Magic City (21 page)

Men edged closer; others leaned over the balcony.

“I need Greenwood men. Not the boys the white men say we are. Braving war, we're 'boys.' Providing for our families, we're ‘boys.' Playing checkers as old men, wise from living, we're ‘boys.' I don't see anybody's boy here.” Gabe looked straight at Joe. “I see men. Trying to do right. Standing.”

“Got to stand,” shouted Mr. Jackson, tossing his hat high.

“I didn't stand for Reubens,” shouted Lying Man, “but I'm standing now.”

“I didn't stand for Henry,” said Gabe. “I—” his words trailed. For a moment, Gabe's heartache was exposed, then he said fiercely, “I'll stand for Joe.”

“Might as well call me Joe,” said Lying Man. “Same difference.”

“I'll stand,” said Sandy, solemnly.

Gabe stooped, clasped his hand.

“Count me in.”

“Me too,” said Bill.

“All together.”

“I don't mind dying,” said Nate.

“Greenwood,” Chalmers shouted.

“Greenwood,” murmured Joe, caught by the whirlwind, feeling pride swell his heart. The men in the balcony were stomping, the sound deafening; those on the ground floor were whooping, clapping hands. Chalmers grabbed Ernie and spun him around. Lying Man played a lively tune.

“Okay. Okay, okay,” Gabe shouted, settling the men. “It's been six hours. Not a good sign. The Klan—maybe the whole damn town—is marshaling some offense. I haven't been to church in a long while. But, today, we can't afford to turn the other cheek.”

“God didn't always turn.”

“He sent Moses,” said Lying Man.

“Well, we got Joe,” said Gabe, cracking a smile. “Anymore magic left, Joe?”

Joe looked around at all the brave men. “I've got a few tricks left.” He pulled a lit match out of Sandy's ear. “So does Sandy.” Sandy scowled. Laughter shook the church. Chalmers slapped Joe on the back. Gabe jumped from the pew and hugged Joe. “Brother man.” Joe saw himself reflected deep in Gabe's eyes.

“Here! They're here,” yelled Mr. Jackson. “They're here!” He broke the stained glass with the butt of his rifle. Others followed suit. Chunks of colored glass fell onto the floor.

“Hold up. Don't shoot,” shouted Gabe. “Don't shoot.”

“Damn,” whispered Bill Johnson, awed.

Joe gripped the window ledge. Behind him stood Gabe, Nate, and Lying Man.

Gabe whispered, “War's here.”

Nate sighed, “They surely hate us.”

Lying Man said, “Stand.”

Sandy replied, sarcastic, “Nothing like good odds. Don't you think, Gabe? Nothing beats good odds.”

Gabe ignored him, ordering, “Wait 'til I give the signal, men. Wait for the signal.”

Joe's mouth was dry. Three truckloads of men with guns. “Ambrose Oil” was written on the cabs' sides.

“Damn that's a lot of 'em,” said Chalmers.

“Just more ducks for me,” called Nate, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “I'm going to the roof, Gabe.”

“Don't shoot 'til they're past the barricade,” Gabe hollered as Nate scrambled out the back door.

Joe held his breath as the flatbed trucks began lumbering up the hill. The men looked like they were on a hunting trip. Some were swigging beer. Others were hooting “nigger,” jagging bayonets, rifles into the air, calling to friends across trucks. Some wore infantry uniforms, others were still in their Sunday best. Just like this was part of the Decoration Day celebration. Bates, gleeful, in the first truck, waved a confederate flag.

“Come on, come on. A little further,” Gabe urged the drivers. “Come on.” When the trucks halted in front of the barricade, Gabe lit the fuse. Crackling smoke snaked out of the church.

“Get down.” Lying Man tugged Joe.

“Heads up,” shouted Gabe, before diving, covering his head.

The church windows shattered. “Goddamn, eighty dollars,” cursed Bill.

The blast had lifted the two overturned cars and the first truck clear off the ground. The Greenwood men cheered. Joe heard Nate banging on the roof, screaming, “Go on, Gabe. Go on!”

“That showed them. Goddamn.”

The second truck careened wildly, backward, down the hill, bouncing over the curb, slamming into an elm, spilling men about onto the lawn, street, and sidewalk.

The third truck swerved and stopped on the roadside. Men leaped out, charging past the barricade, crumpled metal, and bodies.

“Ready,” said Gabe.

Joe checked his gun.

“Aim.”

Joe smelled gasoline. Then he heard a whoosh as the truck's tank ignited. Flames shot twenty feet high. Joe ducked his head. Then, looked again. Moans rent the air. Men were on fire: rolling on the ground or else still, unconscious or dead. Bates' flag was a blackened stick. A torched man zigzagged then spun in lazy circles; orange-red flames streaked; he dropped to his knees with arms outstretched; he fell flat forward. Black smoke billowed from the truck. Flesh stunk like grilled meat.

Nauseous, Joe swallowed bile. Mr. Jackson threw up. Chalmers closed his eyes. Lyman called for “Mercy.” Gabe watched the flames, unflinching.

“Ready, men.”

A dozen white men broke the spell and charged. Screaming, rifles flailing side to side, they ran mightily. Joe marveled.

“Fire,” ordered Gabe.

The Greenwood men opened fire.

“For the heart. Aim for the heart.”

Joe aimed at the figures, not certain he was hitting anyone. Was this what war had been like for Henry? No time to think or aim, just shooting. Confusion and smoke. He realized his gun was empty. He looked at the Greenwood men, intent, shooting down the enemy, striking back for lynchings, old grudges, and lost honor. Pieces of Christ were on the
floor. Tater, tears on his cheeks, fired methodically. Gabe was shooting with two barrels. Lying Man squinted, aimed, repeating, “Mercy.” Joe started reloading.

Suddenly, the men gave a great cry. The charging white men turned, running back down the hill toward Tulsa. Greenwood was still theirs.

Except for the bodies, Greenwood Avenue was deserted again. Inside, they whooped and hollered. Tater beat his broom against a pew like a victory drum. “That did it!” “You saw them!” “I got two of them.”

Only Gabe failed to celebrate. Joe watched Gabe peer anxiously out the front of the church, then dodge around to glance out the back.

Outside they heard the whine and popping of the truck burning itself out.

Gabe called, “It's not done. Get on back to your windows. They'll come again.”

It seemed to Joe the waiting was even longer. The victory was disorienting. Joe wished he was gone. He could see the dead lying in the street. He didn't want to shoot anymore men.

Then he heard the sound of a plane flying low. The sound was irritating as a mosquito. “Reconnaissance,” said Gabe. The Greenwood men held still, listening as the plane circled above the church. After a while the plane went away and the men went back to waiting.

Joe was wondering whether Tulsans were so startled by colored men returning fire, they'd decided to give it up, lose the battle, when a rifle shot cracked and Sandy jerked backward, bleeding from his gut, spilling his blood in a hot arc across Joe, the pews, the floor, before falling.

“Sniper!”

“Where is he?”

Lying Man crawled, reaching out to hold Sandy's hand.

“I knew I was going to die,” Sandy whispered.

Lying Man murmured, “You'll be fine. You'll be fine, Sandy.” Even Joe knew Lying Man was lying. First time ever. Blood drained from Sandy's gut. Joe thought of Henry torn by shrapnel. Another shot. Joe didn't see where it hit. Peering over the window, he didn't see anybody. No one in the street, no one hiding on rooftops.

A third shot and Gabe yelled, “There! In the trees!”

Joe aimed but missed. Nate was still firing from the roof.

“Second wave,” called Gabe. “Second wave.”

Three carloads of men toting rifles roared up the street. Two were police cars and Joe wondered whether the sheriff had come. They halted at the barricade, the men taking cover behind their cars, truck debris, behind trees. They didn't move. “What the hell are they waiting for?” yelled Ernie. A straining truck shifted into third gear, climbing the hill. “National Guard,” said Gabe. The Greenwood men were stunned. “Bastards called the National Guard.”

Men in beige uniforms, round helmets, leaped from the truck, fanning out, scattering themselves, belly down in the dirt, rifles aimed at Zion. Some moved from the line of vision, skirting toward the back.

Gabe shouted, “Reye, Herb. Barricade the back door.”

“Outnumbered. Isn't that what movies say? We're fucking outnumbered,” moaned Chalmers.

Overwhelming odds. Nobody said a word.

Joe swallowed. Time slowed. The Greenwood men seemed to be moving beneath water. Gabe lowered his head to his chest. Chalmers edged slightly forward through the window. Even panicky Ernie seemed to shake his head in slow motion. Joe looked back, Sandy had stopped breathing. Lying Man, slowly, ever so slowly, closed his lids.

The sniper fired again. Nate tumbled from the roof. Joe gasped. Nate landed on the church lawn, flat on his back, arms outstretched, blood pooling around his chest.

Tater was crying aloud. Joe drifted beyond feeling.

The plane buzzed again. The sound was further away, to the west of the church. They heard short pows. Explosions.

“Dynamite,” said Gabe. “They're throwing dynamite out of the plane. Barricades mean nothing to a plane.”

“We've got to get out.”

“Nadine,” hollered Clarence.

“Eugenia,” called Ray.

Hildy, thought Joe. He thought of his mother, father, Emmaline, but it was Hildy whom he saw and heard, “
We all need loving, Joe
.”

Before the Greenwood men could escape from the church, Tulsans opened fire.

“Shoot, men,” commanded Gabe. “Don't fall apart. We've got to stand.”

Grimly, the Greenwood men returned fire.

“Be calm. No way we can stop a plane. But we can stop these men,” Gabe exhorted. “We've got to stop them if we want to leave Zion, see our families. We've got to stop them if we want to survive.”

Smoke rose like fog, outside and inside the church. Some of the whites fell, but more were always coming, marching forward, closer to the church. Joe kept firing at an oak until a man fell, cracking through green branches. For a moment, Joe felt exhilarated, then he saw Mr. Jackson clutch his stomach and sit quietly against a wall; he heard Chalmers screaming, his leg shot apart at the thigh. Ernie collapsed beside him.

“Reload. Shoot,” insisted Gabe.

Reload. Shoot. Joe thought he was dreaming; on the periphery, he saw flames. Wind was skipping fire across rooftops. Greenwood was burning and he was helpless, trapped, tied down in Zion.

Gabe clutched his arm. Blood dripped from his fingers.

“Clarence,” Joe shrieked.

“I'm all right,” said Gabe, dismissing Clarence, pacing behind the line, yelling, “Stand. Reload. Shoot.”

Another truck rumbled up the street, past the barricade, loaded with burning straw. The driver aimed it at the church and leaped clear. The truck bounced over the curb, crashing into the corner of the church, crushing Bill Johnson against the wall.

More shots were exchanged. The church got smokier. Men coughed, gasping; eyes stung. Almost a third of the Greenwood men had fallen. But the rest still shouldered rifles, aimed pistols, and fired. Joe realized they were all heroes. Crouching, Gabe pulled Joe and Lying Man toward the back of the church. “Gotta start getting some of us out here.”

“No.” Joe halted, pushing away Gabe's hands.

“Retreat and regroup, Joe. Someone's got to survive, help the town. You and Lying Man go first.”

“I won't run,” said Lying Man.

“You've got to. You need to testify.” Blood draining down his arm, Gabe tore aside the wood planks stacked against the back door. “Slim. Help me with cover.” He looked at Lying Man and Joe. “Do as I say now.”

“Let me stay, Gabe,” murmured Joe.

Gabe shook his head. “Henry wouldn't want me to.”

“Please,” Joe begged.

“Your life ain't over yet. Ain't meant to be. You need to care for Lying Man, Joe. Both of you need to care for each other.” Gabe pointed his gun at Joe's abdomen. “I want you to go. You hear? I'll shoot you if you don't.”

Lying Man clutched Joe's arm. “Come on, Joe.”

Gabe angled his head. “Thanks, Lying Man. You understand?”

“If we all go, they'll overwhelm us, shoot us like dogs.”

“That's right. Two can squeak by. I'll send us out two by two.”

“What about you, Gabe?”

“I've got two sticks of dynamite left. When I open the door, I'll throw one left, one right. Run like hell.” Gabe clasped Joe's shoulder. “Slim and I will provide cover. Just run. Don't look back. Ready?”

Reluctantly, Joe nodded.

“Find my wife,” said Slim. “Make sure she's all right.”

“We will,” said Lyman.

“Joe. Tell Emmy I loved her.” Gabe lit the fuses, flew open the door, and threw. One, two explosions.

Joe stumbled.

“Run!” shouted Gabe, firing his pistol. “Run.”

They ran—Joe behind Lying Man, ducking and dodging. Running like wild men. Running down the slope toward home.

Joe couldn't help looking back. Slim was down, sprawled in the dirt. Gabe was still firing, moving backward into the church.

Flames climbed the church roof. “Don't, Gabe!” wailed Joe.

Gabe waved—Joe couldn't see well—but he thought Gabe was smiling, striding into the burning church, like an angel wrapped in smoke. Overhead, Joe heard the sound of the plane again, like a spirit far off, going someplace he couldn't imagine.