If the Moon Had Willow Trees (Detroit Eight Series Book 1)

by Kathleen Hall

  Beaubien Street, with its unfortunates, had always been a strange place, but it never looked like this. Armored cars barricaded the far end of the block. A cop with a sawhorse stood guard at the entrance. The weathered three-story building across the street looked like a scene from a B-grade movie. Four rifles sticking out of every window, on every floor, two soldiers kneeling and two standing. Maggie’s heart seemed to be pumping fire and then, to her surprise, fear as she pulled up to the cop beside the sawhorse.

  Older than the others, he looked at her like a parking attendant ready to guide her to the next open space. Maggie thought he seemed unhinged, unfocused. Who wouldn’t with sixty-four rifles aimed at you all day? Maggie wanted to say what the fuck are you doing here? She waited.

  The cop said, “Look, lady, I’ve no patience left. I can’t trust myself to be civil. So, why the hell-fire-fuck are you driving around Detroit in a red convertible? Hoping to squeeze in a short tour of the local riots before the nine o’clock curfew? Jesus!”

  “No, sir,” said Maggie with more force than she intended, “I’ve been to one police station and two barricades trying to deliver four cases of pop. I heard you were thirsty. Everyone took a few cans and asked me to deliver some to the next police barricade, then the next. I have three cases of Coke left. They’re for headquarters. I hope this is my last stop.”

  “You crazy beautiful woman, you could’ve been shot. Coke? Really? Coke?” Looking across the street at the rifles pointed their way, he yelled, “She’s got three cases of Coke!”

  The cop unloaded the cases then looked at Maggie with gratitude if not respect. He said, “I guess good Samaritans come in all shapes, sizes and sports cars. I promise I’ll never jump to conclusions about a pretty woman in a red convertible again. Ya done good. Now, get the hell outta here.”

  Just then, a group of ten Negroes approached them with their hands up, arms stretched high. Behind the prisoners, five cops pointed shotguns at their backs. The rifles in the windows turned in unison to follow them. No one spoke. Maggie watched as the group entered Headquarters through a side door reinforced by prison bars. When the door slammed shut, Maggie felt the cold click of steel slide down her back.

  2

  Who’s on First?

  The largest riot in the nation’s history is over. The 82nd U.S. Airborne musters out of Detroit. Curfews are eased. Thousands of sightseers are bumper to bumper in the riot areas. Dead: 43, Injured: 1200, Arrested: 7231, Stores looted or burned: 2509, Families rendered homeless: 388, Damage to property: $40–100 million.

  —Teletype, Sunday, July 30, 1967

  JULY 1967—Sitting at the downstairs kitchen table, Maggie stretched her legs across the adhesive-backed linoleum tiles she and Aunt Jo had pieced together. The tile mocked wood with its highly exaggerated deep and uniform engraved lines—a magnet for breadcrumbs, dust motes and who knew what else. Checking her legs for black stubble, Maggie could feel the yellow wicker chair leaving a crisscross pattern on her thunder thighs, a family trait with mixed blessings. And, as much as she loved her thick black hair, she despised the coarse shadow it left on shaved legs. In the winter she could hide the stubble under knee socks. In the summer she was SOL. Maggie sympathized with her heavily bearded male friends. What a drag! Every three days she wore jeans to avoid having to shave. This would be a jean day.

  When the rioting started, Aunt Jo bolted to visit her family in Windsor. Maggie enjoyed the time alone, but looked forward to having her back. The house and decor was very Aunt Jo—filled with stones, shells and driftwood from The Great Lakes, table cloths from India, faded chenille bed spreads, spindly house plants frantic for sunlight, photo collages and macramé hangings. Aunt Jo brought new meaning to the word eclectic.

  Maggie was seldom alone at the house, and for the first time in almost five years she felt like an intruder. This time, Aunt Jo’s possessions seemed more intimate while she was away. Maggie wondered if it was time to see a shrink or just finish her graduate program. Once Maggie graduated and got a real job, she’d give up the dormer at thirty dollars per month and find a place of her own. As much as Aunt Jo loved her and seemed to enjoy her activism, Maggie thought she’d welcome a return to solitude.

  The riots were over, but Detroit was in ruins and nothing had been resolved. Maggie’s sadness was taking up far too much time and space. One recurring bright spot was the cop with platinum blond hair and laser blue eyes who said he’d buy her a Coke this fall. Sam. There was something about him that made her smile. Crap, she thought, I’m feeling keyed up about someone I barely met and may never see again. Am I that desperate?

  Maggie was pulled out of her reverie by the phone. “Hello!”

  “Hey, Maggie. You okay?” It was her sister Isabel from Westland.

  “If you’re asking if I’m being held hostage by a bunch of rioting, militant blacks with big-ass fros, the answer is no. In fact, I’m sitting here checking my legs for stubble and feeling sorry for myself because I’m alone. Boohoo, as if I have any real problems. What’s going on in Wasteland these days?”

  “Well, thanks for calling to let me know you were okay. I was so freaked out. I tried a dozen times last week, but couldn’t get an answer at Aunt Jo’s. Finally called Angelo and he said you were ‘busy changing the world.’ Christ Maggie. Lots of fear mongering and survivor guilt in the burbs. The mayor wants us to keep our kids indoors because, and I quote, ‘the niggers from the city are threatening to kidnap our babies.’ I could hardly believe my ears. I told Eddie this was our chance to get rid of those pesky little ankle biters!”

  Maggie had long thought that anyone who met Issie learned first-hand what the word “irreverence” meant. “Issie! I know you’re kidding, but if anyone heard you say that you’d end up in the cooler.” Unable to curb her laughter, Maggie realized her attempted rebuke sounded more like applause.

  “So seriously, what’s it like in Detroit?” asked Issie, “I’m not about to join the gawkers but I want to know how you are. I’ve been worried.”

  “Crazy times. My only effort to change the world was to make sure the cops had something to drink. I didn’t want them shooting innocent people because their brains were fried. So, on Tuesday I picked up four cases of pop and delivered them to police stations and barricades between here and downtown. I thought I was fine until I entered the war zone. No shit, Issie, there were trucks filled with little boy soldiers and guns. On the way, flimsy wood barricades were set up to stop traffic. No water. No food. Everything was closed down, like some bubonic plague wiped out a million people. Downtown was so dark from smoke it looked like night. Guns were sticking out of windows everywhere. Then, I saw a group of Negro men with their arms stretched to the sky. My heart split open and my arms and legs felt like rubber. I’m not sure how I made it home. I don’t remember driving.”

  “Oh no you don’t, get back here! Sorry Mag, got to go. The boys just ran outside naked. I’ll call later.

  “Well, if it isn’t Florence Nightingale!” Clyde called out as he was feeding another pizza into the oven. With his white jacket, dark chocolate skin, hazel eyes and a tight, manicured fro, Clyde looked like he just stepped off a Broadway stage. Tall, thin, muscular, he moved like a dancer.

  “Well, if it isn’t the disappearing cook! Where the hell have you been? And, what’s with the Florence Nightingale thing?”

  “I’m talking about the special delivery of Coke to police headquarters. What was that about?”

  “Holy crap! How did you find out?”

  “Huh. You didn’t recognize me in the dusk, hands up, on my way to hell?”

  “In the round up? Why didn’t you call out, say something?”

  “Say something? Like ‘Yoo-hoo, Maggie dear, could you please tell these nice police officers I’m one of the good guys?’ They said if we moved a hair they’d blow our fucking heads off. No way in hell was I going to call out to a white girl in a red sports car. I may be stupid, but this boy’s mama didn’t raise no fool.”
>
  “Oh god Clyde, sorry. I was scared half to death. I can’t imagine what it was like for you. What happened?”

  “Some of my friends from the hood and I decided to check on the older neighbors, see if they needed help. The National Guard rent-a-cops thought we were looting, loaded us into a wagon and took us to headquarters. We were locked in a holding cell, standing room only. No water. They gave us some broth and crackers the next day. No way I wanted Blanche driving into the mouth of hell to spring me. She called Angelo this morning and he bailed me out. I was lucky. Some of those guys are still in the slammer.”

  Maggie paused to look him in the eyes and said, “Clyde, you have no idea how glad I am that you’re okay. You know how I hate feeding the pizza oven.”

  “What crap, Soulier, I feel the love.” Clyde laughed, “You’re my first, my last and only white woman. No one could ever replace you.”

  “Right. Well, if you ever decide to dump that gorgeous wife and your three adorable sons, let me know. I was worried about you, Clyde Daniel Webster.”

  “Now don’t be gettin’ all sentimental with me. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Church tonight?” asked Maggie.

  “Yep. It’s gonna rock!”

  Maggie decided to walk to church. It was only a few blocks and she’d spend that much time unlocking and locking the gate to pull her car out of the backyard. Rather than change clothes after work, Maggie kept the jeans and replaced the stained blue tee shirt with a white cotton gauze top trimmed in orange and turquoise rickrack, her gypsy blouse. The air was calm and the smell of smoke hung like dirty laundry against the cloudless sky.

  Hope Chapel, a nondenominational Christian church, occupied a small one-story yellow brick building along Fort Street. An abandoned Sunoco gas station to its north provided parking. The Chapel’s basement had long served as the neighborhood community center. Alcoholics Anonymous, Head Start and a number of small local nonprofits, without bricks and mortar, used the building and donated what they could afford. Detroit’s Freedom Riders were scheduled to meet at 7:00 p.m. on the second Sunday of every month. This meeting, the fifth Sunday, had been added to talk about the riots.

  The basement was filled with excited chatter and nervous laughter. The ashtrays were already overflowing and the click of Zippo lighters and the snap of matches sounded like percussion. Maggie thought a social scientist would have a field day with this kinetic energy.

  In a large room, fifty gray metal folding chairs faced two portable banquet-sized tables. Four beat-up mahogany banker’s chairs, left by the building’s previous owner, were reserved for the speakers. A low-ceilinged furnace room provided a reception area, with an old kitchen table for coffee, cookies and name badges. Its recently painted tan concrete block walls supported a new bulletin board that held notices for upcoming meetings, a few job postings and dozens of offers for lawn mowing, cleaning and babysitting. In the center of the bulletin board a color photograph of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., from his 1963 March for Freedom in Detroit, was carefully framed with purple grosgrain ribbon and silver tacks. A small, dismal bathroom under the stairway boasted a toilet with no lid and a commercial size sink for heavy mopping. Keeping up with the demand for toilet paper was impossible and regulars knew to bring their own tissue. Upstairs the small Chapel, with its mismatched old pews and benches, was off limits for meetings but open for local performances of all kinds.

  “Hey Maggie,” yelled Clyde. “Come here! I’ve got someone you need to meet.”

  “Sam, I’d like you to meet Marguerite Soulier, better known as Maggie. Maggie, this is Sam Tervo.”

  Sam was dressed in faded Levi’s with a braided brown leather belt, a white button-down shirt, and brown loafers with no socks. Tan for such a toe-head, Maggie thought. His phosphorescent eyes looked as though they were on fire. Maggie could not find her voice. Neither of them extended a hand or said hello. Clyde was stunned. He’d never seen Maggie behave rudely and Sam seemed pinned to the floor. “Is everything okay?” asked Clyde.

  Maggie finally said, “Clyde we need to talk.” She grabbed his elbow and pulled him toward an empty corner in the meeting room.

  “Maggie, what the hell?”

  “How do you know him? He’s a cop!”

  “What are you talking about? He’s not a cop.”

  “Oh Christ, I bet that’s why you got picked up for looting. He works the other side.”

  “Maggie, believe me, he’s not a cop. I’ve known Sam for years. We go way back. What’s this about?”

  “I don’t know what you think you know or don’t know, but he was at a police barricade the day I delivered Coke to Police Headquarters. He aimed a gun at me. He’s a fucking cop!”

  “Oh my god, Maggie. He joined the National Guard to avoid the draft and help pay for his MBA. I don’t know why he was at a police barricade, but I can guarantee he’s one of us. He’s tireless in his work for civil rights—totally, scarily, unafraid to take on anything or anyone. That’s why I thought you’d like him.” With that, Clyde took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “Whew. You had me going for a minute there!”

  “Sorry, I was certain he was a cop. Talk about whew. I’m relieved!”

  When they returned to the reception area, Clyde headed for the coffee and Maggie looked around the room. No Sam. “Shit, damn, hell,” she said to herself, “I screwed that up.” Someone tapped a teacher’s desk bell to begin the meeting and Maggie found a seat in the center of the room next to a chain smoker with a red plaid beanbag ashtray balanced on her knee.

  Clyde began the meeting with a short prayer. “Please God, lighten our load and help us see the brother and sister in everyone. We ask that you bless the work of Dr. King and help us remember the path to love is through peace. And, we ask you to bless the hearts of black militants so they might find peace in their hearts and join us in our work for equality. Amen.” Prayers at these meetings were punctuated by affirmations like Yes Lord, Praise God, That’s Right. Clyde once said the power and community of this ritual was manna for the Civil Rights Movement.

  Blanche, Clyde’s wife, stood up and began singing “We Shall Overcome,” the Freedom Rider’s anthem. Maggie thought Blanche’s voice, always haunting, was more beautiful than ever, as if she were channeling Mahalia Jackson. The hush in the room felt sacred. Visions of burning buildings and riots—the chaos—reduced to a shadow. After the crowd stood and sang the last verse, Maggie thought about Sam’s comment to her last Tuesday, “I’m here, in my body.” Someone in the row behind Maggie touched her elbow. She turned. It was Sam, in his body.

  Maggie missed most of the meeting because she was surfing the idea of Sam. She imagined she could feel his energy, his heat. Okay, Maggie thought, she was very desperate, but her imagination had not had this much fun in months! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d thought about her libido, much less felt it. The noise and cigarette smoke dropped away. All that remained was her, Sam and the energy between them. It seemed like enough.

  3

  Let the Games Begin

  Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.

  —Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

  JULY 1967—“Maggie,” Sam said as he tapped her on the shoulder. “I think Clyde’s trying to get your attention.”

  Maggie looked up to see Clyde pointing at her. She raised her hand in acknowledgement and Clyde said, “We’re looking for volunteers to help victims of the riot who need temporary shelter, income, food or help filing claims for services. Any chance you could act as the go-between the city and this group?”

  Damn, thought Maggie. Clyde knew her history of avoiding any and all work with government bureaucracies, but he also knew she was a soft touch. Maggie stood up and said, “Clyde, if you can find someone to share this responsibility, I’d be happy to help. I work nights and my last year o
f school starts in a few weeks, so it’s crunch time.”

  Before Clyde could ask the question, Sam stood up and said, “Clyde, I’m in the same situation with school and work. Why don’t Maggie and I join forces, and between the two of us, we can make it happen.”

  Maggie saw Clyde squint, as if he was having a hard time understanding what Sam said. After an uneasy, chair-scraping, throat-clearing pause, Clyde said, “Great Sam, thanks.”

  Clyde looked at Maggie and his expression conveyed, what the hell’s going on here? But said, “Maggie, does this work for you?”

  Maggie looked at Sam, then turned back to Clyde and said, “Sure. Sounds like a plan.” Always certain of herself, Maggie felt her knees weaken and her heart race. Holy crap, she thought, get a grip. He’s just a guy.

  When the meeting was adjourned, the chain smoker next to Maggie introduced herself as Jean and offered to help. Maggie was anxious to catch Sam before he left, but said, “Sure, give me your name and number and I’ll call if we need help.” Pulling long drags off her cigarette and balancing the ashtray on her knee, Jean began digging in her purse with her free hand for a piece of paper and a pen. “Look,” Maggie said, “why don’t you leave your name and number with Clyde and I’ll get it from him.”

  “No, give me a minute, I know I’ve got a pen in here somewhere.” It had only been a few minutes, but Maggie felt like it was taking forever. Finally, Jean handed her a scrap of paper. Maggie smiled, thanked her and walked as fast as she dared toward the reception area. Before she reached it, Clyde stopped her to thank her for taking on the assignment then said, “What’s with Sam offering to help? Did you two make nice with each other?”