Magic City (27 page)

W
hen Henry and Gabe left for war, there'd been a cheering crowd at the station, a band playing marches. Perfumed women handed out cake. Children ran shrieking along the platform, waving flags. The station was quiet now, somber. The air was heavy, humid, stinking of fired coal, mechanic's oil. Smoke drifting from Greenwood. But Joe wasn't complaining. He was breathing and Sheriff Clay was getting him out. A few more minutes, the train would be on its way. He'd figure a way to ride it to Frisco. Hide on the roof or in the baggage car, if need be; pretend he was Clay's prisoner all the way to the Pacific. So far, his luck had lasted.

Clay stepped in front of him, slid open the caboose door. “You ought to leave the cuffs on, Joe. In case anyone comes in.”

Joe didn't move. He smelled urine and tobacco juice. The interior was dim, littered with dirty clothes, stale food. There were four unmade bunks. Under the window stood a table full of cards and empty whiskey bottles.

Clay slid a stack of ticket books from a chair. “Sit, Joe.” He tried to turn up the lamp. The small flame wouldn't budge.

“Maybe I can find some more whiskey,” said Clay. “We can have a drink. To success. To glory. How about that?” Clay was triumphant. Joe couldn't shake a sense of failure though, of something he'd missed. He felt cheated: His nightmare had stopped. He was alive. That should be his triumph. There was a low rattle in the engine, a slight give, a tiny momentum in the wheels.

“I found it.” Clay held up a quart of rye. “Railroad crews drink. Riding the rails, going nowhere, back and forth, point to point. Same stations. Almost as bad as being sheriff.” He laughed, pouring Joe a glass.

Hands clasped, Joe swallowed. His throat hurt. He knew he was hungry, but he didn't feel like eating. Maybe if he drank more whiskey, he'd be lulled to sleep. He couldn't imagine there were any more nightmares left to dream. The train lurched.
Joe saw movement in the shadows
.

Clay's whiskey spilled. “Shit.”

Joe couldn't figure where he'd gone wrong. Steam hissed, billowing outside his window. He felt as lost as before.

“Got another story, Joe?”

“Not the kind you mean.” Joe knew stories—Tyler's, Henry's, Gabe's, Father's.
In the shadows, he saw the men's faces, heartbreaking and sorrowful
. The train moved slowly. Clackity-clack. Joe broke into a sweat.

Henry sat on the lower bunk, to the left of Clay
.

“I've been decent to you. Haven't I, Joe?”

Joe was startled by Clay's question. He realized for Clay the struggle was over. His own would be forever postponed. As long as he was colored, he'd be running. The unfairness of it gripped him. He wanted to lash out at Clay, have Clay carry some pain.

Clay stretched out his legs, hands behind his head.

Joe was innocent, but he was the one still chained. No justice. Would it be any better in Frisco?

He was tired of running.

Clay hadn't waited for an answer. Joe wished his answer counted for something.

“You count for something, Joe.”

Ignoring Henry, Joe took another drink and stared out the window. The station had disappeared, he could see the outskirts of the city passing. The rhythm was steady, the slap-slap of wheels upon the rails. Loneliness haunted him again. Henry was wrong, he counted for nothing. He was no one. Clackity-clack.

Henry was singing, “This train's bound for glory, bound for glory.”

“Shut up, Henry, just shut up.”

“Are you all right, Joe?”

Joe said nothing. He swayed with the train, vibrations rattling him, making him feel out of kilter. He should be happy, he kept repeating to himself—happy.

“It's harder for you than me,” said Clay. “I know that.”

“Let it go, sheriff.”

“Greenwood destroyed.”

“Greenwood ain't dead.” As soon as Joe said it, he knew it was true. “
It's never been more alive,” said Henry
.

Joe felt himself back in the river—lying in muck, barely breathing, feeling life inside the earth and water
.

Folks told about Lena's dying, but, Joe'd discovered, from inside the river, the story was also about living. Searching for Lena's bones was about being, feeling, memory. Just like Greenwood. Just like his memories of Henry. But with Henry, he'd felt only loss and forgotten pleasure. He'd forgotten he'd a choice to grieve and go on. Not run from, but run—arms wide—toward life. Just like he had a choice now. Just like Lena, when she let herself drown, had a choice to get up.

Henry. Tyler. Father. Gabe. They all had choices. Choosing was hard. He understood that. A matter of will. Inhale, exhale. Surviving. Living.

He'd survived and Joe couldn't help feeling a stirring of pride.

“Magic is in the hands, in the head and heart. Wanting to live. Believing in yourself.”

Joe stared at his hands, working at the cuffs. He could see bones and veins. His cuffs dropped to the wood floor.

“I don't think that's wise,” said Clay.

“I do,” said Joe. How could he explain he didn't want to be bound? Not for pretend, not as a magic trick, not ever again.

Clay shrugged. “You ever see Houdini? I did.”

Joe saw Houdini now. Sitting in Henry's space. Houdini in button-top boots, black vest, and jacket
.

“Houdini leapt into the Hudson. Straitjacket, handcuffs, chains, the works.” Clay poured another drink. “It made me feel mortal. He was a fool to take such chances. Like I was a fool for going to war.”

Clay cradled his glass against his stomach. Joe could tell Clay was a sad drunk. He felt sorry for him. “Got any friends, family?”

Clay shook his head. “None that care to remember me.”

Joe cleared his throat. “I've only read about Houdini in magazines.”

“That's not quite right, is it, Joe?”

“Ain't that something,” said Clay, starting to slur words.

The train rumbled steadily.

“You'll have to tell me how you did those tricks. Amazing.” Head bobbing, Clay stared at his glass like it held precious gold.

The ghost changed form—sometimes Henry, sometimes Houdini. Sometimes Nate, Sandy, or Chalmers
. In the rattling darkness, nothing was certain.
Gazing at the bunk, Joe saw Henry smile, heard him sigh, “Little brother.”
The train curved, heading further from Tulsa.
Houdini stared back at him, eyes focused, challenging
. There was some trick here, some artistry, he'd missed. “
Dream what you need
.” Maybe they weren't ghosts at all—just a dream to counter his nightmare.

“I need another drink,” said Clay, reaching for the bottle.

What did he need? Him, Joe Samuels. He needed magic. The impossible, extraordinary. He needed to prove Greenwood wasn't dead.

Deep Greenwood—deep in strife and triumph, deep in suffering and redemption. Greenwood couldn't be dead, not unless every Negro was dead. He remembered his crow's-eye view of the town; how, as a boy, it'd been his glorious kingdom. Pennies from Mr. Jackson. Schooling from Miss Wright. Peach pies from Miss Lu. Lying Man spinning him in the barber's chair. The town gave him love, even, Joe realized, respect.

Joe smiled, feeling his spirit rising. He needed to help Greenwood—and himself—rise from smoke and ash. He understood will and magic.

Deep Greenwood had been created from Negroes' lives. Fine, black magic woven for generations, long before he'd ever read about Houdini.

Tyler had run for the land; his father had built his bank. But they hadn't realized Greenwood was more. It wasn't land or Samuels & Son. Greenwood was the men in the church standing strong. Greenwood was the women singing glory. And Greenwood was still standing.

Joe stood, his legs steady on the swaying floor. “I'm going back.”

“Are you crazy? You'll be lynched.”

“A Negro can be lynched anywhere. Isn't that what this is about, sheriff? Isn't that why they burned Greenwood?”

“I won't let you go,” said Clay, rising.

“You're not the sheriff anymore. You're not even my friend.”

“I've been a friend to you Joe,” he said, indignant.

“My real friends are back in Greenwood.”

Clay blocked him. “I thought you wanted a chance to see Frisco, the ocean.”

“I do.”

Clay looked pained. “I don't understand.”

“Surviving Tulsa is a harder trick than escaping Murderer's Row.”

Clay slapped Joe on the back. “Have a last drink.”

“I don't need it.”

“You're walking into the fire. I don't expect you'll live 'til tomorrow.”

“I'll live. I have the will for it.”

Clay shook his head. “How come I feel I'm wrong getting the hell out, and you're right? Hunh, Joe?”

“I'm not going back because it's right. It's because of who I want to be. Joseph David Samuels.”

“You'd give up San Francisco for Tulsa?”

“No, for Greenwood.” Joe slung Gabe's duffel over his shoulder. “Bye, sheriff.”

He slid the door open, braced his legs. The train was moving at a good speed. He could see dirt, scrub brush, a velvety darkness. The moon shone on the rails, a silver path back toward home.

“Are you going to be Moses?” asked Houdini
.

“No, just Joe Samuels,” Joe laughed. The rushing wind snatched his words.

“It's too dangerous,” yelled Clay. “Stay, Joe.”

“That's right, stay,” said Henry. “Stay in Greenwood.”

Joe gripped the door frame. He'd use his father's money for wood, nails, and glass. He'd organize the men. Starting with the church—they'd work side by side hammering, sawing, building. One by one, they'd raise the school, homes, businesses.

Greenwood rose before him, shimmering right there on the rails. Lying Man, in front of his bay window, blew his harmonica
. Joe smiled, knowing, with certainty, Lying Man wasn't dead.
Spiraling beyond him were dozens of new houses, gardens, shops. Street lamps and porch lights sparkled like gems. Hildy waved from her kitchen. He heard voices calling, “Evening Joe. Fine evening, isn't it?”

He knew who he was—a Greenwood man.

“Blood brothers, always,” said Joe, leaping from the train, soaring, hearing in the thundering wheels, Henry's answer.

“Always.”

In a 1983
Parade Magazine
, I read the headline: “The Only U.S. City Bombed from the Air.”

A black-and-white photo, taken in 1921, showed a community burned to ash. The story, no more than a few paragraphs, cited these basic “facts”: Dick Rowland, a shoeshine, was accused of assaulting a white female elevator operator. A riot ensued and the National Guard bombed Deep Greenwood, a thriving black community known as the Negro Wall Street. More than 4,000 blacks were interned in tents for nearly a year and given green cards.

The subject haunted me emotionally and intellectually. How and why did blacks migrate to Oklahoma? Why did whites have enough tolerance to allow the black community to establish itself, but not enough tolerance to allow its success? How was it that I'd never heard of the Tulsa Riot? Why was this history suppressed? During my research, I found that both Rowland and Sarah Page, the white woman, were victimized by yellow journalism that inflamed racial tensions. Ultimately, charges against Dick Rowland were dropped—Sarah Page refused to testify.

My novel is an imaginative rendering of the Tulsa Riot. Dick Rowland bears no relation to my character, Joe, just as Sarah Page bears no resemblance to my Mary. As a novelist, I invented characters struggling to define themselves and their responsibilities to their communities. I envisioned a spiritual awakening that sustained the human spirit in a time of crisis. Mary and Joe's humanity is as important in my novel as Tulsa's riot.

When I discovered Tulsa was called the “magic city” during the 1920s, I thought of America's spiritualism movement, Houdini, and the linking of African-American and Jewish traditions in the spiritual “Go Down, Moses.” Tulsa, during the '20s, was a stronghold of KKK activism, which included the persecution and lynching of Jews, suspected communists, and pro-labor leaders. The character David Reubens was created as another bridge between Jewish and African-American struggles to escape bondage, and as an illustration that prejudice blunts growth, literally and spiritually.

I hope my novel inspires people to reaffirm that hatred for any reason—race, religion, gender, class—diminishes us all.

For those interested in reading a nonfiction accounting of the Tulsa Race Riot, I highly recommend Scott Ellsworth's
Death in a Promised Land
. In addition, the PBS video “Going Back to T-Town” vividly documents how Deep Greenwood rebuilt itself after the riot.

With profound gratitude to Jane Dystel and Miriam Goderich of the Jane Dystel Literary Agency. Thank you for believing. Heartfelt thanks to Peternelle van Arsdale, my brilliant editor.

Thanks also to Claudia Nogueira and Elizabeth McNeil for their research assistance, and to Bert Bender and Judith Darknall for their gracious support.

Love to Jan Cohn for her continuing guidance and wisdom.

Extra special love to Brad, my husband and first reader
—vous et nul autre
.