Them by Nathan McCall Page A

right quick!”
    Barlowe paused. He thought that he should go, but he was tired. He had run four big jobs at the print shop that day. Looking at the front door to the house, he pondered: There was a six-pack in the fridge. He could almost hear it calling. And there was a claw-foot tub waiting, too, with outstretched arms.
    He reached in his wallet, pulled out a five-spot and reluctantly handed it over.
    Ricky grabbed the money and glanced above the top of his sunshades. “I be right back!” He tossed the gas can onto the trash heap in his cart. “I’ma run up the station and fill this up!”
    â€œRicky. Is easier if you leave the cart…I’ll guard it. I promise.”
    Ricky hesitated. “Oh! Yeah! I leave it here! I leave it here!”
    He pushed the cart into the bushes, then walked to the middle of the yard and studied the shrubs, making sure it was out of sight. He didn’t want to risk losing all his fine trash collections to competitors or thieves.
    Once he felt assured of the safety of his garbage loot, he scooted off with the crisp five-dollar bill clutched in his fist.
    He rushed up the street, the tongues of his sneakers flopping from side to side.
    Â 
    Later, Barlowe stood in the living room, peeping through the open blinds. He caught sight of pretty Lucretia Wiggins. She had left the Auburn Avenue Mini-Mart, and now switched up the sidewalk, toward her mama’s house. He studied her backside as she went indoors.
    Tyrone came into the living room and saw his uncle staring outside. “What you lookin fo?”
    â€œRicky Brown.” Barlowe quickly shut the blinds. “He was sposed to clean up the yard.”
    â€œYou paid im first?”
    â€œGave him five dollars to get gas for the blower.”
    Tyrone rolled his eyes. “Damn, man; why you do dat? Why you pay that nigger fore he did the job?”
    Barlowe kept quiet, thinking.
    â€œYou won’t see him no mo til he spend it up. Then he gonna come back wit a long story…You watch.”
    Tyrone set down two packages on the kitchen table. Barlowe peeked at the goodies. One bag contained a bottle of expensive cognac. The other held a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken.
    â€œWhat you got goin here?”
    â€œGonna git wit this gal I know,” said Tyrone. “We goin to Piedmont Park for a li’l bullshit picnic. Then is off to her place to knock some boots.”
    When the horn sounded, Tyrone rushed outside, taking giant strides like a person scaling a stairway, two steps at once. Barlowe closed the blinds and sat down in the living room. That night, when he went to bed, a familiar jolt of loneliness shot through his bones. He hadn’t been on a date in a while. He wondered if maybe he should start going out on the town, putting himself in places where he might meet some women.
    He considered phoning Diane, a redhead he’d met a while back. Diane would come over in a heartbeat, if it wasn’t her night for choir rehearsal.
    But Diane was too tame. Barlowe craved someone edgy, wild—like Nell.
    The image of Lucretia Wiggins returned to him. He fluffed the pillows, stretched out on his back and closed his eyes. He softly touched himself. He touched himself like he would want to be caressed if Lucretia or Nell was lying beside him now.
    In time, he drifted off to sleep. He was roused later by a noise outside. It sounded a bit like rustling brush. When it sounded again, he lifted his head, straining to hear. He rested his head back on the pillow. His eyelids felt heavy. He needed sleep. He had a busy printing schedule the next day.
    He finally drifted off to the sounds of the night: the sound of an old hoot owl’s mating call; the sound of a freight train rumbling by; the sound of floppy tennis shoes, and a squeaky grocery cart being pushed, fast, down Randolph Street.

Chapter 7
    S ean and Sandy Gilmore met at Joe Folkes’s Midtown real estate office on a Saturday