Angel of Greenwood

by Randi Pink

  Isaiah’s mother hurried ahead of him to find a rare hole in the thick crowd. Looking around, he regretted not wearing his hat since every man within his sights wore one. Though it was a weekday, the crowd wore their Sunday best. Women’s waists cinched into submission, their young daughters pouting to take their bonnets off, and sons’ thumbs running up and down tight suspenders.

  Isaiah scanned the audience to spot someone he didn’t recognize and found no one. Everyone there he knew well. But he found something new in their faces—respect. From Mrs. Edith the librarian to George Morris to the Barney sisters. His eyes rested briefly on Mrs. Tate; when his eyes met hers, she nodded and looked away toward the approaching drum majors.

  Poor woman, he thought, watching her. She stood in the thick of people, forcing her chin high in the air though she knew she’d be the talk of the town for a few more days. But not for the same reason he was. She was being gossiped about while he was revered.

  Donning her everyday housedress, she stuck out in the parade crowd like a gardener in the midst of church folks. She’d probably been snipping juniper all day, while reminiscing about fond memories of her beloved son and esteemed husband. How horrifying it must have been to find out it had all been a farce. She was a woman undone within moments by a loose-lipped dud named Muggy Little Jr. He deserved his ass whupping, truly.

  Isaiah rarely pitied anyone, but there he was pitying poor old Mrs. Tate. That was Angel’s influence, he realized and smiled to himself. The reverberating impact of a genuinely good human in one’s life. The drum majors took his attention as they turned a corner and came into view.

  When Isaiah was small, he accompanied his mother into the all-white side of Tulsa for a trip to the chamber of commerce. That day, for a reason he could not recall, they’d closed the streets off for a parade of their own. Isaiah remembered lots of green hats and streamers catching wind. He also recalled loud hollers and belligerent shrieks from near-drunken men fumbling all over themselves. Isaiah hid behind his mother’s long skirt, still peeking with one eye to catch the sight of the white drum majors.

  “Mommy, mommy.” He asked her, tugging at her tucked collared shirt, “What are they doing?”

  She leaned down with such grace. “They’re drum majors, baby. Just like the ones from Booker T. Washington at the Memorial Day parade last year.”

  After thinking of this for a moment, he’d replied, “They’re nothing like that, Mommy. Not at all.”

  She smiled and stood straight-backed.

  In that moment, Isaiah remembered being sad for the white people in the green crowd. No one should have to watch such a dull sight of drum majors waving lazy hands back and forth and back and forth for no reason at all. A drum major was meant to entertain—dance, high step, and kick so high he could bloody his own nose. This was not right, Isaiah recalled thinking. Not right at all.

  But now, watching his classmates Thomas Odom and Reginald Tip at work, Isaiah knew this was world-class drum majoring. For the first time since the band’s inception, Thomas and Reginald had added synchronized back flips to Washington High’s already-incredible routines. Everyone’s eyes widened at their unrivaled talent, including Isaiah’s, even though he’d witnessed that very sequence many times.

  “Never gets old, does it?” His ma elbowed him gently. “Look! How do those girls get their batons to fly so high? I always wanted to do that. No rhythm, though,” she said with a small, off-tempo shimmy at the end.

  “Yes, Ma.” Isaiah smiled and shielded his eyes from her attempt at dancing. “I know.”

  “Hey!”

  When the dance line came into view, Isaiah could’ve sworn he saw the team captain, Faye Tifton, shoot him a sly wink, and then the only freshman on the team, Lillian Finn, shoot him another. Surely he’d been imagining things.

  “Is it me?” his ma whispered into his ear. “Or are these girls winking right at you one after the other? Good Lord, I guess smacking the town bully is just the love potion you needed.” She playfully rubbed the top of his head, and Isaiah grinned before leaning away.

  He hadn’t realized how much taller he was now than her. She never had to reach upward for his head until now. Something about that made Isaiah sad.

  “Best drum line in the land,” she said without looking away from them.

  Isaiah nodded as they marched in step with one another while beating drums and pulsating through the town. After his failed attempt at the flute, Isaiah expressed interest in the drum line. They were girl magnets—significantly more loved than any athlete at the school. But after his father took him to one lesson, he quit.

  “Those guys make it look easy,” he said back to her, remembering that one lesson. “Feet, hands, arms, shoulders all isolated to their own beats. It shouldn’t be possible.”

  “Guess I’m not the only one in this family with no rhythm,” she teased.

  “Hey!” he replied. “You got me.”

  The remainder of the parade was a pretty typical small-town display—kindergarten kids waving from the sidelines and throwing candy, handmade floats rolling down the street, and people of all ages waving handheld American flags on Popsicle sticks.

  The soldiers brought up the rear.

  Isaiah hated the sight of them with their faded haircuts, sullen faces, and stiff uniforms, but he couldn’t leave without saluting. Feet together, unbending hand to forehead, and chin up just like his father had taught him. Don’t you dare cry, he told himself, as one by one they saluted back to him. Then the crowd caught on, and everyone else saluted, too. From the youngest child to the eldest adult, of one accord, everyone showed reverence to those who fought and to the memory of those who died.

  Don’t you dare cry, he told himself, watching his teary mother as she saluted. Don’t you dare cry, he told himself, imagining his handsome father grinning with pride for his son, actively becoming a leader and no longer a follower. Don’t you dare cry, he told himself as he caught a familiar smell of honeysuckle floating closely in the crowded air—Angel. His gaze followed the scent to indeed find her standing a couple short inches to his right. She, too, was saluting the fighters.

  Then, still in active salute, he began to cry without apology. Soon after, large raindrops fell around the parade-goers, dispersing the crowd and hiding Isaiah’s tears.

  Still, he, Angel, and his ma stood there getting drenched in the sudden downpour. They watched the soldiers, most of them in their twenties, marching along as if it weren’t raining at all. They’d surely been through worse, Isaiah thought.

  But then the founder of Greenwood’s head newspaper, Tulsa Star, ran toward them, yelling something indiscernible into their formation. Immediately, they dispersed.

  “Wonder what he told them,” said Isaiah, finally allowing his stiff hand to fall.

  “Couldn’t make it out over all this,” his ma said. “Let’s get out of this mess.”

  And they ran into the soda shop to dry off.

  That afternoon, Angel and Isaiah had been aimlessly walking the streets of Greenwood since the festivities ended and the rain let up. Taking in the beauty of the day, they’d snaked every street, not caring one bit about neighbors or gossiping schoolmates.

  Angel couldn’t imagine a more perfect day. Hot, yes, but no ominous clouds teasing any more rain or pesky winds kicking up dirt. It was as if the Lord himself commanded the earth to be still so that they may have an afternoon of joy.

  “That was lovely what you did, starting the salute,” Angel told Isaiah, his shoulder slightly brushing hers as they walked. “I’m sure they all appreciated it.”

  Isaiah, however, remained silent, and Angel thought he was likely thinking of his own father. Angel had noticed that Isaiah rarely mentioned him. A tender spot, and she knew better than to bring him up herself. But she didn’t have to.

  “They went to the big war right along with all those white boys,” Isaiah started. He’d lost the lightness, and his voice was now heavy with anger and hatred. “Probably pus
hed them right to the front of the lines to die. And then some came back. Expecting salutation, and instead, getting spat on like they hadn’t fought for those foul folks’ freedom. Used as space holders for their warm bodies and then discarded like trash. Wearing the same uniforms, carrying the same guns, and, worst of all, killing for this country. Probably killed folks who looked at them more like humans than the people they were fighting for do.” Isaiah paused to kick a baseball-sized rock clear across the street and into someone’s front yard. “Maybe my father was better off not seeing all of that. Better off not knowing he killed the opposition of his enemies here at home. Could you know what I mean?”

  Isaiah looked at Angel with pleading eyes. Exasperated and out of breath, as if he’d just articulated something he’d been mulling for a very long time. Angel, however, had no idea how to respond. The truth was that her mind knew what he’d meant, but her heart could hardly reconcile the hatred from which it came. He seemed to view all white people as the evil enemy, put on this earth to battle and ultimately be defeated. Her perspective was different. She saw the bad ones as ignorant. Not quite victims of circumstance; that would be much too much undeserved grace, but damned by upbringing. Living luxurious lives on this side and destined to pay a heavy price on the other. Nothing to envy there according to Angel.

  “I know what you mean,” replied Angel. That was all she could think to say in response to such a raw reveal. She felt both uncomfortable and honored that he’d trust her with such a moment. It felt like a turning point in their budding relationship.

  “My papa is d-d-d…” She stopped herself. It was much harder to say the second time. “Dying.” She finally forced the word through her uncooperative lips. “Doctors say there’s not a bit of hope. Papa says he’s ready. I’m not near ready.”

  Angel stared at the dusty ground. Isaiah didn’t say anything for a long time, and Angel wondered if he was offended that she’d changed the subject. But his father was gone and hers was going. This was the second time she’d hijacked his heartbreak and replaced it with her own.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, realizing her error. “I shouldn’t have nicked the conversation and made it all about me.”

  Isaiah remained quiet, which made Angel nervous. So nervous, in fact, that she had no choice but to speak more.

  “I don’t know what comes over me sometimes; I just can’t stop myself from talking and talking and talking. I think it’s a strange tick to fill silences.”

  When she locked eyes with him, he smiled. “I love you, Angel Hill. I know it’s crazy to say that, but I don’t care anymore. I’ve loved you since I saw you dance. Maybe before then without fully realizing. I think I’ve loved you my whole life and fought it back like a weed. Scared, too cowardly to stand up to Muggy, but my heart knew when I did not. And when I saw you dance, it popped wide open. The realization of that love was a freeing thing, a relief. I think that’s why I stood up to Muggy after all these years. I’m whole with you. I don’t need Muggy or my place in Greenwood society. I have you. And you, Angel Hill, are more than enough.”

  Right there in the middle of the street, Angel Hill kissed Isaiah Wilson. With confidence and abandon, she kissed him like she knew what she was doing, which she didn’t. But it didn’t matter.

  While kissing him, there was only the two of them. Standing in the middle of idyllic Greenwood, surrounded by beauty and Blackness and excellence and kindness and gossip and loved ones and loss and hope for the future. They were produced by the dream of this place. The unlikely optimism of the enslaved. Brought over by force, funneled through country like cattle, paid for like resources. And then, dear God, there they were.

  Two intelligent, passionate Black folk. Kissing freely in the middle of the street their own people owned. What a wonderful world it was.

  TUESDAY, MAY 31, 1921

  GREENWOOD

  From your blood, I rose. Brick by brick, I was built with tired hands that deserved rest. You. Black. Beautiful. Never broken. I prayed for you to thrive and watched with pride when you did. I wanted to touch your shoulder and whisper my pride into your ear but I could not.

  So, I showed myself in the quiet ways.

  In the finest, most fragrant verbena, I surfaced—bright, hybrid, and with the posture of a dancer. In the tallest, most enviable juniper, I watched you smile as you breathed me in. In the weepiest soapberry trees, I hid nests of songs and spirits. And through them, I sang my encouragements—push on, you’re nearly there, push on. I steadied the winds, giving you time to erect your paradise. I polished the soil beneath your feet so that you walked on the best I had to offer.

  But yesterday.

  Yesterday, a white woman’s scream swung the atmosphere so far that I could not catch it. Her scream lit an already angry brew, fueling and feeding a starving mob whose hunger was not for food. Her scream echoed through newspapers, and living rooms, and up and down sidewalks until today—the thirty-first day of May in the hopeful year of 1921—when the brew has overflowed.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 1, 1921; 1:00 A.M.

  ISAIAH

  Exhausted, Isaiah hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in days. Desperate to connect with Angel on another level, he’d been lost in her literature. Reading her recommended books, one after the other, and beginning to understand the crux of her argument against Du Bois.

  To his delight, her argument wasn’t a weak one. Actually, it held a similar strength to his. The main difference was compassion. Action, yes. Movement, yes. But also acknowledgment of an ever-present undercurrent of pain from decades of servitude. And that was certainly a palatable philosophy for Isaiah to digest.

  He sat on the floor underneath his bedroom window thinking of Booker T. Washington. His hero’s nemesis and subsequently his own. Isaiah perceived him as brown-nosing the white people while keeping his own within the confines of bondage for the sake of himself. A man refusing to simply forget his own circumstance and fight without restraint.

  But through Angel’s eyes, Washington was pushing against the pain of his youth. A pain that Isaiah had only read about in books and never actually experienced. A pain that existed in millions within his community in Greenwood and well beyond. Such pain must be adequately addressed and acknowledged, was Angel’s point. And her point, he thought, may just be a valid one.

  Thinking of her, his mind drifted to their kisses. He chuckled a bit at the untidiness of it. Angel had no idea what she was doing, but she threw herself into it. At first, they smashed teeth together so awkwardly that it hurt. Quickly after that, she caught her stride, and it became the kiss of his life. She tasted like honeysuckle straight off the vine, and her lips were like the first bite of freshly baked homemade bread. He could’ve kissed her all day long.

  He felt an itch in his right hand and realized he hadn’t written in a while. Opening his journal to a rare blank page, he blinked away bleariness. He’d taken in too many words over the past few nights, and his eyes were tired. Still, ignoring sleep, he set pencil to paper and began with the word …

  Kiss …

  A dry gust of wind came through his cracked window and brought with it the smell of evergreen burning. He placed his journal to his side and slid his feet into waiting slippers. As he stood, he bent backward to give his lower back a good crack. He needed rest. He peeked through his nearly closed curtain expecting to see a sleepy, dark Greenwood.

  At first he thought the sight was his imagination. The orange glow pulsing throughout his usually peaceful neighborhood. Smoke dancing against the fiery backdrop, twirling like an angry angel defected. Faraway screams that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t heard before that moment. They surely should’ve risen him from his reading, but no, it was the distinct smell of Mrs. Tate’s juniper burning that stung his nostrils awake to the chaos. He’d never taken in such a horrible scent or sight. Amazing, Isaiah thought, that the juniper that had won prizes for its beauty and color could produce such an ugly fragrance when destroyed. He imagined that scent woul
d never leave. It would somehow stay forever, floating in the wind from house to house like the fire was now.

  In the far-off distance, he squinted to see a line of what looked like bouncing lit matchsticks. After much confusion, he understood that they were men holding torches.

  “My God.” He whispered something close to a prayer over Greenwood. “My God,” he said a second time before running to wake his ma.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 1, 1921; 1:00 A.M.

  ANGEL

  Angel couldn’t sleep at all after that kiss, so she stayed up reading The Souls of Black Folk to better understand Isaiah.

  On the surface, he came off militant and unruly. But earlier that afternoon, he’d broken himself down, sharing the most challenging pieces of himself with her. He loved her and she believed.

  Through clanking teeth and sloppy lips, she regretted only one thing—not telling him she loved him back, which she did. I love you, I love you, I love you! Such an easy thing to say, so why on earth hadn’t she said it?

  On her way home from the kiss, seven of her neighbors stopped her and asked about Isaiah. To her surprise, their comments were lovely.

  Mrs. Turner had told her, “That Isaiah sure did stand up for Mrs. Tate, huh?”

  And then Mr. Morris said, “He helped me to my woodshed. Nice boy now that he shook loose that Muggy.”

  Even Deacon Yancey kept it kind by saying, “Still don’t like him, but he showed a flash of character at that parade today.”

  Angel grinned, thinking of the town she loved. The town where everybody knew everybody’s business and she didn’t mind one bit.

  As she looked up from the book, lost in her thoughts, her bedroom began to glimmer a strange amber color. New light caught the corners of her dresser and the foot of her bed. The lights were bobbing like apples on water. Up and down and down and up, dipping in and out of view.