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.
“It’s Joe, isn’t it?” Mary whispered.
“Sheriff caught him,” said Eugenia.
“No,” breathed Hildy. Mary reached out to her.
“The papers said they’d lynch him,” said Claire.
“So Gabe gathered the men,” said Eugenia.
“They’re planning to stop it, if they can.”
Hildy rocked back on her heels. “They’re going to lynch him. Negro’s name in the paper means he’s dead or soon will be. Lord, have mercy,” Hildy raged, rushing toward the door. The women reached out. “Let me go,” shouted Hildy. “Let me go.” She squirmed; taut arms held her back.
“Hildy, listen to us.”
“Let go.”
“Trust the men to handle this.”
“I need to see Joe.”
“Hildy Samuels, be still this instant,” snapped Miss Wright.
“Miss Wright,” Hildy moaned. Eugenia and Claire each held an arm. Hildy hung limp between them, her knees scraping the floor. “I’ve got to go—” The o trailed into a moan, making the women shudder and sigh, “Mercy.”
Miss Wright clutched Hildy’s shoulders. “Hildy, listen to me. Life ain’t fair by half. But you’re needed here. There’s work to do here. In this house. Or have you forgotten?”
“They’re going to lynch him.”
“I’ll go, Hildy.”
“No you won’t, Mary,” said Miss Wright sternly, “no one’s going anywhere. Our men are handling this.”
“Bennie went,” said Mrs. Jackson softly. “My Ray,” said Eugenia. “Daddy,” said Lilianne. “Clarence,” said Nadine. “James,” said Claire.
“Most of the men went to save Joe,” said Lilianne.
Hildy exhaled. “I’m being a fool.”
“Sure are,” said Eugenia, signaling the other women to let her go.
“I didn’t think.”
“You should know better, Hildy,” said Claire.
“Though,” Eugenia declared snidely, “if Joe hadn’t been ‘first family,’ James might not have gone.”
“Don’t be rude, Eugenia,” answered Claire.
Nadine fluttered, “Ladies, ladies. There’s God’s work to do.”
“Amen,” said Miss Wright.
Nadine pressed open the swing door. She looked back at Hildy. “Time to cleanse Tyler. Prepare for his service. Prepare ourselves for meeting the Lord.”
Hildy clasped her hands. “Through faith, we will rise.”
The women started to file through the door. Awed, Mary realized their passion and strength would fill the house, lift the Samuels’ spirits. As they emptied out of the kitchen, she heard calls of “Good morning” to the undertaker, blessings from the preacher. Mary realized the men, too, had been waiting for the women to come.
She turned back to the empty kitchen. There were more baskets to open, food to be heated. She’d set the dining room table for guests so everybody could help themselves. The men would return hungry—looking for their wives, daughters.
Lilianne’s head poked round the door. “I need cloth. Water bowls.”
Mary looked at her blankly.
“For the cleansing.” Lilianne stepped inside the kitchen, her arms clasped across her breasts, glaring. “Hildy said you’d help. Said you knew where things were.”
Mary nodded, selected two large, china bowls and filled them with water. From a drawer, she drew linen edged with lace. Ma went to the grave not quite clean. At seven, her hands hadn’t been quite big enough to do what needed doing. Her rags stained red. Guiltily, she wondered who would care for Jody. Overwhelmed, she buried her face in her hands.
“You feel ’shamed?”
Mary shook her head.
“You ought to. Feel ashamed for the trouble you’ve caused. The trouble you’ve brought to Joe. This town.”
“No, not shame—”
“My daddy’s carrying a gun because of you.”
“Sorrow,” sighed Mary. “Deep sorrow.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I didn’t expect it would be.” Mary lifted one of the bowls. “Let me help you carry these upstairs. Please.”
Lilianne stood stiffly.
She was proud. Lovely. Not more than twenty. Mary couldn’t remember being that young. Gently, she handed Lilianne the bowl, then lifted the second bowl, the towels. Careful not to spill the water, Mary followed Lilianne through the dining room, up the curved stairs. Water slapped inside the bowl. The undertaker tipped his hat as she and Lilianne entered Tyler’s room. The burgundy curtains and windows were thrown open. Breezes stirred the curtains. Sunshine lit the walls, the paintings of endless wheat.
The women circled a four-poster bed: Nadine, Hildy, and Eugenia near the head. They were all focused on Tyler. Murmuring prayers. Mary set the bowl and linen down, feeling grief swell.
Tyler was naked except for the sheet draped across his abdomen and the towel wrapped around his crushed skull. Thin legs, a plump belly, skin dry and wrinkled like walnut skin. Brave Tyler. Hildy and Eugenia began washing his body. Mary backed toward the door. But the vision of the women held her. Bodies swayed. Serene, Miss Wright clasped her sister. Claire touched a cross
to her lips. Nadine’s fingertips reached toward the heavens. She saw snatches of Hildy’s, Eugenia’s hands. Loving hands cleaning, caressing Tyler’s body.
Nadine nodded to Hildy. Then, in turn, she looked at all the women, and her alto voice soared:
Lay down body, lay down
Lay your burdens down.
Lilianne’s soprano matched, melded with Nadine’s alto. Martha started up the song again. Claire’s voice was the sweetest: the vowels elongating—laaaayyy dooowwn booodeeee. Voices overlapped like a round. Gloria stomped her feet; Mrs. Jackson clapped staccato; Miss Wright tapped her cane. They all sang: “Lay your burdens down,” their voices growing stronger. Hildy and Eugenia washed, humming, punctuating the song with “Jesus.” “Praise be.” They gently wiped Tyler’s legs and toes as the sounds vibrated, rattled the walls:
Lay down body,
Lay your burdens down
Lay down body,
Lay your burdens down
Nadine raised her hands toward the Holy Spirit. Leda clutched her sister’s arm. Lilianne cried. The song quickened: “laydownbody, laydownyourburdens down, layyourbody down.” The women rocked faster. They rocked and wailed and Mary felt love flowing in and around her. Louder. Louder. A clapping, stomping, singing roar. Voices layering, shouts counterpointing the melody, the spiritual rose in pitch. When the sound couldn’t expand anymore, the women, in unison, stopped.
Unable to help herself, Mary cried out into the stunning silence: “Rise.”
The women nodded.
Hildy breathed, “Amen.”
23
Their breathing was in sync. Joe watched Gabe crush another cigarette beneath his shoe. The red circle burst into a shower of embers that flared and died on the floor.
“Hardware store be opening soon,” said Gabe.
Joe heard him sliding boxes, treading gently through the dark basement.
“Before the war, I worked for Ailey. There’s a kerosene lamp here somewhere. It’ll give just enough light. Not too much. Shit.” Gabe had stumbled. “After work, we’d come down here and play poker. Ailey never liked losing.” Gabe struck a match. “Got so Ailey was winning all the colored boys’ salaries back. It was let him win or lose our jobs.” He pushed stacked crates aside with his knees, exposing a small card table and four chairs. He struck another match. Joe slid into a chair.
Magic City Page 19
