Magic City (18 page)

T
he kitchen was in mourning. Sunlight poked through the screen door and a honeysuckle breeze stirred the curtains. Linoleum sparkled and the metal rim on the cold stove reflected rainbows. There weren't cooking smells: no sweet yeast and rising biscuits, no berries, pungent, ripening to syrup, no smoked bacon frying. The pantry door was closed. Despite the sun, there was a wounded pall to the day.

If Mary held her breath, she could hear muffled voices, footsteps tiptoeing, shuffling through the Samuels' house. Undertaker, preacher, doctor. Solemn men at work since dawn—the undertaker transforming the study into a viewing room for Tyler's casket; the preacher ministering to a weeping Mrs. Samuels and Emmaline; and the doctor, trying to convince Mr. Samuels—arm broken, blind in one eye—his bank didn't need him for one day.

Hildy was slumped over the kitchen table, her head cradled on crisscrossed arms, her lids fluttering with dreams.

Mary peeked out the screen door. A hearse was parked at the curb; behind it was another car with a white cross painted on its hood. The
preacher had walked, his long-tailed coat flapping like blackbirds' wings. Mary had watched him stop and bless the house—eyes closed, his mouth muttering prayers, then he'd strode forward and blessed the grass stained with Jody's blood; the steps littered with shotgun casings; and the porch, its yellow light still on, insects flattened and dried on the glass.

Mary could go to Jody but, somehow, just before sunrise, she'd sensed he'd died—bitter, doubled over his wound, reaching for his missing leg.

Mary exhaled, digging her nails into wire mesh. She needed to help Hildy. Like a sentry, Mary watched the street, hoping she'd serve Hildy better than she'd served her mother. Everyone needed some time not to be strong. Some time to be safe.

Mary knew better than anyone that folks forgot the strong ones. If a woman didn't cry, folks didn't think you needed. If you kept your mouth shut and endured, folks forgot about helping. Forgot all about you, if you tried too hard to keep your dignity.

Since the evening's terror, she'd watched Hildy moving gracefully among father, mother, sister. Kissing dead Tyler. Calling the doctor, the preacher. It was Hildy who soothed her mother, tucked her in bed. Hildy who calmed her sister by telling her how strong and helpful she'd been. Hildy who cleaned her father's wounds while he cursed, complained just like Pa.

Feeling useless, Mary had shadowed Hildy, then left to do what she could—restore Hildy's kitchen. She'd gathered the broken porcelain, mopped tea, swept dried beans and shattered jars of peaches, wiped the counters, placed the Bible on the table, and waited.

When Hildy stole away to the kitchen, Mary had seen the struggle she'd endured—hooded eyes, rigid mouth, knees locked to hold her upright, nails digging deeply into her own skin.

Hildy had looked across at Mary and whispered, “Joe?”

Mary'd wanted to cry. Joe was still on the run. Had to be. If he wasn't…. She'd imagined Joe hanging from a tree, his tongue thick, his chin on his chest.

Mary'd said, “Rest. Rest, Hildy.” She'd helped her to the chair. Hildy laid her head down on the table and sighed. Mary understood the comfort of cool wood and warm arms.

Before she drifted to sleep, Hildy had murmured, “Let me know when the women come. Wake me when the women come.”

Such a strange idea.
Wake me when the women come
. Mary remembered the years she'd been waiting for women, a woman to come. Always just Pa and Jody came. Later Dell.

Mary turned and saw her mother sprawled on the floor. The linoleum spotted red
. “Oh, Ma.” Tears welled. Dying without any women. Just a terrified daughter who hadn't any power in her hands.
Ma's body was bathed in light
. Mary reached out to touch her, tried to sweep the loneliness from her heart.
Her mother faded
. “Ma.”

Three short raps, like firecrackers, rattled the door. “What?” Mary turned and saw a woman on the porch, apron-askew, holding a platter of sliced ham and biscuits.

Mary unlatched the screen. The woman, brows raised, pointed at Hildy: “She all right?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“The rest of the family?” A gravelly whisper.

Mary cocked her head, uncertain about what to say, whether she'd a right to say it. “Struggling,” she said.

The woman nodded. “To be expected. To be expected.” She extended the platter. “I'm Mrs. Jackson from across the street. Others are on their way.”

Mary carried the platter to the counter. Mrs. Jackson sat across from Hildy, murmuring, “Sleep can be a mercy.” Then, she turned, “Biscuits be better warmed in the oven.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Mary smiled, found a match to light the stove.

Another knock and three women, crosses stitched on brown cloaks, stepped into the kitchen, carrying baskets with gingham linings. “We've brought the pies,” said the leader, a woman with saucer eyes, a calming voice. Mary recognized her from the night before. She'd worn a green housecoat and asked if she was all right. Beneath the cloaks, Mary saw all the women wore white dresses, white stockings and shoes.

“I'm Nadine Franklin, president, Zion's Sanctified Women.” The woman smiled sweetly. “We help the Lord's business.” “Amen,” the two women chimed. “I believe Eugenia will bring the salad.” Nadine held out her basket.

“Oh, yes.” Flustered, Mary took the basket, carried it to the counter,
then turned back for the other two.
Wake me when the women come
. All four women were looking at her. Not unkindly, but curious. “I'll wake Hildy,” she said.

“A few minutes rest would be better,” complained Mrs. Jackson. “The Lord appreciates rest.”

Mary plucked nervously at her skirt. “Hildy would want me to wake her. She told me to wake her.”

“Hildy knows it's time for doing,” piped Nadine, her hand upraised. “Never shirks her duty.”

Gliding past the church women, Mary gently shook Hildy. “Hildy. Hildy,” she breathed.

Yawning, struggling awake, Hildy smiled. Mary smiled back. Then Hildy looked at the women. “I knew you'd come.”

Mrs. Jackson patted Hildy's hand. “They should've let you rest.”

Rising, Hildy hugged the sanctified women. “Martha. Nadine. Gloria.” “Amen,” said each woman in turn. “Praise the Lord.” She pressed her cheek against Mrs. Jackson's.

Mary felt a lightening of spirit.

“Is anybody going to open this door?” A tall, stout woman with a younger, cherry-lipped version of herself, hollered from the porch. “Cheese. I brought my macaroni and cheese. Here,” she handed the casserole to Mary. “Don't let me forget paprika. Just before serving. A teaspoon sprinkle. Just a teaspoon.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Mary nodded shyly.

“Eugenia, please. My daughter, Lilianne. You're Mary, aren't you?”

“Mama, she's the one—”

“Hush, Lilianne.” Her mother pinched her. “Good is as good does. We are all guests in this house.”

“Eugenia, I thought you were bringing salad,” said Nadine.

“Macaroni is salad.”

“No, I mean green.”

“I felt like macaroni.”

Another knock. Heart fluttering, Mary turned, careful not to upset the casserole, opening the door to two gloved women wearing double-strand pearls. They were lovely, elegant like oil men's wives.

“Claire!” said Eugenia. “Bertha! Coming to the back door. Wonders never cease.”

“Don't tease, Eugenia.” Hildy embraced the fashionable women, saying, “Mother will be so glad you've come. That you've all come.”

Hildy was radiant, standing in the room's center, surrounded by women.

“The Samuels are our first family,” said Claire.

“You and your first family stuff,” snapped Eugenia. “Samuels ain't better. Just colored folks with money. That's so, isn't it, Lilianne?” Her daughter nodded.

“You don't appreciate—” said Claire.

“I appreciate plenty. Unlike you, I don't need pearls to appreciate the sunrise.”

“Ladies, ladies,” said Hildy, comforting an offended Claire.

“Family,” said Mrs. Jackson. “We're here as family.”

“Family,” echoed Nadine. “Amen,” chorused her two companions.

Mary ducked her head, suppressing a smile.

There was another knock. Two new women were at the door.

“Miss Wright. Miss Wright, you came.” Hildy guided the frail, elderly woman.

“Of course, I came. Is that you, Lilianne? I can always tell you by your flower water. How's the library? Did you order those books I told you about?”

“I did, Miss Wright.”

Miss Wright's eyes were glassy blue, her wrinkled hand grasped a cane. Behind her, a woman, nearly as tiny and old, was poised to steady her. “My sister, Leda, brought me.”

Hildy, stooped, embracing Miss Wright and the buzzing women fell silent.

Mary felt blessed. Wind rattled the door. Sunlight streamed in. Rainbows extended up the wall.

Mary turned to the cabinets, selecting, for the viewing, the rose-trimmed plates and cups. The women had come. Men had come through the front. But these good women had come through the kitchen, the house's heart, and restored Hildy. It amazed Mary to know Hildy hadn't doubted. She hadn't even needed to shout. Mary had thought she and Hildy were kin in their loneliness; but there'd been a difference. Hildy's loneliness had a limit; when the worst happened, she'd known—always must've known, the women would come.

“Where is she? This white woman. Show her to me.”

“Here, Miss Wright…Here.” Hands gently passed, guided Miss Wright across the room.

“Her name's Mary,” said Hildy.

Trembling, Mary set down the stack of dishes. She didn't want to be thrown out; she didn't want to be asked to leave.

Hildy stood beside her. “Feel her hands, Miss Wright. Feel her hands.”

Mary's hands were squeezed in a powerful grip. The blue eyes, reflecting her own, were unnerving. The roomful of women were expectant, waiting for judgment. Scowling, Lilianne stood apart.

“Working hands.”

“Yes, ma'am,” answered Mary.

“You were schooled?”

“Not much.”

“Miss Wright taught school,” said Hildy proudly.

“Third grade. I taught Hildy's Daddy. Then Hildy. Emmaline. I taught Joe. Joe was…is my favorite.” Dry lips smacked. “Isn't that right, sister?”

The tiny woman behind her nodded. “You taught the town.”

“And you kept house. Thank you, sister,” replied Miss Wright. Leda smiled. Mary envied the sisters, imagining them growing old together.

Miss Wright handed her cane to Hildy. She stepped closer. Mary smelled lavender. Ma's scent. Miss Wright's face was golden, her skin, tissue-thin, her hands strong. Callused fingertips traced Mary's brows, her nose, chin, and lips. Mary wanted to tilt her head, bury her face in the sweet-smelling hand.

“You caused Joe trouble.”

“Yes, ma'am. I didn't mean to.”

“White women never mean to,” muttered Lilianne. “Trouble follows just the same.”

“Lilianne!” her mother answered sharply.

“She's tried to set things right,” offered Hildy.

Miss Wright lowered her hands.

Mary ducked her head. She understood being disliked. She'd learned to weather Pa's indifference. Yet, how could she explain she needed to be here? Hildy might not need her—she knew that now. None of the Greenwood women
needed
her. Being useful was not the
same as being needed. But she needed to see these women loving Hildy. They confirmed her belief that things might've been different if her mother had lived; she, too, could've been surrounded by women.

“I heard you yelling,” said Miss Wright. “From my bed, I heard you yelling. Yelling to save the Samuels.”

“She
did
save us, Miss Wright,” said Hildy, fiercely. “I would've been dead. The entire family would've been with Tyler.”

“A good man, Tyler.”

“Praise be,” said Eugenia.

There was breathless silence again.

Clasping her cane's hilt, Miss Wright spoke. “No sense holding a grudge against someone who's tried to set things right. If I know anything, I know all the fault for Joe's troubles doesn't lie at your door. There's a story, history behind everything.”

“Amen.”

“Greenwood's always been the fly in Tulsa's milk.”

“Truly, Miss Wright,” nodded Claire.

“That was your brother shot?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I'm sorry for it.”

“Thank you, Miss Wright,” Mary said, unsteadily. Then, she began crying, mourning her only brother; mourning Tyler. Joe on the run. This household in sorrow. She wailed louder and the women's hands reached for her.

She could feel Miss Wright's bony body pressing against her, Hildy's hand embracing round her back, and the other women circling closer. Lilianne stared beyond the screen door.

“Nobody deserves dying,” said Eugenia.

“The Lord protects the righteous.”

Mary shuddered, feeling the sanctified women's passion.

“Mercy,” said Miss Wright. “Lord have mercy upon your brother's soul.”

“Upon Tyler,” said Hildy.

“Me,” said Mary. “Upon me.”

“Us all,” replied Hildy.

Mary looked at Miss Wright's upturned face. The angle of her head, the pressure from her fingers made Mary feel she could see.

“Time to be doing,” said Mrs. Jackson, breaking the spell. “Men might be needing us later.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hildy. “What's wrong?”

No one answered.

The group broke apart. Eugenia looked at the curtains. Claire at her suede pumps. Nadine closed her eyes, her hands crossed over her breasts.