along with the rest of them. It startled her to know she could feel that way. It crossed her mind, if only for a flash, and as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t deny that she had the potential to hate.

These people were starting to wear on her. How could they reject her? Many times she’d defended them—their peculiar habits and behaviors—in dinner party debates, and now they were rejecting her. It seemed unfair.

“You know what bothers me most?”

“No, Sandy. What bothers you most?”

That was the first time she’d heard him call her name. In the time she had known him, he had avoided addressing her directly. She had wondered if he even remembered her name.

“What bothers me,” she said, her anguished pitch rising again, “is I’m sick of people making these sweeping judgments. I’m telling you, it’s crazy. It’s just crazy, and I don’t understand.”

Barlowe sat up on his knees and took off his gardening gloves. “These people been out here toilin most a they lives. You came in on a fuggin whim. So what don’t you understand?”

Sandy yanked off her gloves and slammed them down. She glared at him through the fence.

“Is that what you think? You think I came here on some kind of whim? Who do you think I am?”

“Far as I can see, you just a silly white girl lookin for somethin interestin to do.”

Sandy’s nostrils flared. How dare he! She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.

“Mister, I’m not here on a whim. I’m here because I happen to care. You may not believe it, but I care!” She cupped both hands over her temples and rubbed gently, like she felt a migraine coming on.

“Why do I always feel like I have to prove myself?”

“Calm down,” said Barlowe. He looked around. “You startin to make a scene.”

Sandy lowered the volume, now speaking through clenched teeth. “I’ll have you know this is not something that just started for me. I’ll have you know that I’ve been wrestling with this stuff in some form or another for most of my life.”

She sucked her teeth, wondering why she wasted her time.

“You know, I actually feel sorry for you. You’re so wounded that you may no longer be capable of seeing the good in others.”

That remark pissed him off. He stewed but didn’t respond—not because he had nothing to say. He kept quiet for her sake. He knew that if he spoke his mind at that moment, he’d blast her. He’d blast her with so much thunder she might not ever recover. He was tempted to do it anyway, if for no reason other than to crush the arrogance underlying her words: The nerve of her. She felt sorry for him!

He wanted to let it rip, but he held back for the sake of the thread of a relationship trying to form.

And there was another reason: Hers may well have been the worst case of sincere ignorance he’d ever seen, but at least she was trying. She was trying, which was more than he could say for most of them. He couldn’t bring himself to torpedo someone who was trying, however clumsy the effort.

Finally, Barlowe held back for his own sake. For reasons that were still a riddle to him, Sandy embodied some vague glimmer of hope; she clung to a vision that reached beyond anything his life experiences had allowed him to see. He sensed his own hope, dim as it was, somehow was tethered to her stubborn optimism. So he kept quiet and peered through the fence, a tangle of feelings tugging at him from every direction, and all at once.

Sandy stared back, wrestling with her own roiling emotions. She thought she saw a subtle smirk creep to the corners of his mouth, but she didn’t care. Why should she care what he thought? Why should she care what any of these people thought?

Still, in spite of herself, she felt compelled to explain. “I’m not going to lie. I’m not going to stand here—”

“You sittin.” Barlowe smiled, trying to lighten the mood before things got too far out of hand.

“No, seriously.” Her tone was tortured. “I’m not going to stand here and try to pretend that I don’t have doubts sometimes. I’m human. I have my moments. You can bet that fire has shaken my foundation a bit.”

She didn’t finish the idea. Her mind raced around in frantic circles. She felt so bothered she couldn’t settle down enough to bring cohesive order to her thoughts.

She brushed a hand across her hair and spoke slowly, trying to regain control of herself.

“I’m telling you that me moving out here has nothing to do with a whim or trying to find something interesting to do. The point is, Barlowe, Sean and I are not out here trying to take over.”

“The point is,” snapped Barlowe, “you don’t have to try.”

Her face turned crimson, like he’d slapped it hard. She gaped at him, processing what he’d said.

He returned the stare. It remained that way for a long moment, them staring at each other, until finally she broke the spell.

“I see,” she said, finally. “I see.”

Barlowe wondered if she really did see. He wondered if she was even capable of seeing. Now he was pissed again, and so was she. They were fed up with each other and, together, mad at the world.

They both resumed working. She yanked up crabgrass, and he snatched leaves from flowerpots.

Then Barlowe spoke again. “What you wont here, anyway?”

At first she thought he was being flippant. Then she searched his face and saw that he was serious. She stabbed her shears hard in the ground.

“I’ll tell you what I want. I want people to accept my husband and me for who we are: We’re neighbors. That’s supposed to count for something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He studied her a moment like he was trying to search her soul. For an instant his stare, the way she felt him looking through her, made Sandy uneasy. She gathered herself.

“I know who I am. You may not know it, but I know.”

He squinted. “You one a them liberals, ain’t ya?”

“I don’t like labels,” said Sandy. “Let’s just say I’m me.”

He bored in some more. “You know what they say bout liberals?”

Sandy’s eyebrows raised. “They? Who’s they?”

“They say liberals conduct their lynchins from shorter trees.”

She grimaced. “You seem to be very morbid today. Do you know what they say about morbid people?”

“No, what?”

He waited while she tried to think up something. She wanted to respond with something snide and witty. She couldn’t think of anything, and that frustrated her more.

“Never mind,” she said, finally. “I know who I am.”

“Okay, then.” He looked askance. “Okay. Then that should be enough.”

“You don’t believe me. I can tell, and I resent it. I resent your whole negative attitude. But that’s okay. I’m gonna prove you wrong. You’ll see. I’m gonna prove you wrong.”

“You do that, Sandy. Prove me wrong.”

They fell silent once more. After a while, Barlowe got up from the ground. “I’m done for now. I gotta go.”

She was still angry, but not ready for him to leave just yet. The conversation felt unresolved.

“I’ve got a little more to do,” she said.

She hoped he would stay, at least stand and talk until she finished her work.

He didn’t cooperate. “Later.”

He went in the house, leaving her on her knees, pulling up grass from through the fence.

 

When Barlowe got inside, he found Tyrone standing in the kitchen, munching on a green apple. He was stationed at the window, gazing curiously outside. Barlowe wondered how long he had been standing there. He got a drink of water and started toward the living room.

“Yo, Unk.”

Barlowe stopped and turned around. “Yeah?”

“You bangin that white bitch next doe?”

“No.”

Tyrone smiled. “C’mon, Unk. You can tell me. I’m your boy!”

Barlowe’s irritation showed. “I toldja, no.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“So what you and her be out there talkin bout, up at the fence alla time?”

“We talk about the way things are.”

“Thas all?”

“Thas all.”

Barlowe left the room.

Tyrone looked again out the kitchen window. Sandy had gotten up from the ground. He saw her walk slowly toward her house. He studied the subtle sway of her hips. The hips were really nothing special—he’d seen much better, many times. But they were a woman’s hips just the same.

“Shucks,” Tyrone said, thinking out loud. “I’d fuck her.”