Redwood and Wildfire

by Andrea Hairston

  “Everything all right with you, Mr. O’Reilly?” Saeed said.

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Saeed. Where you going, a Persian gent, dressed to the nines?”

  “Attire from my homeland works a spell.” Saeed gestured dramatically at Eddie who didn’t disguise his disgust. “I am Ali Baba and can open sesame all your heart’s desires.” He kissed Redwood’s hand.

  She almost smiled. “Thank you.”

  “No. I thank you lovely lady for giving me a chance tonight. But say no more. I am late. I am glad you are well, Mr. O’Reilly. A good evening to you all.” He bowed and exited as if from a stage.

  “Did you plan this with Saeed?” Eddie said.

  “Of course she didn’t,” Milton said. “They don’t have a crystal ball to see my ankle giving out.”

  “The manager’s goin’ cheat us tonight. Don’t need a crystal ball to see that.”

  “You so worried about money, take my share,” Milton shouted.

  “Hell, we be lucky if he pay me and Redwood.”

  Milton squealed in pain. “Can’t put off that boneyard baron for too much longer.”

  “You ought to see a real doctor,” Eddie said.

  “I did. White doctor, here in Chicago. He said I oughta be dead already and nothing he could do for me neither.”

  “I don’t say I can do what I can’t,” Redwood mumbled. “Maybe it’s too tight.” Her hands trembled as she retied the bandage yet again. Spider bite wouldn’t have caused her all this trouble back home in Peach Grove.

  The gaslights flickered as the door flung open. Eddie jumped. “Bad news never knocks.”

  Brother George, a little older, a little thicker, and very fashionable in city attire, strode into the dressing room with a fistful of roses. On his arm was a fair-skinned, striking lady in proper, clubwoman attire. A corset gave her a tiny wasp waist and pigeon chest. Lace poured from her sleeves and almost covered her hands. A fountain of lace flowed up her neck too and bubbled under her chin. She looked a bit older than George and was an honest-to-god upper-class Negro woman, George’s woman at that. The cramped, sweaty dressing room seemed to offend her delicate senses. She sneezed and shuddered several times. Redwood didn’t take the time to worry over her just yet. Handsome, fire-breathing, big brother George was grinning in her dressing room. She leapt into his arms.

  “George, you found me. You did indeed.”

  “Sequoia threw me off a bit.”

  He swung her in the air. Roses scattered ’round the room. After knocking over a costume rack, hat boxes, and the Chinese screen Redwood dressed behind, George set her on the ground in front of his woman, who murmured “my goodness gracious.”

  “Baby sister, you were grand,” George said.

  “Iris is the baby. I’m grown up now,” Redwood replied.

  “Who you telling? This is my wife, Clarissa, clearing her throat in case I forget my manners. This is Redwood, my grown-up sister.”

  Redwood bowed to her. Taken aback, Clarissa covered her shock with a curtsey.

  “How did hard-headed George ever get somebody so nice to marry him?” Redwood squeezed Clarissa’s hands.

  After a moment of hesitation, Clarissa squeezed back and looked Redwood up and down. “He said you were a girl, but I…I didn’t believe it. You were dressed so convincingly and your voice was so…rough. And now this outfit too.”

  Redwood hugged Aidan’s shirt close to her skin. “This is Mr. Eddie Starks and Mr. Milton O’Reilly.”

  “Mr. Starks.” Clarissa smiled at Eddie and then looked at Milton with concern and disapproval. “Mr. O’Reilly.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t get up, Ma’am.” Milton nodded to her as if tipping a hat. He tucked his shirt in and pulled his jacket back on. “My father took an Irish name for the stage, as if he were a white man in blackface. The name stuck to the whole family.”

  Milton had never told Redwood that. He had secrets too. “We come up from Georgia together,” she said. “Singing and dancing and whatnot.”

  “Whatnot?” Clarissa raised her eyebrows.

  “Singing and dancing don’t always pay, Ma’am.” Milton smeared cold cream on his face and wiped the black away with a white towel.

  “I did root medicine too, but no conjuring,” Redwood said.

  “That’s the truth, so don’t worry, Mrs. Phipps.” Milton had cleaned one cheek and his forehead. He looked like a haint or a ghoul for sure. “Miz Redwood won’t let any man get next to her, not for long.” He wiped away his juicy red grin. He was sweating again. “They’re afraid to mess with her.”

  Eddie groaned and rolled his eyes. Clarissa looked stunned.

  George let loose a big laugh. “Whole family’s wild. You know who you married.”

  Milton crossed his arms and shook his head. “Redwood’s a real hoodoo, beloved by the spirit in everything. I tell you one night, I saw a bear —”

  “Mrs. Phipps might not have much truck with backcountry hoodoo,” Eddie said.

  “That’s true, Mr. Starks.” Clarissa tried to smile. “I am a good Christian.”

  “I won’t apologize, Ma’am, for us show people.” Milton finished cleaning his face and looked human again. “For us doing the best we can.”

  Clarissa took a breath and her angular features softened. “I expect it’s difficult without a family, on the road, without setting down roots.”

  “Most colored entertainers come from good, respectable families, Ma’am, just like yours.” Milton didn’t hide irritation.

  “Redwood was always talking ’bout her brother up in Chicago town,” Eddie said quickly. “Kept us going.”

  George’s eyes widened. “You all played Peach Grove, the night the bear —”

  The theatre manager stumbled over a loose board in the dark hall. A skinny white man in a dull brown suit with a red face, he backed right into Clarissa, cussing. She smiled graciously at him as he sputtered and stepped away from her. He stood in the doorway and looked at all the fancy colored people crammed into the tiny room.

  “What happened?” He toed the fallen screen and costume rack. “Oh. Admirers.”

  Eddie shrank several inches. George snorted. Milton tried to sit up, but pain defeated him.

  “You know we’s wild!” Redwood spoke in darky dialect.

  The theater manager pretended not to hear her and without uttering a greeting, launched into business. “The box office receipts were down.”

  Redwood frowned. “I thought it was —”

  “We’re just grateful for you putting cash money in our pockets.” Eddie talked over Redwood and hunched his shoulders.

  “Looked to be a full house to me,” George said.

  The theater manager considered him. “Poor sightlines up in the balcony,” he said.

  “Sir, excuse my husband.” Clarissa spoke sweeter than Redwood could imagine anyone being. The theatre manager nodded at her reasonable, honey tone. “But I know,” she continued, “you don’t plan to cheat these hard-working colored performers out of their rightful due. Why, the audience loved them.”

  The theatre manager was so taken aback, he stepped out of the room.

  “Don’t worry,” Redwood said. “They cheat all the performers.”

  George chortled. “My sister always see the good in everybody.”

  The theater manager deposited a small pile of money on a dressing table. “Well, she’ll be finding somewhere else to sing.” He disappeared down the hall.

  “We were two spots from the headliners!” Eddie darted for the cash and began counting it. “What’d y’all go talk that way to him for?”

  Redwood was disgusted. “I could do your dialogue, but I’d sound like a fool.”

  “Now don’t you two start,” Milton said.

  “I’m sorry,” Clarissa said. “It’s my fault.”

  George grabbed Clarissa by the waist. “My wife think women should get the vote and then go agitate for colored peoples’ rights. She believe in speaking up.”

&n
bsp; Clarissa looked flustered at George.

  “That’s grand,” Redwood said. “Eddie don’t believe in nothing ’cept Eddie.”

  “You’d be begging on the side of the road without me. I rescued you.” Eddie had been telling these lies so long he’d convinced hisself. “I taught you everything you know. I made you a star performer. Otherwise you’d still be picking cotton in Georgia!”

  Milton groaned and passed out on the divan. Redwood pushed Eddie aside and stumbled through boxes to the divan. Eddie was hot on her heals.

  Redwood touched Milton’s damp cheeks. “He’s burning up.” She tasted his sweat. It was metallic and bitter. “He might not make it through the night.”

  “This is the end of us.” Eddie brandished the money in her face. “Even if we split his share, it’s not enough. He won’t be good for nothing for weeks, maybe not ever.”

  Redwood turned on him. “Milton’s your best friend in the world. He picked you off the side of the road!”

  “He tole you that? Well, I’ve been doing the picking up here of late.”

  Redwood wanted to smack him. “He always found a piano for you! He give you the biggest share and even paid your gambling debts. Now he could die. Are you goin’ leave him high and dry like that fickle audience you always talking down?”

  “Fickle is it? You been reading the encyclopedia for that one.”

  “Hush.” Redwood put a rag on Milton’s brow.

  “Milton wasn’t nothing ’til I come along. I don’t owe him. He owe me.”

  “What?!” Redwood hissed. Clarissa flinched. George looked up at the ceiling.

  “I can’t let him ride on my coattails forever, drag me down.” Eddie was loud enough for the back row. “I’ve been carrying you both for too long.” He stuffed all the money in his pocket. “This ship is sinking. You planned your escape with Saeed, well I gotta save Eddie Starks. I ain’t drowning out here with a broke down dancer fixing to croak while you sail off with a faggot Injun!”

  Redwood reached her storm hand to an inch from Eddie’s throat. She didn’t touch him, but he was choking and gagging all the same. He couldn’t move a muscle. In an instant, his hazel eyes were shot with blood. George took a step toward her. One violent shake of her head and George halted.

  “Who’s talking about dying?” Clarissa glided up close to Redwood, clasped her hand, and drew her away from Eddie. He gasped and staggered. “George says you’re the best healer he’s ever seen.” Clarissa spoke so quietly, Redwood had to calm down to listen, had to ask herself what the hell she was doing. “I hear tell, you pull away pain, like magic,” Clarissa said.

  Milton’s eyes fluttered open. “Yes, you’re too modest, Red, I’m not dead yet. Melodrama Eddie likes to play the scene at the edge of a cliff.”

  “Ain’t my fault if truth is nasty medicine,” Eddie said. “You tried to kill me.”

  “Ha! If I wanted you dead,” Redwood said, “the boneyard baron would be singing your last hymn.” She shouldn’t get so angry. She had to watch herself better.

  “Is that so?” Eddie clutched his throat. “That’s a comfort.”

  “Let’s not go on about all that.” Clarissa fingered Aidan’s worn pants. “Look at these old clothes. We have to get you something to make you feel nice inside, a woman again.” Redwood stroked Aidan’s shirt and shook her head, no, not so violent this time. Clarissa slipped her arm through Redwood’s, fearless for all her delicate sensibility. “George was hoping you’d come live with us.”

  “That’s right,” George said. “I’ve done well. Chicago is a dream factory. Anything you can think of.”

  “I used to could feel into everything, dead, alive, yesterday, and tomorrow,” Redwood said. “I don’t know how to act now.”

  Clarissa looked baffled, but patted her shoulder. “You were a sensation on stage.”

  “I’m not talking ’bout that,” Redwood said. “I… ain’t been myself since I left home.”

  “Time to write a new song,” Milton said. With a mighty effort he stood up. “See, I’m okay, Big Red. And let him fire us, Eddie. I still got a trick or two in my bag.”

  “Another job ain’t goin’ be easy to find.” Eddie moved in on George and Clarissa. “Theatre’s are hitting hard times. Maybe these good people —”

  “Will come and hear us play again sometime,” Milton said. Eddie sighed.

  “Why didn’t you write me?” Redwood meant to tease George, but it came out hard. “Not one word…”

  “You’re home now.” George squeezed her shoulders.

  Redwood hadn’t been able to heal Milton, and she’d almost choked the life out of Eddie. That didn’t feel like home or anywhere she wanted to be. “Am I?”

  “What a question,” Clarissa said. “Of course you are.”

  Redwood stared out the window to the stars.

  Twelve

  Peach Grove and Chicago, 1909

  The night was too deep, dark, and sweaty; even the haints didn’t bother to come out. The stars overhead looked out of place. Aidan hugged an old oak tree, moaning in the moss, so drunk he was lost close to home. A jug rolled away from his feet to a bear with a star-shaped scar on his cheek.

  “Firewater. Not good for you. Don’t you get started with that.”

  The bear nosed the blue stoneware. He licked the jug’s lip, grunted, and spit.

  “I keep trying to give it up. I promise myself. I promise everybody. Then I’m at it again.” Aidan snatched his shotgun from the ground and pointed it at the bear. “My word’s not worth a damn. Can’t trust me. A miracle anybody can stand me.”

  The animal reared up on his hind legs.

  “What do you know? Seminole and Irish blood driving me to the drink. I can’t help myself.”

  The bear gurgled.

  “Miz Subie say Peach Grove broke my heart, and I need to find something to do with all the love I got for this world that’s curdling in my chest. Now I’m talking to a bear.” Aidan shot in the air. The startled animal took off into the woods. A turkey buzzard flew up into the dawn light, circling above him. “I ain’t dead yet,” he yelled at the bird. “So you can just go on.”

  Somebody ’cross the creek played an out-of-tune banjo. The song was familiar. It was one of his. Aidan sang along, as hoarse and out of key as the broke-fingered player:

  Running won’t set you free

  Yeah, a man could still be a slave

  On the loose and-a acting brave

  In shackles he just don’t see

  No — Running won’t make you free

  Aidan’s voice splintered on the last note. He almost fell down. The banjo twanged on, a screechy sound crawling up his back. He reached for the jug, hoping for one last swallow. It was empty. He let it tumble away. A crow hollered at him. This close to sober, out of hooch and ammunition, wasn’t nothing to do but head into town and buy a drink; still a few coins in his pocket. He’d sworn not to bother with near-beer. After guzzling half a barrel you were burping and pissing and sober as a Sunday service. But what good were his promises? The bad banjo-playing made him itch. He scratched and squirmed and finally headed for a road he hoped led into town.

  After almost losing faith in this direction twice, Aidan reeled down Peach Grove’s muddy main street just before dawn. Feeble shadows, otherworldly moans, and a sickly sweet stench greeted him. He sniffed his pits, down at his crotch, and then the air. It was the air that was most foul. Ten minutes and he didn’t see anybody upright but Doc Johnson and Hiram. They stood in white pinstriped suits by a wagon in front of Doc’s office, calming a gray nag. Aidan stumbled over to them, gesturing wildly.

  “Peach Grove look like a ghost town,” he yelled.

  “Folks are too sick to riot. Makes our job easy,” Doc said.

  “What you mean?” Aidan looked ’round. “What job?”

  “Where have you been?” Hiram poked at Aidan’s ripped shirt.

  “Ah…hunting,” Aidan said.

  Hiram and Doc exchange
d identical looks. Aidan lifted the cloth covering the back of the wagon. Dead eyes stared up at him. He recognized a few. Ed Crawford’s blue eyes looked black as Mark Jessup’s. Fellows he’d known most his life, friends he never had, starting to swell and stink. Aidan dropped the cloth and stumbled back. Doc held him as he leaned forward, vomit-dizzy. Nothing in his stomach to come up though.

  “What the hell??”

  “We could use a hand. Unless you’re afraid of getting sick and dying.” Doc slapped his back. The blood rushing to his head turned back to where it belonged.

  “Yellow fever snatched my folks.” Aidan righted hisself. “Didn’t want me.”

  “Hiram and I haven’t gotten whatever is plaguing Peach Grove, not yet.”

  “Feels like a curse.” Hiram surveyed the empty street.

  “No such thing,” Doc said coolly.

  “If it’s not Garnett’s curse or yellow fever what killed half of Peach Grove in a week and laid up the other half…What do you think, Coop?”

  Aidan shuddered at the mention of Garnett’s curse. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  Doc shrugged. “Maybe we’ve discovered a new pathogen.”

  “Patho-what?” Aidan asked. “Half of Peach Grove?”

  “A new agent of disease,” Doc said. “Hiram exaggerates. He writes News.”

  “It’s true.” Hiram grunted at his brother’s highfalutin, know-it-all airs and led the horse down the street.

  Aidan couldn’t imagine plagues or curses bringing down the whole town.

  “I guess God has forsaken us, like you’ve been saying, Coop,” Doc said. He and Aidan followed Hiram to a pretty white townhouse that looked brand new. Doc knocked on the door, several times.