Dreamland Burning

by Jennifer Latham

  James nodded. “It’s on the pants, too.” He shifted closer to the hole. “Wait… is that a gun?”

  I saw the half-buried lump of dull metal he was talking about, got on my knees, and pulled it free of the hard-packed dirt.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  I set the pistol down on the intact floorboards. “Like you said, it’s a gun.”

  “No.” He pointed to a rusty patch on the barrel. “That.”

  It looked like there was something carved into the metal. And even though I knew better than to get my own DNA and fingerprints all over the thing, I hawked a glob of spit onto the rust and rubbed. It didn’t do any good; neither one of us could make out the mark.

  “Maybe it’s the owner’s name,” James said.

  “Or the gun’s.”

  “You think?”

  I’d been squinting and had to blink a few times to make my eyes focus normally. “Could be. Cowboys always name their rifles in old westerns, don’t they?”

  James shrugged and turned the gun over. The other side was covered in white gunk.

  “I think that’s lime,” I said. “You know—to keep the body from smelling.”

  He scratched at it until a big flake fell off. There was no rust underneath, and no mistaking what we saw: eight notches, carved deep.

  “Somebody was keeping count,” I said.

  James nodded. “You think it was the skeleton, or the person who dumped it here?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But I’m guessing whoever killed this guy wasn’t interested in bragging about it. They wanted him erased, like he never even existed.”

  “That’s dark, Chase.”

  “Welcome to my morning.”

  Then I noticed thin cracks spiderwebbing out from the hank of matted hair on the back of the skull. I curled my fingers under its edge, scraping until the whole mess came off in my hand. The bone underneath was shattered.

  “That’s not from a bullet,” James muttered. He reached down past the edge of the hole and came out holding a brick. One of its long edges was stained dark, covered with strands of something that looked suspiciously like hair. He held that edge over the crater in the skull. It fit perfectly along the main fracture line. Warm as the air around me had gotten, I shivered.

  James set the brick down and reached in again. “There’s something in his back pocket…”

  The gate clicked outside.

  James jerked back and scrambled to his feet. I dropped onto my stomach and had just gotten hold of the thing in the skeleton’s pocket when James yanked me out by the waist. He kicked the gun and the brick back into the hole. I shoved a mildewed rectangle of leather between the waistband of my bike shorts and the skin of my back.

  “Keep quiet,” I whispered as a shadow crossed the yard. “I’ll do the talking.”

  WILLIAM

  Not a word passed between me and Clete as we made our way west, away from Tulsa’s raggedy edge and into proper neighborhoods. Years prior, when Mama and Pop purchased the house where I grew up, our street sat on the lower boundary of town. Every residence there was spit-shine new at the time, but in the years that followed, bigger and grander homes went up further and further south, casting what Pop considered to be a long shadow over our respectable foursquare bungalow.

  The newest bit of town had been dubbed “Maple Ridge.” It was to be a silk-stocking district where hardscrabble oilmen could build mansions befitting their brand-new fortunes and set about convincing themselves they were every bit as cultured as the steel and railroad barons back east.

  My father, a shopkeep of respectable but moderate means, took each and every one of those mansions as a taunt. He set to convincing Mama we should have a Maple Ridge estate all our own, saying she deserved it, and needed something grand to ease the grief that had consumed her since influenza took my little sister, Nell, during the epidemic three years prior.

  Mama, you see, was a full-blood Osage Indian, and as such had been allotted one headright—one equal share—of all profits earned from oil pumped out of tribal land. She’d also inherited her brother’s headright after he died in the Great War, and her own mother’s not long after that. Mama was a woman of substantial means.

  A year earlier, and just ahead of the US government declaring that every Osage without a certificate of competency would need a white guardian to manage their money, Mama gave in to Pop’s wheedling and purchased a parcel of farmland from a Muscogee Creek woman at the southern edge of Maple Ridge. They commissioned a fine three-story residence soon after, all red brick and columns, and more mansion than house. Then, when that fool-headed legislation passed in March of ’21, Pop was appointed Mama’s guardian, and Mama lost what little voice she’d had in the project to begin with. Construction continued apace, with Pop in charge.

  All that’s to say that while there were plans afoot for me and Mama and Pop to move later that year, the house where Clete dumped me off after the Two-Knock was the same one where I’d been birthed.

  I tried my best to sneak in quiet. I truly did. But any hope I’d had of avoiding capture died soon as I bumped the umbrella stand in the hall with my bad hand. Hearing my howl of pain, Pop called me into the parlor, where he and Mama had been sitting. And I knew soon as I crossed the threshold that there was no way to hide the reek of Choc on my breath, or the ugly spectacle of my wrist.

  Nothing I said could have helped my case, so I spoke as little as I dared, gritting my teeth against the pain while Mama looked sad and Pop paced the parlor floor.

  The first thing Pop asked was who I’d been with, and if all I did with my free time was drink and get into heaven-knew-what kind of trouble. When I only shrugged, he said, “You’d best speak up now or you won’t leave this house on a social call until you’ve left it for good.”

  So I mumbled, “Clete,” and Pop glared at me and asked why Clete hadn’t had the decency to walk me inside. To which I replied that he’d seen me to the porch but been too afraid to go further.

  Pop paced and twisted the tips of his mustache for a long while, then asked me to tell him exactly what had happened. “I fell, is all,” I replied. “I wanted to see what the fuss over Choctaw beer was about, and after I’d had a glassful I got dizzy and tripped.”

  Then he asked was it the first time I’d drunk alcohol, and I said yes sir and toed the flowers on Mama’s oriental carpet. Pop didn’t like that response, most likely because he knew it was a lie. So he said I should look him in the eye and say it again, and I never wavered once doing it.

  Mama’s chair creaked. Pop gazed out the front window and told her to have the doctor come set my wrist. Mama stood up and went to the telephone stand in the hall without a word.

  “I know your mother gives you money,” Pop said, staring out into the dark. “And I suppose it’s a woman’s prerogative to coddle her son. I’ll not tolerate sloth and foolishness, though. Starting tomorrow, you’ll work for me every weekday from the end of school until closing. All day Saturday, too. On Sundays you’ll attend church with your mother in the morning and spend the afternoon on chores of her devising.”

  My stomach fell to somewhere below my knees as I felt my theretofore unappreciated freedom slipping away. But I held my tongue nonetheless.

  “So long as you live under my roof,” Pop went on, “you’ll earn your keep.”

  I mumbled that I understood, and tried not to look too ashamed when Mama came back and told me to go wash the stink off myself before the doctor arrived. “You reek of alcohol and sin,” she said. For she was a godly woman, though of the pragmatic sort. Then Pop dismissed me with a wave of his hand, saying, “This will never happen again, William.” And it wasn’t a question, either; he was telling me the way things were going to be.

  I was nearly out of the room when Mama’s voice stopped me short. And I swear that when I spun about to face her, the corner of her mouth twitched like she was hiding a smile. But the twitch disappeared like all my pride had done, and in its place
came a weary sadness that made me feel lower than pond scum.

  “Chew some parsley from the pot on the kitchen sill, William,” she said. “I won’t have the doctor smelling that poison on your breath.”

  Then I slunk away, arm pressed to my belly, bearing the burden of my punishment near as hard as the sting of Addie’s disdain.

  Rowan

  What are you two doing back here?”

  Mom stomped across the construction mess in four-inch snakeskin pumps.

  “And where the hell is that damn crew?”

  Now, just so you understand the dynamic here, I’ll tell you a little bit about my mother. She’s the kind of woman you want to stare at but don’t quite dare—striking, elegant, with a close-clipped Afro. Her makeup is always perfect, her clothes fit just so. She’s a public defender with a stubborn streak, and if you ask her, she’ll tell you she’s nobody’s girl and nobody’s fool. She is a goddamned lady.

  Even so, the skeleton stopped her short.

  “Oh my God.”

  She squatted down at the edge of the hole across from us, skirt slishing against her thighs. One shoe slipped off her heel and knocked against the floor.

  “At what point were you planning on calling me?”

  The question itself wasn’t unexpected, or even unreasonable. But that didn’t mean I had a good answer.

  “I was about to,” I said lamely.

  Mom wasn’t convinced. “It’s a good thing Judge Wilkerson has a stomach flu and canceled her morning session so we didn’t have to test that, isn’t it?” she said in her don’t-jerk-me-around voice. “I’m guessing neither of you called the police?”

  I shook my head.

  “And is it also safe to assume that when I call them, they’re going to find your fingerprints where they don’t belong?”

  “Mine are on the gun,” I said. “I picked it up.”

  The look she gave me could have crushed marble.

  “What about the brick? You know they can get fingerprints from bricks now?”

  I shook my head.

  “And you pulled off the tarp?”

  I nodded. She pursed her lips and turned to James.

  “What about you?”

  “Just the brick,” he said.

  She sized both of us up like we were new clients. Which, since she mostly defends people busted on charges like drug possession and robbery and assault, wasn’t pleasant. But it didn’t take long before the grim line of her lips softened.

  “This is a hell of a way to start your summer vacation, isn’t it?” She sighed. And before James or I could answer, she came around and turned us by the shoulders to face her.

  “Are you both all right?”

  James nodded. I murmured that I was and told her how the construction workers had shown up, cut the hole, and bailed.

  Mom frowned. “They might have been undocumented. I can’t say I blame them for leaving, but the police are going to want to talk to them.”

  A funny noise came out of James’s throat, and I realized that must have been what he’d wanted to say earlier, when I’d told him about the workers leaving. He’s into social justice and immigration reform like I’m into field hockey and volleyball and cross country. He even does ESL tutoring at the library on Saturdays. It’s his thing.

  Mom’s eyes lingered on James’s hair. “She dragged you into this, didn’t she?”

  “She called me, is all,” he said.

  “Well, then she owes you, because you’re going to have to stick around and talk to the police.”

  James didn’t seem surprised, and it wasn’t until Mom said she’d have to let his dad know what was going on that he started looking a little queasy. She glanced down at the skeleton. James nudged me with his elbow, telling me that (1) even though he worshipped her, my mother scared him; (2) she was right about me dragging him into this mess; (3) I sure as hell better fix it.

  He cleared his throat. “Um, Mrs. Chase, I’m supposed to be at the restaurant by ten.”

  Mom told him we’d make it work and sent me to get dressed while she called the police.

  “Brush your teeth for everyone’s sake,” she yelled after me. “And, Rowan?”

  I looked back. She was staring at my bike shorts, and all I could think was, She sees it. She sees the thing you took from the skeleton’s pocket.

  But then her left eyebrow arched and her lips pursed, and I knew I was safe. I also knew she was about to tell me not to come down with my ass hanging out of my shorts again.

  And I was right.

  Mom, James, and I all saw it when Mom opened the door—the slight hesitation in the policeman’s hello, the split-second tightening around his mouth, the quick once-over he gave the three of us. He hadn’t been expecting black people. Not in Maple Ridge. Not in one of the big houses.

  To be fair, though, he recovered quickly.

  “Morning, ma’am,” he said. “Someone called dispatch about finding an old grave site at this address?”

  Mom’s voice was cool. “I did, Officer”—she glanced down at his badge—“Cooper. I’m Isis Chase. This is my daughter, Rowan, and her friend James Galvez. Please come in.”

  After some awkward formalities, the four of us went to the back house. One look at the skeleton and Officer Cooper was on his radio, calling for detectives. It was hard, standing there, not knowing how much trouble James and I were in. I kept my eyes on Uncle Chotch’s Victrola because it was the safest place for them.

  When I was little, I loved going through the fragile old records in the compartments beneath the Victrola’s turntable. Its wooden cabinet was four feet tall, so I’d had to use a stool to put the records on. Then I’d wind up the stubborn crank on the side to get the turntable spinning, and dance around to the tinny, old-fashioned music it played. I’d loved that thing. Still do.

  Officer Cooper let go of his radio. “Ten minutes,” he said. Then the back gate clicked and the three of us stood there in this awkward silence until Dad walked in.

  The shift in Officer Cooper was immediate and completely unsubtle. Clearly, having another standard-issue white guy in the room made him more comfortable.

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Chase,” he said. “Now that you’re here, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Dad gave him a gee-I-wish-I-could-help-you shrug and said, “I’m really not up on the situation, Officer. You’re better off talking to my wife or my daughter.”

  Which was exactly what he should have said, and exactly the opposite of what Officer Cooper expected. Dad’s big and easygoing and almost never doubts himself. It’s an old-money thing.

  The policeman’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. Don’t be an idiot, I thought. Talk to Mom.

  “Of course,” he mumbled, flipping a page on his notepad. “Mrs. Chase, if you’ll just tell me your contractor’s name…”

  Wise choice, grasshopper, I thought. You’ve done well.

  WILLIAM

  I started working at the Victory Victrola Shop on a Saturday morning, less than twenty-four hours after the incident at the Two-Knock. And, truth to tell, the arrangement wasn’t near so bad as I’d thought it would be.

  I liked watching my father sweet-talk customers out of their hard-earned cash. We lured people in off the street by propping the door wide open and piping music out through it. Pop put me in charge of choosing records and making sure the demo machine stayed wound. It was a task I took to straightaway. So long as the songs kept playing, the customers kept coming.

  But the best part of being at the shop was getting to watch the never-ending parade of folks strolling up and down Main Street. Tulsa had sprung up so fast and fierce during the oil boom that folks called it the Magic City. Ladies sporting fine hats and Parisian dresses walked alongside leather-skinned roughnecks in dirty overalls. Flannel-suited oilmen and jingle-spurred ranch hands bellied up to crowded lunch counters together, trading stock tips and livestock reports over plates of fried pork chops with rice and brown gravy.
To the south, oil derricks pumped night and day, sucking crude from the big Midcontinent oil field. And around Greenwood Avenue, just to the north and east of where the Frisco Railroad tracks divided the city, colored Tulsans had built a boomtown of their own.

  During the day you could find Negroes aplenty downtown, working as domestics in white homes, shining shoes, making deliveries. But come quitting time, the ones who didn’t live in quarters behind their white employers’ houses went north to sleep in homes of their own. And on Thursdays, when colored maids and cooks got the evening off, downtown Tulsa’s streets turned white as fresh-bleached sheets.

  Of course, Jim Crow laws kept Negroes from shopping in white stores unless they were fetching orders. But all rules have exceptions, and one of the first things I learned in Pop’s employ was that his principles were far more flexible as a businessman than as a father.

  “We’re packing up that VE-300 for delivery,” he said, half an hour before closing time on my second day. “Get its crate from the back.”

  I hesitated, not knowing which Victrola he meant.

  “The electric one with the dome top,” Pop said curtly. “You have those model numbers memorized by the end of the week, hear?”

  I mumbled, “Yes, sir,” but I was confused. Just the other evening, he’d said over dinner how he regretted stocking the new electric model. Yet there we were, boxing it up for delivery.

  I stood like a big lump of useless until Pop looked up from his newspaper and gave me the stink eye.

  “Get the crate,” he said. And I hustled off to do as I was told.

  Two shoppers wandered in over the next thirty minutes, neither of them in a buying mood. At seven o’clock on the dot, we locked the front door, hung the CLOSED sign in the window, loaded the Victrola into our delivery truck, and drove north. After a few blocks, I asked where we were going. Pop said I’d see when we got there. When I asked who we were delivering to, he kept mum and left me chewing on my thumbnail as we turned east.