Free Them by Nathan McCall Page B

do it, whedder you pay me or not.”
    He glanced over his sunshades.
    â€œAll right, then, Ricky. All right, do what you promised.” Barlowe headed to the curb to check for mail.
    If he had paid closer attention to Ricky’s mouth, he might have guessed the reason for the sudden reappearance. There was a front tooth missing, separated from its owner just the day before. Ricky had collected some aluminum and glass from the streets and pushed his grocery cart to the satellite recycling station on John Wesley Dobbs Avenue. He and his friends went there at noon each day and waited for a white man in a pickup truck, who paid for the scraps and cans they gathered.
    Ricky was waiting in line to be paid, when a hand—strong, forceful—grabbed him from behind. The hand squeezed his shoulder blade so hard he collapsed to the ground.
    â€œOooowwww!!!”
    He looked up and caught a fist, flush in the mouth. Whack!
    It was Tyrone. He had been walking up the street and spotted Ricky.
    â€œNigger, ain’t you got some work to do?”
    â€œWho, me?”
    â€œYou was sposed to rake my yard!” Whack! Tyrone pummeled him.
    Ricky’s buddies drew back, repulsed by the violence.
    When the dusting was done, Ricky leaned over and coughed up blood. “I’ma do it! I’ma do it!”
    Tyrone smacked him. Whack! “I know you are! And you gonna do it soon!”
    Ricky spit more blood and examined a loose tooth, half-wondering if he could push it back into his bleeding gums.
    The next day, Ricky, his lip still slightly swollen, hurried to Randolph Street and rang the bell. Tyrone escorted him around back and handed him a rake and garbage bags. “Now do what you promised. You sposed to live up to your obligations, nigger.”
    Ricky was anxious to finish the job, mainly because Tyrone threatened to deliver a “fresh ass-whuppin” each week it went undone.
    All that drama was lost on Barlowe now as he emptied the mailbox and strolled back toward the house. He stopped and watched briefly while Ricky gathered leaves and stuffed them in the bloated bags. Ricky worked hard, like he didn’t mind doing the chore at all.
    Heading into the house, Barlowe felt a surge of pride. That’s what he liked about living in the Old Fourth Ward. He had given a man a chance to make an honest dollar, and after all that time the man had been moved to come back and prove himself.

Chapter 9
    T he closing on the house at 1022 Randolph Street took place on neutral ground. It was held in the conference room of a real estate lawyer’s office, down on Peachtree Street. The attorney, a short, jowly man in a dull gray suit, was there with his secretary, who was already glancing impatiently at her watch.
    Flanked by her selling agent, Hattie Phillips showed up at the closing dressed in her Sunday best—white gloves, a shiny blue dress and matching heels, with little fake diamonds sprinkled at the toe. Her head was crowned with a bold, bright blue hat, feathered and furred all around.
    The Gilmores were much more casually dressed, in blue jeans and sneakers. They looked like they’d run out to pick up bread from the grocery store.
    Joe Folkes, his usual dapper self, sat with his long legs crossed and monogrammed pen ready.
    The parties took seats on opposite sides of the table and tried not to look adversarial. They all smiled politely, nodded and, as much as possible, avoided eye contact. The attorney handed the parties a thick packet of closing documents and launched the process in earnest with formal introductions around the table. Amid the introductions, Hattie Phillips turned to acknowledge Sandy Gilmore, eye-to-eye, which was only fitting with so much money changing hands.
    Sandy blinked hard when their eyes met. A flash, a memory forced her to look away. The old black woman before her bore an eerie likeness to the longtime family maid, Ethel Fields. Ethel was the only true superwoman Sandy