Belle City

by Penny Mickelbury

  "Miz McGinnis." Sadie pulled on Ruth's sleeve, tried to prevent her from getting any closer to Tobias. She shook off her hand and walked up to him.

  "Toby, Toby. Wake up!" She reached out, grabbed his arm, shook him. "Toby! Wake up! Beau's sick and we have to go get him."

  Tobias shifted in the chair and his eyes opened to narrow slits. He mumbled a bit, things that didn't sound like words, and he smiled lazily. Then his eyes closed again, the lazy smile still in place. For a long moment, Ruth did nothing, thought nothing. She stood like a statue, immobile, emotionless, staring at what once had been her brother, her friend. At the thought of yet another brother lost, anger rose in her like the cigarette smoke in the ashtray and she grabbed Toby's shirt front with more strength than she'd have thought she possessed and pulled him almost straight up. "Wake up!" she yelled at him. "Do you hear me, Tobias Thatcher? Wake up!"

  "No, he probably can't hear you," Belle said from behind her. Startled, Ruthie released Toby and he flopped back into the chair like a rag doll. "And if he does hear you, he doesn't understand you, doesn't understand what you want or why you want it." Belle bent down and picked up the cigarette that was burning in the ashtray, put it to her mouth and inhaled, then stubbed it out. She angled her head up and blew smoke from the corner of her mouth, away from Ruth, then lowered her head and met her eyes. "But the really bad, really hard thing to take, Ruth, is that he doesn't care. If he heard what you said, if he understood what you said, what you wanted—he wouldn't care. That's what hurts."

  "How did you let him get like this, Belle?"

  "I didn't let him. Nobody lets a person start using that stuff, and nobody can stop 'em once they start. He'd have to want to stop." She looked down at her husband, then turned away from him, took Ruth's arm and led her toward the front door. "This is how Tobias decided to deal with the Depression and with white folks. He escaped. For him, the Depression is over and white folks don't exist."

  "But that's crazy."

  "'Course it is, but Tobias don't know that."

  Ruth kept the front door closed; she wasn't yet ready to leave. She had to understand. "What about the children?"

  "What about 'em, Ruthie? Do they know their pa is...sick? Yeah, they do. Do they understand what it is and why? 'Bout like I do. But I know what it is you're really asking: Suppose that happens to one of them? And you want the honest truth? I would rather one of 'em be on the dope than locked up by some crazy white people or bein' called nigger every day of their lives, workin' theirselves into bad health for four or five dollars a week. I know you don't think what I do is respectable, Ruth, but don't nobody call me nigger and I make more money than most folks, Colored or white, and if this is what my chil'ren do 'stead of cleanin' up after white folks—well, all right with me."

  "But suppose they want to be doctors or lawyers or teachers?"

  Belle gave her a slow, lazy smile; not the kind of lazy one Toby had given, but lazy like a cat stretching after a nap. "Well, that'd be all right—the doctor or lawyer part—but not the school teacher part. You and Silas showed us 'bout how much that's worth."

  Ruthie stumbled down the walkway to her car, the only clear thought in her mind was the need to get Beau and bring him home because he was her last brother. Eubie was lost somewhere in France. Si may not have been lost but wherever he was in Chicago, he was of no use or value to her now. And Tobias—he certainly was lost. Where was Mack working? She should know…Big Mack. That's who would go with her. She needed to turn around and go the other way, but she found that she couldn't see to back up. She was crying. She had to stop. She had to get control of herself. Beau needed her.

  Family and friends always used the kitchen door at Big Mack and Clara's but Ruth went to the front door and rang the bell—as much to guarantee that Big Mack would be the one to open the door as to save time. But when her father-in-law opened the door, expecting a stranger, she fell into his arms, weeping so hard she frightened him. His panicked call for Clara brought her at a dead run, and Ruthie realized too late that they thought something had happened to Mack or one of the children.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking," she said, but she couldn't stop crying.

  "You're going to make yourself sick," Clara said, shushing and soothing her, and after a few minutes, she calmed down enough to tell them everything. Big Mack had his hat and coat on in seconds. Clara said she'd pick the children up from school, take them home and wait there for Mack. "Where will you take Beau? Do you want to bring him here?"

  Ruthie thought about that. It was a good idea, but she knew that Pa would want him at home if he were sick. She enjoyed a moment's refuge in her mother-in-law's strong embrace. "I'm so sorry that I frightened you."

  "The fright leaves with the fear. Mack and the children are all right. That means we have the strength to take care of Beau." She looked at her husband. "And Tobias."

  Big Mack snorted a response that was less than agreeable, took Ruthie's arm, and led her out of the front door and down the walkway. She gave him the keys and when they got in the car, she read him Grady Allen's address. "I know where that is," he said and headed north. "I know Beau's been acquainted with Mr. Allen for some while, but I don't know how that came about. And I know Beau's been chauffeuring them for 'bout a year now, but I don't know how that came about, either. Can you tell me, Ruthie, before we get there so I know what's what?"

  It was, she thought, not only a reasonable request but an excellent way to get her calm and quiet before they got there, so she began talking. She knew very well how Beau and Mr. Allen became acquainted, and the memories invoked in the telling did what Big Mack wanted: They calmed and steadied her. She found a deep joy in the memory of her mother and of First Freeman, of Beau's first motor vehicle and of their first visits to Belle City, of Beau's eventual healing from the brutality of his experiences in The Great War.

  "I know Mack thinks a lot of him, and I must say he sounds like a good man, Mr. Grady Allen does," Big Mack said.

  Ruthie nodded. "I think that's true. I know he thinks highly of Beau." What she didn't know, though, was how or why Beau became the Allen's chauffeur. "I know that Beau likes automobiles—likes driving them, fixing them, polishing them. But I also know that he does not like the idea of working for white people, Grady Allen included, and I don't know what changed his mind about that."

  "Well, we're 'bout to find out. This is the street," Big Mack said, turning on to a wide boulevard with houses the size of hotels looming on both sides and set so far back from the road they'd be invisible in the spring and summer when leaves were on the trees. "And this is the number," he said, turning into the long drive leading to the house.

  "Good Lord," Ruthie exclaimed when Grady Allen's house became visible.

  "How many people live here?" Big Mack asked.

  Ruthie shook her head; she didn't know. She'd heard Beau and Mack speak of Mr. and Mrs. Allen but never of children or grandchildren. And given their descriptions of the Allens, they were elderly, so any children would be grown and gone. "All of our houses would fit inside this one—yours, mine, Pa's, Catherine's—with rooms left over."

  Big Mack automatically drove around to the back of the house where its size was even more evident. And there was a swimming pool, just like in some Hollywood movie magazine. He parked the car adjacent to the Service Delivery Entrance and they got out, and all of Ruthie's fear and trepidation returned in a rush. She grabbed Big Mack's arm and they approached the door. It opened before they could ring the bell. The man who opened it could only be Grady Allen. He was tall and thin with just the slightest hint of a stoop, but he had a full head of white hair, and the crinkles around his eyes were proof of a man who looked at the world with a sense of enjoyment.

  "You are Miz McGinnis, and I can't tell you how pleased I am to make your acquaintance, though I do wish it had occurred under different circumstances." He held her hand tightly for a moment, then released it, ushered her inside, and turned his gaze on Big Mack. "And
this must be your…why, no. Not your pa, Mack's. The resemblance is quite strong. That's a fine, fine boy, you have Mr. McGinnis, though I'm sure you both know that."

  He ushered them through a storage area and into an industrial-sized kitchen that was warm and aromatic: Several things were cooking, the overwhelming smells being of roast beef and pastry. He led them to a table set with a coffee pot and three cups and a covered cake dish with a knife and three forks and plates. Ruthie wanted to scream. This was not a social visit. Where was Beau? She wanted Beau.

  "I know you want your brother, but I'd appreciate it if you'd sit for a moment, have some coffee and cake, and let me explain. It's my fault, you see—"

  "Please, Mr. Allen. Just tell us," Ruthie said.

  He sighed deeply and dropped down into one of the chairs. Ruthie and Big Mack could only join him at the table. "Beau was arrested—"

  Ruthie gasped. "But you said he was here."

  "He is, he is. I made them bring him here to me when I found out—" He inhaled deeply and released the breath in a whoosh. "Beau drove us, my wife and me, to a New Year's Day celebration at our daughter's house over in Stevensville. We got there around eleven in the morning because it was our granddaughter's Sweet Sixteen birthday and we wanted to be there to open presents with her. But it's also New Year's Day, so there were people in and out all day, and food and drink and even a live band for dancing. It was a wonderful party and we had a wonderful time, but by seven, or a little after, Laurel—my wife—was ready to leave. She tires easily. But we'd brought our cook, so after he drove us home, Beau was to go back and get her, take her home, and then just take the car home with him. Only he never made it. She thought we had forgotten about her so she called her husband to pick her up. We didn't know anything was wrong until Monday. You see, the bank was closed the day after New Year's—Sunday—so I wasn't expecting Beau until Monday…this is all my fault. I should have known he wouldn't just accept it—"

  "What happened, Mr. Allen? Please," Ruthie said.

  He nodded, took a sip of coffee, wiped his mouth. "The police called here early Monday morning, said they had my car, where did I want it? I asked where my driver was and they said in jail. To make a long story short, I called the Chief of Police and told him to find out what had happened and where Beau was." He inhaled deeply again and swallowed. "They had put him on a chain gang—"

  Ruthie fainted and would have fallen to the floor had not both men jumped up and reached for her at the same time. Big Mack put her in the chair while Grady Allen filled a glass with ice and water and got a cold towel. Her father-in-law bathed her face, and, as she began to come around, he got her to drink some cold water. Her eyes focused and she looked directly at Grady Allen. "Dirt and filth and mud. For almost forty-eight hours. Is that where he was? In dirt and filth and mud?" And when the old man nodded, she asked, "He's like he was when he came back from France, isn't he? A walking dead man." She swayed and Big Mack held on to her until she steadied. She struggled to her feet. "Where is he? Where is my brother?"

  Big Mack held up his hand. "What did you mean, sir, when you said you knew it was your fault because somebody wouldn't accept something?"

  "I hired Beau even though Horace Edwards wanted me to hire one of his sons. I know both of Horace's boys, and they're both useless and worthless. I would never trust one of them with my wife or with my car. The one who arrested Beau is a city policeman named Gilbert Edwards. The one who wanted the job is Horace, named after his pa, and he's just a bum. But it gripes Horace that I'd hire a Colored man over his son."

  "You had a driver before Beau, Mr. Allen. My son met him one time, over in the Crossing, the day you asked him to build your bank."

  "I remember," Allen said, nodding. "Tom Jenks. He got himself killed last year in a gambling parlor, of all places. He was some kin to Sue. My cook."

  This time it was Ruthie who took the deep breath. "Sue Thomas is your cook," she said, making it a statement, not a question. "I know Sue. I knew her mother very well. She lived up the road from us in Carrie's Crossing. And Tom Jenks was her cousin."

  Grady Allen was nodding. "That's right. She recommended him for the job, and I hired him on her say so. And I will say that I found him completely satisfactory, never had a single reason for complaint. If he chose to frequent a gambling parlor on his off time, well, that's none of my business, is it?"

  Ruthie had stopped listening; she was thinking, figuring: Sue had known where Tom Jenks was but hadn't told them. Beau had found out somehow. From Tobias? They all had known that gambling was Tom's weakness—he'd been gambling the night before Nellie was killed and was late meeting her. If he'd been on time…and finally Beau had found him, and Ruthie knew with absolute certainty, he had killed him. And that's why he'd taken a job working for a white man—because he'd killed Grady Allen's chauffeur.

  "Thank you, Mr. Allen, for saving Beau," she said. "We never could have gotten him out of that place on our own. In fact, we never would have known where he was, so we owe you a great debt of gratitude."

  "You owe me nothing, Miz McGinnis. Like I said, this whole thing is my fault." He turned toward a passageway. "Beau's in here," he said and led them into a labyrinth of small, narrow rooms off a small, narrow corridor. The servants' quarters. He opened a door but did not turn on a light. Beau hated bright light, especially sudden bright light. But he hated mud and dirt and filth worse than anything.

  "Beau," she said softly. "It's me. I'm here. We're going to take you home."

  "Ma? Ma, is that you?" he said and followed it with a deep, dark wail. "They won't let me out, Ma. They won't let me go home."

  Ruthie rushed into the room and grabbed her big brother and held him tight, wrapping her arms all the way around him. He'd become skeletally thin so quickly. "I'm taking you home, Beau, and I don't care what they say. Come on. We're going home." She tried to pull him up to stand but could not budge his dead weight. Big Mack moved her aside and lifted Beau as if he were a child.

  "Pa? Is that you, Pa?"

  "Yeah, Son. It's me and we're gonna take you home, but you got to walk 'cause you too big for me to carry. That's right, come on now."

  They led, dragged, pushed, and carried Beau out to the car and laid him in the backseat. They thanked Grady Allen again and drove as fast as they thought they safely could back to the Colored part of town. Big Mack hesitated only briefly where he would have turned going to his own house. He knew as well as Ruthie did that Big Si would want his son at home. He parked in front of the house, and Ruthie went in to explain the situation to her Pa. He was out the front door and down the walk before she finished talking.

  "Beau, boy. I'm gon' take care of you just like I did before, when you come back from that filthy war. 'Member how we looked after you? Helped you get better? We gon' do it again, don't you worry none."

  It required a great effort to get him from the car into the house and into bed, more than before because now Beau wasn't walking at all, wasn't speaking, wasn't moving. He was an inanimate object, a dead weight. They all were winded, but Big Si's breath came in great, loud gasps.

  "Sit down, Pa."

  "I'm fine."

  "No, you're not. Now please sit down." She knew she'd spoken too sharply, but she was on the edge. She reached out a hand to him in apology. He took her hand, then sat down and asked them to tell him everything again, from the beginning.

  "You believe Beau killed Tom Jenks," he said to Ruth. When she didn't say anything, he asked, "You think anybody else knows? Sue? Tobias? That's got to be the gambling parlor he was talking about."

  Ruthie hadn't told him about Tobias and now wasn't the time. "I think Sue knew where Tom Jenks was all along and didn't tell us."

  "Prob'ly 'cause she knew what would happen. He is her kin, after all."

  Ruth nodded her acceptance of this fact. "I just care that she doesn't tell, and I think if she had told, Beau already would have been arrested."

  Big Mack agreed. "Anyway, they don't care '
bout us killing each other. As far as they're concerned, Jenks is just another dead Colored man, killed by one of his own. It's the kind of thing we do," he said dryly. "Only reason they asked any questions at all is 'cause of who he worked for."

  They agreed to that truth. "So," Big Si said. "Beau is safe?"

  "I think so," Ruth said.

  "Me, too," Big Mack said."

  "Then," Big Si said, pulling himself up to standing, "let's try to get him well, and hope we can do it twice."

  ***

  – Carrie's Crossing –

  Jonas

  The antics of two-year old Jonas Farley Thatcher Jr. were the only reason that Grady Allen was still seated in the same room, at the same table, with Horace Edwards, and Jonas thought that Grady was doing a pretty good job of being polite to Horace, though Horace, of course, didn't see it that way. Typically, he'd made himself the injured party: He professed not to understand why Grady would hold him responsible for what his son had done. For more than six months, Grady had flatly refused to meet with or talk to Horace because of police officer Gilbert Edwards's illegal arrest of Beau Thatcher. Jonas had played intermediary only because his partnership agreements with Horace were too complex for easy extrication. At the moment, though, what was more galling to Horace was the fact that JJ preferred Uncle Grady to him—his own grandfather! The little boy toddled back and forth on the highly polished conference room table between his Papa and his Uncle Grady, ignoring all attempts by his grandfather to capture him—or even his attention. To add insult to injury, their meeting, called at Horace's request, was being held in the First National Bank of Carrie's Crossing boardroom because Grady refused to step foot in the offices of the Edwards-Thatcher Real Estate Company as long as Edwards remained a name on the stationery.