Magic City

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  “Come along, son.”

  He heard his brother, “Run, Joe!”

  There was nowhere to go. Sheriff Clay fell upon him. He slammed Joe’s face into the floor, jerked his arms back, and locked handcuffs, good and tight, about his wrists. The canteen skittered under his bed.

  Joe heard Hildy weeping. He heard his mother shouting below stairs; he heard a keening which he thought was Tyler. He heard a sigh as soft as rain. Sheriff Clay dragged him to his feet. Through the window, Joe saw Henry escaping, leaping, roof to roof, across Deep Greenwood.

  “Let’s go.” Sheriff Clay pulled him upright. Ashamed, Joe stared inside his trunk. Atop his magic props, photos of a grim faced Houdini, fluttered, shifting in the breeze.

  12

  Gabe made himself walk. White folks already had one nigger running. If he ran, he’d be a dead man. War was like hunting squirrels. It was more fun to shoot the ones running.

  Tulsa, like France, had plenty of white men wanting to shoot him. He’d played possum in the Ambrose and except for a trampling, a few kicks to his ribs and groin, he’d escaped. Now he needed to get to Greenwood fast. He made for Courthouse Square, then cut diagonally across the well-tended park. He was behind enemy lines. If he stayed visible, he’d be less suspicious.

  Gabe shook his head. Beneath twin oaks, a platform was being built for tomorrow’s speeches. Greenwood men—Sam, Coolie, Wydell—were doing the hammering and sawing, setting up hundreds of wood chairs. He recognized toothless Gus planting rows of red and white carnations. A young woman with ribbons in her blonde hair was sticking tiny American flags into the bluegrass. Every few inches of flags, she’d stand up, hands shading her eyes, and shout orders at the men. “Sam, those chairs aren’t straight. A little to the left, please. Gus, the pattern is red then white…red then white. Coolie, please, will you hurry up. I cannot do everything myself.”

  “Control, Private. If you want to survive, exercise control. Focus under fire, that’s the thing.”

  Gabe had punched his smirking, pasty-faced lieutenant in the mouth. Man didn’t think Negroes knew anything. Negroes were born behind enemy lines. A segregated unit with an inexperienced, white officer had only proved it. Anyone dumb enough to lecture while his men dug trenches, deserved to be hit. Gabe had spent a week in the brig.

  He spat on the sidewalk. The sun was heavy, streaking the trees orange-red. Mosquitoes were hustling blood. Gabe sensed the strain in the Square. Palpable like the humidity. Joe must’ve passed through the park. Folks, sitting on benches, watched him warily. Brown girls hustled white babies home. When he passed, Coolie’s saw lost its rhythm, Sam’s hammer fell silent. White men were gathering in front of the city jail. By nightfall, all the Greenwood workers would be home, doors locked, having heard about Joe and a white woman.

  Lumbering, his trench coat flapping, Gabe hoped he looked too crazy for anyone to bother him. But if some fool wanted to call his bluff, he’d pull his service revolver and it would be all over. For him and the fool.

  “Control, Private. Yes, sir.” He knew the routine. Eyes on the ground. Jaw loose, act stupid. Sometimes black skin worked like a charm. Germans seeing their first Negro would hesitate for a second, stupefied. A second was enough time to pierce a heart, rip intestines, or slice through an eye. He’d even got a citation for saving his lieutenant’s skin.

  Decoration Day. Shit, he hadn’t even been invited. But that was all right. He hadn’t fought for Tulsa. America. World peace. Not even Deep Greenwood. Henry hadn’t wanted to go alone; so, Gabe had enlisted too.

  He should’ve stayed in Greenwood. Married Emmaline. Fathered fat babies. Then, he never would have met Francine. Now each day he didn’t blow his brains out surprised him. Henry’s baby brother was giving him another chance. Payback. One brother’s life for another.

  Gabe quickened his pace as he turned onto Elgin. At least Joe had sense enough to run. Poof! Disappear.

  He’d seen plenty of soldiers who’d quit, laid down and moaned about Jesus. But Gabe knew as long as your legs would carry you—run. He’d seen a man, his hand shot off, running like a streak of fire. It wasn’t about cowardice, it was about cutting your losses and surviving.

  Keep running, Joe. Make yourself invisible. But given time, Gabe believed, every man was found.

  Gabe crossed into Greenwood, up the hill, past the tall spires of Mt. Zion into a colored world. Young boys pitched coins against the curb, a matron carried a squawking chicken to the butcher’s. In front of the hardware shop, Step, the numbers runner, took penny bets. No white Tulsans here, no enemies. But it wasn’t home anymore. The war had made him realize Deep Greenwood was simply where Tulsans had fenced coloreds in.

  America’s boys hadn’t wanted to fight with coloreds. French troops had been glad of their Negro friends—“Compères.” Glad to eat, sleep, and fight with Negro men. When French women called, “Bonjour, homme brave,” they weren’t seeing monkeys, coons, niggers—just men. The French reminded him every day, there was nothing wrong with loving his black skin.

  March on 369th, heads high.

  He would’ve stayed in France if it hadn’t been for Henry’s haunting.

  He’d lied to Joe. Dead did come back. Henry’s ghost had followed him home, peering inside his parents’ windows. So Gabe built his shack by the riverbed with thick pine and boarded windows. He pretended he’d dreamed Henry’s face, just like late at night, sucking whiskey out of a bottle, he pretended it was only the wind, howling, kicking up dust, tossing branches at his door. Shit.

  Gabe saw black script written on a gold background: Samuels & Son. Striding purposefully, he entered the bank. It was one place Gabe figured he wouldn’t find Henry’s ghost.

  The glassy-eyed clerk rose quickly as Gabe walked past his desk. “Sir, can I help you? Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m going to see Samuels.”

  “I’ll see if he’s free.”

  “Get out of my way.” Without knocking, Gabe opened the door.

  Samuels looked up from his desk, “Gabe?”

  “Should I call the sheriff?” the clerk asked.

  “Should he, Gabe?”

  Gabe hated Samuels’ arrogant smirk. He’d always been too dark, too poor for the Samuels’ family. Too illiterate. Emmaline, as much as she tried, could never make her father believe otherwise.

  “Sheriff’s already busy chasing your son.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  Gabe smiled, pleased he’d unsettled Samuels. With a curt nod, Samuels dismissed his clerk.

  Gabe slumped into a leather chair, rested his feet atop the mahogany desk. “Henry used to tell me about your office. Said the bank wasn’t much to look at but your private office was as luxurious as any oil man’s. I’d agree. Maybe too fine to let your nickel and dime customers see. Hunh, Mister Samuels?”

  “What about my son?”

  “The one dead? Or the one alive?”

  “Nigger, if you’ve got something to say, say it.” He pushed Gabe’s boots off the desk.

  “Henry always said you were a tough bird. Said you were the meanest man alive. I guess I came to find out if it’s so.”

  “What’s this got to do with Joe?”

  Gabe shrugged. “I wasn’t sure you’d care. Joe’s in trouble. I need cash. At least five hundred. Else Joe’ll be coming home in a pine box.”

  “I’ll not pay ransom.” Samuels lifted an ivory-handled pistol from his drawer. “I’ll not be held up in my own bank. You’ve got one second to tell me about Joe.” He aimed. “One.”

  Gabe relaxed into the chair. Samuels cocked the gun.

  Gabe laughed. “You do not play.”

  “No. I do not play.”

  “Henry was right, you’re one tough bird.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re going to need to be,” he said, serious. “The sheriff’s chasing Joe ’cause he was alone with a woman. The woman screamed. The white woman screamed.”

  Samuels shut his eyes.
>
  “It was in the Ambrose. The lobby was filled with white men who heard their flower scream. When the doors opened, the woman was on the floor and Joe was off running.

  “If Joe’s going to escape Tulsa, he’s going to need cash. You’re his father and the man with the money. I’ll see that he gets it. I think I know where he’ll head. But we’ve got to be quick.”

  Samuels studied him then leaned back in his chair, the gun resting on his lap. “I don’t need your help. Joe’ll be fine. I’ll have a word with Ambrose. He’ll settle this, I’m sure. Joe needs to turn himself in.”

  “Are you a damn fool?”

  Emmaline burst in the room. “Father! Father, Joe—”

  “He knows already,” Gabe said.

  Breathless, shoulders heaving, Emmaline looked at Gabe, then her father. “Sheriff’s hauled Joe to jail.”

  Gabe’s spirits sank. “Then we’re too late to save him.”

  “You did this, Gabe. I know it,” Samuels said bitterly. “The war didn’t change you. You destroyed one son with your niggerish behavior. Drunkenness. Gambling.” He pointed the pistol at Gabe’s heart. “I should shoot you like a dog.”

  “Pull the trigger. Go on and pull it.” Gabe faced him across the desk.

  “Father, don’t,” Emmaline pleaded.

  “Do it, man. Come on and shoot me.”

  Samuels slowly lowered his gun.

  “Not so easy, is it?” taunted Gabe. “Especially when you and I both know you’re telling lies. You destroyed Henry before he went to France. Something you said or did—I don’t know what.”

  “You should’ve come home dead. Not my son.”

  “You think that’s right, Emmaline?” Gabe asked, searching her face. He found himself wishing he could turn back time, love her better. At Henry’s funeral, Emmaline had stared, her eyes never leaving him, making him feel guilty and lost.

  “I just wish the Gabe I knew came back.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “You never gave me a chance,” she said.

  “That’s enough Emmaline,” Samuels interrupted. “Clear out, Gabe. This is a family matter. Family business.”

  “Even a man with your wealth can’t change things now. Once a white woman screams and a Negro gets caught, they’ll hang him. No way around it.”

  “No,” Samuels rasped. “I’ll speak to Ambrose.”

  “It’s too late for words. It’s time for doing. I’m going to bust Joe out of jail”

  “Ambrose and I will settle this,” Samuels shouted, his fist pounding the desk. “An agreement will be reached.”

  “An agreement?” snarled Gabe. “This isn’t a business deal. We’re talking about your son, not a piece of land.”

  “You’re just an ignorant nigger. Ambrose owes me. He owes me I tell you.” He looked at Gabe and his daughter. “He’ll see that Joe’s safe.”

  “You just can’t stand that you need my help, can you?”

  “What I need is for you to stay away from my family. Stay away from Emmaline, stay away from Joe.”

  “Father, maybe Gabe can help.”

  “Emmaline,” Samuels barked. “Gabe will get Joe killed. Another son murdered while he stands by.”

  Gabe rocked back on his heels. “You fight dirty, Samuels. Henry always said you did. But I’ll save Joe anyway. At least one of us is man enough to fight for him.”

  “An ignorant nigger, like I said.”

  Gabe turned. Emmaline grabbed his arm. “Can I help, Gabe? Maybe I could distract—”

  “Not another word, Emmaline. Not another word,” Samuels bellowed. “We’re going home now.”

  “Please Gabe, let me help.”

  Pulling free of her grasp, Gabe stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You’re lovely, Emmaline,” he said softly. “Always was, always will be. You can’t come. I won’t get you killed trying to save Joe.”

  She looked desolate.

  Unable to help himself, Gabe’s fingers touched her lips. “Fill a pack with food. Leave it at my shack.”

  “I’ll not allow it,” Samuels said.

  Emmaline smiled and the sight gave Gabe strength. He’d need it. Breaking Joe out of jail had to be the stupidest thing he’d ever done.

  Gabe turned to Samuels. “You’re a fool and a coward, Samuels. Next time you wave a gun at me, I’ll kill you.” Without a backward glance, he marched out.

  13

  Mary awoke, feeling safe and warm, lying on a cot in Allen Thornton’s back room. A thin blanket had been draped over her. Light seeped through curtains, which served as a doorway to the shop. Discarded clocks—all dusty, some broken, some upright, some lying on their sides—crowded the shelves. Most of the faces read 8:30. A cuckoo door opened: a birdless wire jutted out. Another clock chimed softly.

  “Mary.” She tasted her name. “Mary, Mary, Mary.” As her voice grew louder, rising above the ticking clocks, her fear and pain dissolved. It was as if Dell had never touched her. Pa had never cast her out. Mary—her name was her charm.

  She curled on her side, legs tucked, her head cradled by her arms. All those years she’d swallowed her feelings. She’d been a “good girl.” She’d been “hush.”

  She could still hear her own screams—good, long howls, spiraling in the elevator. She was probably fired, but it didn’t matter. She’d scared Bates, the old, fat-bellied idiot, always yelling at her and Louise. Trying to rub against them whenever he had the chance.

  “Ma,” she murmured, “you were wrong. There’s no sense in being quiet.” No sense at all. She should’ve yelled when her mother was dying.

  Mary remembered how she’d turned away to stare at the stained stove, the blackened pot, the blackberry stems in the trash. She’d been trying to keep from crying. Trying to take her mind off her Ma’s splayed legs, the sluggish stream of blood trailing to the screen door. When she’d turned back, her mother was dead. One minute Ma had been behind the blue irises; the next, she was gone, her eyes still open, framed by gold lashes.

  “Ma,” she said loudly, holding the pillow against her body, stroking it. “Ma.”

  She wept. Blood didn’t cloak the scent of berries. “Ma.” Didn’t cloak her mother’s beauty. “Ma,” she cried.

  She heard her mother calling, “Mary. Mary Elizabeth. My sweet Mary.”

  She cried, feeling her mother was near, feeling it was all right to shout, scream, and holler. “Ma.” She needn’t be silent again.

  “Mary, are you all right?” Allen pushed through the curtains.

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Embarrassed, she sat up, clutching her hands. The room now seemed smaller, dim; the cot hard. She could see a shelf where Allen had a two-burner hot plate, a kettle, and leftover pie.

  “You’re crying. Let me get you some water.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Allen cocked his head. “I’ll get you some water.”

  “No, Al,” she wiped her face. “I’m crying but I’m fine. I feel better.”

  Settling her feet on the floor, Mary reached for him. Allen clasped her hand. “It means something to cry out, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.” Allen pulled a chair next to the cot.

  “Makes some of the pain go away.”

  “Yes, Mary.”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “I’m not.” He stroked her hair. “I—I sing. I sing all the time. When I’m happy. Sad. Either way it makes me feel good.”

  “Like my crying.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I’m happy. Though I wanted to die earlier.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” Weary, she lay back, her head on the pillow. “You’re a strange man, Al Thornton.”

  “I suppose I am.” He grimaced, touching his colorless face.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s all right.”

  “No—” she scrambled onto her knees. “It’s not all right. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

&nbs
p; Hands on his belly, Allen stretched his legs, tipping the chair backward. Mary didn’t doubt he lived here—sleeping on the cot, rising to wash in the basin before passing through blue curtains into his larger shop where there were hundreds of clocks, watches for sale, and a work bench with scattered parts.

  “You’ve rescued me twice.” She propped her head in her hand. “I guess it’s my day for having fits. Why, Al? Why’d you keep doing it?”

  Allen flexed his fingers. Repair oil stained the skin beneath his nails. “Sometimes a man is helpless. Makes sense that he—I—should do what I can, when I can. It’s my pleasure to help you, Mary. You’ve helped me too.”

  “How?”

  Allen flushed. “If I hadn’t met you, it would’ve been an ordinary day. I wish the circumstances were different. But I don’t regret meeting you, Mary. Not at all.”

  Her throat constricted. She could see caring in his eyes. Something she’d not seen in Dell. Feeling afraid again, she started to cry.

  “I’d like to be your friend, Mary. I think you need a friend.” Bending forward, Allen looked at her unflinchingly, “You’re safe here. I want you to know that. You’ll always be safe here.”

  “He wouldn’t stop,” she said, rocking, her voice strained. “I told him to stop.”

  “Mary, I can take you home—”

  “I don’t have a home.”

  “Or to Mrs. Cutter. She rents rooms to young women.”

  “Damn him. He wouldn’t stop.”

  “Or you can stay here, Mary. I’ll sleep in the front. Or I could rent a room if it’ll make you more comfortable.” He touched her arm. “But you needn’t do anything you don’t want.”

  “Never?” she whispered, suddenly still.

  “Never.”

  Mary clasped her ankles. Her tongue thick, she murmured, “Do you know what it’s like to be touched, when you don’t want to be?”

  “No. I can’t guess.”

  Mary shuddered, pressing her mouth to her knees.