Magic City (23 page)

Mary swayed, gripping the rail.

Allen's voice cracked with emotion. “Come with me, Mary. We can start over somewhere else.”

“I can't leave yet,” said Mary.

He gripped the hem of her skirt. “Kiss me, Mary. Just once. I was so frightened. I'm so frightened, Mary.”

Mary kissed his brow. She wasn't certain what she felt about Allen. He'd been very kind. She was grateful.

“Thank you, Mary. Promise you'll leave. Promise—”

An explosion sounded near the church. Tremors shook beneath their feet.

“It's started,” said Allen.

Neighbors rushed outside onto their porches. “What's happened? What's happened?” Startled, hollow voices. “Hildy, what's happened?” A cacophony of sound. Children were crying.

Hildy's mother ran out of the house, screaming, “What's wrong? What's wrong?”

Mary pointed at the smoke rising over Zion. The wind swirled dark streams around the steeple. Shotgun fire carried faintly through the air.

Folks congregated in the street, their gaze fixed on the rising slope of the hill. Nadine began prayers. A woman with a green scarf wailed, “Bill.” Lilianne, proud and strong like her mother, nonetheless whimpered, “Daddy.” Eugenia held her.

Mary felt a fool. She'd thought of Greenwood triumphing, but
hadn't weighed the costs. She could see ash falling from the sky, taste the smoky bite blooming in the air.

Silence. Ten seconds, ten minutes, ten hours. Mary didn't know. But there was a lapse in the gunfire, an unnatural silence settling like a shroud. She thought the world had stopped. The Greenwood women were rigid, painfully quiet, even the babies ceased crying. The sky above Zion was red, but overhead, it was still blue. Cloudless and blue. Birds had disappeared; wind didn't stir. Songs, rustling leaves didn't drift from the trees. Even the flowers' scents had dulled.

Mary looked at Allen on the stoop, his elbows on his knees, his hands covering his eyes. Hildy, spine curved, stood before her, near the fence.

Mary murmured, “Let it be over. Let it be over.”

From the west, there was a light buzzing, like an army of wasps. Mary shaded her eyes and stared. A dark speck, like a target, appeared on the sun. At first, it seemed suspended. Then, it grew larger; its irritating hum, louder. Flying straight out of the sun came an airplane, glinting silver, soaring effortlessly.

“Mama, look,” cried a boy in brown knickers. “Look.”

Everyone looked heavenward, watching the progress of the prop plane, swooping, circling over Greenwood. The plane righted itself and flew low to the ground, directly on course to the Samuels' house. Mary could see two goggle-eyed men. Saw one grin clownishly, waving out the window, mouthing “niggers” as the nose of the plane tilted up, up over the Samuels' attic window.

Mary was more frightened than she'd ever been in her life. Shots, faint but distinct, started again at the church. Allen was whispering in her ear. “We've got to get out. Take the train. To Chicago. On to New York.”

Mary closed her eyes and leaned against him. His arms closed around her waist. “Come with me.”

She didn't think she could go with him. She couldn't imagine herself in Chicago. She saw the plane doubling back. She craned her neck, watching it dip and sway.

The plane was several blocks away when one of the goggled men dropped a stick. It spun like a red baton. Mary was still struggling to find words when Hildy screamed, “No.” Allen shouted, “Dynamite.” A
shattering of earth, wood, and glass flew skyward. Flames leaped. Cries echoed from the neighboring street.

“They hit a house,” raged Mrs. Jackson. Nadine called on God. Otherwise nobody moved. They were transfixed by the plane's route, curving right, then flying a straight, smoke-filled line. Two more sticks fell in quick succession.

Mary thought of running beneath the plane's wing, snatching dynamite as it fell. Or else rising like an angel to battle the demon. She imagined Pa flying the plane; Pa insisting there was no place for niggers. Mary ached. She'd caused all this—spread her hurt through Greenwood.

“There's no accounting for evil.” Hildy squeezed Mary's arm as she passed. “I'm going to call the firemen.”

“They won't come.”

Stricken, Hildy and Mary turned toward Allen.

“Look. The plane's bombing a square. Flying the four corners. The fire will move inward, burn Greenwood.”

“The whole town will be destroyed,” murmured Mary.

“That's their plan,” said Allen.

“I've got to try and stop it,” said Hildy, racing to the phone.

“The plane's turning,” someone cried. “Turning again. Heading straight way. Heading here.”

“Run,” screamed Mary. “Run.”

The crowd burst apart, running crazed. Babies wailed in their mothers' arms. Children tripped, bloodying their hands and knees. Women searched for a place to hide, torn between possibly dying at home or in the street.

The plane's roar was deafening. Mary dashed toward the street. “Dirty bastards. Bastards. Rot in hell.” Allen caught her. “Do something,” she yelled, struggling, battering Allen. “Do something.”

“You can't stop dynamite, Mary. You can't stop men in a plane. I would if I could. But I can't. No one can.”

Mary whimpered. She slumped against Allen's chest, thinking she'd stepped inside a nightmare. Pa's hell. Fire and damnation.

The plane terrorized the runners. Some huddled under cars, on porches. Lilianne and her mother ran home. Mrs. Jackson slammed the door on her yellow house. Miss Wright, staring blindly, Leda weeping
beside her, insisted her neighbors “Stay calm. Everybody stay calm.” Most ran crazed. Two young girls, running like headless chickens, dashed back and forth, up and down the street, trying to outrun the plane. Relentless, the plane dove, lifted, turned, soared back, swooping like a monstrous bird. It dove again. Three times. Each dive, screams pitched higher. Three times, the plane toyed with families. An old man threw his cane at the silver bird.

Dynamite fell on two houses, one painted green, the other yellow. Mary fell, Allen atop her, as shards of glass and wood shattered over them. “Mrs. Jackson, Mrs. Jackson,” a girl with braids yelled at the burning house.

The fire was dazzling. It bloomed—a hot, roaring flower, Mary thought. The man who'd thrown his cane clutched his chest and sat in the dirt. Hildy hurried to the burning house. A woman pulled her hair, crying, “My home. My home.” Nadine, dust-covered, pulled glass from her breasts.

The plane flew on toward Tulsa.

“Water,” others shouted. Allen helped form a bucket brigade. Women, their skirts hitched, carried water in buckets, pots, and pans and tossed it on the flames. Hildy sprayed water from a hose. It was useless. The homes burned. A small woman with black curls and an infant suckling, kept repeating, “Who's going to tell Mr. Jackson? Who's gonna tell him his wife died?” She cooed to the baby. “Who's going to tell Mr. Jackson?”

Mary tasted grit in her mouth. She looked at the skyline: Smoke lay heavy over Greenwood now. Gunfire had intensified at Zion. She couldn't hear the plane any longer. Only neighbors struggling, praying to hear the fire trucks' siren and bell.

There was weak breeze, but it was enough. Flames skipped from Mrs. Jackson's roof to another, then skipped again. If the fire trucks didn't come, the entire street, the whole community would be ablaze. Mary's eyes watered. She felt responsible for this evil. She wanted to believe in miracles. But God hadn't listened to Hildy. Mrs. Jackson was burned to nothing.

Smoke billowed, harsh and black, gagging Mary. She saw a man running mightily down the street's center. Like a mirage, he disap
peared in another burst of smoke. A roof caved in; a porch collapsed. The flames were traveling. The makeshift brigade was trying in vain to save the intact homes. Allen, face smudged black, used his coat to stamp out fires starting in the bushes. Hildy cried and cursed, raining water on a third house burning from the roof and awning.

Mary peered down the avenue again. A man was running, a gun in his hand, running as if his life depended upon it. The man drew closer. He was barefoot. His shirt was pale blue. She trembled. Through the haze, she concentrated on his face—bruised, swollen along the jaw and side. He was running toward her. Coming closer. Closer.

Mary felt a profound joy. She recognized the look in his eyes—the sweet, direct gaze, the yearning. She lifted her hand and waved. Miracles happened.

“Joe!” she called. “Joe Samuels.”

She laughed, wanting to share the glory she felt. She called, loud and clear, “Hildy. Hildy. Look who's here.”

Hildy dropped the hose and ran. Embracing, Joe lifted her, spinning, off the ground. Hildy shouted, “Praise be.” They rocked, holding one another in the street.

Mary couldn't stop her tears.

Allen came and stood beside her.

She turned, looked at him—his cheeks and ears pink like a baby rabbit. She dusted ash from his hair. His jacket was singed. Her fingertips touched his bottom lip. His eyes, almost colorless, fixed on hers. Allen saw her. Really saw her. Maybe it was enough that he was kind. She didn't have to be alone.

She leaned forward and kissed him. “Al, I'll go. Wherever you want, I'll go.”

B
elly down, Joe and Lying Man hid in the dirt. Zion's steeple was afire and flames swarmed over the truck that had crashed into the east wall.

“What's taking them so long?” asked Joe.

“Don't know,” murmured Lying Man.

“They're supposed to come out two by two. Gabe said, ‘two by two.'” Joe swallowed, trying to still his anxiety, thinking it must be hell inside the church—thick smoke, burning lungs, the dead mingled with the living.

Joe understood survival. He'd wanted to run when Gabe said “go.” He wanted the hell out. But now he felt guilty because he couldn't answer, “Why me?” He hadn't survived because of skill—he'd been spared by Gabe. Told to turn tail like a boy.

But others weren't so lucky. Slim lay sprawled in the dirt. Sandy shot in the gut. Petey slumped dead. Bill Johnson crushed by a truck. But others were still alive—Ernie, Clarence, Herb. Joe couldn't run
until he knew they were running too. Gabe had promised they'd be coming. “Two can squeak by.”

He heard firing from the church's north side—unsettling, echoing volleys. “Gabe said, ‘Two by two.' Gabe promised to send the men out—‘two by two.'”
His nightmare was twisting, coming alive in a new way
.

The sky overhead was silent, no roaring engine, no shrill explosions. Joe nervously glanced at the church door, then at the crashed truck, wondering when its gas tank would catch fire.

“Look. It's Tater.” Lying Man slapped the dirt. “Tater and Herb.” Tater was loping like a scared bear. Herb shot frantically into the trees, running backward, protecting slow-witted Tater.

Joe exhaled, grinned foolishly, “They'll make it. Won't they, Lying Man?”

Tater fell, but picked himself up. Joe cheered, watching Tater stumble-run down the hill, a foot behind Herb. He'd buy Tater a dozen cherry pops. Play checkers all day with Herb, if he wanted.

“Look,” called Lying Man. “Price and Jay.”

Price's right arm dangled, draining blood. Jay clutched his waist, tugging him like a bale of cotton. Price wouldn't win another sniper's pin. Still, he was alive.
Two by two
.

“Look.”

“Clarence and Ernie.” Gabe had kept his word.
Brother man
. Joe now knew Gabe was, had always been, a better man than Henry.

“Look,” Lying Man repeated, his voice strained.

White men—some robed, some not—were ducking, dodging behind azaleas, juniper bushes, circling like cowboys in a picture show. They carried shotguns, ax handles. Clarence and Ernie were a few feet from the door. “Round 'em up,” a hoodless Klansman ordered with fierce pride. “Run,” Joe murmured, “Run.” There was a barrage of fire.

“Got to help them.”

Lying Man clutched his arm. Joe was surprised at his strength.

“No good going back. Got to go forward. Can't go back. Look.” Lying Man pointed.

Soldiers with rifles, bayonets flowed from the church's sides. Thin, strutting boys dressed in fatigues, helmets. Moon-faced ghosts. Joe
heard Ernie scream as soldiers flung him down, as bayonets threatened his back.

“No retreat,” muttered Joe. “No retreat.” Tulsa had sent its army, invaded Deep Greenwood. Didn't matter if Joe was innocent. Didn't matter if Greenwood men were defending their homes.

“National Guard,” Lying Man cursed. “Uncle Sam appreciates his niggers. Appreciates their valiant dedication to the war. Decoration Day, shit.”

Soldiers and Klansmen: some, Joe guessed, were just following orders; some just hated coloreds, some did and felt both. Some were ordinary Tulsans protecting their womenfolk. Joe felt himself stiffening. Felt his skin turning brittle. Felt as though parts of him would fall away, be buried in the dirt.

Clarence almost made it—a man dressed in suit and tie slipped out from a hedge and (like he was hitting a homer) slammed a wood plank into Clarence's face. Joe shuddered, watching Clarence go down like a felled steer. No, like a good nigger.

The church door remained closed. How many were inside? Twenty? wondered Joe. Nonetheless, their choice was no choice—be burned alive, killed escaping, or surrender.

Joe cocked his gun, veered the barrel right, then left. The range was too great. As he thought about firing, guardsmen drew closer to the church. Fire raged, consuming air, both inside and outside the church. Sandy was right—Tulsa had numbers on its side; they'd always win the war. What was Greenwood? A small town where Negroes lived.

The church door opened and black men filed out—weaponless, faces streaked with soot, hands upraised. He saw Guardsmen grab, shove them 'til everyone lay face down in the dust.
No more two by two
. “Gabe?” Joe called, woeful.

Lying Man squatted, drawing a square in the dirt. “I remember when we built Zion. Just enough wood for the frame.”

Joe stared at the thick church door. It swung open again. Harry, Ray, Ed, hands up, heads down, ducked under arching flames. Ray was coughing. Smoke rose from Harry's jacket. Ed squinted like a newborn.

“We had a picnic—cobbler, potato bread, corn relish.”

Gabe was a bones man
.

“Remember we didn't have a town without a church. I can remem
ber sawing wood, nailing, tugging on the rope with a dozen men, Sandy, your grandfather, Tyler, to raise the frame.”

“He's not coming out,” said Joe, softly. The church's east wall collapsed onto the scorched truck. Greenwood men were hauled to their feet, cuffed and chained.

Lying Man stood. “We've got to go, Joe. Time to be moving on.”

Joe stared at the door. Flames peeled the door's varnish, the mahogany stain. He heard troops marching, officers shouting orders, Tulsans taunting as soldiers herded Greenwood men—his friends—into two thin lines. Except for the whine of burning wood, yielding plaster, breaking glass, and the roaring fire itself, no human sound rose from the church. No sound from Ernie, Ray, from the men standing tall, prisoners of war.

“Come on, Joe.”

He jerked from Lying Man's reach. Gabe was the hero, he was the coward.

“Got to run.”

Joe stared at the closed door; Lying Man tugged. “Come on, Joe. Got to run.”

Almost every man he'd loved was dead, dying, or a prisoner. He imagined Gabe in the fiery furnace, deciding to die instead of being taken alive.

“Gabe,” he whispered, lifting a hand. “Gabe.”

The soil rocked. His knees buckled. The truck in the church wall had exploded. Zion collapsed inwards like cards—roof crashing, sides falling—wood and oxygen fueling a fireball.

Joe swore he smelled burning flesh. No more Gabe, no more Zion.

He hadn't the strength to get up. He wanted to lay quietly in the dirt until the sun bleached his bones. He would have—except Lying Man was raging, cursing, his hands digging into his arms, lifting, pulling him up. “Don't you quit on me. Don't you quit.”

He could hear the smaller man's fury; miraculously, it felt like a balm. Gave him something to reach for, to steady his legs and walk. To keep moving until nightfall, when he'd take the train west.

Lying Man led Joe deeper into Greenwood. Around a corner, down First Street and Missouri, down Elm. Homes, gardens, cars burned, smoldering or layered with smoke. Guardsmen hadn't yet infiltrated
Greenwood. But they would. Air attack, then land. They'd march down from Zion.

He'd thought his nightmare had been only about him. But it was Greenwood's nightmare.

A breeze rocked a porch chair. An oak he'd climbed as a boy swayed, inviting. Below it, ripening tomatoes hung ready for picking. But Greenwood would never be the same. Joe knew Lying Man was headed for his shop.

The business district staggered him. On either side of the street, for the length of three blocks, buildings were burning or bombed into rubble and ash. The Dream Time Cinema blazed, its marquee and ticket booth destroyed. A singed Mary Pickford smiled behind glass. The Confectioner's fountain stools tilted at odd angles; the tiled, black-and-white counter had been blown to bits. Reye's Grocers was simply gone. Amazingly, Samuels & Son was unharmed. The barbershop still stood.

Joe looked skyward. No rain clouds, no water to quench the fires. He felt helpless beyond imagining. Felt a sheen of sweat on his skin. The heat was intense. His eyes stung. Air stunk of melting tar, scorched brick. Shards from the barbershop window layered the sidewalk.

Lying Man opened the door and the bell rang clear.

Pomades and sweet aftershave had spilled. Towels, straight razors, red and black checkers littered the floor. Tater's stale pop had dripped red from the counter. Glass speckled the leather chairs.

Lying Man didn't cross the threshold.

Joe got scared, thinking Lying Man had turned to stone, wasn't real any more.

“I'll help clean, Lying Man. Like new. We'll have this place like new.”

Lying Man shut the door, the bell tingling. “Best to get home, Joe.”

“What about your shop? We can save it.”

“No need.”

“I don't understand.”

“The men from the church are my shop. God willing, they'll survive. Let's go, Joe.”

“I dreamed this—”

“Best get home to your family, Joe. We've got to save who we can, where we can.”

“No, you don't understand. I dreamed this, Lying Man,” he whis
pered. “All of it. Dreamed it three days running. Greenwood burning. Up in smoke.”

“Part of your magic, Joe.”

“I don't want it.”

The Confectioner's roof caved, showering sparks and embers.

“We've got to get on,” said Lying Man. “I'll see about Slim's family. You see about yours.”

“Hildy,” Joe murmured.

“That's right.”

Joe blinked. Lying Man's skin was ashen, covered with wrinkles. His eyes a bit dulled. He wasn't big at all; he barely reached Joe's shoulders. As a boy, Joe'd thought Lying Man was the biggest man in Greenwood.

“When'd you get old, Lying Man?” he asked mournfully. “You've gone and gotten old on me.”

“I could say the same about you, Joe.”

“Gabe let himself die.”

“Gabe's been dying ever since he came home from the war. He chose it, Joe. Don't you choose it.” He started walking.

“Why me, Lying Man?” Joe asked, insistent. “Why'd you look out for me?”

“I don't answer fool questions. Need to get to Slim's family,” he answered, his pace quickening.

Joe ran after him. “Why me?” He needed some other magic, some missing piece to make him strong.

Lying Man kept walking. “You should know what you're worth, Joe,” he lashed out angrily. Joe staggered beside him. “A man should know his own worth. Otherwise, he's not a man. That's why I let you sit up in my window. Hoping you'd find it. Hear it in the echo of the men.”

“I don't understand.”

Lying Man stopped. “Your dream, Joe. What did your dream tell you?”

Joe closed his eyes, remembering:
himself, charred and screaming. Sparks leaping from his skin, clinging to porch steps, the rooftops of Greenwood. Bursting into showering flames
.

“You've got to figure this out for yourself, Joe. Your dream told you Greenwood's going to burn? Well, it's burning. Zion's gone. By nightfall, none of these buildings will be left. Maybe nothing will be left. And I tell you, Joe, it's never been more alive.”

“I don't understand.”

“Then I can't teach you.”

For the first time, Joe felt as if he'd disappointed Lying Man. He stared at the ash blanketing the road.

“Break the news gently to Hildy that Gabe died.”

He looked up. “You mean Emmaline?”

“I mean Hildy.” Lying Man shook his head, disgusted. “Just 'cause your eyes are open, don't mean you can see. 'Cause you dream, don't mean it's all coming true. Don't even mean you understood what you dreamed.”

Turning his back, Lying Man walked off, blowing his harmonica. Joe knew the tune:

For the first time, Joe thought Lying Man was mocking him. Maybe he guessed Joe was leaving at nightfall. Else he was playing a truth Joe couldn't understand.

Looking around at the devastation, Joe felt shame welling again. He needed to help. Joe set off running—running, heading back from where he started. Home.

 

Joe thought he was dreaming. A white woman, shoulders rounded, arms limp, stood in the middle of his street, watching him run. Maybe she was Francine, Gabe's girl. Another ghost come to haunt him. He wanted to run, plow right through her. Knock her down.

He ran faster. Closing in on the woman. Fifty feet. Forty. Thirty. Her features sharpened, her hair darkened against the backdrop of thick smoke rolling over Greenwood. It was the woman from the elevator, watching as fire dried gardens, destroyed what generations of ex-slaves and their children had built. Tyler had run for this land. He wanted to scream, “Look what you've done.”

That wasn't fair.

In the elevator, she'd looked so forlorn: eyes and nose rimmed red, her hands shaking as she closed the doors. “What floor?” she'd asked, not looking at him, her chin on her chest. In the tight space, the mirrors duplicated them endlessly. She'd pressed fourteen. Bathroom. Where else would a nigger be going?

“That all right?” she'd asked, looking across at him. The thinnest thread of…what? Concern, compassion? Seeing the pain in her eyes, he couldn't help showing his. For a brief moment, they were at the bottom of the well together, trapped in the same cage, needing comfort. A healing touch
.