Magic City (22 page)

M
ary felt a kind of happiness, solace. Hearing the women's song, she'd felt her mother's presence stirring. For the first time, she felt her Ma, like Tyler, was properly mourned. Loved. She'd dispelled the memory of her mother going cold, unremarked to her grave. She was a good daughter.

Now she hoped to be a good friend to Hildy Samuels. She sipped warm tea, lulled by the sun as Hildy collected a bowl, flour, lard, and water.

They'd received news that Joe was free. The men were preparing to defend Greenwood: some posted at Mt. Zion, others scattered throughout the town. Mr. Samuels had insisted on driving to his bank. The women had left at mid-morning.

“I should be going,” she'd said to Hildy, staring at the black-speckled linoleum.

“Dangerous,” Hildy had replied. “Wait 'til folks settle down.”

Mary sighed. She'd found grace. She'd never felt the Holy Spirit like she had in Tyler's room, in Hildy's kitchen. Not in Pa's dreary sermons, his grating, “Repent.” It lived in the women, in Hildy.

She'd helped Hildy pack food for Joe, for the men at the church. They'd washed dishes, cleaned the kitchen. They'd gotten on their knees and prayed. Mary couldn't help thinking God would listen to Hildy. There'd be deliverance. He'd protect Greenwood. There'd be a new, shining day.

Mary sipped as Hildy hummed, preparing bread for dinner. Brown hands kneading, twisting, turning dough on cool marble. How many times had she done the same thing? And seen no beauty, no grace?

How strange. How luxurious, taking tea and dreaming about building herself a future. Tomorrow, she'd celebrate Joe being safe. She'd look for work selling perfume and rouge. Or maybe dresses, soft and beautiful. No gray uniforms. Or else she'd cook meringues and sell pies. Nothing ordinary like apple or cherry. Rhubarb. Lime. Chocolate cream. She'd take care of herself just fine. No running home to Pa.

Mary licked her lips, feeling the mid-morning sun splashing her lap. Hearing the slap of Hildy's loaves. Smelling pungent yeast. She thought about Allen. He didn't mind a tall, not-so-pretty girl. Maybe she'd get a chance to know him better. She wanted to know him better. He wasn't like Dell. Mary clutched her abdomen, remembering Dell's rutting, repeating softly, “Allen isn't Dell.”

She wanted to be caressed. Admired. She wanted, as she'd always wanted, a sweet respite. Someone's touch to ease loneliness. Was that love? Had Ma loved? Mary felt her smile slipping. Maybe she was asking too much, being greedy—expecting love when she'd just started to feel a measure of happiness.

“Hildy, you ever been in love?”

Hildy stopped kneading biscuit dough. “Love?” Hildy wiped her brow with her forearm. “Have you?”

“No.”

“I thought I was in love once.” Hildy plunged her hands into the flour.

“What happened?”

“Found out my sister loved him.”

“Did he love her?”

“I don't know,” said Hildy, smacking the dough. “He went to war. Left without asking Emmaline to marry him. He was one of my brother's friends.”

“Joe's?”

“No. My brother Henry's. Henry died in the war.”

“I'm sorry, Hildy.”

Hildy shook her head. “Some men are born restless. If Henry hadn't died in the war, he would've been killed here. Henry told every woman he ever knew he loved her.”

“Did you tell the man—”

“Gabriel?”

“You loved him?”

“No. He never looked at me.” Sprinkling flour, she patted the dough into a bowl and covered it with a towel. “Gabriel only knew me as Henry's maiden sister. Sometimes I wonder if it would've mattered if I was younger. Baby-face pretty like Emmaline.”

“Life's hard on a woman.”

“That's the truth. I decided no sense in being soft then. No pretending you can't do, when you can. So it's been a while since I've been kissed.” Hildy sat, wiping dough from her nails with a kitchen cloth.

“Did you ever want babies?”

“Joe's my baby. No, I shouldn't be telling that lie. Joe's a man now. That is, if he survives. Eighteen tomorrow.”

Mary stared at the leaves in her cup, wishing she could tell the future. But it had to be all right. Everything had to be all right. She peered at Hildy. “Do you think you could find someone else?”

“I might start looking,” said Hildy, suddenly deciding. “When I know Joe's safe.” She stared at her hands. “But he's got to be a kind man.”

“I met someone kind.”

“The secret is out,” Hildy teased.

Flustered, Mary pushed through the screen door. She inhaled. Last night she'd smelled the roses. She wished she could smell each peony, each marigold bordering the Greenwood fences. Birds glided along the horizon. The street was unnaturally quiet, empty. Mary knew women were inside their kitchens, parlors, trying to remain calm. She thought maybe she was foolish, thinking about love.

“I didn't mean to embarrass you,” said Hildy, following her onto the porch.

“You didn't. It just feels funny,” said Mary, squinting in the sunlight.
“Saying I met a kind man. I never said that before in my life. Not meaning it the way I did.”

“I've never met a kind, white man,” said Hildy, staring at the deserted street.

“I've never met a kind, colored man. Except Joe.”

“Negro,” corrected Hildy.

“Negro.” Mary clutched the rail. Tension settled lightly, like Hildy's flour on dough.

Hildy looked at Mary. “How do you know he's kind?”

“He found me, wandering, hurting. He looked out for me, treated me with respect.”

“Respect's important.”

“Pa never learned the trick of it.”

“Neither did my father.”

Mary rested her head on the post.

Hildy sighed. “A woman sometimes makes do. That's been my life's surprise. Making do.” Hildy shrugged.

“Better than not making do,” answered Mary.

Hildy nodded. “See that spire? That's Mt. Zion Church. It'd be a glorious day, if the men weren't at Zion. These streets would be filled with children. Mrs. Jackson be gossiping about who loved whom. Nadine be murmuring about her visions. Eugenia be teasing her. Telling her to play the numbers. Saying eighty-three signified heaven. Sure to win—ten dollars on a quarter bet. You know,” Hildy looked at her curiously. “I'm not supposed to know you.”

“Yes,” said Mary, “I'm not supposed to know you either.”

“But knowing you, and if the men weren't at Zion, I'd fix us a lunch and have us sit on the moss by Lena's River. Relaxing, worrying about nothing. Not a damn thing.” Hildy closed her eyes. “You ever hear how Lena drowned herself?”

“Yes.”

“Over some man?”

“Yes. She wasn't pretty enough.”

“I don't believe it. I believe she was beautiful. Don't believe she killed herself over a man. One day I hope to prove it.” Hildy stretched her arms high behind her head. Red highlights streaked through her hair; her skin was burnished copper. “One day, I'll prove it.

“Don't anybody know anything about Lena 'cept what had to do with some man. But Lena did things—had to have done things. Cooking, cleaning. Maybe she had the best potato pie. Maybe she sang like an angel. Or danced like one. I know she had a last name. But nobody remembers it.

“Don't know if she was Negro or Indian. Don't even know the year she died. But I know she was a woman—somebody's daughter, sister, mother, maybe. Somebody's friend. Someday, I'll find out. That's my dream.”

Sitting on the porch rail, the sun shining behind her, Mary thought Hildy was beautiful. At ease with herself. Mary had a glimmer of how to save herself.

“You got a dream, Mary?”

She swallowed. “I dream about somebody loving me. Arms holding me through the night.”

“Not a bad dream.”

“I'm spoiled now.”

“You believe that?”

“How could Allen ever want me? After Dell?”

“Not too long ago you were smiling. Drinking tea and smiling. Thinking of Allen.”

Mary blushed.

“You got another dream, Mary? Another way to be happy?”

“I could be happy with a small house,” her voice was soft, tentative. “A kitchen facing east. A porch to shell peas. A friend—a woman friend, to keep me company.”

Hildy cocked her head. “You making an offer?”

“I don't know,” Mary replied, blue eyes staring into brown.

“You couldn't do it,” said Hildy. “'Sides Tulsans wouldn't let either of us.”

Mary felt Hildy's withdrawal, how her eyes shuttered, undoing expression.

“If Joe's killed, I'll hate you for the rest of my life.”

“I know.” Foreboding overwhelmed her; grace wasn't going to be enough. Mary felt like she was being schooled again. Hard lessons were coming. Like oil beneath the soil, she understood she wasn't just Pa's daughter, but Tulsa's.

She'd done the same living as Hildy—wiped a sink dry, washed greens, cooked with fatback boiling in the water. She'd dusted, hung out wash, folded linens, and nights, exhausted, she'd stared at the same moon. She'd known Greenwood existed, but it had been nothing to her. Like Joe, the other colored—Negro—men. Now she knew Greenwood was flowers, pastel homes with sweeping porches, and Hildy.

How naive to think she could be Hildy's friend. Tulsa had drawn the line. Crossing it brought hatred and violence. She'd learned that. She'd always be a danger to Hildy. Just like she'd been to Joe.

Tulsa had drawn a line against her too. Different, but carrying its own pain. She hadn't minded quitting school to care for Jody. No crude fed Pa's crop, and she'd sat, friendless, in the back row, transfixed by giggling heads, hair plaited with ribbons, clean collars, and imitation pearl buttons. “No 'count,” girls would snicker, shoving her in the corner, pulling on her gingham dress. “No 'count.” Those girls became prosperous men's wives. Poor girls, like her, worked.

Mary straightened, her gaze caught by a man running down the avenue. She leaned over the rail.

“What is it?” asked Hildy, turning to see what Mary saw. A white man, perspiring heavily, mud on his shoes and coat, was running toward the house. “I'll get help,” Hildy said.

“No. I know who it is.”

“I'm going in the kitchen.” Hildy looked back, her face shadowed by the wire screen. “Tell him it's not safe. Not today. Not for a white man.”

Mary watched Allen, slow, lumbering like a tired soul. His hair streaked with sweat and dirt, his skin almost translucent, he wove a bit on the sidewalk. Stumbled on cracks in the uneven pavement. Her heart raced a little. She knew if Allen had risked coming to Greenwood, he'd done it on her account. To help her. She felt thankful, sweetly cared about.

She stepped off the porch, her arms outstretched, offering comfort.

“Mary, Mary, Mary.” Allen burrowed his face against her neck. “Mary.”

“I'm here,” she whispered as she would've once to Jody.

He trembled. She could smell his fear, a deep, musky sweat pouring from his body. Tightly, she held on to him, feeling his lungs straining
for air. Over his shoulder, she saw the red-stained grass. Across the street, Nadine peeked from behind a curtain.

“It's all right,” murmured Mary, fearing his words, relishing the comfort she knew how to give. She wanted to stop time, delay bad news.

“The roadways are blocked. I had—I had to walk. I thought I wouldn't make it in time. I almost didn't make it.” He shifted uneasily within her embrace.

“Rest, Allen.” She steered him toward the steps.

“I can't. They're everywhere.”

“You can.”

“It's not safe, Mary.”

“Rest.”

“You don't understand.” Frustrated, he hit the rail. “I can't rest. It's not safe. Courthouse Square looks like a massacre. Mary, Mary. Goddamnit, Mary.” He jerked the rail.

She watched him trying to gain control.

He exhaled, tucked in his shirt. He brushed back his sweep of hair. “They busted Joe Samuels out of jail.”

“I know.” Mary kept still, watching Allen pace. His pocket watch glinted. Sweat creased his collar.

“They found Sheriff Clay handcuffed. Locked inside Joe's cell. Deputies accused him of helping Negroes. Clay laughed like a hyena. Said he was overcome by magic. Ambrose is pissed as hell. Lucas and four others, dead. I saw the bodies myself. Not a single Negro found dead. Ambrose says it's suspicious. ‘Nigger mumbo-jumbo. Hoodoo.'”

Mary looked up. Hildy was on the porch.

Allen stopped pacing, his expression bleak. “Ambrose got authorization to call the National Guard.”

Mary couldn't breathe, couldn't look at Hildy.

“Mary.”

She flinched, feeling guilty. She was the cause of this.

Allen's fingers dug into her arms. “I came to get you out. Couldn't get here any faster. I ran. Had to duck and hide. Travel back roads. I'm sorry, Mary. I'm sorry.”

She stroked his brow. “It'll be all right, Allen,” she said, trying to convince him and herself. “It'll be all right. Joe's all right. Greenwood's got men defending it.”

“Won't work.” Allen looked up, but Mary knew he didn't see Hildy. Allen had his own visions. “You should've seen what they did to Reubens. You should've seen.”

“Who's Reubens?” Hildy asked, stepping down.

“Reubens. A poor, sweet kid.” Allen, arms flung wide, slowly spun. “Crucified him like Jesus. I carried him off the cross.”

“What are you talking about, Al?” whispered Mary.

Allen blinked. “
Evil lies close at hand
.”

“Romans 7:21,” murmured Hildy.

“Yes ma'am,” said Allen. “Romans.” He slumped onto the stoop, his spirit drained. “I don't know what they're going to do. But they'll do whatever is necessary. Not just to catch Joe, but to teach Negro people, all of Greenwood, a lesson.”