wife, who had followed him out on the porch.
“Ya new neighbor like to walk ’round outside her house . . . naked.” The man’s voice thickened a bit when he said it. Joe recognized that sound and backed away from it.
“Is that right?” he said, and folded his arms across his massive chest.
The man was grinning, not paying Joe much mind now. He thought he saw movement in the front window.
Joe thanked him for the information and walked back to his porch. “You know anything ’bout all this?” he asked Pearl. Pearl did know about something, but these people couldn’t possibly be here to witness what she had just yesterday. “Something ’bout the woman next door walking around outside naked?” Joe continued, looking at Pearl’s forehead instead of her eyes.
“They here to see that?” Pearl said flatly. “That ain’t right, Joe. She ain’t no circus freak. And she wasn’t outside, she was in the privacy of her own living room . . . the window just happened to be open, shifting the curtains a bit. Shirley was here when it happened, done blown it up to something it ain’t. These people gotta go, Joe. Our home is here too. They can’t be ’round here like this.” She turned and walked back into the house. Her eyes never left the street when she spoke and her voice never rose.
Joe hitched his pants and lifted his head a bit higher, gathering his full six feet three inches and 250 pounds. Something was going to be done about this.
Pearl didn’t know what he said, probably not much, and he only spoke to two people: the watermelon man and someone on a bike, didn’t need to speak to more than that, the others would see and get the hint. The people respected Joe’s words, not sure of what he was physically capable of, and not wanting to push him to test it, they moved along and away from Grove Street.
She didn’t tell him where she was going, wasn’t necessary. He was asleep on the sofa, the television watching him, a half-empty glass of Coke sitting on the floor, the ice melting loudly within it, a half-eaten bologna sandwich on a plate next to the glass. Sunday afternoon found him snoring in his second favorite snoozing place, after the far side of the middle pew in Bigelow’s First Baptist Church, the part that was hidden by a column.
She slipped quietly out the back door, pie in hand, and walked across the thick grass that separated her house from Sugar’s. The screen door was open a bit, swinging back and forth on its hinges. “Hello,” Pearl yelled twice before she walked in. She could hear a man’s voice, happy and chipper, coming from the living room. A commercial for soap coming from a radio she couldn’t see. “Hello?” once again and then she was on the stairs moving up to the second floor of the house one step at a time. Step. Listen. Step. Listen. Nothing.
The house echoed empty, yet she kept going.
The center hall was bright; dust particles danced in the fat slants of light that came in through the window at the far end. Pearl looked down at her black shoes, spit shined by her husband; they looked more expensive than their five dollars’ worth against the worn, burgundy and gold swirled carpet. She stepped forward and found herself between two rooms, the bedroom and the bathroom. Both doors half open, revealing contents and details. She turned toward the bedroom intending to push the door open, but her attention was focused toward the hall window. She stepped forward and her hand missed the feel of the oak door, as it swung open before she could make contact.
Sugar stood before her, a towel wrapped around her body. A wasted effort, the towel was too small and like the half-open doors, revealed most everything and more than nothing at all.
“What you doing in my house!” Sugar yelled and stepped forward.
“I—” Pearl was flustered mute.
“What you doing in my house?!” Sugar demanded again. Her breath, heavy with cigarettes and pork and beans, invaded Pearl’s nose
“Ya new neighbor like to walk ’round outside her house . . . naked.” The man’s voice thickened a bit when he said it. Joe recognized that sound and backed away from it.
“Is that right?” he said, and folded his arms across his massive chest.
The man was grinning, not paying Joe much mind now. He thought he saw movement in the front window.
Joe thanked him for the information and walked back to his porch. “You know anything ’bout all this?” he asked Pearl. Pearl did know about something, but these people couldn’t possibly be here to witness what she had just yesterday. “Something ’bout the woman next door walking around outside naked?” Joe continued, looking at Pearl’s forehead instead of her eyes.
“They here to see that?” Pearl said flatly. “That ain’t right, Joe. She ain’t no circus freak. And she wasn’t outside, she was in the privacy of her own living room . . . the window just happened to be open, shifting the curtains a bit. Shirley was here when it happened, done blown it up to something it ain’t. These people gotta go, Joe. Our home is here too. They can’t be ’round here like this.” She turned and walked back into the house. Her eyes never left the street when she spoke and her voice never rose.
Joe hitched his pants and lifted his head a bit higher, gathering his full six feet three inches and 250 pounds. Something was going to be done about this.
Pearl didn’t know what he said, probably not much, and he only spoke to two people: the watermelon man and someone on a bike, didn’t need to speak to more than that, the others would see and get the hint. The people respected Joe’s words, not sure of what he was physically capable of, and not wanting to push him to test it, they moved along and away from Grove Street.
She didn’t tell him where she was going, wasn’t necessary. He was asleep on the sofa, the television watching him, a half-empty glass of Coke sitting on the floor, the ice melting loudly within it, a half-eaten bologna sandwich on a plate next to the glass. Sunday afternoon found him snoring in his second favorite snoozing place, after the far side of the middle pew in Bigelow’s First Baptist Church, the part that was hidden by a column.
She slipped quietly out the back door, pie in hand, and walked across the thick grass that separated her house from Sugar’s. The screen door was open a bit, swinging back and forth on its hinges. “Hello,” Pearl yelled twice before she walked in. She could hear a man’s voice, happy and chipper, coming from the living room. A commercial for soap coming from a radio she couldn’t see. “Hello?” once again and then she was on the stairs moving up to the second floor of the house one step at a time. Step. Listen. Step. Listen. Nothing.
The house echoed empty, yet she kept going.
The center hall was bright; dust particles danced in the fat slants of light that came in through the window at the far end. Pearl looked down at her black shoes, spit shined by her husband; they looked more expensive than their five dollars’ worth against the worn, burgundy and gold swirled carpet. She stepped forward and found herself between two rooms, the bedroom and the bathroom. Both doors half open, revealing contents and details. She turned toward the bedroom intending to push the door open, but her attention was focused toward the hall window. She stepped forward and her hand missed the feel of the oak door, as it swung open before she could make contact.
Sugar stood before her, a towel wrapped around her body. A wasted effort, the towel was too small and like the half-open doors, revealed most everything and more than nothing at all.
“What you doing in my house!” Sugar yelled and stepped forward.
“I—” Pearl was flustered mute.
“What you doing in my house?!” Sugar demanded again. Her breath, heavy with cigarettes and pork and beans, invaded Pearl’s nose
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