Free The Marrowbone Marble Company by Glenn Taylor Page B

doors for his mother. “That’s what a gentleman does,” his grandfather had told him.
    Mack put his hand to his flat cap and nodded. “Ms. Ledford,” he said.
    â€œHello Mack.” Rachel stepped toward them. “You must be Elizabeth.” She held out her free hand to Mack’s wife in greeting.
    â€œYes. Everybody calls me Lizzie.” Lizzie wore a rust-colored blouse and matching hat, tilted on her head.
    The women shook hands. “This Harold?” Ledford asked. “This is him,” Mack said. He rubbed the boy’s head from behind. “Good to meet you Harold,” Ledford said. “Pleased to meet you.” Harold looked up at the white family before him. The baby drooled, and he watched it stretch well past her chin, then give and fall to the sidewalk. It made a quiet splat.
    No one spoke for a moment. Then Mack inhaled deep through his nose. “Mmm,” he said. “Smell that.”
    â€œBread factory,” Ledford said. “You’ll smell it everyday.”
    Lizzie Wells sniffed the air and smiled politely. She looked mostly at the ground.
    Rachel took Mary from Ledford. “Let me show you the space in back for a garden,” she said. Lizzie nodded and followed, leaving the men and the boy by the car.
    â€œIf it isn’t the bread smell stirring your stomach, it’s the scrap metal clanging in your ears,” Ledford said. He turned and walked to the house, motioned for them to follow. His limp had come back with all the box hauling. He ignored the burn radiating up his shinbone.
    Mack looked back at Harold. He knew the look on the boy’s face. It was fear. Mack felt it too. There wasn’t a black family for a mile in the West End, and he could scarcely believe he’d agreed to rent the house. But when his home loan had fallen through, and his mother had sold her house to move in with his brother, Mack had acted fast. Ledford had told him over lunch one day, “I got a place in the West End you could rent real cheap.” Mack had quit chewing, looked at him like he was crazy. Ledford went on. There weren’t many neighbors, he’d said. There was the scrapyard and the bakery. There was the filling station on the corner, whose owner, Mr. Ballard, was not a hateful type. He had a Negro in his employ, Ledford had told Mack. It had all seemed natural, what with Ledford’s need to hold on to his old house and Mack’s troubles with the Federal Housing Authority. Inside a week, they’d drawn up a lease and shaken hands on it. There’d been some looks in their direction, but neither man paid much mind. They’d become friends, as much as a black man could be with a white one. Mack was the only welcome visitor inside Ledford’s office, the only glass man interested in hearing what Professor Staples had been teaching his young pupil.
    The screen door squealed as Ledford opened it and stepped in. “Gas and water and electric are all on and in your name,” he said. The staircase before them sagged at the middle of each riser. It would be good to have a boy running up and down again. Ledford smiled, “Wasn’t always that way with the water and electric. We used to barrel-catch rain and heat it.”
    â€œI know about that,” Mack said. He surveyed the living room. “You ain’t taking that big chair?”
    â€œIt’s yours if you want it.” Ledford regarded the wide upholstery. It had been his father’s drinking chair. On payday, he’d pass out cold and spill all over it. The smell still turned Ledford’s stomach.
    Young Harold walked over past the chair. He looked at the builtin bookcase, the few books left there. He whispered, sounding out the spines.
    â€œBook on baseball there. Go on and grab it,” Ledford said.
    Harold took down the skinny book and opened it. He sat down cross-legged on the floor and turned pages.
    â€œHe’s reading like a