Magic City (6 page)

Joe remembered the haunting sounds of wood beneath his feet, moths beating at the window, and his own ragged breath. He'd stared at the gleaming coffin until dawn. He'd sworn he'd find a way to bring his brother back—some magic, some trick. He'd make his brother reappear
.

Joe looked up, realizing Gabe was staring at him.

“I've grown up now. I realize Henry's dead. I ain't crazy. But we all would've believed it better if you'd been the one to tell us, Gabe. A government letter don't mean nothing.”

Joe let his head thump against the wall. “No one speaks of Henry anymore. Father won't allow it. It's like he never was.”

Joe feared he'd always be less than his brother packed in a coffin under an avalanche of dirt. He needed a man's recognition to find his place in the world. Houdini helped. Staring at his eyes could make Joe believe in anything, believe in himself. He could never see himself in his father's eyes. He simply disappeared. Joe looked but he couldn't find his reflection in Gabe's blood swelling eye.

“Your eye looks pretty bad. We should go to town, have Lying Man look at it.”

Gabe said nothing.

“Come on, man. I'll even buy you a haircut.” Trying to coax a smile out of Gabe, Joe made a quarter appear.

“Rustle me up a dollar. A quarter won't buy shit.”

Joe dodged out the door, relieved to be out of Gabe's shack.

Gabe followed; he picked his way carefully, deciding a split second beforehand where he was going to step. He walked with his hand in his pockets, his fingers closed on his gun.

Joe paused at a small crest and watched an eagle swoop across the sky.

Without looking at him, Gabe murmured, “Now if you could make me disappear, I'd buy that. I'd climb in any damn box you want.”

“Yeah, that's the best trick of all. Disappear. Escape. That's what makes Houdini special. He escapes. He broke out of Murderer's Row in D.C. He unlocked all the prisoners and then locked them in different cells.”

“You believe that?”

“It's true. He's an escape artist. Don't you ever want to escape, Gabe? Houdini does easier tricks, but he's better when he's escaping. He can will himself out of any jail. He has the power in his hands, his body. Makes you believe he's got other kinds of powers too.”

Gabe looked at him, searchingly.

“Houdini's trying to reach the dead.”

“What?”

“I read about it.” The eagle screeched again.

Gabe clutched Joe's shirt. “Three years, Henry's been dead. Time to let it go, Joe. I loved him. You loved him. Let it go at that. Let him stay dead.”

How did he explain his dreams? His dread?

Gabe's hands dropped to his sides. “The dead don't come back, Joe. Henry's not coming back. He wouldn't want to. Ain't nothing for a black man in Tulsa. Even when your daddy owns the bank.”

Gabe fell silent for a moment. He crushed a stone with his boot.

“He decomposed, Joe,” Gabe said softly. “Three weeks by boat, another by train. Nothing much of Henry was left. Do you see?”

Joe saw:
Henry's face pockmarked with rot, his skull and cheek bones glimmering white. No, the dead couldn't come back. Shouldn't come back
.

T
he closer Mary got to town, the worse she felt. Sweat pooled on her neck. Her feet hurt. Her narrow skirt made it difficult to walk. Normally she would've packed her uniform and changed in town, but her other comfortable clothes belonged to Pa. She worried Mr. Bates would say she wasn't presentable. Her first day working he'd told her to scrub her nails, buy lipstick. Another girl had complained she smelled manure on Mary's shoes.

The road to town followed the Arkansas River. Mary saw dragonflies flitting about in the cattails at the edge of the muddy water. The water, glistening with oil, smelled of rotting leaves. On the opposite bank a herd of cattle had come to drink. Oil rigs, pumping furiously, dotted the field behind the cattle and Mary wondered how long the Andersons would keep ranching, now oil was coming in. She'd heard Mrs. Anderson had bought a dozen silk dresses from Seville's.

Mary stepped in a rut; her heel snapped, and she fell backward on the dusty road, the air knocked out of her. Her hand scraped on the rocks. “Damn. Damn all to hell. Damn Dell.”

Nothing was fair. She was dirty, her skin tacky from Dell's rutting. Sun chapped her lips and dulled her lipstick. Burrs stuck in her hair. Her lilac perfume couldn't compete with the road, spotted with manure from horse-drawn wagons and grease from rich men's Model Ts.

Mary lay on her back, exhausted, feeling the intense sun. Nothing seemed to matter. She could lie here all day and dry up like an oversized prune. Right now, she wouldn't mind if Pa or Dell or Jody came along. They'd just pick her off the ground and take her back to a lifetime of barn and kitchen duties. But that wasn't Pa's way. He'd wait until she crawled back, desperate. Dell would be too arrogant to come. Jody might want to, but wouldn't disobey Pa.

“Damn. Damn everything to hell.” Not a soul seemed to be traveling down this road except her. All right. She'd just lie here and die. Like Lena.

Mary didn't know if Lena had been an Indian or a colored, but she knew Lena had been pretty and had let herself drown. Somebody would've cared about Lena because she had been beautiful. Even now folks talked about her. Everybody had their own explanation for why a lovely girl let herself die.
Her man had left her. She couldn't have babies. A prettier girl had stolen her man
.

Dying somehow made Lena lovelier. Folks who claimed they'd seen her ghost said she was stark, raving beautiful.

Nobody would care about Mary Keane. She could lie here and starve. Some coyote could gnaw her bones. There wouldn't be any legend. Pa, at the funeral, would call her dumb.

Mary gave a big hiccuping cry. Pictures of Dell raping her snuck into her mind. She balled her hands into fists and punched her head, trying to batter out the memory. She sat up, squealing. Red ants crawled on her arms. “Damn. Double damn.”

She squinted in the sunlight, looking back where she'd traveled. She patted the money in her pocket. She was more frightened than she'd ever been in her life. Where would she live? How would she eat?

A roadster with a bleating horn swerved, showering dirt and small rocks. A goggle-eyed man cursed.

“Damn you too. Damn you all to hell.” If she'd been pretty, the car would've stopped.

She fell back, waiting for a car or a horse's hooves to run over her.

Then she heard a sweet voice call, “Rise.”

“Ma?” She picked herself up. Nothing around but empty road. Nothing to do but walk.

She tried to move with new confidence—she tried to sway and glide like she'd seen pretty women do. Pretty women with golden hair and pink cheeks. The heelless shoe kept tripping her.

“Rise,” she told herself. She was glad she didn't have a mirror. She could feel terror settling on her face. She walked. Mincing steps. Gimpy-legged like Jody.

She started singing: “I Want to Be Happy.”

A man in her elevator last week had been singing the song as they rode up. He'd laughed and spoken into the air, “It's stuck in my head.” Then, he'd looked directly at her, his hair and beard luminous white, making his albino face even paler. He'd said, “
No, No, Nanette
. I saw it in New York.” He'd smiled, inviting her laughter.

She hadn't had the slightest idea of what he was talking about. He didn't sound like a Tulsan, no twangy drawl; instead, his voice was lilting, high pitched. Such a curious man, she'd thought, making herself stop staring at his skin. He'd tipped her a quarter and exited into the lobby. Then he'd turned back, his hand stopping the elevator door, and confided, “You should've seen the dancers. They tapped like angels.”

The sun grew bigger on the horizon. She hummed. She'd buy a silk scarf, maybe feathers for a hat. She'd even go to the cinema.

Swatting flies, trudging the long, dry road, Mary kept singing until she grew hoarse.

 

Mary's head hurt. She'd gotten to town too early; she didn't start work till noon. At first, she thought she'd arrived in the wrong place. Red streamers decorated lamp poles, flags adorned shops, and coloreds were building a stage in the center of Courthouse Square. Then she remembered Decoration Day. Tomorrow, ex-soldiers were going to march.

For a while, Mary stared in the Ladies' Emporium window, but the display of jewelry, boots with tiny buttons, perfume flagons, and beaded dresses paralyzed her. Fashionable, well-cared-for women entered the store whispering, turning to stare at her ghostly face through the window. Embarrassed, she limped back and forth along Main, nearly a hundred times. Drenched in sweat, she lost track of time, feeling confused by the busy street with its motorcars, newspaper hawkers, clerks, and office workers, flowing around her, muttering, cursing, “Excuse me. Watch your way!”

The albino man stood before her. His fingers were stained and he had a grease-streaked apron tied about his neck and waist. He looked at her inquiringly; his smile, kind. Though he wore no hat, he pretended to tip one to her.

Mary smiled. He'd sung the odd song in her elevator.

“I thought you needed help,” he said. A wide matron jostled them.

The man drew Mary closer to the building. Again he spoke, gently supporting her arm, “May I help you, miss?”

Mary shivered, feeling both hot and cold. She stared at his lips, expecting a song.

“My name is Allen. Allen Thornton. I'd like to help, if I may. May I help you? Miss Mary, isn't it?”

She touched the embroidery on her breast pocket.

“A lovely name—Mary.”

Allen's eyes were the lightest blue with a thick fringe of white lash. His brows were nearly invisible; pale skin shone through.

She stumbled.

Allen's arm wrapped about her waist. “Are you all right?”

Her fingers traced his. She'd never met a man with such gentle fingers. Though the tips were dirty, there weren't any calluses.

She opened her mouth like a baby bird.

Allen bowed his head, trying to catch her words.

Mary liked the way his ear curled, soft and pink. A bit of hair was in his inner ear. “I…I…”
There was no one else in the world but the two of them
. “I—”

“Yes? Yes?”

“I want to be happy.”

Allen peered at her. His hand closed over hers. “Yes, my dear. I understand.”

Tremors swept through Mary's body. The sidewalk felt like water; horns blared. The press of bodies bumping about her, the grocer hammering a melon display, and the sun glimmering in shop windows overwhelmed her. Two coloreds on ladders struggled to hoist a banner. Far off, she heard a train's whistle and the clang of a firemen's truck.

She felt lost. “I'm
not
all right. I'm
not
all right.” Her legs buckled.

Allen lifted her as firmly and gently as he would a child. “Dear, dear Mary.” Mary tightened her arms about his neck. She closed her eyes against matrons' shocked glances, ignored the giggling girls they passed.

Allen walked determinedly and Mary relished the feel of being carried, gently bouncing, her head stable against the sweaty slope of his neck.

“We'll go to my shop,” he said. “I'll fix you a fine cup of coffee.” Then she heard his thin tenor:

She felt she'd slipped inside a dream, swept along, floating above the sidewalk—people, store windows, flags, bright streamers blurring. Allen began the verse again.

Heads turned, mouths opened in amazement, a Packard came to a halt.

Letting her mind drift, Mary hummed the tune with Allen Thornton.

T
he barbershop bell jangled as Joe and Gabe walked through the door. Joe thought it was strange: nobody getting shaved; the shears, still. Over a dozen men sat silent, torsos pressed forward, listening to Lying Man, owner of the four-chair shop. Lyman was nicknamed Lying Man because in fifty years, he'd never lied. He could tell hard truths better than any preacher.

Joe cocked his head, listening to Lying Man's cadences.

“These folks were trying to organize workers. Oil gushing out of the ground every day, and these boys, mainly white, wanting to know why only certain folks held land, built refineries, decided who got jobs. One of 'em, named David Reubens, would even strip his pants, show his chicken legs and drawers, then tug his pants back on—demanding, wanting to know if any man did it any different. Was any different. David would scratch his head, curious why there wasn't no justice. He'd say: ‘We're supposed to be equal in America. Things supposed to be fair.'

“I could've told him there wasn't any fairness.”

“Amen,” “Yes, sir,” “Un-hunh,” floated out of the listeners' mouths. Lying Man was testifying.

Joe and Gabe waited just inside the door.

“I told David every plantation only has one master. Always been that way. One master, then lots of poor whites to do the dirty work and lots of blacks to do what was beyond dirty. But this Jew kid believed he could make things better. He'd come into town ready to organize. Called himself a ‘friend of Negroes.' Maybe he was too.

“Folks called him a Red, a Bolshevik. Other choice words too. He was seventeen like you, Joe.”

Joe cocked his head.

“Yep, weren't any older than you, Joe. Tulsa don't like unions. Never has.” Lying Man whistled air through his teeth. “His parents moved from Chicago and made him a farm boy. They weren't any good at it. Nearly starved every season. David wanted to do carpentry. Instead he learned all the different ways a bossman had of saying no. In the city, he was ‘poor white trash.' But no trash in David. He was as sweet and righteous as any prophet.

“Y'all know I like my music?”

Everybody knew Lying Man lived for the blues. “David could play harmonica like you wouldn't believe.” Everyone was entranced by Lying Man. Herb and Ernie didn't touch their checkers. Nate didn't wipe the lather off his chin. Joe stared at Lying Man, pot-bellied, surrounded by pomades and cans of tobacco, his razor slicing the air.

“David even wore a white hat. Said his mam had given it to him. He truly believed in unions. But he'd no more sense than a babe.

“If he'd been a Negro, he would've been told, ‘Don't be disrespectful…don't antagonize whites with money. Don't think you're better than anyone else. Certainly don't believe you're equal, unless you're ready to die.'”

The men nodded their heads. Nate pounded a fist against his thigh. Gabe rocked, his arms crisscrossed over his chest. Lying Man gazed solemnly at each man in the room.

Joe wasn't fooled. Lying Man was talking to him. Telling him something Lying Man felt he needed to know.

“David thought he was as good as the white man who owned the feed store, slaughtered the pigs, sold the ham, and
still
had oil gushing
in his back field. I tried to teach him. But they bombed his house. Klansmen thinking about Jews killing Christ, worried about Reds overrunning the country.

“It was a Sunday morning. David's folks died in their beds.” Lying Man set his razor on the counter. “I didn't have no power to do a damn thing.

“David came to me. He wanted to play his harmonica. Here. In the barber's chair. He talked about wood, building houses and schools. He stayed for almost an hour, harmonica wailing, playing the saddest blues.

“When the men came for him, I thought they'd come for me too. But they didn't pay me no mind. I don't think they even saw me.” Lying Man closed his eyes, ashamed of how helpless he'd been when David was dragged from the barbershop. “But I had power enough to watch him die. I owed him that. Owed him a witness.

“Lots of folk watched. But I witnessed it. Do you understand? I ain't told nobody. The time's not been right. But I'm telling you.”

Lying Man looked first at Gabe, then at sallow-faced Billy, Chalmers, then Nate. Joe realized they'd all fought in the 369th with Henry.

In the grip of some power, Lying Man tottered forward, clasping Joe's wrists. “But I'm telling you now, Joe. I woke up this morning knowing I was supposed to testify. I never told anyone this story but I knew I was supposed to tell it today. I dreamt it.”

Terrified, his dread returning, Joe tried to pull away. Lying Man held tight. “They hauled David to Martin's field. Seems like everybody white was there. Women with picnic lunches. Children too.”

He went on relentless: “They handcuffed David and chained his legs so he couldn't escape. They broke every bone in his arms and legs. Steel-toed boots. Baseball bats. They took their time over his hands. One of the carpenters, non-union, mind you, used a hammer. Then they lynched him. Didn't quite snap his neck though. They wanted him alive when he burned. Didn't take long for David to die. Bursting into flame in the bright light of day. Everybody packed up. Singing songs. Swapping recipes. Talking about what work needed to get done tomorrow. They left his bones and ash for the dogs.”

Lying Man paused. The men pitched forward, waiting for his final words.

“If they'd do that to a white man, think what they'd do to you.”

“Lawd, Lawd,” Ernie exhaled. “Lawd, Lawd.”

Joe saw himself burning inside Lying Man's irises
. “Naw,” Joe breathed. He jerked his hands and turned to escape. The copper bell jangled.

Joe saw his dead brother leaning against the lamppost outside, beckoning
.

Stunned, Joe stepped back into the shop, shutting the door. He would've slid to the floor if Lying Man hadn't grabbed him.

“It's all right. Gonna be all right,” Lying Man whispered, steadying him.

Joe thought he was crazy.
Clear as day he'd seen Henry, just like he'd never gone to war. Never died
.

“You all right, Joe?” asked Gabe.

“Stand for me. You've got to stand,” said Lying Man.

“I can stand.” Joe peered out the window, but Henry was nowhere to be seen. His brow touched the glass. Ernie cleared his throat, pounded his pipe on his checkerboard. “Joe and Gabe! Y'all some sorry looking folk.”

“Fell down in an outhouse, did you?” asked rheumy-eyed Herb.

“I had a cousin did that once. Never found him since.”

“Ernie, if you was my cousin,” said Herb, “I'd choose the outhouse too.”

The barbershop exploded in laughter. Lying Man went back to shaving Nate.

Joe was caught off-guard by the change. The story was over. Men were playing cards again, reading magazines, trading jokes. Hair was being trimmed. Everything was normal. Like nothing had happened. He swallowed. “Me and Gabe, we were fighting.”

“Gabe? You mean to tell me this boy whipped you,” demanded Ernie.

“Ain't a boy no more,” said Gabe. “Couple days, Joe be eighteen.”

“Go on. You lie,” said Sandy, another old man.

“Henry's baby brother?”

“In that case, give this man a drink,” said Sandy. “Tater, get a red cherry pop. I'll buy.” Tater, feeble-minded, quit sweeping loose hairs and shuffled back to the cooler.

“Bet he be wanting a different kind of cherry to celebrate,” said Chalmers, a veteran who clerked in the dry goods store. The men laughed uproariously.

Joe turned back to the window.

“I got black cherry,” hollered Tater from the back.

“Best kind,” said Ernie. “Sure 'nough. You know what they say. The blacker the berry—”

“The sweeter the juice,” laughed Herb.

Joe slid his palms across the bay window. During the war, he'd spent his Saturdays in the barbershop. Heat would spill from the window while he listened to the old men's playful banter:

He hadn't had nightmares then.

Joe stared down the avenue searching for his brother. He was disgusted with himself. Something magical had happened and he'd been too stunned to walk out the door. What if he'd shaken his brother's hand? What would've happened then?

“Joe? Joe? You hear me calling you? You're a dreamer, boy,” said Lying Man, applying more lather to Nate's face. “It's not your usual day for visiting. You got a date this evening?”

“Naw.”
Had Lying Man seen Henry too?
“I brung Gabe. Wanted you to fix his eye.”

“What happened to your magic?” called Sandy, dealing poker and puffing on a Lucky Strike. “Fix Gabe's face yourself. Wave your arms, say mumbo-jumbo. Ain't your magic tricks any good?”

Joe touched the deck of cards, pulling out five aces. “My magic beats your cheating any day.”

“Got you, Sandy. Got you good,” said his partner, Cool Jack.

“How'd that get there? How'd that get there?”

The men laughed again. Sandy gulped his morning brew—coffee doused with whiskey, then shook his head, marveling at the five aces.

“Gabe needs some stitches,” said Joe.

“Doc can handle it.”

“I want you to do it,” said Gabe, moving across the room. Folks knew Lying Man was better than Doc for fixing ailments.

Lying Man nodded. “I'll be done in a minute.” Expertly, he flicked his razor.

Joe and Gabe sat, resting their backs against the wall. Except for the blotched eye, Joe thought Gabe looked relaxed, almost happy. Joe envied Gabe's certainty: “Dead don't come back.” He flexed his trembling fingers. “
Who do you think you are, boy?
”

His magic tricks weren't enough. He needed to
be
Houdini,
be
someone greater than he was.

“Give you a shave too, Gabe,” said Lying Man, his arm swooping, flicking lather. “I ain't shaved that mean neck of yours since you marched off to war. You and Henry both came. Gave me a two-bit tip.”

Joe felt Gabe tense.

Lying Man washed his razor in the sink.

“Ain't seen you in awhile, Gabe,” said Nate, rising, wiping the red-striped towel across his neck. “Not since Henry's funeral.”

Nate worked at Thompson's. Single-handed, he could haul and Shook a dead steer. Nate tossed the red-striped towel in the sink. “What you been doing, Gabe? Messing with someone's woman?”

Gabe didn't move.

“No
savoir
faire. Isn't that what we learned in France?” asked Nate. “You had
savoir faire
in France. I remember. Saw you
savoir faire
this black-headed gal many a time.”

There was silence in the crowded, overheated shop. Inexplicably, hate had oozed into the room, and the fan seemed to be stirring it, spreading it to the corners.

“Wish I'd been with you,” said Joe. “I bet France was something to look at.”

“So was Gabe's girl.” Nate never blinked.

“Nate, don't be starting nothing,” said Lying Man.

“I'm not starting anything. It was Gabe who introduced the white girls. Me and Henry just followed. Isn't that so, Gabe?”

“Shut up, Nate,” said Gabe.

“You had yourself a white woman?” broke in Sandy, his voice awestruck. The players laid down their cards. Joe stared at Gabe. Gabe's eyes were shut, but Joe saw sweat draining beneath Gabe's collar. The fan kept its lazy spin. Tater kept sweeping tufts of hair across the floor.

“Damn,” said Sandy. “I thought you boys went there to kill Germans. White women? You boys sure had it good in France. White pussy.”

“Good? You don't know nothing,” said Nate. “How many niggers came home in boxes? A thousand, two? Three thousand? White men were glad about the war. It makes sense, don't it? Let us die. One way or the other. Give us guns and hope we die. And like fools we begged the bossman generals to let us man the front lines.

“Tell 'em, Gabe. Wasn't it so?” Nate waited for a response. He grabbed Gabe's lapels, shouting, “Gabe, I'm talking to you. Wasn't it so?” He shoved Gabe, then turned, pacing. “Nobody minds sending Negro men off to die. You should've seen how well some of us died. We did it good. Henry was the best. Until he got blown to pieces.”

“What do you mean blown to pieces?” demanded Joe. “You saw my brother die?”

“Settle down, Nate,” said Lying Man. “There's no war in here.”

“You saw him?”

Nate ignored Joe. “White man celebrating Decoration Day tomorrow. Fried chicken, fireworks. Did they invite any Negroes? Anyone want to decorate me? Tell 'em, Gabe. Tell 'em what we lived through for America. Tell 'em.”

Gabe opened his eyes. Weariness, palpable like dirt, shone on his face.

“Only compensation was white pussy. Tell 'em, Gabe.”

The barbershop men were expectant, breathless. The ceiling fan slowed, the wall clock stilled. All of them could be murdered for such talk about white women. Nate and Gabe, their breath quickening, their skin flush, had their own private war.