Free Them by Nathan McCall Page A

held up the book below it: The Legacy of Ibo Landing: Gullah Roots of African American Culture .
    She smiled. “Oh. The Gullah people. They have a festival every year.”
    â€œYeah. I heard about that.”
    â€œI’ll bet it’s nice.”
    She fixed on his face with a hopeful look and cocked her head slightly to her good side. In her own homely way she tried to look delicious. It didn’t wear right on her.
    Barlowe dropped his eyes, first to the full breasts poking against the angora wool. Oddly, he thought of Tyrone. No doubt, Tyrone would declare that Rachel Worthman had promise. She had strong headlights. Tyrone insisted strong headlights were always a good place to start in a relationship.
    Barlowe’s gaze shifted from Rachel’s headlights to her eyes. That was when he realized there could be no future there. The eyes were dull, lifeless. They suggested she might be one of the sheep, one of those drab and dreary people who play life by the numbers. That seemed mildly confusing, considering she was a librarian, with access to all those books.
    And another thing: The eyes were awfully tame; tame as a cat curled up on a fluffy couch. He studied Rachel closely while she assisted a patron across the desk. As she turned to a computer, he noted again the languid movements and depthless gaze.
    He thought: She’d require brown liquor to loosen up.
    It would be just his luck that Rachel didn’t drink. And even if she did indulge, it might be tough getting to sleep after a good romp with her. Barlowe imagined himself lying in the dark, waiting for sunrise while Rachel snored. He was sure she snored.
    So what did he want, then? If not a decent house girl, a librarian like Rachel, what did he want?
    In the daytime, he swore he wanted substance, a woman who thought serious thoughts and followed current events. At night, it was different: He craved debauchery, full-tilt; someone wild—like Nell.
    He recalled how Nell used to lose herself in lovemaking. Sometimes she’d lose herself so completely that she’d wrench free of his clutches and bolt from bed to catch her breath. She’d flop against a wall, furiously fanning her face with her hand, whispering, imploring herself to settle down.
    Sometimes she would…Now Barlowe stopped himself. He didn’t want to think about Nell.
    In the neighborhood, he’d found himself paying more attention lately to Lucretia Wiggins. Some days he stood in the front window and watched her switch up and down the walk. He liked the way she strutted—sassy and light, like she was gliding barefoot. Without having to be told, he knew what she was like. More and more, the idea of her excited him.
    It was settled, then, in the library that day. Barlowe would leave Rachel Worthman to tend to her books and seek his pleasures in other places. He said, “Thank you,” to Rachel and turned and walked out the door.
    Heading to the car it occurred to him that he should maybe find another library branch. He drove away, glancing every now and then at his new stack of books, especially the ones about the Gullah people.
    Who knew? Maybe he would go to Beaufort one day and find that big-leg Geechie gal.
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    Barlowe reached home and came across a sight that brought a triumphant smile to his face. Ricky Brown stood in the front yard, raking leaves. More than three weeks had passed since Ricky disappeared. Now he’d returned, and even brought back the red gas can he took away.
    When Barlowe approached, Ricky spoke fast, like he’d memorized the words. “I came to do what I promised long time ago!”
    â€œI been waitin on you,” said Barlowe. “One more week and I was gonna come lookin. That wouldna been a pretty sight.”
    Ricky raked faster. “I woulda been back fore now but I got hung up on some thangs. Don’t worry. You ain’t gotta pay me nothin. I’ma do it anyway. I always do what I say. So I’ma