The Least of These

As Philip slowly pulled away from the Logan home, he felt as though someone had smashed him in his gut. What he had just heard was unreal to him—the whole thing had not really penetrated his inner consciousness. But as he drove on, the reality slowly began to set in. Suddenly he was overcome with emotion. He pulled into an alley and sobbed uncontrollably for several minutes. Finally, he regained his composure and abruptly remembered Hazel—what time is it? He looked at his watch—1:15. She must be getting worried by now, he thought. He backed out of the alley and proceeded toward his office, but something compelled him to change direction and head toward another part of town, Jackson Heights.
The name suggested a respectable place, maybe even prestigious, serene, beautiful, but it was anything but. Jackson Heights was New Lexington’s black community, flippantly called “niggertown” by most of the white residents. Philip had driven down those streets hundreds of times, sometimes on business, mostly to pick up the maid, Georgie Mae, or take her home. He never really paid much attention to the surroundings, but that day everything was vivid, larger than life. The streets were in bad repair, full of potholes and huge cracks. There was a total absence of sidewalks, and Philip noted a leak in the water main, creating muddy pools in low spots, in one of which, he observed, two black children splashed and played.
The houses, if they were painted at all, were mostly white, trimmed in an array of garish colors—turquoise, bright pink, fuchsia, lime green. Some had front doors missing; many had broken windows or dangling window screens. The yards were mostly devoid of grass, some with a few scrawny chickens pecking at the dirt. Philip passed by one house with several children playing in the yard. They watched him as he drove slowly past, and he noticed one little boy, a toddler, naked from the waist down, defecating in a corner of the yard. A young black woman sat in a folding chair in the doorway of the house, a blank look on her face, swatting at flies with a flyswatter that she kept at the ready.
He turned a corner onto Washington Street and approached the familiar sight of a neat, white frame house, in reasonably good repair. There was a slightly dilapidated picket fence around the yard, along which grew some wild rose bushes. There was grass in the yard and tall stands of orange and red cannas along the sides of the house. The front porch sagged a little but had the cheerful touches of a couple of folding canvas chairs and a crudely built birdhouse. As Philip came to a stop in front of the house, he recognized the chairs on the porch as the ones Hazel had recently given to Georgie Mae. They were a little worn but still usable. Philip slowly got out of his car and approached the house. He knocked at the screen door and was immediately aware of the unmistakable aroma of turnip greens cooking. He could hear the sound of a radio playing with the volume turned up pretty loud, so he knocked again, harder, and called out, “Georgie Mae—you home?”
The radio was suddenly turned off, and Philip heard a voice call back, “Yes, sir—I’ll be right there.” Shortly, a tall, stoutly built, middle-aged black woman appeared at the door. She wore a simple flowered-print, cotton dress and house shoes. Her hair was wrapped in a headscarf, and little beads of perspiration dotted her face. She held the screen door open to admit Philip with, “Well, Mr. Newton, come on in—I wasn’t expectin’ to see you today.”
Philip could tell by her expression that she was a little suspicious about his purpose for being there. He entered the tiny living room, where Georgie Mae invited him to take a seat, and left quickly to bring in a small oscillating fan from the kitchen. The room was furnished with shabby but comfortable furniture, some pieces that Philip recognized as having once belonged to him. The air in the room was stifling as the little fan buzzed, doing little but stirring up the heat.
“Mr. Newton, does Ms. Newton need me to work today—I know I’m supposed to work next Tuesday, but I can sure come today if she needs me.”
“No, Georgie Mae, she doesn’t need you today. I just stopped by to talk to you for a few minutes if you don’t mind.”
“No, sir, I don’t mind a’tall,” she answered, but her face began to register a hint of uneasiness. “Mr. Newton, can I get you a cold drink?”
“No, thank you, Georgie Mae. I was just wondering, where is Luther today?” “Luther? Why, he over at Boyce Hardware unloading some merchandise that just come in last night. You know, he work over there part time.”
“Yes, I know. Did Luther stay here last night?”
“Yes, sir, he did. He come in around 6:00 or so—he had been over to the Police Chief’s house doing some yard work.”
“How was he when he got here, Georgie Mae, I mean, was he upset about anything?”
“No, sir, he seem just fine to me—eat a great big supper and set out on the porch awhile. He was in bed by 9:00, I believe.”
Philip just stared at her for a few seconds. “You’re sure he wasn’t upset about anything—he didn’t say anything about, well, something bothering him?”
“Mr. Newton, I done told you that boy was fine. Now I wonder why you come over here and what you think he done.”
“I’m going to need to talk to Luther—you say he’s down at Boyce’s?”
“Yes, sir, he be there all day.”
Philip stood up. “Well, thank you, Georgie Mae. I have to be going.”
“Mr. Newton, if my Luther is in any trouble, I wants to know it, please.”
Philip looked into the troubled face before him and answered, “I just need to talk to him, that’s all.” With that, Philip made his exit and walked out to his car. She stood in the door watching him leave, a concerned expression on her face.