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

by Kathleen Hall

  Maggie heard the phone ring and Aunt Jo called upstairs, “are you awake?” Racing down the steps, Maggie began organizing her thoughts about the meeting.

  “Hello,” said Maggie.

  “Hey, Maggie, hope I’m not calling too late. You got a few minutes to talk about tonight’s meeting?” said Clyde.

  “Sure. I’d love to. I’ve been trying to keep my thoughts organized to talk to Sam later tonight or tomorrow. He’s still at work.”

  “I know we didn’t say much about it at the meeting, but Carl Stringer’s white power group, Avenge, is gaining momentum. He and his pocket-protector revolutionaries want to arm whites and keep them in the city. According to their pamphlet the scare tactic is: ‘If Detroit becomes black, guerrilla warfare will be taken to the suburbs.’ Maggie, based on the color of your skin, sorry, is there some way you can get more detail about the members, plans and strategy? Stringer and most of his recruits work for the city or county. Whatever you discover will be more information than we have, which are sound bites from radio and newspaper interviews.”

  “Sure, let me give it some thought. I know a few people at the city and Aunt Jo has some friends with the county. I’ll keep a low profile.”

  “Thanks, Maggie. I don’t want to tip our hand and give them more power because they think we’re worried, but we need to know what we’re up against.”

  “Sure. I’ll talk to Sam about it. We’ll keep you in the loop and let you know before we do anything too crazy. How’re you doing?”

  “Unbelievably good. I think the shock of the riots and my arrest shifted my perspective. Everything seems a little clearer. There’s no doubt we have to move our work to the suburbs. The questions now are: how, when and whom.”

  “Don’t be putting my name next to the whom.”

  “Maggie, when have I tried to force anyone to do anything they didn’t want to do? Give me a break.”

  “Why do I hear alarms going off?”

  “Maggie Soulier. You hurt me to the quick.”

  “Like hell.”

  Just after Maggie bounded up the stairs, the phone rang again. It was Sam.

  “Hey, babe, I only have a minute but called to say good night. I’ve got less than an hour to finish up and I need two. How was the meeting?”

  “It was good. I wish you could have been there because I’m not sure I can do it justice. Clyde just called; he wants me to do some espionage.”

  “He called the right person. Listen, let’s wait until we’ve got more time to talk about the meeting and this new undercover assignment. I just want to hear your voice and tell you I’m thinking of you, loving you . . . methodically undressing you in my mind.”

  “Where are you? My libido just started pacing back and forth, back and forth like a caged lion.”

  “Lioness, it’s a good thing you’re not here right now. I’d lose my job for sexual horseplay or harassment, whatever it’s called. Do you think there’s a law against raunchiness? Maybe tomorrow. Let’s see if we can find time for a nooner in the back seat, under a blanket. Wear a skirt.”

  8

  Light My Fire

  The time to hesitate is through. No time to wallow in the mire. Try now we can only lose and our love become a funeral pyre. Come on baby light my fire.

  —The Doors, lyrics from Light My Fire

  DECEMBER 1967—“Hey, Loretta. What’s up?” said Maggie

  “Hey, bride-girl, what are you doing calling me? You ready to make that long walk down the aisle today?”

  “Very funny. My walk will be to the Justice of the Peace if we get there before it closes for the holidays. I’m freaked. Do you have time for lunch today?”

  “On your wedding day? Sure, baby, I’ll make time. Do you want me to call Stella?”

  “Yes, please. Sorry for the last-minute cry for help. I don’t think I want to back out; I just need friend power to keep me from hyperventilating all day.”

  “Listen, I only have one appointment after lunch and she’s a regular. I’ll get rid of her. That way we’ll have the whole afternoon if you want.”

  “Thanks, Loretta, I’m a wreck. Sorry I didn’t call earlier but I thought I could handle this like any other day. Aunt Jo’s busy making dinner for everyone and she talked Robin into making a cake. A cake! I gotta get outta this place, if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

  “The Animal’s got nothing on you, chickadee. Let’s meet at Hudson’s Piccadilly Circus, the cafeteria on the mezzanine, at noon. They won’t kick us out. We’ll take as long as we want, shop if we feel like it. We can wear our ‘going to the chapel’ dresses in case we run out of time.”

  “Oh god, I feel better already. I’ll put you and Stella in charge of reminding me to get to the JP by four o’clock,” laughed Maggie.

  “No sweat, Maggie, we’ll make it happen!

  Sam had the day off and too much time to think. Marriage! What in god’s name am I doing? Last night, Zito and some guys from the dayshift stayed late to celebrate Sam’s last day as a ‘free man.’

  The upstairs conference room was set up with cans of Schlitz Beer on ice, pretzels and a large relish plate.

  “Hey, dickhead, what red-blooded man is walking down the aisle these days? Lots of broads out there hopping on the free-sex bandwagon! ‘Make love not war,’ that kind of shit. Jesus, Tervo, you nuts?” said Zito.

  “Might be, but there’ve always been broads on the free-sex bandwagon if you’re just looking to get laid. I thought it might be fun to live with someone who speaks in complete sentences and makes me laugh.”

  “What a putz!”

  “You got my number, Zito,” laughed Sam.

  Many of the dayshift guys knew Sam, shook his hand and wished him luck. Sam thought they seemed sincere but awkward. It was unusual for Sheer Juice to host an employee party and Sam was sure these guys would much rather be heading home than drinking free beer.

  After forty-five minutes, one can of Schlitz floated in the melted ice and salt crystals bore scant witness to the empty bowl of pretzels. The relish tray was stripped bare. Sam felt a little buzz from his three beers, which was unusual. He’d always handled booze well, especially beer. The dayshift guys headed out and Zito said he’d be back before midnight to ‘unlock the cage.’

  Before Sam made it out the conference room door, the latest in the string of administrative assistants walked in. Sam recalled meeting her on her first day, Carla.

  “Hi, Carla,” said Sam.

  “Hey, Sam, I hear you’re getting married tomorrow. Congratulations!”

  “I am. You married?”

  “Divorced,” said Carla.

  “That must be tough,” said Sam, thinking of ways to make a graceful exit. Carla’s eyes were ‘raccooned’ in black liner. Her mini-skirt and low-cut sweater left little to the imagination. Sam always felt uncomfortable with women who were into exhibitionism—women he found both hard to look at and hard not to look at.

  “Not really. We had an open marriage and we were both fooling around the whole time. We’re better off single.”

  “I can’t imagine Maggie with another guy. I’m sure I’d be too jealous.”

  “Yeah. That sometimes gets in the way. Roger walks around with a hard-on and for me it was a relief. Not that I don’t like sex, I do. I just don’t want someone jumping my bones three times a day.”

  Sam was torn between staying, to see where this conversation went, and walking out of the room. The beer buzz wasn’t strong enough to leave this to fate. It was his decision. He decided to let the drama play out a little more.

  “Three times a day?” asked Sam. He was curious and decidedly horny.

  “Not every day, but most.”

  Sam couldn’t keep his eyes from dropping to her full breasts, small waist and narrow hips. Carla’s assets were above the waist. Small hips and skinny legs never turned him on, but this conversation and the possibility of one last fling before he and Maggie married was almost more stimulation than he could bea
r. Sam didn’t kid himself; he knew Carla was both producer and director of this scene.

  “One last beer, it’s yours,” said Sam.

  “Sure. I’m off the clock.”

  When Sam handed Carla the beer, it slipped through his hands and they both grabbed for it and laughed. Sam noticed Carla’s small mouth filled with large, slightly bucked teeth. Something about this combination sent his imagination into orbit.

  “So, what turns you on the most?” asked Sam.

  As if on cue, Carla closed and locked the conference room door and knelt in front of Sam. He closed his eyes as she unhooked his belt, unbuttoned his pants and unzipped his zipper. Sam knew he should stop this. What if Zito returned? But he didn’t care. He felt Carla pull down his khakis, then his skivvies. He could feel the air on his naked and very hard penis. Then nothing. He looked down and saw Carla pulling off her sweater. Her breasts were spilling out of a black lace bra. Sam watched as she dropped her bra straps one at a time and freed her enormous—what? Sam thought boobs, tits, jugs, hooters, rack, knockers? Sam lost all sense of time, date and location. He was no longer in a conference room at work. He’d been transported to another place. Carla smiled, grabbed his hand and pulled him to the floor. Minutes, hours passed. Nothing mattered except this erotic, sensual exchange of skin, organs, bones—knockers, nipples everywhere.

  When Sam came to, he was lying on the conference room floor, his shirt off and his pants wrapped around his ankles. No Carla. The table had been cleared, and except for his awkward state of dress, nothing looked out of place. What the hell thought Sam as he checked his watch. Two hours had passed since Carla first entered the conference room. His head throbbed as he tried to recall the details of . . . what? Oral sex? Intercourse? Some fantasy? Crap. Sam ran his hand along his penis to see if there was any sign of orgasm. None that Sam felt. Did Carla wash me off before she left the room? What the fuck? There was no way three beers would make me drunk enough to pass out, but Carla didn’t know how much I drank. She may have freaked and left me on the floor to sober up. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he berated himself, before he noticed a red blinking light in the upper corner of the room.

  An easy walk in flats, but grueling in three-inch heels, Stella offered to spring for a five-minute cab ride to the Justice of the Peace. When the cabbie heard Maggie was on her way to get married, he shut off the meter and said, “This might be your last free ride!” Which launched another round of giggles. The afternoon had been a therapeutic girl’s day out. If Maggie had written a screenplay about it, she’d call it Women Who Flirt with Marriage.

  “I’m the last person to ask about marriage. I never thought, dreamed, hoped it’d work for me. When I got pregnant with Marcus there was no way I was going to marry his sorry-ass daddy. Too many smart women I knew ended up with a man who couldn’t keep his pecker in his pants, much less support a family,” said Loretta.

  “Y’all know my story and I’ve no intention of making that mistake again. I’d rather be a nun, and I’m not even Catholic,” said Stella.

  “Okay, is this some new, perverted, zany approach to cheering up a bride on her wedding day? Is there a hidden Candid Camera? Geez, you guys!” laughed Maggie.

  “Sorry, Maggie, I got carried away. I’m sure Sam’s the exception. He sure as hell is a looker!” said Loretta.

  “He’s that,” said Stella.

  “Crap. Seriously, who knows? I don’t buy into the belief some guy’s going to carry me off to his castle to live happily ever after. That’s such bullshit. My life’s never been a fairy tale and it would be scary to imagine Sam cast as Prince Charming. I’m not a romantic. But deep down I long for a home, family, happiness, security. Okay, maybe I’m a little romantic,” said Maggie.

  “I want that, too. I can give myself home, family, happiness, security. I think the danger is looking for someone else to MAKE me happy. That’s the dark pit,” said Loretta.

  “I think men are the dark pit. Maybe I’m gay,” said Stella.

  “All men?” asked Maggie.

  “Probably. I mean, well, maybe Sam’s a good guy, but he’s a guy—testosterone, ego, dick. I don’t think guys can help it. I think they’re hard-wired to act first, then think,” said Stella.

  “Ah, Stella, you were only sixteen when you fell in love with Odell. He was an addict. You might change your mind if you find a guy who was brought up in a good home and had a decent education,” said Loretta.

  “Well, SistaHood, sounds like you be talkin’ outta both sides of your mouth,” said Stella.

  “Maybe. But maybe Sam and Maggie belong together. There’s something there. I think Sam’s a good man,” said Loretta.

  “He can be an asshole, but he’s a good man,” agreed Maggie.

  Loretta raised her now empty cardboard cup of coffee and said, “Here’s to Sam, an asshole and a good man, and to Maggie, for her fearless love. May they find a remnant of marital bliss.”

  Maggie thought that Loretta and Stella gave new meaning to irony and insolence. Somehow, this rude cocktail of attitudes gave Maggie a sense of comfort she wouldn’t have found through empathy and kindness. Thank god I have friends like Emily Dickinson’s poetry, a bit untamed and slanted.

  Odors from decades of cigar smoke and the accreted scent of Murphy’s Oil Soap gave personality to an otherwise drab lobby. The elevators to the Justice of the Peace Office on the third floor were gated with uniformed attendants. Maggie, dressed in a red velvet mini-dress, had splurged on black diamond-patterned silk hosiery; a black lace garter belt; and black peau de soie heels. During lunch, Maggie snagged her hose just above the hemline and Loretta stopped the run with a touch of clear nail polish that pulled her skin when she bent her knee. Stella’s beige crocheted mini-skirt with matching jacket; long pearl necklace; button pearl earrings; and spike heels gave her that irresistible allure of innocence and naughtiness. Loretta, rarely understated, was dressed in a fitted gold lamé jacket with matching bell-bottom pants and high-heeled boots. Maggie could feel eyes turning as they walked through the lobby—wild, colorful birds against the drab navy blue and brown clothing of the proletariat.

  Sam and Clyde were sitting on a bench in the hallway when they exited the elevator on the third floor. Dressed in dark suits and lost in conversation, they both dropped their jaws when they looked up. At first, Sam blushed like a teenager having impure thoughts, ran his hands through his hair and looked away as if he didn’t recognize these three wild birds. Clyde was mesmerized, gave a low whistle and said, “goodness, gracious, great balls of fire.”

  Finally, Sam stood up and looked at Maggie as if she had just come into focus and said, “Babe, you look beautiful. I was worried you’d change your mind.”

  “I thought about it but decided what the hell, I might as well marry this poor Yooper. No one else will.”

  “Ah, Maggie, I knew I could trust you not to get caught up in this lavish ceremony.”

  “Did I tell you I love you?” said Maggie.

  “Come on you two. We don’t have all day. The JP said he has a Christmas Party to go to and we’re his last gig,” said Clyde.

  “Maggie, you might want to rethink your attendants. Except for Stella, we are a cheeky bunch,” said Loretta.

  “Don’t sweet talk me, Loretta. I’m the only one here who has a reason to be cheeky about marriage,” said Stella.

  “You got that, girl. You have the rights; the rest of us are just talkin’ trash,” said Loretta.

  “Ready to get married, Marguerite?” said Sam.

  “Aren’t we going to wait for Kenny?” asked Maggie.

  “No, not today.”

  Clyde, Loretta and Stella got to Aunt Jo’s house first, pulling the reception to the front yard to greet Sam and Maggie when the white Corvair drove up. Although Sam wanted Maggie to wait for him to open her door, Maggie was having none of it and met him as he rounded the car. They kissed to cheers from their friends and relatives who were braving the cold to welcome the newlyweds.

&
nbsp; Maggie ran up to give Issie a long hug. Issie and Eddie couldn’t make it to the JP in time for the wedding because of the kid’s school and Eddie’s job. When Issie and Eddie got married, in a small church in Westland ten years ago, Maggie was at boarding school in Toronto studying for finals. Issie once pointed out that both she and Maggie had inherited their parents’ disdain for elaborate ceremonies and the government’s ministerial oversight of marriage.

  “Oh, Maggie, look at you—absolutely gorgeous in that show-stopping red wedding dress. You look like a Chinese princess. Red! It will bring you generations of luck and love,” said Issie.

  “Thanks, Issie. God, I’m so glad you’re here. How’s everyone doing?”

  “Walking on eggs, lots of polite behavior, except for Uncle Cyp who’s showing the boys how to stand on their heads in the dining room, while Aunt Jo’s trying to set the table.”

  Sam and Maggie took a divide and conquer approach to greet their guests until Aunt Jo called everyone for dinner. On the way in, Maggie gave Angelo a big hug and thanked him for coming. Angelo grumbled, “Yeah, well I didn’t have nothing better to do and your Auntie Jo could use some help.” Both he and Aunt Jo pretended they were just friends but Maggie always sensed an undercurrent of something more. Angelo never married. He’d complain, “Wives are a pain in the ass, who needs one?” Aunt Jo never married. She’d complain, “I lost the love of my life to World War II. No man can give me what I lost.”