“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:
“Remember when Charles’ cow thought it was a bull? Silly animal was humping everything.”
“Remember when Wylie got the clap? His wife hit him with her frying pan. Knocked him cold for two days.”
“Remember Henry sweet talking that gal with the big legs?”
“Ramona, was it?”
“Heard she was waiting for Henry to come home from the war. Says she’s going to marry him.”
“Yeah, but did he ask her or just pop her cherry?”
“Henry could charm anybody.”
“Even them Germans.”
“Tight-legged virgins.”
Joe would feel peace inhaling licorice-scented pomades while he stared at the ceiling fans whirring, slicing the thick air, dreaming of tricks and illusions.
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.
Gabe said, “I don’t recollect.”
Nate smiled sweetly. “Tell ’em, Gabe, about the pussy you had. Tell ’em how good Francine was.”
Gabe charged out of his seat.
The checkerboard overturned, cards fluttered to the floor. Herb, Ernie, and the others cleared the shop. The fighting was brutal, fierce. Gabe swung his fist. Nate dodged, battering Gabe’s puffed eye.
“Stop!” hollered Lying Man. “You’re ruining my shop.”
Gabe double punched and Nate stumbled back, gasping. Nate seized Lying Man’s razor and sliced Gabe’s coat. The second slice nicked Gabe’s arm.
“Francine was good, wasn’t she?” murmured Nate.
Gabe cursed, “I’ll kill you, Nate.”
Joe readied his handcuffs, looking for a chance.
Nate’s fist reared and Joe rushed forward, grabbing his wrist, clicking on the metal cuff. Startled, Nate paused, and in that second, Gabe hit him full in the face while Joe snapped the free cuff to the barber’s chair. The razor clanged to the floor, glinting, reflecting sun on the chairs.
Blood draining from his nose and mouth, Nate howled, “Let go. Let go my hand.”
&
nbsp; “Do it your own self,” said Joe. “You’re the brave man who fought in the war.”
“Give me the key.” Nate sputtered blood. “The fucking key.”
“I don’t have one.”
Nate lunged, the cuff snapped him back.
Joe laughed. The sound rumbled bitter and deep inside him.
Gabe thumped Joe on his back. “You would’ve been a good soldier, Joe. Henry would’ve been proud of you.”
Joe shoved Gabe, snarling, “How’d Henry really die? Hand-to-hand or blown to bits? You were supposed to look after him, Gabe. What happened to him? What happened to you?”
“Tell ’em,” said Nate.
Gabe clenched his jaw, but held his silence.
“I want to know how my brother died.”
Nate looked away. “Died in the war, Joe. That’s all.”
Joe picked up the bloody razor and held it to the light. The ceiling fan whirled. He was panting, feeling like he’d been running forever. “I wish I’d never woken up this morning.”
Joe stared at Lying Man’s palm, the pink crisscrossing lines, the callused thumb.
“What’s wrong, Joe?” Lying Man asked softly. “What’s wrong?”
Joe walked to the window, pressed against it, trying to soak up the sun’s heat and merge with the glass. He looked up and down Greenwood Avenue at faces and landmarks he’d known forever. Mrs. Regan, with her mustached chin, was carrying a bolt of red cloth. Ed, long faced, with eyes like a pup’s, was climbing into his wagon, hauling feed from Reye’s General Store. Ramona was across the street pinching plums at the grocer’s. The Dream Time Cinema had a new picture; Bill Johnson was pasting up a billboard of a starry-eyed woman facing the horizon.
The war in France had changed Greenwood. The men were different. Gabe. Nate. Chalmers. Even Lying Man. And Joe knew he was different too.
Looking through the glass, he saw Greenwood as a withering photograph. Behind the brightly painted buildings and brightly dressed people were shadows of frustration, pain. Deep Greenwood. The black city within the white. He should’ve left yesterday, been far away, riding the rails.
“Everything’s wrong,” Joe answered Lying Man. He tossed the razor at the mirror, reached for the door knob.
“Joe. Get these damn cuffs off.”
Joe pulled a lock pick from his pocket. It should’ve been easy. But it took three tries before the cuffs released from Nate’s wrist and the chair’s leather arm. Joe plunked the cuffs into his pocket.
“You’ve got a nice touch,” said Nate, blood sluggishly draining over his lips. “We could’ve used you to defuse mines.”
“Yeah,” said Joe, dazed, hands shaking. The copper bell rang as he opened the door. Joe looked back. “You were wrong, Gabe. Dead do come back.”
Joe reeled down the street, feeling the ground trembling beneath him. Feeling oil trapped in the soil, ready to gush and burn. Knowing Lying Man was at the window, watching, Joe lifted his hand and waved. He glanced left and right, paying attention to shadows, the darkness behind the brightly lit town.
Nate slumped in the barber’s chair. “Don’t be telling folks this story, Lying Man. If folks knew Joe locked me to a chair, I couldn’t show my face. Hear?”
“I hear.” Lying Man craned his head, watching Joe weave like a drunkard down the sidewalk. He murmured, “That boy needs watching over.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” said Gabe, digging his nails in the window frame.
“Then you better high tail it.” Lying Man patted the pocket holding Gabe’s revolver. “Keep it handy.”
Gabe nodded. The copper bell shook.
“Gabe, don’t you let any harm come to that boy,” he yelled.
Gabe strode quickly, his trench coat flapping as he set off after Joe.
8
Allen Thornton didn’t know what to do about Mary. He knew she was troubled, but he hadn’t the slightest idea of what was wrong or how to fix her heartache. He spent his days and nights repairing timepieces. He pried open the most delicate mechanisms, miraculously taming minute and second hands. Yet, with people, he felt awkward. He preferred actors—dancing, singing men and women—whose problems were solved by act three. Then, too, his lack of pigment never assured his social welcome. It was easier to retreat to his bench, magnifier pressed to his eye, peering at clutters of wire and springs.
Mary had brought a new sense of urgency into his shop. He’d thrown open his shutters, made strong coffee, and watched her tug her hem repeatedly and fold her dirty, work-scarred hands. The bruises on her wrists made him ache.
He’d handed her his best cup; it’d slipped through her fingers. Porcelain slivers had showered her feet. She’d cried and when he finished sweeping up the pieces, he’d asked, “Are you afraid of me, Mary?”
She’d shaken her head no and he’d left it at that. But he’d felt a release, a lightening of tension and he’d stared dumbly at his prized clocks, smiling at the thought of her in his back room, straightening her hair, washing her hands and face.
Now Allen supported Mary as they walked toward the Ambrose Building.
“I think you should rest, Mary. Tell them you’re sick.” She was limping sadly because a shoe was broken. He admired her: brown eyes fixed straight ahead, her lips firmly pressed. She was terrified but bent on not showing it.
“Watch out, Mary,” Allen urged as she almost tripped over a box of goods set out for the post. “I don’t think you should be working today. Let me tell your manager—Mr. Bates, is it?—you’re sick. You don’t look well.”
“I need to take care of myself, Mr. Thornton.”
“Allen.” He supported her elbow.
“Al’s better.” She smiled. “I do thank you, Al.”
They were in front of the gray-stoned Ambrose Building. It was the most impressive structure in Tulsa, with gold-caged elevators and elevator girls with their names stitched on their breast pocket. Like Mary. Allen didn’t want to let her go.
“Excuse me.” A Negro boy brushed past him, pushing through the revolving glass doors.
“Sorry.” Allen stepped aside, thinking it peculiar that handcuffs swung, like a pendulum, from the Negro’s back pocket. Through the spinning glass, Allen could see flashes of the slim, dark figure striding confidently into the marble lobby. The doors slowed their rotation. The young Negro was lost from sight.
Allen shrugged. “I’m in the way here, I guess.” He drew Mary aside, studying her face. When he’d carried her in his arms, he realized how lonely he’d been. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone with a woman.
“My hand,” Mary murmured.
“What?”
“Please, let go my hand.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No.”
Her lower lip was trembling and Allen, embarrassed, withdrew. “I enjoyed your company. Good day to you, Miss—” He didn’t know her last name. “Miss Mary.”
He turned abruptly, walking quickly, cursing himself for losing time when he had Bailey’s pocket watch to repair. He shouldn’t waste his mornings caring for frightened girls.
Mary.
His steps slowed. He should’ve invited her to dinner. Or perhaps to the cinema. A show with lots of dancing. She hadn’t been afraid of him—a slightly thick-headed, white-haired man. Maybe she’d felt sorry for him? He was beyond pale, stoop-shouldered from bending, squinting at wires and springs. He saw himself reflected in a hotel window. At forty-two, he’d had years of women lowering their eyes, angling their bodies away from him. No, he wasn’t handsome. Nor rich enough to overcome his oddness.
The only time he really lived was during his yearly visit to New York to see hoofers, vaudevillians, and magicians. The train carried him away to a few weeks respite from being Allen Thornton, repairer of timepieces. Albino.
When he’d seen Mary through his shop window, he’d recognized her at once as the elevator operator. She’d never flinched from him like other women. Tw
ice he’d ridden the elevator just to see her. Sometimes he’d glance sidelong at her legs, the curve of her neck, her short brown hair. Seeing her limping peg-legged, retracing the same block, he’d felt an urge to rescue her. And he had. Like the hero in No, No, Nanette. He’d felt infused with life. Mary. He didn’t know where she lived. He’d taken a hold of life. Him, Allen Thornton.
Mary. Allen stopped, seeing the town anew. Office buildings, hotels, and emporiums rose against the blue skyline. The Grecian-columned courthouse was flanked by a square of lush lawn and elegant oaks. Sophisticated, bowler-hatted gentlemen and elaborately clothed ladies departed the Henly. For the first time, it occurred to him that Tulsa was a stage set ready to come to life. Mary had removed the scrim; experience was now fresh, heartfelt.
He turned back around, almost running. He wouldn’t lose her. Tulsa was awash in sunshine; it would stay that way, if Mary were beside him. He rushed through the Ambrose door, spinning full circle twice. Breathless, almost slipping, he stepped into the cool, dignified lobby. He didn’t see her.
“Mary.” He called as loudly as he dared. “Mary.” His heart was racing; he thought how unjust it would be if she disappeared.
He saw Mary in the elevator waiting for passengers.
“Mary!” She didn’t look up. He started running between the finely dressed gentlemen, the oil men, the lawyers, the gentrified farmers. He passed the shoeshine stand. A Negro was tapping his foot against a box of paste and dye.
A small crowd of men, arguing heatedly, blocked the path to Mary’s elevator.
For a second, Allen saw Mary, her hand on the release bar, ready to shut the interior gilded doors. “Wait.” She had a passenger. The Negro boy who’d brushed past him earlier was in the elevator. Odd, Allen thought. Negroes took the stairs.
“Mary, wait.” How glorious it would be—a splendid finale, the two of them ascending in the elevator. He was almost there.
Magic City Page 7