“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.”
Mary swayed, gripping the rail.
Allen’s voice cracked with emotion. “Come with me, Mary. We can start over somewhere else.”
“I can’t leave yet,” said Mary.
He gripped the hem of her skirt. “Kiss me, Mary. Just once. I was so frightened. I’m so frightened, Mary.”
Mary kissed his brow. She wasn’t certain what she felt about Allen. He’d been very kind. She was grateful.
“Thank you, Mary. Promise you’ll leave. Promise—”
An explosion sounded near the church. Tremors shook beneath their feet.
“It’s started,” said Allen.
Neighbors rushed outside onto their porches. “What’s happened? What’s happened?” Startled, hollow voices. “Hildy, what’s happened?” A cacophony of sound. Children were crying.
Hildy’s mother ran out of the house, screaming, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”
Mary pointed at the smoke rising over Zion. The wind swirled dark streams around the steeple. Shotgun fire carried faintly through the air.
Folks congregated in the street, their gaze fixed on the rising slope of the hill. Nadine began prayers. A woman with a green scarf wailed, “Bill.” Lilianne, proud and strong like her mother, nonetheless whimpered, “Daddy.” Eugenia held her.
Mary felt a fool. She’d thought of Greenwood triumphing, but hadn’t weighed the costs. She could see ash falling from the sky, taste the smoky bite blooming in the air.
Silence. Ten seconds, ten minutes, ten hours. Mary didn’t know. But there was a lapse in the gunfire, an unnatural silence set
tling like a shroud. She thought the world had stopped. The Greenwood women were rigid, painfully quiet, even the babies ceased crying. The sky above Zion was red, but overhead, it was still blue. Cloudless and blue. Birds had disappeared; wind didn’t stir. Songs, rustling leaves didn’t drift from the trees. Even the flowers’ scents had dulled.
Mary looked at Allen on the stoop, his elbows on his knees, his hands covering his eyes. Hildy, spine curved, stood before her, near the fence.
Mary murmured, “Let it be over. Let it be over.”
From the west, there was a light buzzing, like an army of wasps. Mary shaded her eyes and stared. A dark speck, like a target, appeared on the sun. At first, it seemed suspended. Then, it grew larger; its irritating hum, louder. Flying straight out of the sun came an airplane, glinting silver, soaring effortlessly.
“Mama, look,” cried a boy in brown knickers. “Look.”
Everyone looked heavenward, watching the progress of the prop plane, swooping, circling over Greenwood. The plane righted itself and flew low to the ground, directly on course to the Samuels’ house. Mary could see two goggle-eyed men. Saw one grin clownishly, waving out the window, mouthing “niggers” as the nose of the plane tilted up, up over the Samuels’ attic window.
Mary was more frightened than she’d ever been in her life. Shots, faint but distinct, started again at the church. Allen was whispering in her ear. “We’ve got to get out. Take the train. To Chicago. On to New York.”
Mary closed her eyes and leaned against him. His arms closed around her waist. “Come with me.”
She didn’t think she could go with him. She couldn’t imagine herself in Chicago. She saw the plane doubling back. She craned her neck, watching it dip and sway.
The plane was several blocks away when one of the goggled men dropped a stick. It spun like a red baton. Mary was still struggling to find words when Hildy screamed, “No.” Allen shouted, “Dynamite.” A shattering of earth, wood, and glass flew skyward. Flames leaped. Cries echoed from the neighboring street.
“They hit a house,” raged Mrs. Jackson. Nadine called on God. Otherwise nobody moved. They were transfixed by the plane’s route, curving right, then flying a straight, smoke-filled line. Two more sticks fell in quick succession.
Mary thought of running beneath the plane’s wing, snatching dynamite as it fell. Or else rising like an angel to battle the demon. She imagined Pa flying the plane; Pa insisting there was no place for niggers. Mary ached. She’d caused all this—spread her hurt through Greenwood.
“There’s no accounting for evil.” Hildy squeezed Mary’s arm as she passed. “I’m going to call the firemen.”
“They won’t come.”
Stricken, Hildy and Mary turned toward Allen.
“Look. The plane’s bombing a square. Flying the four corners. The fire will move inward, burn Greenwood.”
“The whole town will be destroyed,” murmured Mary.
“That’s their plan,” said Allen.
“I’ve got to try and stop it,” said Hildy, racing to the phone.
“The plane’s turning,” someone cried. “Turning again. Heading straight way. Heading here.”
“Run,” screamed Mary. “Run.”
The crowd burst apart, running crazed. Babies wailed in their mothers’ arms. Children tripped, bloodying their hands and knees. Women searched for a place to hide, torn between possibly dying at home or in the street.
The plane’s roar was deafening. Mary dashed toward the street. “Dirty bastards. Bastards. Rot in hell.” Allen caught her. “Do something,” she yelled, struggling, battering Allen. “Do something.”
“You can’t stop dynamite, Mary. You can’t stop men in a plane. I would if I could. But I can’t. No one can.”
Mary whimpered. She slumped against Allen’s chest, thinking she’d stepped inside a nightmare. Pa’s hell. Fire and damnation.
The plane terrorized the runners. Some huddled under cars, on porches. Lilianne and her mother ran home. Mrs. Jackson slammed the door on her yellow house. Miss Wright, staring blindly, Leda weeping beside her, insisted her neighbors “Stay calm. Everybody stay calm.” Most ran crazed. Two young girls, running like headless chickens, dashed back and forth, up and down the street, trying to outrun the plane. Relentless, the plane dove, lifted, turned, soared back, swooping like a monstrous bird. It dove again. Three times. Each dive, screams pitched higher. Three times, the plane toyed with families. An old man threw his cane at the silver bird.
Dynamite fell on two houses, one painted green, the other yellow. Mary fell, Allen atop her, as shards of glass and wood shattered over them. “Mrs. Jackson, Mrs. Jackson,” a girl with braids yelled at the burning house.
The fire was dazzling. It bloomed—a hot, roaring flower, Mary thought. The man who’d thrown his cane clutched his chest and sat in the dirt. Hildy hurried to the burning house. A woman pulled her hair, crying, “My home. My home.” Nadine, dust-covered, pulled glass from her breasts.
The plane flew on toward Tulsa.
“Water,” others shouted. Allen helped form a bucket brigade. Women, their skirts hitched, carried water in buckets, pots, and pans and tossed it on the flames. Hildy sprayed water from a hose. It was useless. The homes burned. A small woman with black curls and an infant suckling, kept repeating, “Who’s going to tell Mr. Jackson? Who’s gonna tell him his wife died?” She cooed to the baby. “Who’s going to tell Mr. Jackson?”
Mary tasted grit in her mouth. She looked at the skyline: Smoke lay heavy over Greenwood now. Gunfire had intensified at Zion. She couldn’t hear the plane any longer. Only neighbors struggling, praying to hear the fire trucks’ siren and bell.
There was weak breeze, but it was enough. Flames skipped from Mrs. Jackson’s roof to another, then skipped again. If the fire trucks didn’t come, the entire street, the whole community would be ablaze. Mary’s eyes watered. She felt responsible for this evil. She wanted to believe in miracles. But God hadn’t listened to Hildy. Mrs. Jackson was burned to nothing.
Smoke billowed, harsh and black, gagging Mary. She saw a man running mightily down the street’s center. Like a mirage, he disappeared in another burst of smoke. A roof caved in; a porch collapsed. The flames were traveling. The makeshift brigade was trying in vain to save the intact homes. Allen, face smudged black, used his coat to stamp out fires starting in the bushes. Hildy cried and cursed, raining water on a third house burning from the roof and awning.
Mary peered down the avenue again. A man was running, a gun in his hand, running as if his life depended upon it. The man drew closer. He was barefoot. His shirt was pale blue. She trembled. Through the haze, she concentrated on his face—bruised, swollen along the jaw and side. He was running toward her. Coming closer. Closer.
Mary felt a profound joy. She recognized the look in his eyes—the sweet, direct gaze, the yearning. She lifted her hand and waved. Miracles happened.
“Joe!” she called. “Joe Samuels.”
She laughed, wanting to share the glory she felt. She called, loud and clear, “Hildy. Hildy. Look who’s here.”
Hildy dropped the hose and ran. Embracing, Joe lifted her, spinning, off the ground. Hildy shouted, “Praise be.” They rocked, holding one another in the street.
Mary couldn’t stop her tears.
Allen came and stood beside her.
She turned, looked at him—his cheeks and ears pink like a baby rabbit. She dusted ash from his hair. His jacket was singed. Her fingertips touched his bottom lip. His eyes, almost colorless, fixed on hers. Allen saw her. Really saw her. Maybe it was enough that he was kind. She didn’t have to be alone.
She leaned forward and kissed him. “Al, I’ll go. Wherever you want, I’ll go.”
26
Belly down, Joe and Lying Man hid in the dirt. Zion’s steeple was afire and flames swarmed over the truck that had crashed into the east wall.
“What’s taking them so long?” asked Joe.
“Don’t know,” murmured Lyi
ng Man.
“They’re supposed to come out two by two. Gabe said, ‘two by two.’” Joe swallowed, trying to still his anxiety, thinking it must be hell inside the church—thick smoke, burning lungs, the dead mingled with the living.
Joe understood survival. He’d wanted to run when Gabe said “go.” He wanted the hell out. But now he felt guilty because he couldn’t answer, “Why me?” He hadn’t survived because of skill—he’d been spared by Gabe. Told to turn tail like a boy.
But others weren’t so lucky. Slim lay sprawled in the dirt. Sandy shot in the gut. Petey slumped dead. Bill Johnson crushed by a truck. But others were still alive—Ernie, Clarence, Herb. Joe couldn’t run until he knew they were running too. Gabe had promised they’d be coming. “Two can squeak by.”
He heard firing from the church’s north side—unsettling, echoing volleys. “Gabe said, ‘Two by two.’ Gabe promised to send the men out—‘two by two.’” His nightmare was twisting, coming alive in a new way.
The sky overhead was silent, no roaring engine, no shrill explosions. Joe nervously glanced at the church door, then at the crashed truck, wondering when its gas tank would catch fire.
“Look. It’s Tater.” Lying Man slapped the dirt. “Tater and Herb.” Tater was loping like a scared bear. Herb shot frantically into the trees, running backward, protecting slow-witted Tater.
Joe exhaled, grinned foolishly, “They’ll make it. Won’t they, Lying Man?”
Tater fell, but picked himself up. Joe cheered, watching Tater stumble-run down the hill, a foot behind Herb. He’d buy Tater a dozen cherry pops. Play checkers all day with Herb, if he wanted.
“Look,” called Lying Man. “Price and Jay.”
Price’s right arm dangled, draining blood. Jay clutched his waist, tugging him like a bale of cotton. Price wouldn’t win another sniper’s pin. Still, he was alive. Two by two.
“Look.”
“Clarence and Ernie.” Gabe had kept his word. Brother man. Joe now knew Gabe was, had always been, a better man than Henry.
“Look,” Lying Man repeated, his voice strained.
Magic City Page 23
