Magic City (26 page)

L
ooking out Allen's shop window, it amazed Mary that Main looked so normal and calm while a short car ride away, Greenwood burned. Glorious red, yellow, and orange streaked the darkening sky. The Emporium's windows glittered with sequined combs, feathers, elegant dresses. Harper's Grocery advertised lettuce, two cents a head; come morning, there'd be trays outside with peaches, berries, and tomatoes. The street was quiet, deserted as if it were the end of an ordinary business day.

Allen busied himself in the back room; without asking, he'd left her alone. Except for the ticking of clocks, Allen's shop lay hush.

Hush
. Such a fine, horrible word. So nice, whispering across the tongue.

Mary had decided to be hush again, to clamp her mouth shut, clasp her knees to her chest, and will the world away. It'd been simpler, less painful being Pa's quiet, good girl.

Hush
. Her head lolled. She felt tremors moving through her body.

Her words hadn't mattered to anyone: not the looters she'd shouted
at, trying to drive them away; not the guardsmen she begged to put her on the truck with Hildy. A soldier with eyes as blue as Dell's thought she was crazy, proclaiming Joe's innocence. He'd never heard of Joe Samuels, didn't care how the rioting started. She hadn't found Sheriff Clay. But she'd seen plenty of his deputies terrorizing.

She and Allen had taken a car into Tulsa. She'd wept as the Guards imprisoned Greenwood families in the Convention Center. Arms flailing, she'd railed at the men who leveled guns at children, poking, urging them along, railed at the deputies tagging, numbering Negroes, and railed at the sentries who had orders to keep “whites out, coloreds in.” An officer had lightly touched her arm. “Ma'am.” Tall, earnest, he removed his hat. “They're just niggers.”

His words had unnerved her. She'd stopped. Stopped speaking, moving. Just stopped as a new loneliness stole over her.

“Mary. Please, Mary.”

Allen had led her away—past trucks unloading dispirited families, past bloodied flatbeds of wounded, past a truck stuffed with dozens of dead Negroes, eyes glazed, jaws slack, headed for mass burial out of town.

She let Allen bring her to his shop because, finally, there seemed no place else to go, nothing else to do.

Lord, she was tired. Clocks measured the seconds, minutes, hours she'd sat before Allen's window. Relentless, the rhythm inspired quiet.
Hush
. She couldn't help thinking she'd failed herself, failed Hildy and Joe.

“Mary? You should eat.” Allen set down a tray.

Walking to his workbench, she looked down at the platter. “Never had a man fix me food before.”

“I'm not very good at it.” Shyly, he ducked his head.

“It's nice.” There was cold chicken, biscuits, and peas. A glass of milk. “I wonder if anyone milked the jersey.”

“What?”

“I'd finished milking when Dell,” she swallowed, “when Dell caught me. I wonder if Pa milked the jersey.” Their jersey didn't know about a son dying, a daughter leaving.

“Eat, Mary. It'll do you good.”

She tasted the biscuit. “Here. You eat too.” She offered Allen half.

They sat beside one another on metal stools. Mary stared beyond brass, gears, canisters, springs, wondering if Hildy's kitchen had finished burning.

“There was nothing you could do.”

She shrugged. “I'll always wonder.” She set down her biscuit. “I was scared.”

“I thought you were brave.”

She looked up, thinking Allen sounded like Jody. She'd been thirteen and they'd gone honey gathering. Impatient for the bees to be smoked out, she'd stuck her hand in the honeycomb too soon. She'd been stung good. All the way home, Jody kept marveling at how brave she was.

“I've been a fool,” she said to Allen. “All my life I've been a fool.”

“Don't say that.”

“It's true.”

Brows furrowing, Allen clasped her hand. “Marry me, Mary.”

She laughed bitterly. “Dell asked me. A dream come true.”

“I'm not Dell,” he said fiercely.

“No, you're not. I'm sorry.”

“You said you'd come with me. Chicago. New York.”

Allen reminded Mary of a ghost. His skin was clean again, translucent. She could see blue-red veins beneath his eyes, the jutting of white cheekbone. Smoke lingered in his clothes. “I can't go now. I'm not sure I can do anything anymore.”

“You don't have to be sure. Sometimes a little faith helps.”

“I don't have any faith.”

“I'll care for you.”

“I don't want your care,” she snapped, digging her nails into wood. Two days ago, she'd thought a man's touch would end her loneliness. Now she knew wishing didn't make it so.

“We don't have to go,” he said abruptly, lifting the tray. “You don't have to do anything you don't want.”

She listened to Allen moving in the back room, behind the curtain. A little too noisily. She could hear him scraping away food, the fork rattling on the plate, the rush of water. How many times had she done the same? Busy hands hiding rage, sorrow. Her fingers glided across his workbench. The magnifying lamp glowed: such thin wire, tiny springs,
small tweezers to pluck the insides of a pocket watch. Sheer cotton to wipe invisible dust. Tedious, delicate work.

She flexed her hands—rough and blunt, made to manage a farm. Allen's lean hands stopped and started time. Busy hands kept a person hush.

“Al?” She didn't hear any sounds behind the curtain. “Al?”

She got up slowly, thinking Allen had seen her for who she was—a plain and lonely woman—but she hadn't seen him.

She ducked through blue curtains. The lamp was off. She saw and heard nothing. She knew the cot was to the right and she imagined Allen there, motionless, mouth turned toward the pillow, breathing lightly, shallowly.
Silently mourning, as if he had no right to breathe, to be alive
. Mary knew that pain—its intensity, desperation. Trying to be hush.

“Al.”

Using her hands to guide her, she found Allen, face down. She sat on the cot's edge, laying her hand gently upon his shoulder.

Allen half-moaned, sighed.

“I called Joe a nigger,” he said, dejected. “Never even said sorry.”

“You never called him that.”

“I did. You were unconscious. I never said sorry.”

“He must've forgiven you. He let you help his family.”

“But I never should've called him 'nigger'. I know better. ‘
Albino Allen
' knows better.” His fist rammed the wall. “‘Ugly Allen.' ‘Monster Allen.' I know better. Just like I know better than to expect you could care for me. A freak. Goddamned freak.” Pulling his legs into his body, he shifted away from her. Mary let her hands fall into her lap.

“You're tired, Allen.”

“I'm tired.”

“Life's hard.”

“Life's cruel.”

Darkness enveloped them. Mary guessed she and Allen could shelter in shadows forever, pinching their lives into small rooms, small ways.
Hadn't she learned anything?

She concentrated on Allen's ragged breathing, the rhythm of her own heart.

She remembered Joe's eyes: his yearning, confusion matching her own
.

Hildy said nobody knew anything about Lena. A mystery. All her life Mary'd been a mystery to herself. She'd never envisioned the kind of woman she wanted to be. She'd dreamed a man would find her, tell her who she was
.

“Al,” she whispered, feeling herself gaining strength. “My voice wasn't enough. I've got to find a way to make a difference. To Greenwood. Tulsa. Something I can do.”

In a burst of sound, clocks chimed the quarter hour. Allen remained still.

Mary left, went into the shop where the light was brighter. She blinked. Birdhouses hung upon the wall, pendulums swung. Outside the window, she saw street lamps lit. Evening. She'd leave, find lodging. Tomorrow, she'd find a way to help the Samuels.

“Mary?”

Allen's face was white as alabaster. His eyes were iridescent; his pupils, piercing. His hands hung limp at his sides.

“We should call the Red Cross,” he said. “I don't know if anybody's done that. Greenwood folk are going to need food, medicine, supplies.”

“Yes.” She felt hopeful—Allen wanted her to have her chance. “What about tonight? Do you have blankets for the children?”

“Not more than two or three.”

Mary thought of Zion's Sanctified Women. “Is there a church nearby?”

“The First Baptist. Tulsa might not take kindly—”

“I'll convince the women.” She smoothed his hair. “Some will be good-hearted.”

“Yes.” He cupped her face within his palms. “Like you. Some will be like you.”

She exhaled. “I—we can stay right here. In Tulsa. Be useful.”

“All right.”

“Are you sure? I thought you needed to leave.”

“There'll be folks sorry for what's happened. They'll want to help Greenwood. Maybe Tulsa will change.”

“I'd like that.”

“What else would you like?”

Mary heard the question hiding within the question. She looked at
him forthrightly, speaking her heart. “Not to be alone in the world.”

“Together, we'll promise not to be so alone. Sunday afternoons. On Sundays, we'll get ice cream sodas. What else would you like?”

“I'd like to be friends with Hildy.”

Allen nodded solemnly. “And?”

Mary paused, afraid she was asking for too much. “One day, I'd like a parlor for women to call and sit pleasantly.”

“I'm not rich but I have a little money set by. We can have a small house.” Allen's hand slipped round her waist. “You're trembling.”

“Yes. This scares me.”

Allen removed his hand. “I can wait, Mary. We've got our whole lives.”

Mary's fingers curled around his. “We almost did good, didn't we, Allen? We almost got some families out of Tulsa.”

“Almost.”

She laid her head on his chest. “I think Joe's safe. In Courthouse Square, I dreamed him flying free.” She placed Allen's hand upon her waist. “I still believe in ghosts,” she murmured.

“Ghosts. Miracles. Anything can happen. I believe we're going to be happy. I'll make you happy. Look, Mary.”

She turned and saw their reflection in the window: her hair dark, his white, their arms entwined.

“I'm taller,” she said.

“That you are, Mary. Lovely Mary.”

She matched his smile.
Outside, beneath the street lamp, she saw a winged angel
. “Look, Al. Do you see?”

Allen didn't shift his gaze from Mary.

Mary pressed her palms against the pane. “Ma,” she murmured into the glass.
The figure twirled, wings outstretched, ascending into the night air
.

“Did you see?”

Allen lightly kissed her nose. “Did I ever tell you about time?”

“Yes,” she answered, looking skyward, “you can tell it by the stars.”

C
lay had burned every goddamned bridge there was. He'd called Ambrose the asshole that he was, punched Sully, and thrown his badge into the river. But he didn't feel any better.

He patted the ticket in his jacket pocket. He was getting the hell out of Tulsa.

Staring about the train's platform, it surprised him not many Tulsans were leaving. As though rioting were an everyday occurrence. But then, Tulsa was undamaged. In a few hours, Greenwood's destruction would be total. Controlled burn. Newly virgin land.

He wouldn't be surprised if Ambrose claimed the acres, making coloreds pay to rebuild. And they'd pay over and over again. Every hammer, every nail, every piece of lumber would have to be bought in Tulsa. Trust Ambrose to take care of his self-interest. He'd issue work passes so coloreds could leave the Convention Center. Being locked up wasn't an excuse for being lazy. Tulsans would be outraged if coloreds didn't sweep the ballpark, clean the city's sewer, wash a fat baby's bot
tom, smile “Yes, sir” to visitors, shine expensive leather, and keep the Henly Hotel's linen service up to par.

Ambrose would be touted a hero, the best choice for governor. A man who cleverly kept niggers in their place.

Clay would be remembered as a nigger lover, a coward.

He didn't care about that. But he should've gotten charges dismissed against Joe Samuels, kept Ambrose in check, prevented Greenwood from burning. He was supposed to enforce the law, keep the populace safe. He'd turned a blind eye to Greenwood just as he had to the murder of Reubens. Now he understood the events were connected. Waver on the law and the stink never faded. Clay didn't think he'd ever shake Lucas' smell of musk, gunpowder, and entrails as he died.

Maybe it would've been different if he could've stopped Lucas. Clay hadn't wanted Lucas to die. Nor Bates or any other man. And for each white killed, a dozen Greenwood men had died.

Clay had seen a truckload of bodies hustled out of town, probably headed for a common pit. Ambrose would want things covered over. Most likely, he'd succeed. Folks might never know how many colored men died.

Clay paced the length of the train, carrying his small suitcase. On board, he'd order bourbons (as many as it took) until the sleeper car rocked him to sleep.

He checked his watch—in ten minutes, the conductor would call, “All aboard.” He'd heard there were redwood forests just beyond Frisco. Maybe he'd go walking and let himself get lost. Try to forget about Joe Samuels.

“Don't move, sheriff.”

Clay reached for his gun.

“Please.”

Clay couldn't stop smiling. “You're a fool to be here, Joe.”

“I want on the train.” Joe crouched between two coach cars.

“You're likely to be lynched.”

“I thought you could help me.”

“You helping me climb out of the well, Joe?”

“I don't know about that. Just thought you could give me a helping hand, sheriff.” Joe leaned forward out of the shadows.

Clay winced at Joe's swollen face. “I quit being sheriff.”

“I guess that means you can't arrest me.”

“Tell me, how'd you escape your cell?”

“You left it unlocked.”

Clay hooted. “Either you are a remarkable man or I am a complete fool.” Clay stooped, opening his bag. “You'll have to let me cuff you. These are yours. I found them in the elevator.” The handcuffs opened easily.

“Didn't we try this before?”

“You got a better plan?”

Joe shook his head and Clay felt sorry for him. Joe looked desolate, changed from the boy he'd first picked up in Greenwood. “Is it your birthday yet?”

Joe was surprised. “Yeah, it is.”

“An omen then. You made it this far.” Clay snapped on the cuffs and scooped up Joe's duffel. Clay was at least thirty pounds heavier than this wiry young man. Yet he thought Joe was more solid, more real than him.

“How do you know I won't turn you in? How do you know you can trust me?” Joe stepped back, suspicious. “I'm sorry, Joe. You can trust me. I was just curious—how you knew it.”

Joe lifted his shoulders. “I know you, sheriff.”

“Did you know I was going to give you to the Greenwood men? I was coming to your cell to let you go.”

Joe stuck out his cuffed hands. “Take me on board, sheriff.”

The train gushed steam. The conductor called. Businessmen, couples, traveling salesmen with huge cases surged onto the coaches. “Come on.” He pulled Joe by his elbow. Beneath the lamps, Joe sagged, looked defeated. Clay dragged him straight ahead, ignoring the stares, the harsh whispers of other passengers. The conductor was almost running toward him, complaining, “Sheriff, I wasn't informed. I wasn't informed.”

“I've been busy. A riot's going on.” He jerked Joe closer to him. “This boy's going to Oklahoma City for trial. It's a federal charge now.”

The conductor looked bug-eyed behind his spectacles. “I need to call for authorization.”

“Sure. Call. You want a riot here at the station? You want to advertise I've got Joe Samuels? Dozens of folks anxious to kill him. Call. You
can leave for Frisco tomorrow. Or the next day. After you've cleaned up the mess. After my deputies collect evidence and take statements from every passenger.”

The conductor frowned and Clay realized his dilemma. The conductor couldn't put Clay on the colored car without violating segregation. And white passengers would complain about being near a colored, cuffed or not.

“The caboose. I can let you have it as far as Oklahoma City.”

“Fine. No need to go farther.”

“You got a ticket for that nigger?”

“I don't need one,” said Clay. “Neither do you. This is official business.” Clay stared hard. Then he swung Joe around and sauntered toward the back of the train. “I can find my way.”

Clay was startled by the train's wail. Three short bursts, one long. He exhaled. “I could use a drink, Joe. A drink and a smoke. You?”

“I just want to be gone.”

“You will, Joe. Good and gone. After Oklahoma City, we can relax.”

Clay laughed to himself—he sounded so positive, so sure of himself. Well, why not? He had done good.

“We're almost home free, Joe.”

“Thanks, sheriff.”

Clay held back, watching Joe climb the short stairs. “Thanks, sheriff.” Joe's words were a balm. Imagine that. Clay felt a great peace. Riding in the back of the train, not certain where he was going, without a job, without much money, he felt lighthearted. He hadn't felt this way since he'd left the service and headed west. Maybe that was still the answer, head west. Maybe he just hadn't gone far enough, hadn't found yet what he needed. He was older, but he wasn't dead.

Clay laughed out loud—he'd escaped Tulsa.

He looked down the track, toward the engine. Two thousand miles to Frisco. Nothing but steel rails embedded in the earth. But, beyond rails, beyond cities and towns, there were still forests, lakes, and open land. Enough for a man to breathe, to walk among cedars, to drink water from a stream.