Magic City (12 page)

Mary stared into the shifting shadows.

“They're going to kill Joe Samuels,” he said softly. “We won't be able to stop them. Can you live here, after that?”

Mary could already hear whispers blowing through the trees, tickling strands of grass. “She's the one…she's the one he touched.” If she stayed, Pa would force her to marry Dell. Dell would expect her to be grateful for the rest of her days.

“Leave with me, Mary. I wouldn't touch you, unless you wanted me too. But I would hope you would—that you'd want me to love you.” He slid closer. “I'm nobody special. I know that, Mary. But I did something special today. Didn't I, Mary?”

“Yes,” she squeezed his hand.

“I helped you, didn't I? Brought you into my shop. And I helped again at the Ambrose. I brought you home. Covered you with a blanket. Let you sleep.

“I've felt magic today, Mary. I'm not making good sense. All my days I've wanted to be happy. I've never been. I've never reached out to anybody, even when I wanted to—in theaters, I imagine I'm the tap-dancing hero winning the girl.” He shrugged. “I'm a foolish man, Mary. An ugly and foolish man. Yet I believe I can be happy with you. I want to be happy. I think I can make you happy. We just have to leave Tulsa.”

“Al, don't—”

“If we stay, I'm afraid I'll do what I've always done—hide. Not really live in this world. It's been an extraordinary day. I'm not myself. Yet I'm more myself than I've ever been. I could do it with you. I think I could be happy with you.”

“Please, Al.”

“You can't stand to look at me, can you?”

“That's not it.”

“Then you'll come with me?”

Mary tried to imagine what it would be like to go with Al, journeying to Chicago or New York, leaving Pa and Jody behind. Try as she might, she couldn't quite see herself anyplace but Tulsa. And then there was Joe. His trouble was her fault. She had to do something.

“You're telling me no, aren't you?”

“For now,” she said softly, then blurted, words tumbling, “I need you to help me one more time. Please, Al. Drive me to the Samuels' house.”

“They're not going to want to see you, Mary.”

“I know.” She felt small again. Joe's folks would hate her for sure. But she had to do something. She'd tell them he was innocent. But they knew that, didn't they? He was their son. So, why was she doing it? To make herself feel better? To ease her guilt?

Allen closed his eyes, letting the emotion drain from his face. “It's late. Almost eleven o'clock.”

“I don't think they'll mind.”

“Sure, middle of the night, white girl goes calling in Greenwood. They'll strike up a band, welcome you with open arms. Sing ditties for you. Dance a cakewalk.”

“Stop it, Al.” She plucked at threads on her dress. Back-handed, she wiped her tears.

“I'm sorry, Mary.”

“I'm sorry too. Sometimes I think it's not right I was even born.”

“Mary,” he breathed, rocking, “Mary, Mary.”

“My Ma taught me to say 'sorry.' Maybe my sorry won't do the Samuels any good. Maybe it's just about my heartache. But I tried the sheriff. That didn't work. I'm scared the Samuels might throw me out, curse me. But I'm trying to do right. If I shut up now, Al, I might never open my mouth again. Might never say another word.”

The train moaned again; a gust of wind shuddered through the trees; several chairs tipped over.

“Mary,” said Allen, his voice bleak, “this is real, isn't it? The sun will rise and I won't be a prince. Nobody's hero. Just Allen Thornton, repairer of clocks. I don't even carry a watch. Did you know that, Mary? People should tell time from the sky, from the positions of sun, moon, and stars.”

“I never paid time any mind,” said Mary. “But time matters now. Particularly for Joe and his people. He's out there lost.”

“And you, Mary?”

“I'm lost too.”

 

“This is it. At least I think it is.” Allen applied the brake. “It must be the biggest house in Greenwood.” A street lamp illuminated the gingerbread porch, white shutters, and gabled roof. “It's beautiful,” murmured Mary.

Allen pointed to the side. “A light's on in the kitchen. A maid, most like.”

“I didn't know coloreds had maids.”

“Samuels' father owns a bank.”

“Why'd Joe shine shoes?”

“None of this is his. Leastwise not until his father dies. The boy probably wanted to make it on his own.” Allen opened the car door. “Let's get this over with.”

Mary stopped him. “I'll do this alone.”

“I'll wait for you then.”

“No. You've done plenty.”

“Mary, it's dangerous.”

She studied the empty street, the row of pastel-colored houses, the abandoned rockers on porches, the gardens packed with peonies, berries, and marigolds. The Samuels' house was less welcoming, more formal than the others, but the light from the kitchen gave her hope.

“You can't do this, Mary.”

“Good-bye, Al.” She opened the car door, her feet touched gravel.

“Mary, please—”

Smiling, she poked her head through the car window. “You can leave, Al. You've got a fine courage. You don't need me to leave Tulsa.”

“Mary—”

“Sssh. It's late. Go home, Al.”

“Mary, let me wait. I won't go up to the house with you. I'll stay here in the car.”

“White men are hunting the Samuels' son. They won't appreciate you sitting out here.”

“But I want you to be safe.”

“Joe's the one in danger. And it's my fault. The sheriff was right. Go home, Al. I've got to see if I can help.”

She walked toward the house, and didn't look back when the engine hummed into gear, and the Packard, reversing, caught her in a flood of light before screeching down the road.

Her shoulders slumped; her steps slowed. She couldn't turn back now. No Allen to use as a safe haven. She'd been brave enough to make him go, now she needed to be brave enough to do as she'd promised herself. She smelled roses. She stared, studying the vines clinging to the porch rail and threading upward to the second-floor windows, heavily curtained and dark.

She'd never been close to coloreds, never been close to where they lived. They lived better than her. She ducked her head, feeling as self-conscious as when she saw rich, oil wives' homes.

She glanced up again at the dark windows, wondering if anyone was watching her. Wondering if there were ghosts in the Samuels' house. Wondering what it would have been like to grow up here, on a street with other families, instead of on a farm with Jody and Pa.

She inhaled, focusing on the kitchen light. She murmured, “Joe.” His name gave her courage. His people had feelings too.

She ought to be woman enough to honor that.

H
ildy kept seeing Joe, caged and hurting. A jailer wouldn't feed him proper. Wouldn't care if he was cold and heartsick. Father refused to let her visit, saying, “One Samuels inside a jail is enough.” She should've gone anyway, disobeyed his commandment. Now Hildy imagined Joe beaten and downtrodden, with nobody to comfort him. She fidgeted about the kitchen, restacked the dishes in the drying rack. She knew she wouldn't sleep. First thing in the morning, she'd see Joe, take him cornbread and pie. Read scripture to calm his spirit.

Hildy sat at the table, her tea beside her, trying to focus on the Bible passage she'd just read—Shadrack thrown into the fiery furnace. An angel had protected him. Hildy prayed the Lord would send an angel to guide Joe.

She'd known something was wrong with Joe. He'd been out of kilter—like a child's spinning top. She should've found out what was wrong. It nagged her that she'd somehow failed him. When Joe was newborn, she'd been charmed by his down-covered body, his sleepy
eyes, and she'd sworn to love him better than she'd been loved. But she hadn't loved him well enough to find out what was wrong.

She'd seen Joe's haunted look, the circles under his eyes. He'd said he was all right, but she'd known he wasn't. He'd become a man and she didn't understand him. She didn't know his dreams anymore, didn't know why he defied Father. She'd let him slip away. Lord forgive her.

She didn't know what she'd do without Joe. He was in the fire now and she feared she couldn't get him out. She feared she'd never see him again. Joe knew she loved him. But did he know caring for him had kept her alive, kept her from being bitter?

Hildy bowed her head. She tried to feel the Lord's song in her heart. Tried to feel His grace and charity. A noise startled her.

“Who is it? Who's out there?” She turned on the porch light.

Behind the screen, Hildy saw a sorry-looking white woman. Low class, Hildy knew, because the woman didn't wear a hat. She looked pitiful, hair tangled like a bird's nest. Her shoes and legs were scratched; her arms, dirty. Hildy wanted to slam the door. It didn't make sense for a white woman to be in Greenwood. Days, salesmen with cheap goods knocked door-to-door; nights, Klansmen splintered mailboxes with baseball bats. White women stayed across the tracks. Always.

“Miss Mary, I think you'd better go on home.”

“You know who I am?”

“It says so on the dress.”

Mary clutched her breast pocket.

“You sick?”

“No, I just thought you knew all about me. I thought it'd started.”

“What started?”

“The rumors.”

Hildy stepped closer, studying the face pockmarked by shadows. “What should I know about you?”

Mary flattened her palms on the screen. “Please, I'd like to see Mrs. Samuels.” A moth swooped, attracted by the light. “I need to talk with her.”

Hildy hissed. It was her, thought Hildy, the woman who caused Joe's trouble. She slapped the screen; the door rattled. Mary jerked back.

“You've got no business coming here, the trouble you've made. If
your business was honest, you'd be coming to the front door. Coming during daylight. There's no need for you to see Mrs. Samuels.”

“Please, you don't understand.”

“I understand plenty.”

“I'd like to see Mrs. Samuels. Call her. I'll wait right here.”

“I'm not calling anybody.”

“You've got to. Mrs. Samuels can decide if she wants to see me. Not you.” Mary flushed. “I'll wait on the porch.”

Hildy didn't move. She'd never wanted to hurt anybody in her life. But she wanted to hurt this scraggly woman. Joe in jail and Miss Mary wanting to pay respects. Like he was dead, like she hadn't any blame. “You must be stupid. Thinking I'm a maid.”

“I only want to see Mrs. Samuels. Mr. Samuels, if he's in.”

“I'm Joe's sister.” Hildy glared, wanting to scare this woman, drive her away from the house. Hildy noted how Mary didn't flinch. How she pressed against the screen, insisting, “Let me in. I need to talk to you.”

“You'll be sorry if you do.”

“Not any sorrier than I already am. Please,” she said. “I need to say I'm sorry about Joe.”

“You've said it,” said Hildy. “Now, go on home.” She started to close the door.

“Forgive me,” Mary said desperately. “Please forgive me.”

Hildy stopped short. “Forgiveness.” Psalms 145.
The Lord is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love
.

“Please, let me in.”

Hildy closed her eyes. Surprising herself, she opened the door. Mary needed a bath, a clean dress. And she needed a keeper if she felt talk could ease Joe's troubles. Yet, Mary stepped bravely into the kitchen, arms wrapped around her waist, holding in her fear. “You can sit,” Hildy said gruffly.

Mary nodded, moving toward the Blue Willow tea service. Beside a porcelain cup was a Bible with gold trim. Lovingly, Mary touched the tissue-thin pages.

“You read the Bible, Miss Mary?”

“I can't read.” Mary ducked her head like a baby bird. “Pa reads. Parts about daughters obeying their fathers. Lot's wife.”

“There's lots better parts than that.”

“Pa doesn't know them then. Sometimes I think all he knows is how to make good things bad and bad things worse.” Mary flushed again.

“If I didn't read my Bible, you wouldn't be here. I figure I can be charitable for five minutes. Then you've got to leave.”

Mary nodded.

Hildy surprised herself again by offering tea. Mary sat.

“Sugar?”

Mary lifted the sterling spoon, dipped it in the sugar then twirled it in the tea, creating puffs of steam. “I've never seen such a lovely service.” Carefully, she laid the spoon on the saucer.

Hildy blinked. If she disremembered who this woman was, disremembered the whiteness of her skin, she'd appreciate the moment more. She'd offer shortbread, berries, and cream. Mother and Emmaline never sat in her kitchen. Church women sometimes visited. Nevertheless, her evenings were lonely. Hildy tapped her Bible. Colossians 3:13.
As the Lord has forgiven you, you also must forgive
.

Hildy wouldn't let herself sit. Christian or not, she wanted to hurt this woman. She wanted to rage at her for hurting Joe.

Hands unsteady, Mary lowered her cup. “Thank you. You don't owe me any kindness.”

“No, I don't.”

Mary shook her head, wonderingly. “I should be ending my day in my own kitchen, Pa's kitchen. On the farm. Instead I'm here. Drinking the best tea of my life. In a colored person's house.”

“Are you trying to be funny, Miss Mary?”

“No, no, I'm not.” Tea spilled onto the saucer. “I'm trying to understand how I got to this place. How I began the day milking and ended here. How I hurt Joe when I didn't mean to hurt anybody.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing that folks say.”

“I know that. What did happen?” asked Hildy, her lips thin and dry.

“Sheriff says it doesn't matter what I say. Joe's escaping changed everything.”

Hildy felt as if she'd been struck. “Escaped? When?”

“An hour ago.”

“You waited this long to tell me? You come strutting in here worried
'bout sorry, knowing Joe's running—and you don't tell me? You don't tell me 'bout my brother? You're truly a fool, Miss Mary.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't think. You don't know what I've been through today.”

“My brother might be lynched and you're talking about you.” Hildy knocked aside Mary's cup. “Get out. You think being white makes it okay for you to be here. Saying ‘sorry.' Saying ‘Oh, I forgot, your brother's on the run.'”

“You don't understand.”

“I understand plenty. Fool white woman.”

“I'm sorry. I want to help Joe. Let me help.”

Hildy fought back tears. “There's nothing you can do.” She collapsed in the chair. The thought of losing Joe overwhelmed her.

“Sorry I didn't tell you right away about Joe.” Mary's voice raised in pitch. “I'm sorry.” She leaned forward. “Today happened to me too.”

Hildy dug her nails into the wood. She didn't want this white woman to see her cry.

“He might make it,” Mary whispered.

Hildy's head lifted. Yes, if Joe was free, he'd head for Lena's River. “He'll need food,” she said, rising, tugging a canvas bag off its peg. She opened the ice box, gathering leftovers—chicken, chunks of Colby, powder biscuits, pie.

“Let me help.”

“Don't need your help.”

“You know where he's gone, don't you?”

“It's time for you to clear out. Go home. You've had your say. Your say doesn't help Joe.”

“That's not fair. I can help.”

“Fair? You think you can walk in here and make everything better for yourself. Well, you can't. Joe means more to me than the world—I raised him.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don't.”

“I do,” Mary shouted back. “I raised a brother too. Jody. He lost a leg in the war.”

Chest heaving, the bag heavy in her arms, Hildy stared at Mary. Face to face, she could see they were the same height, about the same age
given their gray hair, the lines tugging at their eyes and mouths. “You're an old maid,” she said disgustedly. “Same as me. A useless old maid.”

Mary sighed. Taking the heavy bag from Hildy, she laid it on the table. “I can work. Same as you. You've got a jug for water? You'll need to take him water.”

Hildy relented. It was easier to let this white girl help her than waste time arguing. She motioned to the cabinet beneath the sink.

“Ice box? You got ice box water?”

“Yes,” said Hildy, watching Mary fill the jug.

“I'm sorry. For hurting Joe. For hurting you and your family.” Mary rearranged the bag, with the water at the bottom. “Seems like folks decided to walk right over me to hurt Joe. I don't know why I'm surprised. Nothing I say means anything. Not even the sheriff believes me. My words count for nothing.”

“You have to be somebody before they listen to you in Tulsa.” Hildy wrapped matches in waxed paper.

“You know Joe never touched me.”

“I know. If a black man's a mile down the road and a white woman hollers, it's rape. But if a white man tears off a Negro woman's dress, no one believes her. It isn't rape.” Hildy moved closer. “Why you think that's so, Miss Mary?”

Hildy needed to hear this white woman's answer. She needed to hear her say something stupid, so she could hate her outright. Not care about Christian charity. Not care about Mary's pain. If she said something stupid, she could slap her, push her out of the kitchen door, down the porch steps.

“Truth is I never paid colored folk any mind.” Mary spoke slowly, cautiously. “I've worked at the Ambrose for six years. I couldn't tell you when Joe started. I couldn't tell you a damn thing about him. Hair, height. Being colored just made him disappear for me. But after today I could tell you there's gold in his eyes.”

Hildy nodded.

“Joe let me see him. Let me see myself shining in a pool of tears. We were both of us drowning. Both of us trying to come up for air.”

“But you screamed. You must've screamed.”

“Yes.” Her shoulders drooped. “The one time I should've stayed hush. But I couldn't. I hurt so bad.”

“Miss Mary,” Hildy said, vehement. “You're still talking about you. You haven't done nothing for Joe.”

“I tried.”

“Maybe you didn't try hard enough, Miss Mary. You're free—Joe's on the run. Saying sorry is one thing, making good on ‘sorry' is another.”

“I'm doing it. I'm helping you, aren't I?” Mary dug inside her dress. “Here.” She pulled her rumpled dollars from her pocket. “Take this to Joe. It's all I have. Take it.”

Hildy clutched the bills. “I'll take it. But now leave my father's house. Leave my kitchen, Miss Mary. You're not welcome here.” Hildy turned away, disgusted. She didn't hear footsteps. All right. Well and good. Miss Mary could take a minute to gather herself.

Hildy went into the pantry and digging behind a flour pail, she pulled out a small pouch. She counted bills and coins. She had nineteen dollars, twenty-seven with Miss Mary's eight. She turned off the pantry light, expecting Miss Mary to be gone from her kitchen. But the crazy woman was still standing there pale as a ghost. Hildy could feel her fury rising again. One more minute and, Lord forgive her, she'd beat this woman out her kitchen. Christian charity or not.

“I'm Mary. Just plain Mary.” Mary's face was dull. Her hands hung limp at her sides.

Hildy shivered. She heard such hurt in Mary's voice.

“I was raped this morning. By a white man. Pa's hired hand. I told Sheriff Clay Joe didn't touch me but I didn't tell him who did. I was a coward. I didn't want folks talking about me any more than they already were. I didn't want to tell the sheriff something so,” she looked down at her shoes, then up again, “personal.”

Mary limped forward. “But I promise you—if it will help Joe, I'll tell the entire city, the whole world, if necessary, that a white man raped me, not Joe.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Maybe you shouldn't. But I never accused Joe. Never. No one will ever make me say any different.”

Hildy felt the Lord taking her by the hand, leading her to a greater light.

“I want to help Joe escape. Besides,” Mary stated grimly, “if you're
stopped by the Klan, my whiteness might be useful to you. To Joe's safety.”

Maybe the woman would be useful. It wouldn't be easy to get Joe out of Tulsa. Father wouldn't help Joe escape, that was sure, thought Hildy. She could ask Emmaline, but Emmaline might tell Father. Hildy looked closely at this strange woman in her kitchen.