Magic City

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  “He only has one, Joe. One son.”

  “You mean now, don’t you, Hildy? He only has one son now.”

  Hildy frowned. “That’s right, Joe. One son.”

  “One alive, one dead.”

  “Yes,” she said, stepping into the alcove, her hands outstretched.

  After Henry was buried, Father had forbidden the family to speak of him.

  “Fathers always have dreams for their sons,” said Hildy, carefully. “Dreaming they’ll…you’ll be like him. Want to be like him. Follow in his footsteps. Is Father’s dream so terrible?”

  “I don’t see him having no dreams for you.”

  Hildy sighed. “It’s not the same, little brother.”

  “Because you’re a woman?”

  “It doesn’t matter about me, Joe. I’ve made my choices. I’m talking about you.”

  “You are a woman, you know.”

  Caught in the attic dormer, his back bent against the angled ceiling, Joe could smell gardenias wafting from Hildy’s throat. He was surprised she wore perfume, surprised she was really quite pretty. Corkscrew strands lingered on her temple and throat. Though she tried to hide it, Hildy had a good figure. Full breasts. Strong legs.

  Lack of air, the tight space was making Joe lightheaded. If he gripped his sister’s waist, his fingers would touch.

  “Hildy,” he whispered. “Hildy.” He wanted to see the real Hildy, to see in the flesh the girl who had placed gardenia water along a vein in her throat. She was only thirty-four.

  “Damn it, Hildy.” He slammed his fist into the sloped ceiling. “Dressing like an old woman. How’d you ever expect a man to want you?” Then, he moaned, “Jesus, I’m sorry, Hildy. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Joe, what’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  He swallowed, wincing against the sunlight.

  “You’re going on eighteen,” murmured Hildy. “Two days time, the world will recognize you as a man.”

  Will Father? Joe thought.

  “But it’s lonely, isn’t it? Do you have someone, Joe?”

  There was Myra, a “Choctaw special,” brown to his black, who he paid two dollars each week. But he didn’t love her. Not like Hildy meant.

  “I know, little brother. Believe me, I do. Loneliness can almost kill you.”

  Hildy touched his arm. Joe flinched. She stepped closer. “Sssh. I’m here.” Her arms slipped round his waist and Hildy molded herself against his chest, pressing his back into the beams.

  Joe wanted to cry. “We all need comfort,” Hildy crooned.

  Joe held tight, curved about his sister’s slim form, smelling sweet gardenias. “I have such dreams, Hildy. Terrible dreams.”

  She tried to rock him. In the glass reflection, the two of them looked mournful, cramped together in a jutting alcove with a view of rooftops. Joe trembled, hearing Hildy’s coo of “little brother, little brother.”

  “Hil-dy! Hil-dy!” Father was hollering from below stairs. “Folks down here want to eat.”

  “I’m coming,” she shouted without shifting her gaze from Joe. “You’ll be all right?”

  “Sure,” he said, the word choking deep, so only the vowel rose.

  “Let’s talk tonight. Do you hear me, Joe?” She stroked his hair. “You’re feeling your way toward manhood. It’s a hard thing. Living’s a hard thing. Listen to your dreams, Joe.”

  “Hildy—” He couldn’t say more. His dream was rising vividly and he was scared. He was awake—he knew he was awake, but he could smell gasoline, see the white-gowned figures stalking him, hear the taunting refrain: “Who do you think you are?”

  “I’m nobody.”

  “Don’t you ever say that,” Hildy insisted. “Don’t ever say that.”

  Joe buried his hands in his armpits, afraid they were swelling. He didn’t want his sister to see his monstrous hands. He closed his eyes.

  Hildy cupped his face and gently kissed him. “Come on down, you’ll be late for breakfast.”

  He didn’t move.

  “You coming down?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  Hildy tucked a strand of hair into her cap, smoothed her dress, and with a flick of her wrist untied and retied her apron. She was at the top of the stairs, her foot poised to step, when she said flatly, “Watch out for Father.”

  “I will.” He listened to the staccato of her feet, descending.

  Joe stared at his hands. They were normal size. He began moving his fingers as though he were ten and still playing scales. Some of his tension left him. He opened the trunk at the edge of his bed. Handcuffs, coils of rope, padlocks, and decks of cards layered atop each other.

  Buried beneath twine and metal were a dozen pictures of Houdini carefully cut from magazines. Joe reverently stared at his photographs: Houdini at rest, Houdini handcuffed, Houdini chained upside down. Houdini’s intense, gray eyes were always prominent. Eyes which seemed to dare anyone to be as competent, as brave and as willful as he was.

  Joe turned toward the mirror, his eyes were rimmed red, his skin ashen. He inhaled and, for a moment, felt strong, invincible inside his body. I can escape anything.

  He blinked, something flashed in the mirror. He spun around but the room was empty.

  He turned back to the mirror.

  In his reflection, his eyes were receding into his skull. Charred flesh peeled from his fingertips. Joe closed his eyes. How could he escape a dream?

  2

  Monday, May 30, 1921

  Mary Keane had spent nearly an hour at the kitchen window, watching, waiting for Dell to be gone. Now she moved hurriedly, knowing the jersey would curse her, if she could. The sun was creeping out of the ground, but she was just now milking because Dell had been slow to rise from his pallet in the barn, dress, and begin his chores. He’d been slow to step into the starlit yard, surveying the land like he owned it, stretching his back like some red-tailed fox as if he knew she was at the window, her head tucked behind blue curtains.

  “Damn.” What good was a hired hand if he slept late? Pa might as well have hired a colored.

  Mary pushed against the barn door, scurrying forward to light a lamp. The barn was already hot, humid from the musk of animals and urine-soaked straw. Sadie whinnied, eager to escape and run riot in the back field. “Hush.” Mary pulled a pockmarked apple from her pocket, fed it to the mare, then settled a pail beneath the restless, sad-eyed cow.

  Sweat itched her skin. Mary forced herself not to turn and stare at the northeast corner, the farthest stall, where Dell slept. Last month she’d stumbled into the barn too early. In the darkness, his flickering lamp had beckoned. She’d seen Dell bare chested, flat on his back, staring at the rafters. Inching forward, she’d held her breath. Dell’s body overwhelmed the makeshift bedroom: his arms, tucked high beneath his head; his chest, arched and smooth. She’d always admired Dell moving, lifting, hauling. But utterly still, he was beautiful, powerful, bathed in lamplight and shadows. His head had slowly turned and Mary glimpsed something she’d never seen in any man’s eyes—desire for her. Silent, she’d turned and walked out of the barn. She’d been careful to avoid him ever since.

  Mary bit the inside of her lip. “Fool,” she muttered, squatting on the stool, her brow pressed against the cow’s brown side. A shuddering low escaped the animal as Mary’s hands tugged the loose teats and milk flowed, steaming, into the pail.

  It didn’t make sense for Dell to desire her. A too big, too bony girl. Not a damn delicate thing about her. Thick, brown hair. Eyes wide apart; lips too thin. Her prime, if she’d ever had one, was gone.

  Last harvest, out of nowhere, Dell had walked onto Pa’s farm, knocking at the kitchen door, asking for work in exchange for food and a bed in the barn. She’d somehow known not to trust a man who’d stepped out of the horizon like God had just thrown him down, blown life into dust, answering Pa’s prayer.

  She must’ve imagined Dell’s desire. No call for a man like him to want her.
Big, handsome men wanted small, pretty girls. But she couldn’t help having dreams.

  She knew an ugly man would marry a plain girl if she doted upon him enough. Mary refused to dote on anybody. Yet, since Dell had arrived, loneliness haunted her even more. Worse than missing her brother Jody during the war, this new loneliness was insistent like a fever, causing her breasts to ache, her womb to feel sore—reminding her she’d never been kissed, never been held, never been told she was desirable. Let alone loved.

  Mary stared at her hands: nails clipped, rough, capable. She was proud of her hands. Sweaty, reddened from milking. Her hands did things, made things. They could cut cloth, snap a chicken’s neck, operate an elevator, but they couldn’t make a man love her. They couldn’t ease desire in the dark. She shivered, wiping her sweaty palms on her lap. She stroked the cow’s spine, cooing as the dumb animal flattened its twisted ears. She was shamed by her own touching, her need to touch. Shamed because all her life she’d counted only on herself. Now all she could think of was babies and a man caressing her.

  “Mary.”

  Startled, she turned, nearly upsetting the pail. The jersey skittered, side-stepping, pressing her against the wall. She slapped its flank.

  “Damnit, Dell, you scared me.”

  Dell leaned against the door, his arms dangling, head cocked. Sunlight and dust glimmered behind him. Mary felt she’d conjured him up, gone truly crazy—wished for him, and, magically, he’d appeared. He was dressed carelessly, his shirt half-buttoned, his pants, beltless, streaked with dried mud. His eyes were blue like robins’ eggs, blue like a cloudless sky. Blue enough to see right through her.

  “What do you want?” She dried her hands, keeping her eyes focused on the ground, the cow. On anything except Dell.

  Dell drew the latch closed and smiled. “I came to keep you company, Mary.”

  “I’m done milking,” she said curtly, lifting the pail. “Breakfast be ready in an hour.” She skirted past him, her knee hitting the bucket, splattering milk.

  “Sit with me. Talk.” Dell caressed her back as she passed.

  “Don’t touch me.” Mary turned, furious at herself for trembling. “You’re supposed to be working. Plowing. Laying down the new crop. You’re paid for it.”

  “Sure,” Dell shrugged. “Meals.” His head tilted. “A soft bed.”

  Flushed, Mary looked toward his pallet—straw banked beneath gray flannel. “Pa never claimed to be rich. We pay what we can.”

  “I’m not complaining, Mary.” Dell stepped toward her. “Are you complaining?”

  Mary meant to march straight to the house, but Dell’s gaze held her. He lightly cupped her face. “I’ve been thinking of you, Mary,” Dell whispered. “Thinking how we’d be a good pair.”

  Mary felt lightheaded. She’d never been this close to a man. She could feel Dell’s breath on her face, smell soap on his skin. She swore she could hear his heartbeat, see the pulse, the rush of blood beneath his temples. Her fingers traced his cheek, the curve of his chin. She closed her eyes against his desire. Dell couldn’t want her. Nobody had ever wanted her.

  “Damn you,” she said fiercely, turning, stumbling over the pail. Dell caught her from behind, his arms crossed beneath her breasts, his torso pressed into her back. Warm milk soaked the straw.

  “You like me some.” His lips caressed her neck. “I know you like me some.” Mary moaned and, for a minute, she stopped struggling, letting herself feel his hands roaming over her breasts, her belly, through her hair. Dell had fine hands: scarred, callused palms and fingertips.

  How many times had she dreamed this? Dreamed of his hands stroking her? Dreamed of herself pressed against his chest?

  “Mary.”

  She felt his heat, his body hard against hers. Pa had told her to keep her legs shut. But he never explained what to do with the ache of wanting somebody to want you. Her mother, who might’ve explained, had died birthing Jody.

  “Ma—ry. Ma—ry,” the sound swelled, filling the cavernous barn. She was on a precipice, lost at the edge before dreaming.

  She faced Dell. “If you don’t mean this, leave me alone.”

  “I mean it.”

  Mary shuddered.

  “Lay with me, Mary.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Then let me hold you. Just hold you.” His voice was plaintive, pleading. Gripping her shoulders, Dell held her slightly apart, “Come. Feel how soft a hired hand’s bed is.”

  The packed earth floor shifted beneath her feet. Mary fought an urge to run.

  “You believe in dreams, don’t you, Mary?”

  The cow was lowing again. Sadie whinnied, kicked her stall.

  “I’ve been dreaming of you,” said Dell.

  A slight breeze blew through the planks. The lamp dimmed. Dell’s hands spanned her waist, making her feel small, delicate. She shivered as he lowered his head, kissing where her breasts swelled above her bodice.

  “Mary.” His hands clasped hers. “Mary.” She hadn’t known her name could sound so lovely. Walking backward, whispering, “Mary, Mary, Mary,” Dell tugged her toward his bedding, to the L-shaped corner where he lived. His spare shirts and pants, his silver-buckled belt hung neatly on a row of nails. “Mary.”

  He pulled her to her knees, feathering her face with kisses.

  Emotions rocked her. She’d slipped inside her dreams and felt shielded from loneliness, soothed from the ache of being unloved.

  Dell began unbuttoning the front of her dress.

  “Don’t.”

  His fingers undid another button.

  “Don’t, Dell.” What a fearful, old hen she was—scared of Dell’s desire, scared of getting pregnant, scared of her own passion. If she gave herself to a man, she’d be giving him everything. She wanted Dell more than anything. But he hadn’t said he loved her. He couldn’t really love her.

  “I can’t.”

  Dell’s fingers kept moving, releasing the last button. His hand slipped inside her slip, stroking her breast. She shoved him. “Stop it, Dell. I can’t.”

  Dell sprawled on his back, his face streaked by light poking through rotting wood. He tucked his hands beneath his head, studying her.

  Fingers trembling, Mary buttoned her dress. But, then, she couldn’t move. Folding her legs beneath her, her thigh brushed his hip. The contact burned. She felt foolish saying no to the only man who’d ever wanted her. Despite Pa’s warnings, no boy had ever tried to lift her dress. With each passing year, she’d grown more invisible to men.

  Mary clasped her hands. Her dress stuck to her skin. Dell’s space was like a burrow, hidden from the barn’s door, angled diagonally across from the animals’ stalls.

  “I’ll be late for work,” she said, staring at her hands, telling herself she had to get up, get out.

  “What do you work for?” Dell’s fingers stroked her knee.

  “Money. Same as you.” She exhaled. “Started during the war. Didn’t stop when Jody came back.”

  “Crippled Jody.”

  “Don’t,” she said angrily. “Don’t ever say that.”

  Dell laid his head in her lap. He brushed her hair forward, gently stroking the strands over the rise of her breasts.

  Mary blushed guiltily, thinking how strange that if Jody hadn’t lost a leg, Pa wouldn’t have hired Dell, and she wouldn’t be here dreaming of being loved. Oil men said Tulsa was a “magic city.” A boom town. But her family had always been poor. All the wells Pa had dug came up dry. The only magic she’d ever known was here, right now—a handsome man seeming to want her.

  She felt overwhelmed by the heat and weight of Dell’s head pressed against her legs, by his mouth turned inward, lightly pressuring her belly.

  She touched his hair, marveling at the blond silk.

  Dell pulled her head down toward his; her back curved like a bow. “Kiss me, Mary.”

  His eyes were darker now, midnight blue. She was scared again. She plucked threads in her hem.

/>   “I have to go to work.” Still she didn’t move. Didn’t leave. A man had never treated her as if she were pretty. She jabbered, “Last week a man gave me two dollars. Can you believe it? I closed the elevator cage. Shifted the levers. Took him to the fourth floor. And he gave me two beautiful, green dollars.”

  Dell sat up. “He must have wanted something else,” he said flatly.

  Mary blushed again. “Naw. Just had money to burn. Oil rich.”

  “You shouldn’t have taken it.”

  “I’m gonna buy me a scarf. Silk. Twist it around my neck. My waist, maybe. Like in the magazines. It’ll be pretty. Soft. Might even make me beautiful.”

  “You’re pretty enough for me,” Dell said fiercely, clasping her neck.

  She gripped his hand. “Really?”

  “You’re beautiful.” He pressed her backward, onto the blanket.

  “It’s all right if I keep two dollars, isn’t it?” she said breathless. “Pa needn’t know. It’s all right to keep a little bit back. Isn’t it?”

  Dell straddled her, his knees locked against her thighs. “Yes.” He kissed her deeply.

  Mary clung, returning his kiss with all the passion nobody had ever claimed. Dell’s touch felt like sweet grace. A young man who lost his leg in the war got plenty of sympathy. An old maid got none. She hadn’t planned on not marrying, on not loving and being loved.

  Dell was murmuring into her hair. Mary didn’t care what he was saying. Whatever it was, the answer was yes. Yes, because Dell’s touch was filling her with wonder.

  “The two of us could make something of this farm, Mary.” His breath tickled her ear. “If we cleared those back acres, we could double the crop. Maybe get a tractor. Build onto the house.”

  “Not mine,” she murmured, feeling desire overwhelm her.

  “We could work the land together. Imagine it.” He kneaded her thighs, nibbled at her breasts through cotton. “Make a good future. Feet up on the porch in the evenings. Maybe have kids.”

  “The farm’s Jody’s when Pa dies.”