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

by Kathleen Hall

  Married housing came with a kitchen table and two chairs, a sofa with one end table and a full-sized bed frame—metal furniture with easy-to-clean Naugahyde that stuck to bare skin and turned all clothing into Teflon. Maggie and Sam withdrew one hundred dollars from Aunt Jo’s wedding gift, which they renamed The Trust Fund, to purchase a new mattress, four place settings of yellow Melmac dishes and four place settings of stainless flatware—all from Hudson’s bargain basement. And, at the last minute, they picked up a self-whistling teakettle for instant coffee. No more heating water in a small saucepan.

  Aunt Jo also gave them two beat up aluminum pans, a well-seasoned iron skillet, a once colorful Indian bedspread, two sets of slightly worn yellow towels and two sets of white sheets Maggie had used on the dormer mattress. Sam’s mother, Maija, gave them two knotty pine bedside tables from Sam’s old room and a striped Hudson-Bay blanket that had been sitting in Maija’s linen closet for ten years because it had to be dry-cleaned. Maggie coveted it because it was exactly like the blanket she recalled from her parents’ bed.

  The hundreds of books they were unable to part with filled the built-in bookcase in the living room and provided five table legs to support a piece of plywood they’d found behind Angelo’s, which served as a coffee table to hold more books. Because they’d only be there a few months, Maggie and Sam decided they had no interest in throw pillows or wall hangings. They’d live with bare bones until they had a place of their own.

  Maggie made a third cup of coffee to sip while she cleaned the junk drawer under the phone, the one Sam used to empty his pockets after work, to toss eraser-less, snub-nosed pencils, scraps of paper and ball point pens with life spans of less than three sentences.

  The first scrap of paper was hers.

  Thank you notes for wedding gifts—

  ✓ Issie & Eddie—professionally framed photo of parents’ wedding

  ✓ Aunt Jo—$2,000!!!!

  ✓ Uncle Cyp & Aunt Minnie—$100 + Grandma Landry’s crocheted tablecloth

  ✓ Kenny—wrought-iron peace symbol (wall hanging? trivet?)

  ✓ Angelo—two-week paid vacation!!

  ✓ Clyde & Blanche—copy of Khalil Gibran’s “The Prophet”

  ✓ Willie & Robin—CAKE and two tickets to a Red Wing’s game

  ✓ Loretta—Loretta-made macramé plant hanger with a spider plant

  ✓ Stella—a fireproof lock box for documents

  ✓ Maija Tervo—dinner for two at The London Chop House! (Who robbed a bank?)

  Clyde got to Big Boys twenty minutes early. He picked a booth that offered some privacy and ordered a coffee. All morning Clyde had been trying to shake images from last night’s news clips covering King’s speech to the striking garbage workers in Memphis. Clyde thought King’s ‘mountain top’ speech was the best he’d ever heard; yet, there was something sad and ominous about the look on his face and his choice of words. Like anybody, I’d like to live a long life . . . I’ve seen the Promised Land . . . I may not get there with you . . . I’m happy tonight . . . I’m not worried about anything . . . I’m not fearing any man. There were news clips of the marchers earlier in the day, garbage men dressed for church wearing placards that read, “I AM A MAN.” Clyde couldn’t think about it without tearing up. Dear God, what will it take to end this insanity?

  Sam arrived with his platinum hair touching his shoulders. Clyde didn’t miss the head turning by both men and women.

  “Hey, Sam,” Clyde called and raised his hand.

  “Hey, Clyde, I’m glad you’re able to meet on short notice.”

  “Glad to get out of the hood. Once you’ve got kids, the wagon trains tend to be drawn a little closer.”

  The waitress was at the table before Sam sat down. Smiling, she looked directly at Sam and said,” Hi, my name’s Sharon. May I take your order?”

  “Coffee for now.”

  Clyde watched Sharon walk away from the table without asking him about his order and said, “I’m not sure I love this invisibility when I’m with you.”

  “Oh, you’ll get used to it. Everyone does,” laughed Sam.

  “Asshole.”

  “That too.”

  “Nice locks, Tervo. Did your barber fire you?”

  “Newly married, gorgeous wife, graduate school and second-shift sweat shop labor. The barber can pound sand.”

  When Sharon brought Sam’s coffee, they both ordered Big Boy double-decker hamburgers with extra sauce and onion rings. The same thing they ordered every time they met at Big Boys.

  “Did you see the news last night—the clips from Memphis?” asked Clyde.

  “Nope, missed it. I met with my study group to crank through some multivariate regression analysis problems to find the standard deviation. What a pain in the ass. I hope to hell no one asks me to come up with a standard deviation after I graduate. I plan to do a total brain dump immediately after finals.”

  “Tervo, I’m sure you didn’t want to talk to me about regression analysis. I’ve no fucking idea what that even means. What’s going on, kimosabe?”

  “This is one of those father-confessor things. You’re not my father and damn sure not a priest, but I need a friend, someone to talk to. I may be in a world of hurt or not. I don’t know, but I need your take, your no bullshit street smarts, to help me think through this.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “The night before the wedding Zito put together a party in the company’s conference room on the second floor. It took on a boys-night-out kind of vibe—guys from the processing side of the house, beer, pretzels, that kind of scene. Zito was making fun of me because I was getting married and sex was free on the open market. Talkin’ trash. I felt a buzz after only three beers, but hadn’t eaten much, so blew it off. The guys headed home and Zito said he was going out and would be back to unlock the doors before the end of the shift. I was the last one left in the conference room. As I headed out, the latest in the long line of administrative assistants, Carla, walked in. Like those who came before her, she had a bodacious rack and liked to strut her stuff. I was trying to make my exit when she started talking about her open marriage that ended in divorce because her husband wanted sex three times a day, but that didn’t mean she didn’t like sex, blah, blah, blah; and the brain between my legs took over. Before I knew it, she locked the door and was unzipping my pants. Two hours later, I woke up bare-assed on the conference room floor with my pants twisted around my ankles. Someone had cleared the tables and cleaned up. I didn’t know what the hell happened. I got up and saw a red blinking light. Fuck. My first thought was someone set me up and taped it. I dressed, went downstairs, did my job and didn’t say jack shit to Zito when he showed up. The next day, Carla was gone. Someone new had already replaced her. I didn’t ask anyone what happened to her because like some two-year-old, I wanted to cover my eyes and pretend she didn’t exist. But four months later, I can’t shake this sense of doom. You and I both know these guys are connected and I keep looking over my shoulder, waiting for the ax to fall.”

  “It’s a set up. I don’t know what they have in mind or when they plan to spring it on you but it’s a clear set up. Someone slipped something in your drink. No telling what the story looks like on tape. You have choices, but none of them good. You can tell Zito what happened and ask his advice. You might get a sense of what you’re dealing with or cause the ax to drop sooner. Or, you can ride it out; keep your eyes and ears open. My guess is they need your loyalty and this is their insurance in case you want to break the bond, whatever the ‘bond’ turns out to be.”

  “What would you do?”

  “As freaked out as I’d be, and believe me I’d be freaked out, I’d ride it out. Remember the cowboy philosopher, what’s his name, Will Rogers, once said: ‘I’ve suffered so many tragedies in my life that never occurred.’ Might not be that big a deal, but if you act spooked you might end up screwing the pooch. I’d stay calm. Let them make the first move. They expect you to look for a new job after you gra
duate and I’d stick to that plan.”

  “I’m such a dickhead. My life was finally coming together and I decide to play with fire. Thanks, man, it’s good advice. I know you love Maggie and this was so fucked up.”

  “Hey ass-wipe, I love both you and Maggie. No matter what you think, this was a set up and whatever drug they gave you messed with your head. Just don’t screw it up with Maggie. You’ll never find another woman like her. And, as much as I hate to say it, no confessions! That means don’t tell Maggie to ease your own guilt. You keep it.”

  “Got it. She’d be pissed at me, but she’s a junkyard dog when it comes to protecting people she loves. She’d raise an army to get to the bottom of this. Maggie’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. God knows I’m just beginning to grok what love and commitment mean, but she’s the only person I’ve ever wanted to spend time with, to live with. She’s unreal.”

  “Maggie’s real. I don’t know anyone more authentic. Love her the best you can.”

  By the time Maggie finished cleaning, organizing and laundering it was after six and she was beginning to take a certain amount of Donna Reed pride in her homemaking abilities. During the weekdays, Sam was never home for dinner, but a lovely dessert to share before bed seemed the perfect way to top off the clean smell of their petite maison. Perhaps tarte citrons, lemon tarts with stiff meringue? Maggie laughed at herself. All she needed was a freshly pressed apron. She imagined meeting Sam at the door, a clean house behind her, tarte citrons on a plate in her hands and an apron barely covering her naked body. Before her mind had a chance to play with that tendril, the phone rang. It was 6:20 p.m.

  “Hello,” said Maggie.

  “Have you heard?” said Loretta.

  “Heard what?”

  “Oh god, baby.”

  Maggie’s knees shook; her whole body trembled.

  “Oh my god, is Sam hurt?”

  All Maggie heard was sobbing, her own and Loretta’s. Then, an ancient wailing she did not recognize. Was it coming from her? Loretta?

  “Please, Loretta, please tell me what happened.”

  “They killed King. Oh god, Dr. King was shot in Memphis. Baby, he’s dying right now. He’s dying.”

  Maggie sat down on the kitchen floor and hugged her knees. She couldn’t stop shaking. She couldn’t stop crying. The sharp edges of betrayal and loss and hopelessness sucked the energy out of the room.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” a voice said.

  10

  Resurrection

  In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.

  —Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

  APRIL 4, 1968 POST MERIDIEM—When Maggie answered the door, she found Loretta standing outside in a red turban and a flowing robe from the same cloth, an African queen. Mesmerized, unable to take it all in, Maggie stood motionless.

  “Maggie, you okay, baby?”

  “Oh, Loretta, you look so beautiful and strong. I don’t think I can bear the pain of another assassination and more violence.”

  “Get your coat Maggie. We’re going to the Student Union; and you and me, well, we’re going to talk. We’re going to listen. We’re going to make damn sure if Dr. King dies, he doesn’t die for nothing.”

  Maggie knew she looked like a street urchin—uncombed hair, knee-stained jeans and Sam’s old camel-colored chamois shirt she’d adopted as her own. She grabbed her navy pea coat, closed the door without locking it and followed Loretta across campus to the Student Union. Before they reached the Main Building, Loretta slowed down and slipped her hand through Maggie’s elbow and pulled her close. It wasn’t that cold, but they were both shivering.

  The dimly lit, unheated Union was packed with students attempting to watch television reports on a 19” black-and-white Zenith. Shortly after 7:05 p.m., the newscaster reported that a spokesman from St. Joseph Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee, had pronounced Dr. Martin Luther King dead at 7:01 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. A single bullet had torn through his jaw and severed his spinal cord.

  Coverage immediately switched to the White House where President Johnson was preparing to address the nation. A commentator intoned, “We understand the President just talked to Coretta Scott King to express his condolences.” A weary LBJ appeared at the podium and asked every citizen “to reject the blind violence that has struck Dr. King, who lived by nonviolence. . . . It is only by joining together and only by working together that we can continue to move toward equality and fulfillment for all people.”

  But something vast and uncontrollable had already been set in motion. The newscaster said teletypes, from all the major news services, reported incendiary riots had erupted in cities throughout the country. The President had already mobilized National Guard troops to help contain the violence.

  Sam, thought Maggie, he’ll be called up. Maggie wanted to cancel the thoughts that raced through her mind. She wanted to hear Dr. King’s call for peace. Not LBJ, not a Texan, and not, god forbid, a shit-kicking cowboy who lifts his hunting dogs by their ears.

  Maggie turned when she heard Loretta’s voice. On top of a table, Loretta stood like a vision summoned from some past or future that had mysteriously been made now. Her twenty-foot shadow cast itself against a windowless concrete-block wall. The room rippled as conversations broke off and hushes foraged toward an uneasy stillness.

  “My name’s Loretta Hood. I’m a Freedom Rider, not a Freedom Coaster. I’m a Freedom Speaker, not a Freedom Policer. I’m a Freedom Seeker, not a Freedom Hoarder. And I’ve got something to say.” Words rolled in a slow, precise, measured cadence and Loretta’s left foot bounced up and down as if it had nowhere to go. Soon, the fabric of her skirt began to swirl and quiver, like the ground trying to contain the first tremors of a quake. Taking a deep breath, she looked out at the sea of white, black and brown faces heaving together like a building storm. The energy in the room was restless, angry, bewildered. Loretta knew she had to go on, but she had no map, no idea what to say.

  “Right now my heart is full of splinters. Right now my stomach is full of fire. Right now my mind is a blank space on a balcony in Jim Crow’s backyard. Right now I don’t know if there’s a god, but I do know a blaze has started on a balcony in Memphis. A blaze has started in my gut. A blaze has started in this room and in every room where people love freedom across this country. And it will not be stopped. Part of me wants revenge, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. But where does that lead? Gandhi said it would leave all of us blind and toothless. But we have a fire to see by. A fire to feed us.”

  Some of the students moved closer, encouraging her to speak up, say more. “Dr. King taught us how. I want to cocoon myself in his passion. I want to wrap myself in his words. I want to hear with his heart. I want to hear with his heart! Dr. King told us to ‘stick with love because hate is too much of a burden.’ ” Loretta bent at her waist and drew deep breaths, as if she’d just run a marathon.

  “But, love. Love is hard. These splinters hurt. This fire burns and a part of me wants to bury myself in Dr. King’s grave because love hurts. It turns hearts to stone, blood to bile. But hard as it is, Dr. King would tell us to stick with love. Love is not passive. Love is power. Love can be disobedience—marches, protests, lawsuits! But love is not hate, fear or violence.” Loretta paused to shake off her pain. “You see Dr. King and Gandhi somehow knew that love is freedom and freedom is love. Gandhi’s followers started by picking up pieces of salt from the beaches, breaking the Brit’s Salt Laws in India. This simple, quiet non-violent act ended years of oppression, one piece of salt at a time.”

  Loretta stopped talking and scanned the crowd as if she’d forgotten where she was or what she was saying. “Who the hell am I to get up on this table and talk? I don’t even know who I am, so why should you care?” Loretta pointed to the students gathering closer, her voice cracking she asked, “Who are we now? Where are we going? What are we going to do?”

  Wiping tears fro
m her eyes, she shook her head and took another deep breath. “Dr. King wasn’t Jesus; oh no, he wasn’t perfect, but he was good. Dr. King wasn’t Einstein, but he was wise. Dr. King wasn’t Mother Theresa, but he was kind. Dr. King wasn’t Houdini, but he knew how to change the world with his magic. Dr. King said ‘the measure of a person is not what he does when life is comfortable, but what he does during times of challenge.’ I’m not sure of his exact words, but the question is, in this god-awful time of murder, racism and rage, what will we do? Will we stand with Dr. King? Will we stay here and talk, find ways to continue his work, our work? Will we pick up the salt? Will we pick up the salt? Will we?”

  Maggie looked around the bleak, cold, cavern-like space. Someone had turned off the television. The quiet felt sacred. In Loretta’s own exposed grief and insecurity, she’d given everyone permission to be strong and weak, forgiving and unforgiving, to be broken, to be human. Then, people began to move in an uncertain comfort. They looked around as if trying to get a bead on what just happened. Who was this bold, brazen Negro woman in the red turban and robe? The applause started slowly and self-consciously, then gained speed until almost everyone was clapping and crying. Maggie jumped into action and got someone to donate paper and a pencil to collect the names and phone numbers of students who wanted to join the Freedom Riders. Loretta was helped down from the table and began hugging the mourners. As she looked each person in the face, Loretta seemed to nod yes our time is now.

  Maggie wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion or exhilaration that kept her up. It was almost midnight and she’d not heard from Sam. If he didn’t show up by 12:30, she’d assume he was called to guard duty. A non-believer, Maggie surprised herself when she whispered, “please god keep him safe.”

  Less than sixteen hours ago Maggie was basking in solitude and the quiet routines of a contrived wife—cleaning, baking, seducing. That was before the maelstrom, before another hero was slain and a new hero rose from the ashes. Loretta, of all people. Her boldness trounced any labels she carried—GED, hairdresser, small businesswoman. Tonight, in her red turban and robe, on top of a table, Loretta radiated light and power. Dr. Martin Luther King was dead but Loretta Hood was alive, unafraid to ignite new fires and lead in a time of raw-boned desperation.