“What part of Africa is this?” Saeed asked.
“Chicago, Abyssinia.” Redwood laughed.
Saeed laughed too. “And who are we again?”
“Nobody.” Redwood suddenly turned glum and clutched Saeed.
“What is it?”
A lion grumbled. “What’re they doing to that old cat?” She looked toward the sound.
“They tease him to look ferocious.” Saeed squinted. “He doesn’t want to come out of the cage.”
“Ahh.” She hugged herself. “Well, I got an idea, for a motion picture. A colored romance on a Sea Island.”
“No one will make that. White folk are scared of colored romance.” Saeed shrugged. “Who’d come to see it?”
“For a nickel, colored folk will. Don’t they come to the club after hours to hear us, or head on over to the Pekin Theater to see all-colored adventures in Darkville? White folk come too. Everybody does.”
“I hear rumors, the Pekin’s going broke and about to close down. You can’t get rich entertaining nig —”
“Don’t be quoting Eddie to me.”
Histrionic yelling was followed by fevered drums. Saeed pulled her up.
“Time to welcome the great white hunter.” He put on his savage face.
Throwing up her hands in exaggerated fright, Redwood ran with Saeed and a crowd of screaming savages toward a row of cameramen cranking away.
Traffic was jammed up from the automobile accident for quite a ways. The trolley had jumped the track, and setting that to right took forever. Clarence maneuvered ’round one marooned or busted vehicle after another. A lame horse lay in the grass making a pitiful noise. A shot rang out as they passed and the horse shuddered quiet. Doc peered over the side of the buggy and traced his fingers along the door.
“We have suffered only a scratch,” he remarked.
“Miz Subie’s sign kept us safe,” Iris said.
Clarence whistled. “Remind me to bring my aunt that peach brandy she like.”
Sober all of a sudden, Doc dug out his medicine bag and jumped into the street.
“We ain’t never goin’ get out of here now,” Clarence mumbled good-naturedly.
A hefty man was threatening damage to his wife. She was only checking how bad he was hurt. Doc walked right up to him, laughing. “Women! What did Cherokee Will used to say — when the white man discovered this country, Indians were running it.”
The man cradled a limp arm and scowled at Doc. His woman stepped back.
“No taxes, no debt, and women did all the work,” Aidan continued the old Cherokee joke.
“The white man thought he could improve on a system like this.” As the man chuckled, Doc yanked his arm back in the shoulder socket. The fellow hollered something fierce, but was soon laughing at the miracle of it.
Doc ministered to every wounded person he found. ’Stead of worrying ’bout missing the train, Aidan, and Iris too, marveled at him.
A young mother with a deep gash in her head was bleeding all over her baby and wouldn’t let nobody near. “Myrna,” someone pleaded with her. “Be reasonable —”
“Helen and me don’t need your help,” Myrna yelled. It wasn’t a reasonable night.
“Cousin Myrna.” Doc smiled. “Helen’s getting so big and the spitting image of grandma!” Telling tall tales on grandma, he had Myrna stitched up before she knew it.
A woman was weeping and wailing, fixing to bury a dead husband. Doc brought him back to the living with a foul smell. The man had fainted when the trolley swiped his motor car. His wife’s weeping turned to cussing. Doc slipped away.
“You will be fine!” he said over and over, and everyone believed him.
Mostly cuts and scrapes and hearts pounding too fast with fear, but it wasn’t long before Doc’s bag was empty and his clothes filthy. He looked lost and ready to fall over. Clarence hauled him back in the buggy then. “We don’t want to get stuck here.”
“Sorry,” Doc said. “I know you two got a train to catch —”
“We shouldn’t just ride by folks in need.” Iris turned to Aidan. “Should we?”
“Of course not,” he said quickly. “I first met Doc helping out the Jessups, riding on the poor side of the creek, s’posedly heading out for a hunting trip. Never got there.”
Doc nodded. “You told me hunting for sport, for what you didn’t need to eat, wasn’t good for the soul!”
“Did you now?” Iris poked Aidan.
“No. Actually, he said it would crack my good spirit.”
“Aunt Caitlin told me to hush.” Aidan grinned at the memory.
“I’d say we’ve been friends ever since.” Doc was grinning too.
There were no more wounded folk, but the traffic was impossible. To sweeten the long wait, Doc read them the title story from The Goodness of St. Roque by Alice Dunbar Nelson. Iris was all ears for this hoodoo romance.
“Her former husband was that colored poet,” Doc said. “Whosy?”
“I won’t need a charm like the lady in the story to get my man,” Iris said.
Doc squinted, examining her. “No, I don’t think you will.”
“Paul Lawrence Dunbar,” Aidan said, pleased he’d remembered the name.
“That’s the man!” Clarence nodded. “You read colored books too, Mr. Cooper?”
“Ha, he reads anything. A reading fiend.” Doc sounded proud.
“Miz Elisa loaned me his book once. She and Miz Garnett were never done teaching school.” Aidan sighed, missing them both. “I guess, I’ve read plenty colored books.” He was carrying Of One Blood or The Hidden Self by Pauline Hopkins, which Redwood had loaned to him before. He wanted to return it to her and have that discussion, if she still wanted to, after so many years. “I like a good story.”
“In that case —” Doc read a second tale. Aidan was now too worried they’d miss their train to listen. He didn’t want to spend a night at Doc’s and feel more beholden. He didn’t want to worry what sort of men Doc and Clarence were. He just wanted to hurry on out of Atlanta and be on their way north. Clarence guided Boo and Buttercup through mayhem and congestion with a steady hand. Doc’s mellow baritone, Miz Dunbar Nelson’s words, and the twilight streets blurred. Finally they were back up to eight miles per hour.
Atlanta’s Terminal Train Station looked to be a castle for dragons and wizards. Comet Halley cut ’cross the sky between the station’s golden towers, a magic beacon heralding an auspicious journey. Reaching in the alligator pouch, Aidan cut his finger on the broken seashell. He sprinkled goober dust mixed with his blood where the tracks crisscrossed in the train yard. The dirt exploded like fireworks under the metal wheels.
Aidan didn’t want to lose heart. “How am I goin’ do a thousand dry miles?” he asked the train spirits.
Black engines, sweaty with steam, roared at him and charged off in every direction. He marveled at these magical fire-breathing beasts busting through the night. Railroad music played up Aidan’s spine as he headed inside the terminal. The great hall was so crowded, he could barely snatch a breath, but a new song ached in his throat and on his fingers. Music was coming back to him.
Iris, Doc, and Clarence waited near a train fixing to head out. Passengers climbed aboard behind them. Aidan approached, hat in hand, and looked from Doc to Clarence.
“Tell me,” Aidan wheezed, “how I can repay your generosity.”
“Me too, kind sirs,” Iris said.
“Breaking Garnett’s curse. What more?” Doc whispered. Aidan’s face burned. He wanted to ask how the hell was he supposed to do that, but Doc turned from him to Iris. “Can you read, little darling?”
“Since I was five, sir.” Iris strutted her long-legged stuff. “Education give you the keys to the kingdom.”
“I know you like these hoodoo romances.” Doc handed her Miz Dunbar Nelson’s book of short stories and a copy of The Wizard Of Oz.
“You be writing your own stories someday,” Clarence said, proud already.
&n
bsp; “They do a musical show of Oz in New York,” Doc said. “But it’s also fun to read.”
“Thank you, sir.” She clutched the volumes to her heart, sliding and kicking her feet in a dance. “I’ll read these here twice.”
“Man throw his money away, buying all them books, then be giving the books away.” Clarence laughed.
Aidan felt the devil for a moment. “I’d like to see your collection.”
Doc and Clarence exchanged quick glances. Doc shrugged.
“I got use of the whole library!” Clarence laughed and slapped his thigh.
“Yes, you do.” Doc allowed hisself a smile. Aidan wondered how hard their lives in public must be. Men got strung up for doing what they did. What was their story? How did people like them find each other? Who dared the first touch, the first kiss? How did they hold onto each other and trust when the going got rough? Doc and Clarence had to be very brave, even in hiding.
“The whole library — that’s, that’s grand.” Aidan wished for something better to say. Maybe they wanted him to know. Maybe they trusted him. He didn’t know what to think of that. “Love is the best thing.” He finally said, staring in the eyes of his friends.
“Yessir!” Iris tap-danced a rhythm to Love is the best thing. The three men shifted awkwardly as she strutted ’round them.
“It has been my pleasure to get to know you better, Aidan.” Doc turned to him with that odd, intense look, the way he’d done for years. Aidan thought he understood this now. They shook hands and Doc thrust several drawings at Aidan. “You’re quite a handsome man. Intriguing physiognomy. Do visit me in Atlanta on your way back to Peach Grove.”
“I will do.” Aidan gaped at a beautiful drawing of Iris in his arms. His hair was blowing free in the wind. Another picture caught him tweaking her nose as she giggled.
Clarence beamed at Doc’s artwork. “Man’s got a good hand, don’t he?”
Iris and Aidan both nodded.
“Good luck to you, sir,” Clarence said. After an awkward second, he shook Aidan’s outstretched hand vigorously. “And you too, Miz Iris.” He patted her head. Then he and Doc worked their way through the crazy quilt of humanity, coming and going or standing a moment utterly lost and breathless, like Aidan.
“ALL ABOARD!” Iris chimed in with the conductor. “Let’s go!” She spun ’round, more alive than Aidan had seen her in weeks. “Doc give me a five dollar gold piece.” She displayed it. “He say, at the end of the trip, we’ll be stepping out in another world.”
“You didn’t tell him where we was going, did you?”
She blew her lips at him, a fresh colt showing off. “I can story too, good as you.”
“Is that so?”
“I think he might know where we’re going anyhow.” She had her hands on recently curved hips. Button breasts were thrust up toward him. Half child, half woman — and the spitting image of Redwood as a young gal. “I ain’t my sister,” she said. “Can’t help it if I look like her.”
Aidan almost fell over.
“You think half-naked colored folk be running wild in Chicago too?” she said, brash and free despite nightmares and throwing grave dirt on the faces of loved ones. “Well, do you?”
“No need to repeat Doc’s storytelling. He made all that up to feel good ’bout hisself. We’re starting on our own adventure. You can tell that story.”
“I’ll put it in a book like Miz Dunbar Nelson.”
“Now you’re talking.” They gathered their things and headed for the railcar door. Aidan staggered under all their baggage. “What we pack, boulders?”
Shotgun and banjo strapped over his back banged against each other and into his ribs. Climbing onto the cramped and musky colored coach, he almost fell down. Iris steadied him and then went ahead scouting seats.
“You in the wrong car, sir.” A colored porter grinned at him without meaning it.
Iris dashed back to him. “I found two together.”
Standing up straight, Aidan gripped her hand. “I know where I belong,” he said to the porter. That was the biggest lie he ever told.
He pushed past the grinning fellow and headed for the empty seats. Evil grunts and cutting eyes greeted him, or maybe people were just tired and sleepy. Liquor smell on a passenger’s breath had him sweating. For a moment, he would’ve given anything, handed over the rest of his life even, for a drink. Luckily, nobody was offering. How would he manage a thousand temperate miles on a promise and a song? He was no damn good at promises.
“Can I sit by the window?” Iris asked, as if Aidan cared where he dropped his body down. “Don’t be hang dog. We goin’ see my sister and get us to the other side of sad.”
“You get the view,” Aidan said.
“Is Chicago big as Atlanta, with buildings up into the sky?” Iris squeezed his hand.
“It’s Atlanta times ten.”
“How you know, if you ain’t been there, ’cept in dreams?”
“I…I heard tell.” He showed her the picture-postcard Redwood sent from Chicago, a playbill for one of her minstrel shows actually. Redwood was dressed as a dragonfly with gossamer wings and big eyes on her head like a hat.
Iris flapped her arms and buzzed at the picture. “We got minstrel shows in Peach Grove too, remember?” She turned the card over and read aloud, proud of all the hard words she knew. “I’d tell you about this Chicago metropolis, but anything I say now won’t be true tomorrow. A colossal city of the future, springing up from yesterday’s dreams like magic. Everything’s possible, me, my little sister, you too.” Iris wiped his damp face with a rough kerchief. “See? Sister agree with me.”
Different message than what he’d read or what Hiram couldn’t read, but he didn’t get spooked. Magic words on a card was nothing. He’d seen Redwood call down a twister to the palm of her hand. She calmed the storm ’til it wasn’t but a dance of dust and a gentle spray of mist. No telling what kind of future they’d be making up there on Lake Michigan. Nothing Redwood did would surprise him, ’cept if she forgave him.
“I know you ’fraid of my sister, but it’ll be all right.” Iris patted his hand.
“Not really ’fraid of your sister.” Aidan spooked hisself. “When you get older, a big adventure can take your breath away.”
“I’ll watch over you,” Iris declared and just ’bout broke Aidan’s heart.
As they pulled out the station, Aidan’s hands were twitching fast as a rattlesnake’s tail. He swallowed a mouthful of Subie’s nasty powder. He didn’t know if her conjure would help or not. One teetotal minute at a time though.
“I don’t work with divas anymore!” Mr. Payne looked like the dead president for true this afternoon as he yelled at the idle cast and crew on the back lot of his motion picture factory. The light was better outside, but — “Three days wasted!” Payne resented every red cent spent to keep a village of screaming savages on hand for the rampage and the big hunt.
Redwood sucked her teeth. She slouched against a flimsy African hut and scratched the itchy grass skirt going to seed ’round her waist.
“Payne’s not yelling about you.” Saeed teased, scratching too.
The lion was still refusing to act. Redwood wanted to yell at the lazy creature herself.
“They’re happy.” Saeed pointed at African Savages rolling dice.
Of course the Pullman Porter extras weren’t complaining. In between grueling trips through wild country with cheapskate passengers, acting African put good money in their pockets. But Redwood and Saeed were headliners, real show folk itching to perform. Shooting a moving picture wasn’t strutting ’cross the stage to get lost in applause and laughter, in the audience sucking one breath together. It was endless waiting for the sun to escape clouds, for crew to pamper finicky lenses or catch huts blown about by the wind machine.
A turkey bone slid from Saeed’s slippery hair. He shouldn’t have tossed the kinky fright wig. Redwood sighed. “With this beetle-headed scenario, who can blame that lion for pouting
in his dressing room?”
“Get that lazy cat moving!” Payne coughed in his handkerchief and marched off.
A cage door opened to the lion snarling and spitting. Several white cameramen looked anxious as they cranked images of this beast, old and broken-toothed, but still a ferocious sight. A muscular handler with a pockmarked, ruddy complexion and streaks of gray in his black hair smacked the lion in the belly with a big stick and cracked a whip. The lion snarled and swiped, mane bristling with rage. The handler cracked the whip again and caught the lion in the face. The animal drew back as the handler jabbed harder at skinny ribs.
“That ain’t a good idea!” Redwood shouted at the handler and then whispered to Saeed. “That must hurt.”
Saeed groaned. “Too many people. This animal is frightened and very angry.”
With another whip crack from the sunburnt handler and more painful prodding, the lion retreated further into the cage ’stead of coming forward. The handler shouted, and the lion crouched up against the bars, looking weary and pathetic.
“Damn fool, you want to get us fired?” The handler was cussing the lazy beast, talking ’bout an ole bag of bones, when the lion leapt. Redwood was stunned by the sudden power and grace of the rippling muscles, but something was wrong. With jaws gaping and claws slashing the air, the lion aimed itself at the foul-mouthed handler whose whip now hung limp in his hand. The lion’s golden eyes flashed murderous rage. The handler shook his head and turned his back as if he couldn’t believe the lion would dare attack him. He moved in slow motion while the lion was a streak of light.
“Where are you going?” Saeed yelled as Redwood ran toward the lion.
A sharp wind from an electric fan tore the mane from the lion’s neck to reveal a she-cat in disguise. Cast, crew, and cameramen gasped. The lioness was momentarily distracted by her costume problem. She shook violently ’til she was free of someone else’s ratty old mane. The handler had gotten up to speed and was charging away. Too late. The lioness recovered her momentum and cut the distance between them in two easy bounds. She tore into his behind, ripping through the pants and sinking teeth into soft flesh. The handler howled.
Redwood and Wildfire Page 28
