Magic City (24 page)

The white woman—what was her name?—was smiling now. The woman pointed, calling his sister's name, “Hildy! Hildy!” Joe looked to the left; his sister ran to meet him. He embraced Hildy, swinging her off the ground. His sister breathed, “Joe, Joe, Joe.” He felt Hildy's tears, the strength in her fingers, her faith in him.

“Where's the fire trucks?” Joe murmured, his arm still about his sister.

The Jacksons', Nedicks', Williams', and Bakers' homes were all black and burning.

“Not coming.”

Joe turned. It was the albino man from the elevator. The one who'd called him “nigger.” What an odd couple he and Mary made. Odder still they'd both be in Greenwood, but Joe was too tired to challenge them. Hildy accepted them; for now, that was good enough. Besides he knew the man was right. Greenwood would be leveled.

Women and children, a few old men stared, demanding something from him. He could feel light hands touching, stroking his sleeves. He shifted nervously. Some had already lost husbands, cousins, friends. He couldn't tell them about the men being chained.

Joe shouted at his neighbors, “Load up. Take food, clothes, money, whatever you need. We're going to caravan out of here. We can't put these fires out.”

Dirty, tired women surged, clambered round him. “We'll lose everything, Joe.” “Help will come.” “We can't give up.” His mother was irate: “I won't go.” Voices rose steadily; Joe could hear the panic. No one wanted to yield their faith that their homes would be all right.

“Do you think that's wise?” asked Miss Wright, her sister leading her forward.

Joe sighed. “Yes, Miss Wright. If help was on its way, it'd be here.”

Clarence's wife, Ernestine, had her new baby wrapped in a shawl. Her son, Dovell, who loved marbles, looked about to cry. Eugenia, her dress singed, looked furious. His mother was thin-lipped and proud.

Joe wanted to gather the women in his arms. Especially the older ones whose skin and hair had thinned, whose spines had gently curved, making them small again, like children. They'd watched over him when he played kickball, chastised him when he'd been headstrong. They'd passed him pieces of pie, candy, jars of iced tea, put iodine on his knees.

“It's safer to go than stay. Few more hours the air won't be fit to breathe.”

“Mrs. Jackson died, Joe,” said Pauline, pulling on his shirt, her pigtails unwrapping. “Her house fell on her.”

“I'm sorry.” Joe bent and hugged the small girl.

“Are the men coming?” asked Eugenia.

“Mr. Jackson didn't make it,” he offered.

“Mr. and Mrs. Jackson are angels,” said Pauline.

“That's right, honey,” said Hildy.

“Bless the Lord,” answered Martha.

“Are the rest of the men coming? My Ray?” asked Eugenia.

“Was Clarence all right when you left him?”

“Did the men send you here?” asked Leda.

Looking at the taut, strained faces, Joe decided to lie. He didn't want the women to despair. Didn't want to hurt already mourning children. “The men sent me ahead to get you ready. To make sure you're all safe, if they're delayed. But they're coming. They'll all be here.” He rubbed his hand over his heart, feeling he'd missed something. Some grace in the women. Some resiliency in their children.

Hildy said, “You have to tell the truth, Joe. You mustn't lie.”

Joe looked again at the women. Weary. Afraid. But not brittle. He met Eugenia's gaze.

“Ray was captured. National Guard charged Zion and captured all but four men. Ray was standing when I left.”

“Bent but not broken.”

“Not broken.”

“Clarence?”

“I'm not sure. I saw him go down. He was hit in the face with a board.”

Ernestine stooped, hugging her baby and son to her chest.

“Gabe?” asked Hildy.

Joe shook his head. Mary touched Hildy's arm. Joe was amazed Mary knew what he hadn't known.

“Reckless?” asked Hildy.

“Brave,” said Joe, averting his eyes, looking at the flames burning beyond the small group. “Gabe burned inside Zion.”

“Lord, have mercy,” said Miss Wright.

Hildy touched her hand to her throat; he could see her pulse fluttering. Gabe had missed smelling gardenias. Missed knowing Hildy's loyalty.

“He refused to surrender.”

“I'll tell Emmaline he died a hero.”

Joe nodded.

“Hurry,” he urged the grieving women. “Grab what you need. Guardsmen will have us all surrendering. Chained. Go on, now. Load up your cars. Hurry!”

Women who'd lost their homes and belongings helped others—scooping up fat-legged toddlers, guiding frail Miss Wright and Leda. Eugenia aided Ernestine. Lilianne held brave Dovell's hand.

“You need to get your father and Emmaline, Joe,” said his mother pointedly. “You need to get them.”

“Aren't they here?”

“Father wouldn't stop worrying about the bank,” said Hildy. “He was in no condition to go. When he didn't come home for lunch, Emmaline went after him.”

“Damn. I'll drive by the bank.”

“He took the car,” Hildy said, urgently. “Joe, most these women can't drive. How are we going to get them out of here?”

“Help might come soon. Maybe Lying Man, some of the other men.”

“What if it doesn't?”

Joe shook his head. “I don't know, Hildy. I don't know.”

“I'll help.” The albino man stepped forward. “There's some men, cars left here. We can caravan the people first, come back for possessions later.”

“Don't trust this man,” said Ruth, vehemently. “This woman either. They want us to leave our homes so they can steal everything. A man protects what belongs to him, Joe. That's what your father is doing. That's what Henry would be doing, if he were here.”

“Mother, please,” Joe tried to explain. “You need to be safe.”

“I trust them,” said Hildy. “Allen and Mary.”

“You're all fools,” said Ruth, quietly. “I will be in my house. I will not leave my house.” Spine erect, moving as languidly as if she were hosting tea, Joe watched his mother leave.

“Don't worry, Joe,” said Hildy. “She'll leave if Father says leave.”

Joe looked blankly at Allen, not quite able to focus. But he could feel his own fear rising, taste bitter smoke in his mouth.

“We won't hurt anybody,” Allen said. “We only want to help.”

Joe felt overwhelmed. He watched his mother enter “the tallest black man's house,” freshly painted each year and lavished with his mother's love.

“Joe, I have to tell you—in the elevator, I got scared—that's why I screamed. I'm sorry.” Mary's voice was almost inaudible. “I was hurt real bad. Seeing the cuffs reminded me of when I couldn't get away. When I was tied down. By a belt. Bright silver buckle.” She turned her wrists over, her skin inflamed and bruised. “A man raped me yesterday. You understand?”

He hadn't had any more roses, his pockets were empty of coins, but Joe'd thought he could make her smile, himself too. Houdini's basic trick—escape from handcuffs. It was all in how you relaxed. The cuffs had caught the light, glinting brightly, reflecting rainbows in the mirrors. She'd started screaming, flailing, fighting ghosts, slapping the cuffs to the floor. Their nightmares had intertwined
.

“You understand? How I felt? I thought I wasn't ever going to get free.”

He realized how insignificant he and Mary were. For those needing to hate, her screams and his running were all the excuse necessary.

He could decide not to hate Mary. Or Allen. Neither had chased him, jailed him, beaten him. But trusting white people was hard. With the sheriff, he hadn't had any choice. How did he know that by rescuing Father and Emmaline, he wasn't risking Mother and Hildy?
Knowing Greenwood was dying, men
had
died at the church, how could he trust any Tulsan?

“Did you think I was going to hurt you?” he asked. Mary had such sad eyes. Not accusing. Just sad.

“No. I never did, Joe. I never thought you were going to hurt me.”

Joe stepped closer. He could see damp, sweaty hair clinging to her brow and throat. “Mary.” Gently, he reached out—watching to see if she cringed, felt disgust—giving her time to pull back, giving Allen time to protect this woman, this white woman, Mary, from a Negro man's touch.

Joe laid his palm on her shoulder, feeling the curve of her bones.

Mary smiled.

“Do you still believe in ghosts?”

“Yes, Joe, I do.”

Joe wasn't certain his world was real anymore. Wasn't certain he was awake, instead of dreaming. Wasn't certain Mary wouldn't disappear. Everything was an illusion, including trusting these white people. “Help Hildy and Mother. Help Greenwood.”

“We will,” said Mary.

Joe turned toward his sister. “Can you drive?”

Hildy laughed. “Don't tell Father. I made Henry teach me.”

Joe hugged his sister, taking solace from her quiet, “We'll be all right.” Breath swept past his ear. “Gabe should've lived. No matter what happens, you live, Joe. Live. Hear me?”

“Get folks to safety. You haven't much time. Get yourself to safety.”

Joe walked backward, watching the trio: Allen holding Mary's hand; Hildy standing comfortably beside them. Behind them, smoke and flames. Magic.

“Brother man.”

“Hurry, Joe.”

He turned and started running.

J
oe zigzagged down Archer, leaping from shadow to shadow—hot on Henry's heels, his brother's ghost leading him into war. White men—guardsmen, Klansmen, looters—roamed Greenwood. His home was being conquered. What was built could be unbuilt. Razed by dynamite, by scavengers, by frolicking men torching homes and cars, hunting Negroes.

He saw Jay beaten in his yard. Saw Herb handcuffed and manacled. Didn't matter they'd made it back from Zion's battle. Didn't matter they were defending their homes. The National Guard was rounding up Negroes, prodding them onto trucks like cattle. He swallowed his grief, concentrating on each step, his lengthening shadow, thinking of Emmaline and Father. Hoping they'd already left the bank, escaped Greenwood altogether.

He ducked behind Claire Greene's porch, pressing flat against her ivy trellis, as a pair of white men emerged from her door. They each had rifles: one had a whiskey bottle and a gilt mirror under his arm; the other carried a woman's purse and a handful of pearls. Joe wanted to
shoot them. He could do it. Easy. Aim Chalmers' old .38 and fire.

He studied them: one was trying to light a cigarette without dropping his whisky; the other fished out a small roll of bills and threw the purse on the ground. They couldn't have been more than sixteen, standing beneath Mrs. Greene's cascade of flowering azaleas, in their hats and bulky overalls.

What would it matter if he shot them? Squeezed the trigger and watched them fall? There were always more men. He knew that now. Just as he knew he couldn't ambush anyone, shoot them in the back. He knew he wouldn't have made a good soldier.

Cautious, he slipped in the back door, calling, “Mrs. Greene. Mrs. Greene.” He smelled lemon wax and ammonia. Claire Greene sat at the table, like a queen, as properly dressed as he'd ever seen his mother. Tendrils had fallen out of her bun; her pearls were gone, but her lace collar lay starched and prim.

“James?” Her eyes flickered.

“Joe Samuels.”

“I've heard they've taken James.”

“Yes, Mrs. Greene.”

“I'll wait here for James. We never had any children. I'll wait here.” Her voice slowed like a wind-up toy, running down.

“Folks are leaving. You should go. Mother and Hildy can help you.”

“You're a good boy. Raised proper.” She folded gloved hands in her lap. “I'll wait here.”

Joe stumbled out the parlor, out the back door. He still had to find Father. Heart aching, he knew he would've had to drag Mrs. Greene from her house.

On the steps, he saw another set of footsteps running beside him. Even. Matching him gait for gait
.

Joe slipped behind Mrs. Greene's shed and ran down the alley toward his father's bank. Thick smoke cloaked the entire district, rolling in brash waves; he ducked low, eyes stinging, his sleeve covering his mouth, trying not to cough as he ran.

His father's car was parked in front of the bank. Joe's heart sank, he'd hoped for a little luck. The cinema was almost entirely ash. The heat was furious; there seemed little left to steal. But flames had skipped haphazardly. Lying Man's shop was gone now, the barber
chairs molten; yet the mortuary down the street and the bank were still sound. Soon looters would brave the smoke and heat. Joe feared they'd all be caught—him, Father, Emmaline—and carted away. Or simply shot and left in the street.

He burst into the bank. “Father! Emmaline!” His words echoed. His feet tapped noisily on marble; the teller's cages were vacant. It was tomblike. No sight or smell of the fire raging outside; nobody depositing their hard-earned two, five, or ten dollars in the bank.

It'd been years since Joe'd been inside the bank, ever since he realized Samuels & Son had meant Henry.

“Father. Emmaline.” His father's office was empty; the desk askew, the leather chair toppled. “Father!” There was only one other place to search. He darted down the hall, stopping at the vault's entrance. The door and walls were reinforced metal. Joe banged against the door. He pressed his ear against it. He didn't know what he expected to hear. But he wanted some sign that his father and sister were safe.

“A two thousand dollar door,” Father had bragged. “Strong enough to withstand burglary, fire.”

The locking mechanism was embedded in a five-inch steel frame. Joe started picking the lock, sighing when the tumblers quickly settled in place. Poor Father. The lock was the simplest mechanism. His vault was only for show.

He shoved open the door. “Father? Emmaline?” Deposit boxes lined the walls and the small safe, which held, Joe knew, over twenty thousand dollars, stood in the far corner. He pushed the door wider.

Father sprawled on the floor, his arm in a sling, his left eye bandaged. He didn't have a jacket. His shirt was unbuttoned; his vest torn. Blood stained his pants leg. He cradled a thin deposit box. Near his head was a pint of whiskey, half-gone. He looked dead, but Joe could hear the whistling, the low rattle in his chest.

“Father?”

An eye opened. “Joe, the prodigal son. I thought you were in jail.”

“I've come to take you and Emmaline home.”

“I am home. Everything I need is right here.” Father lurched, sat up.

“Where's Emmaline?”

“Home with your mother.”

“She came to fetch you. She left home headed for here.”

Father's eye watered, blinked like a weary Cyclops.

“Guardsmen are catching Negroes. Emmaline might be trapped. Caught.”

Father tried to stand. “I'll speak with Ambrose. I have to speak with Ambrose.” He stumbled. Joe caught him. “Father.” Joe buckled under the weight. He and his father edged toward the floor.

“I'll make this right, Joe. Don't worry. I'll make this right with Ambrose.”

His father smelled of alcohol, dried blood.

“Samuels are honorable men. We expect, demand honorable consideration.”

“We've got to find Emmaline.”

“We've got to take the long view.”

“The long view?” Joe asked, astonished. “The long view is that Ambrose hates Negroes. Greenwood's burning. Emmaline's gone. They're burning us out, Father.”

Father looked at Joe as if he was crazed. “This is the Negroes' Wall Street. Industry. Progress. No other colored town has our resources. Me and my money. My bank built this street, this community. Negro Wall Street.”

“Have you been outside? Your street is burning,” said Joe, ruthlessly. “By nightfall, looters will be coming to pick the leavings. Your money will be gone.”

“It's secure.”

“You think so? That explains why it was so hard for me to break into your vault.”

Father pointed. “That safe came from Germany. The finest money can buy.”

“If you're dead, folks can take the whole damn safe.”

“You don't know anything about how the world works.”

“I know you're more worried about money than the lives of your wife and daughters.”

“This money
is
their life. You think a man can survive empty handed? Build a family without money?”

“Father, we've got to leave now,” said Joe, exasperated. “While we still can.”

His father looked at him coldly. “If it hadn't been for you, none of this
would be happening. If Emmaline's lost, it's your fault. If Greenwood burns, it's your fault. This destruction hangs over your head. Not mine.”

Joe flinched. “Then maybe I should quit, like you. Lie here stinking drunk in the vault while Greenwood burns.” Joe picked up the flask.

“Henry wouldn't have caused me this. Now Tyler's dead too.”

The whiskey went down hard. “You believe in ghosts, Father? Magic? Miracles?”

“No such thing as ghosts. Magic is how well a man grows his money. Though I might've believed in miracles if Henry had come home living. I am, if anything, a practical man.”

“Except that you loved him.”

“He was my first son. When he was born, I wanted to build an empire for him. Pass on what rich white men did for their sons. Color is color; a Negro is always disadvantaged. But I wanted a jump start. Something to keep generations of Samuels ahead of the game.”

“How could you give away Tyler's land? How could you do that to your own father?”

“Ambrose was going to take it.” His voice was pained, rough. “You think white people were any kinder thirty years ago? Ambrose wanted Tyler's land. Over two hundred acres—the land west of Lena's River. Tyler was only interested in wheat. Farming. There was oil on the land. Ambrose knew it. Thought I didn't. One way or another, Ambrose was going to get that land.

“I persuaded Ambrose to buy us out. You want to talk about miracles?” He slapped his knee, started coughing. “That was one. Persuading a white man to pay me for what he'd take anyway. Fifty dollars an acre. Ten thousand dollars with land to spare to build Greenwood, my bank. In exchange for land worth hundreds of thousands.

“It was a good deal. I still had a chance to build a fortune, a future for my son. When the oil struck, I acted so surprised, Ambrose gifted the bank with two thousand dollars.” Father laughed, proud of outwitting his enemy, “Ambrose thought me slow. But I tricked him twice.” He opened the deposit box.

Joe recognized Tyler's scrawl.

“I came here for the deed.” He shook the paper, the silver territory seal. “Ambrose and I shook hands, but I never gave up the deed.”

Joe despised his father's laughter. Inside the vault, Joe could almost forget the burning outside. But his father's world was just as ugly. Joe could still see Tyler paralyzed in the bed, calling for his deed.

“How'd you get the deed from Tyler?”

“Ambrose was cocky. Thought he didn't need paper when, any day, the Klan could kill me. Twenty years, I didn't press for any rights. But I spoke to Ambrose about you. I can speak to Ambrose about Emmaline. This paper,” he shook the deed at Joe, “is my insurance that the Samuels will always be all right. A man running for governor can't afford scandal.”

“How'd you get the deed from Tyler?”

“Tyler?”

“Your father? What'd you do to betray him?”

“I didn't betray him,” he scowled. “That's the whole point. I always had the deed right here in the bank. Safe.” Father swallowed from the flask.

“How'd you get the deed, Father? What'd you do to get it?”

Father looked perplexed. “I took it, Joe. Tyler didn't understand what needed doing. So, I took it. There wasn't anything he could do about it.” He glared at Joe, his one eye red.

Joe was disgusted. He'd been awed by this man. He'd always thought his father powerful, competent. Willful. It certainly took will to steal from your own father.

“We're leaving, Father.” Joe stood up. “We've got to find Emmaline. Take care of Hildy and Mother.”

“Didn't you hear what I said?”

“I heard. We need the car. Come on now.”

“Aren't you going to thank me? Aren't you grateful for what I did?” Holding onto the wall, Father pulled himself up. “When will you realize that Emmaline, Hildy, the whole family's safe? Thanks to my forethought and planning. I just need to get to Ambrose.”

“I'll leave without you if I have to.”

Father shouted. “Aren't you going to thank me?” He was wheezing hard. “All my life I've worked hard.”

Joe thought his father was a sorry drunk. Sorrier still because Joe could see how hard he was trying to stay in control. Trying not to slur, to stay upright and dignified.

“My father died not forgiving me. Henry didn't understand my plan. It would mean something,” Father slapped his chest, “if you understood, Joe.” He doubled over, trying to catch his breath.

How strange—his father asking for comfort from the son he'd loved least. “I understand, Father,” said Joe, “but you've done nothing to keep us safe. You didn't have the power. Ambrose can still kill you any second; he is killing you. Everything you've accomplished has been because Ambrose allowed it.”

“That isn't true.”

“Sleight-of-hand, Father. Men like Ambrose let you think Greenwood existed. A magic word, a stick of dynamite, and
poof
. All gone, Father. Look outside.”

“You're lying.”

“We've got to help Hildy, Emmaline, Mother.”

“You of all people can't help them.” His father turned away.

“You're drunk, damn you.”

His father looked where Joe had grabbed his arm.

Joe let go, saying quietly, “Come with me. Stay. I don't care. But I need to leave now.”

“I'm the one who knows what's best for the family.”

“Damnit, Father.” Joe could barely contain his fury. He wanted to hit him. He cried out in frustration.

His father tried another drink; the flask was empty. “I'm going to go and see Ambrose. In a minute, I'm going to walk out of here and see Ambrose. At his house, mind you,” he said, punctuating the air with the bottle. “I'll be walking in through the front door.” He looked back at Joe.

Joe had never seen his father look so unbearably sad. Not even when Henry died.

Lucidly, clearly, Father said, “I would've been a great man, if I was white. Might even have been governor.” He slowly slid onto the floor again, his back curved, head bowed, the pint bottle still in his hand.

Joe found himself crying. If
he'd
been white, he wouldn't be running from the law. Greenwood wouldn't be burning. Yet it saddened him to think his father blamed his failures on his color. Joe looked at his hands—a “bit too brown” for his parent's taste. But he'd always felt comfortable in his skin. Just uncomfortable with his parent's hopes.
He'd wanted to be like Houdini, create his own destiny, overcome challenges.
Your magic is far greater than you know
. Joe exhaled, wondering whether his father had ever liked himself.