Magic City (19 page)

“It's Joe, isn't it?” Mary whispered.

“Sheriff caught him,” said Eugenia.

“No,” breathed Hildy. Mary reached out to her.

“The papers said they'd lynch him,” said Claire.

“So Gabe gathered the men,” said Eugenia.

“They're planning to stop it, if they can.”

Hildy rocked back on her heels. “They're going to lynch him. Negro's name in the paper means he's dead or soon will be. Lord, have mercy,” Hildy raged, rushing toward the door. The women reached out. “Let me go,” shouted Hildy. “Let me go.” She squirmed; taut arms held her back.

“Hildy, listen to us.”

“Let go.”

“Trust the men to handle this.”

“I need to see Joe.”

“Hildy Samuels, be still this instant,” snapped Miss Wright.

“Miss Wright,” Hildy moaned. Eugenia and Claire each held an arm. Hildy hung limp between them, her knees scraping the floor. “I've got to go—” The o trailed into a moan, making the women shudder and sigh, “Mercy.”

Miss Wright clutched Hildy's shoulders. “Hildy, listen to me. Life ain't fair by half. But you're needed here. There's work to do here. In this house. Or have you forgotten?”

“They're going to lynch him.”

“I'll go, Hildy.”

“No you won't, Mary,” said Miss Wright sternly, “no one's going anywhere. Our men are handling this.”

“Bennie went,” said Mrs. Jackson softly. “My Ray,” said Eugenia. “Daddy,” said Lilianne. “Clarence,” said Nadine. “James,” said Claire.

“Most of the men went to save Joe,” said Lilianne.

Hildy exhaled. “I'm being a fool.”

“Sure are,” said Eugenia, signaling the other women to let her go.

“I didn't think.”

“You should know better, Hildy,” said Claire.

“Though,” Eugenia declared snidely, “if Joe hadn't been ‘first family,' James might not have gone.”

“Don't be rude, Eugenia,” answered Claire.

Nadine fluttered, “Ladies, ladies. There's God's work to do.”

“Amen,” said Miss Wright.

Nadine pressed open the swing door. She looked back at Hildy. “Time to cleanse Tyler. Prepare for his service. Prepare ourselves for meeting the Lord.”

Hildy clasped her hands. “Through faith, we will rise.”

The women started to file through the door. Awed, Mary realized their passion and strength would fill the house, lift the Samuels' spirits. As they emptied out of the kitchen, she heard calls of “Good morning” to the undertaker, blessings from the preacher. Mary realized the men, too, had been waiting for the women to come.

She turned back to the empty kitchen. There were more baskets to open, food to be heated. She'd set the dining room table for guests so everybody could help themselves. The men would return hungry—looking for their wives, daughters.

Lilianne's head poked round the door. “I need cloth. Water bowls.”

Mary looked at her blankly.

“For the cleansing.” Lilianne stepped inside the kitchen, her arms clasped across her breasts, glaring. “Hildy said you'd help. Said you knew where things were.”

Mary nodded, selected two large, china bowls and filled them with water. From a drawer, she drew linen edged with lace.
Ma went to the grave not quite clean. At seven, her hands hadn't been quite big enough to do what needed doing. Her rags stained red
. Guiltily, she wondered who would care for Jody. Overwhelmed, she buried her face in her hands.

“You feel 'shamed?”

Mary shook her head.

“You ought to. Feel ashamed for the trouble you've caused. The trouble you've brought to Joe. This town.”

“No, not shame—”

“My daddy's carrying a gun because of you.”

“Sorrow,” sighed Mary. “Deep sorrow.”

“That's not enough.”

“I didn't expect it would be.” Mary lifted one of the bowls. “Let me help you carry these upstairs. Please.”

Lilianne stood stiffly.

She was proud. Lovely. Not more than twenty. Mary couldn't remember being that young. Gently, she handed Lilianne the bowl, then lifted the second bowl, the towels. Careful not to spill the water, Mary followed Lilianne through the dining room, up the curved stairs. Water slapped inside the bowl. The undertaker tipped his hat as she and Lilianne entered Tyler's room. The burgundy curtains and windows were thrown open. Breezes stirred the curtains. Sunshine lit the walls, the paintings of endless wheat.

The women circled a four-poster bed: Nadine, Hildy, and Eugenia near the head. They were all focused on Tyler. Murmuring prayers. Mary set the bowl and linen down, feeling grief swell.

Tyler was naked except for the sheet draped across his abdomen and the towel wrapped around his crushed skull. Thin legs, a plump belly, skin dry and wrinkled like walnut skin. Brave Tyler. Hildy and Eugenia began washing his body. Mary backed toward the door. But the vision of the women held her. Bodies swayed. Serene, Miss Wright clasped her sister. Claire touched a cross to her lips. Nadine's fingertips reached toward the heavens. She saw snatches of Hildy's, Eugenia's hands. Loving hands cleaning, caressing Tyler's body.

Nadine nodded to Hildy. Then, in turn, she looked at all the women, and her alto voice soared:

Lilianne's soprano matched, melded with Nadine's alto. Martha started up the song again. Claire's voice was the sweetest: the vowels elongating—laaaayyy dooowwn booodeeee. Voices overlapped like a round. Gloria stomped her feet; Mrs. Jackson clapped staccato; Miss Wright tapped her cane. They all sang: “Lay your burdens down,” their voices growing stronger. Hildy and Eugenia washed, humming, punc
tuating the song with “Jesus.” “Praise be.” They gently wiped Tyler's legs and toes as the sounds vibrated, rattled the walls:

Nadine raised her hands toward the Holy Spirit. Leda clutched her sister's arm. Lilianne cried. The song quickened: “laydownbody, laydownyourburdens down, layyourbody down.” The women rocked faster. They rocked and wailed and Mary felt love flowing in and around her. Louder. Louder. A clapping, stomping, singing roar. Voices layering, shouts counterpointing the melody, the spiritual rose in pitch. When the sound couldn't expand anymore, the women, in unison, stopped.

Unable to help herself, Mary cried out into the stunning silence: “Rise.”

The women nodded.

Hildy breathed, “Amen.”

T
heir breathing was in sync. Joe watched Gabe crush another cigarette beneath his shoe. The red circle burst into a shower of embers that flared and died on the floor.

“Hardware store be opening soon,” said Gabe.

Joe heard him sliding boxes, treading gently through the dark basement.

“Before the war, I worked for Ailey. There's a kerosene lamp here somewhere. It'll give just enough light. Not too much. Shit.” Gabe had stumbled. “After work, we'd come down here and play poker. Ailey never liked losing.” Gabe struck a match. “Got so Ailey was winning all the colored boys' salaries back. It was let him win or lose our jobs.” He pushed stacked crates aside with his knees, exposing a small card table and four chairs. He struck another match. Joe slid into a chair.

Gabe lifted a lantern from beneath the table. He lit the wick, his face iridescent, slick with sweat. “My word, Joe. You look like shit.”

“Feel like it.” Joe cradled his sore hand.

“Jailbreaks. Much better than your tricks with quarters. I tried rescuing you twice.”

Joe chuckled. “I would've waited if I'd known you were coming.”

Gabe reached out; Joe stretched his good arm.

“Black magic, Joe. The finest black magic. I'll be damned.”

Forearms entwined, they clasped at the elbows. Joe was amazed at Gabe's strength. Amazed at his own swelling pride.

“You're a man now, aren't you? Baby brother has grown up.”

Joe ducked his head. “If it means being scared, I'm a man.”

“Fear's all right. As long as it's useful.”

“Henry told me that.”

Gabe released Joe's arm. “Henry was a fine man too. Scared all the time. Maybe too scared. Don't get too scared, Joe. Not scared enough, you're a fool. Too much, you lose control. You hear?”

“I hear,” Joe murmured, transfixed by Gabe's face.
He saw bone beneath black skin, ghostly white curving beneath his jaw line, a splash of bone across the forehead, brittle sockets circling warm eyes
. The lantern glared yellow.

“Did you know Tyler died?”

“No,” Joe flinched, wondering if Tyler would haunt him too. Come back from the grave, angry and preaching.

“One reason to get the dynamite. Blow the—”

“Who killed him?”

Gabe took another draw on his cigarette. “Mary Keane's brother. A deputy named Lucas. Busted into your house looking for you. The brother—I shot him on your front lawn.”

“Hildy,” he asked softly. “Is she all right?”

“Yeah. Emmaline, your mother too. All fine. Father messed up some.”

Joe couldn't still his trembling. He stared at the fire trapped in the glass. He couldn't have borne it if Hildy was hurt.

“War can be scary. Make no mistake, Joe. This is war. We got to get on to Greenwood.”

Joe looked at Gabe's shuttered face. He murmured, “How'd we get here, Gabe? How'd it come to this? I swear I didn't do anything. I didn't touch that girl.”

“You're an excuse. It's always been like this. We've always been here—at war in Tulsa.”

Joe kept shaking his head, thinking of the train, the rumble out of town. He'd make it this time—“
dream what you need
”—he'd spirit himself to a new world. A man might be afraid; the trick was not to get trapped by it.

“Joe,” Gabe said urgently. “Joe.”

Joe looked up, thinking Gabe looked younger, vulnerable.
Like a trick of the light, he saw glistening bone—Gabe was a bones man
. Dread settled in his gut. Joe remembered a rail-thin Gabe coming to the porch, asking for Henry, waiting in the front yard because he knew Mother didn't appreciate him in her clean house. Father didn't appreciate him at all. Gabe had been—what? seventeen? eighteen? As young as Joe was now.

“Joe.”

“No, Gabe—” The air was heavy; Joe felt disoriented.

Gabe straddled the chair, rattling the table, nearly upsetting the lamp. “Joe, I've got to tell you something. I haven't told any man.”

“Don't.”

“In case anything happens. Something might happen today—might not have another chance.”

“Nothing's going to happen.” Joe averted his eyes. First Henry. Now Tyler. Soon Gabe. Joe wanted to scream. He buried his face in his hands. “Dynamite,” he whispered. “Let's get the dynamite, Gabe.”

Gabe slid his hands along the table's edges. Back and forth. Back and forth. He swiped the dusty surface with his palm. “Sometimes Henry joined me, Ailey, and the rest playing poker down here. Sometimes I'd fold if I thought Henry had a chance at winning. Ailey didn't get so angry when Henry won a few.”

“I don't need to know, Gabe. I don't want to know anymore.”

Gabe gazed at the flickering light. “Henry thought he knew all about me. Knew all the cards I was holding. Figured I'd fold when he had a winning hand. Do what needed to be doing for him.

“I could've stayed in Greenwood, married Emmaline. Figured how to get around your father. Instead I went to France with Henry. Brother man.” He looked up. “I should've stayed.”

“Gabe, you don't have to tell me.”

“I've got to tell it.” Joe heard the pleading in his voice.

Gabe slumped in the chair, chest concave, his Army-issue shirt
sticking to his skin. “‘How'd my brother die?' isn't that what you asked? ‘How'd he die?'” Angrily, he slapped his chest.

Joe caught his breath
. “Henry—”
Just beyond the lamp's glow, stood Henry
.

“Was a good man,” drawled Gabe.

Gabe's fingers, shaped as a steeple, pressed against his lips. More softly, he said, “Henry died like anyone. Stopped breathing. Body just stopped. Like the man who rolled into you. Blood spurting out of his mouth. Just,” Gabe swallowed, “stopped. Legs give way. Fall to the ground. Stopped.”

Joe felt trapped, back inside his nightmare. “We need to get to Greenwood, Gabe. We need to get to Greenwood.”

“Deal straight up,” said Gabe. “I'm going to deal straight up, Joe. You ready?”

Joe peered into the darkness: at the soft shapes, shadows of boxes, oil and farm gear.

Gabe slipped his gun out of his pocket, laying it on the table, giving it a slight push toward Joe. “I'm doing what I have to do. You do what you have to.”

Joe lifted his hands up in the air. “I don't mean to do anything, Gabe.”

Gabe shrugged. “We all do things we don't mean. ‘I'm sorry,' isn't that right? That's what we say, ‘I'm sorry.' Henry could be one ‘sorry,' son-of-a bitch.”

Joe heard Gabe's bitterness, knew Gabe's words would undo what little victory he'd earned.

“Henry'd say ‘Sorry I got you into this, Gabe.' ‘Sorry I got angry.' ‘Sorry I took your money. Cut in on the dance. Drank your liquor. Cheated you at cards.' Sorry didn't stop him from taking.”

“Shut up, Gabe.”

Gabe arched his brow. “Henry could be a complete son-of-a-bitch. You know I don't lie. You ever known me to lie, Joe?”

“No.” He rocked his body. Father said Henry'd cost. Maybe everybody paid. Joe wanted Gabe to shut up; he wanted to disappear. He wanted to plow a fist into Gabe's mouth. “Why?” he asked.

“Why'd I stand by him?” Gabe leaned into the table. “Why'd you? He was your brother, sure. But why'd you love him?”

Henry drew close behind him. Joe could feel his brother's breath on his neck
.

Joe added it up: there were more summers when his brother ignored him, than played with him at Lena's River. More days he spent drunk, sprawled in bed. More times silent than talking. Months of Henry's indifference. More times when Joe thought he'd die from loneliness.

“Blood brothers,” said Gabe.

“Not enough,” said Joe. Saying it, he knew it was true. He'd spent his life making not enough into something more. It wasn't enough to feel loving in the blood. He'd failed his brother; his brother had failed him.

“You were young, Joe. Henry was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. Wanted everybody to love him. And we did. Henry was an expert at sorry.

“I admired how he didn't make excuses. Just said sorry and took the blame. No excuse. No explanation. Take it on the chin. Later I realized Henry didn't have an explanation. He never thought about why he did anything. He did,” Gabe's face twisted, “what felt good.

“Afterwards he was good at sorry. So good you'd start saying ‘sorry' for being angry at what he'd done.” Gabe clenched his hands.

“Maybe we should just let it go, Gabe. Henry's dead. Let it go.”

“That's what I'm doing, Joe. Letting it go.

“Service treated us like dumb animals. When we were given a chance to fight, we had no recon, broken radios, defective masks. Seen men die from gas? Negro men turning purple? I think the Army begrudged feeding us.

“But the French were generous. The women were especially nice, grateful for the Americans. Don't get me wrong. They weren't anybody's whores. They were clawing for life, just like we were. Didn't care about Negro or white.

“The women didn't cringe, didn't slant their eyes, didn't turn from Negro men. Kind, open-hearted women. Knowing we could—they could soon be dead.

“The 369th gave all they had. But it was hard knowing your own officers didn't mind you dying. A woman could restore you. That's what Francine did for me. Despite myself, despite Emmaline, I started to love Francine. Had nothing to do with color. All to do with her being
there, wanting to be there. With me.” Gabe paused. “Ever been in love, Joe?”

Joe shook his head.

“Better than any magic you can dream. So powerful a man might lie to himself to keep feeling good. Maybe the war blinded us. Blinded me. Spent every minute I could with Francine. After the war, I figured I'd stay.

“Maybe for some it was white pussy. For me, it was Francine. The world was Francine. I could be with Francine and feel, feel grateful to be alive. Like water in a desert.”

Gabe let his head fall backward. To Joe, he looked headless. A shudder rattled Gabe's body.

“I think that was what bothered Henry. It was about me and someone else, not him. You see him strutting?”

“I see him,” mumbled Joe.

“Always the lady's man. Always charming. Always with money for champagne, silk, flowers.

“Henry was the world to me. First, I thought it was about Emmaline. He was worried about his sister being hurt. Now I think it was about him. Couldn't stand me being happy. Couldn't understand, couldn't stand me loving. If I'd married Emmaline, I think he would've been in our mess too. Henry fucked hundreds of women, but never loved one of them. I wouldn't have minded if he'd loved her.

“Every woman I ever met preferred Henry. Better looking, more fun than me. Henry could charm the dead. Henry probably charmed God to let him into heaven.”

“What're you saying, Gabe?”

“Don't you know?”

Joe groaned. “No, Gabe. I don't want to hear this.”

“You don't have a choice. 'Sides you already know what I'm going to say. You know Henry. You've always known him. Now ain't that right?”

“Why didn't you tell me before?”

“You weren't man enough to carry it. You've been wagging your tail behind Henry so long, you couldn't stop once he was a ghost. You've known all along what kind of man Henry was. But, today, you've shown yourself what kind of man you are. You don't need to be Henry.”

“Shut up, Gabe.”

“You don't need to be me either.”

“I'm not anybody.” Joe laid his head on the table.

“You don't mean that,” answered Gabe. “Moment ago, you were proud of yourself. Keep that feeling.” He stroked Joe's head. “You're strong enough to carry the truth. I know you are.”

Joe felt sorry when the gentle weight lifted from the back of his skull. Felt sorry he was here. Sorry Henry was a son-of-a-bitch. Sorry the tale wasn't done.

Gabe rasped: “I found them both sprawled on the kitchen floor. Hadn't even made it to the bed. Clothes everywhere. Francine flat on her back, mouth open, ugly in sleep. Henry, on his stomach, his hand on her breast.”

“I'm getting the hell out of here, Gabe. Out of Tulsa.”

Gabe went on, relentless. “I started kicking Henry telling him to get the fuck up. Francine clawed at me, cursing. Liquored up, the both of them. I got some good punches in. Henry never once hit me. I just stopped. Francine tried to cover herself with her slip. Henry was still on the floor, cross-legged, his balls hanging, his face swelling up.

“I asked ‘Do you love her? Do you love her, goddamnit?' Henry said: ‘Thought you wouldn't mind.' I kicked him in his side. Henry fell over, his legs curled up like a baby. He lay there laughing. At me? Himself? I don't know.

“‘Do you love her?' I demanded. Henry stared right through Francine:‘I don't love anybody.' Francine cursed, started battering Henry. I reached to catch her. But she righted herself: face pinched, hands flailing, screaming: ‘You said you loved me
—amour—t'aime moi
.' Called us both niggers. Didn't sound right with her accent. Such fury. At Henry. At me.
Niggers
.”

Joe stood. “I don't want to hear anymore, Gabe. Greenwood needs defending, then I'm gone.” He clutched the lamp, turning side to side, the light swaying, arcing across the walls, the stacked boxes. “Where's the dynamite? Let's get what you want, then get the hell out of here.”

“Gotta tell you how I killed Henry.”

Joe spun around, the light sliced across Gabe's face.

“I killed Henry.”

Joe lurched forward. “Don't joke, Gabe.”

“Everybody knew what good friends we were,” Gabe said dully. “Nobody questioned things might've changed. Duty sergeant put us in the same trench.”