“Joe.” Henry gripped him. His touch felt cool. Then, Henry opened his palm; blood trickled from his thumb. He wiped it on Joe’s brow. “Brothers. Always.”
Tears blinded him. “Why’d you come back? You’re supposed to stay gone.”
“You wanted me back.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I’m here to tell you what you already know.”
“I don’t want to hear anything from you. You’re not here. You’re not even real.” Then, lurching forward, Joe swung, howling, “Damn you. You’re not real.”
Henry disappeared.
“Henry!” Joe dashed, searching the corners of his cell. All his anxieties, his boyhood fears welled. He’d never played with other children. They weren’t rich enough, genteel enough. “Play with Henry,” Father had insisted. Loneliness had crushed him when Henry no longer wanted to play with him. Wandering Greenwood, he’d been grateful for the kindnesses of adults, the warmth of Lying Man’s shop. But none of it made up for Henry being gone. “Henry! Don’t leave me,” he called, desperate.
Henry reappeared by the window. “I’m here, little brother. I’m still here.”
Joe collapsed onto his knees. “You left me. You left me by the riverbed. You left me knowing I didn’t have anybody else, knowing Father didn’t care about me. I thought I’d done something wrong. Thought you didn’t love me.”
“You’re a man now, Joe. You’ve got to face a man’s problems.”
Joe stumbled forward. “You never faced anything. The war was an excuse. You were tired of Tulsa, tired of me.”
“No, not of you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Think. Think hard, Joe.”
Joe stared. He wanted to touch his brother’s face. Press his fingers against his cheekbones, his brow, the arched bridge of his nose.
“I was old enough to enlist when I found out. But I’d known beforehand, had always known. Think hard, Joe. You remember. You know the secret. All of us knew. What’s the secret, Joe?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We never crossed to the other side. Never went to the west side of Lena’s River. How come, Joe?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” In his mind’s eye, he saw derricks lined up like sentinels across the river.
“How come Father, a Negro man, speaks to Ambrose? Gets favors? Gets seed money for a bank? Guess the secret, Joe. Why’d you run home to Tyler?”
“You’re talking nonsense. You’re making excuses for leaving me.”
“I couldn’t stay anymore. I’m sorry, Joe. I wasn’t much of a man at twenty-two.” Henry paced. “Father showed me the deed. Said he wanted me to know my history. Wanted me to understand what he’d accomplished.” He stopped. “Look at me, Joe. Tyler never ran from paterrollers. He wasn’t running away. He was running to get something.”
“He was a Sooner.”
“Yes, that’s it. You remember Tyler’s land.”
“De…de…dee…” Deed. Tyler had been stuttering about the deed.
Joe remembered himself as a child, trying to heave sticks across the river, trying to sail a toy ship to the rocky shore. But he was on the wrong side, the side of endless green. Not the side where Ambrose’s derricks rose and fell, day and night, pumping a steady stream of black gold above the ground.
“Tyler won that land. He raced faster than hundreds of men—black skinned and white. He staked his claim. Staked out two hundred acres around Lena’s River where the Ambrose fields are now.”
“I remember,” Joe murmured. When Tyler could still hold a brush, he painted the same landscape: plains of tall wheat. When a painting was finished, Tyler wept through the night.
“Father stole the land from Tyler.”
“Sold it to Ambrose,” said Joe, realizing he’d always known it. “But why, Henry? Why?”
“Said a Negro man was allowed only so much power. He sold the land, started his bank, bought pieces of Greenwood. But that land—its oil, Joe, acres of it—fueled Ambrose’s wealth. Built Tulsa.” Henry sat on the cot, his cheeks and eyes wet. “Father seemed so proud of what he’d done. That’s what tore me up. Father knew there was oil. Tyler never said a mumbling word. Never.
“Father just wanted to believe I was a little wild. Wanted to believe I’d settle down and become a banker. Just like him.” His face contorted. “Then Tyler had his stroke. The war came; I was glad it came. I ran. I wasn’t man enough to stay in Greenwood.”
A train whistled.
Joe realized it was a ghostly echo. Henry’s train.
“I can’t stay now.”
“Henry, don’t leave me.
“Henry! I’m scared.” Joe fell to his knees, trying to catch the air where his brother had been.
Henry quivered; light shone through his form. “Fear’s all right. But only if it’s useful. Fear made us keep Father’s secret. Mother, Hildy, Emmaline, me. We buried the truth, good and gone. And if Tyler’s pictures reminded us of the truth, we said it was an illusion. Father was the great one, the provider. I think he was more scared than any of us.”
“You weren’t scared. You were a war hero.”
“Is that what you believe? You’re a fool, Joe. I was always scared. So scared, I hid from myself. So scared, I didn’t give a damn for anybody.”
The train squealed again. Joe heard a babble of voices, hollering for Henry. Steam filled the cell.
“Joe, when you going to start thinking of yourself as Joe Samuels? Not Father’s son. Not Hildy’s baby. Not even Henry’s little brother.”
“Who should I be, Henry?”
“This is your dream. You figure it out.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Dreams mean something, Joe.”
“That’s what Hildy said.”
“ What do you want, Joe? You can’t spend your life pretending you’re a black-faced Houdini.”
“Damn you.”
Henry laughed softly. “I am, Joe. Good and damned.” The train whistle grew louder. “You know all you need to. Your magic is in your bones, Joe.”
“Henry!”
The cell wall had disappeared. Henry stood on the train’s platform, his lips moving.
“Henry, what?” Joe felt himself a boy again, stumbling, running after his brother.
The train gushed steam. He heard Henry shouting, “Stay! Stay—” Is that what Henry wanted? For him to stay? In Greenwood?
“Hen—ry!” Joe shouted. “Henry.”
“Quiet in there. Who you talking to?” The light snapped on.
“Henry?” He beat against the wall. “Wait! How’d you die? Henry!”
Lucas clanged his baton across the bars. “Crazy nigger. Shut the hell up.”
“How’d you die?”
“Acting crazy won’t keep you from hanging,” Lucas sneered.
Shivering, Joe felt the cell wall. No ghost train. The wall was solid. He heard a whistle screech and ran to the window. “It’s the 9:45,” he murmured. “To Frisco.”
“Bet you wish you were on it, don’t you, boy?”
“You could buy me a ticket.”
Lucas chortled, “Crazy nigger.” He rattled the baton on the bars.
Frisco sounds fine, Joe thought. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He’d hop a train. Never look back. Henry was dead. Joe looked at his lock pick tucked on the window’s ledge, glittering in the moonlight.
15
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” asked Allen.
Mary nodded, her hand on the door knob. Inhaling, she pushed open the door and stepped inside a shallow office. The room was stark, flooded with artificial light. Metal file cabinets, chairs, and desks were arranged haphazardly. Bars covered the windows. Holsters, handcuffs, and leather batons lined the back wall. Framed, on the left wall, was the front page from The Tulsan, April 22, 1915—“German Gas Attack.” The photograph showed puffs of smoke hanging over a field. A platoon of soldiers lay dead.
/> “You needed to see me, Miss Keane?”
Mary was terrified. Sheriff Clay sat behind his desk. He’d been eating pie. Blueberry. Beside the pie lay a baton and gun. Two deputies were in the office. One—his feet on the desk, his hands folded on his lap—seemed to be laughing at her. He seemed aware of her discomfort, aware of how flushed her body felt. She patted her wrinkled dress, wishing she had undergarments. The other deputy was younger, plain-faced like her. Sympathetic.
“Miss Keane?”
Sheriff Clay’s face was bland; his eyes, noncommittal. But Mary knew he was studying her too. She guessed he knew her exact height, weight, how her left foot was placed slightly in front of her right, how calluses covered her palms. She felt like she was back in the kitchen. Outnumbered by men. Placed in the wrong. She wanted to run from the room, but a man might die because of her. And if he died, she’d want to kill herself, like Lena did. She’d float face down in the river. Her feelings surprised her. Joe Samuels had nothing to do with her. Yet he had everything to do with her.
“Miss Keane?”
“He—” Her tongue thickened; tears pricked her eyes. Fool, she thought. Fool.
“It’s all right, Mary.” Allen patted her back.
She crossed her arms over her belly. Al wanted something too. Gratitude? She owed him that. Affection? She didn’t know. She only knew she felt both trapped and exposed. The men’s stares were unnerving. It wasn’t fair. She wanted a woman with her.
“Perhaps you’d like some water, Miss Keane. Sully, get Miss Keane some water.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m all right.” She clasped her hands. “Sheriff, he didn’t…I mean he didn’t—”
“Got to be a woman sometime, Mary.”
Nausea swept through her. She swayed. Clay reached out to steady her; she grasped his hand, thinking his eyes were bluer than Dell’s. Her womb contracted; she remembered Dell plunging inside her. The deputies leaned forward like crows.
“He didn’t do anything,” she said fiercely. “Not anything. He didn’t touch me. The young colored man. Joe.”
Lucas’ boots hit the floor. Mary dropped the sheriff’s hand. Lucas moved toward her, deliberate and frightening. “You needn’t be embarrassed, ma’am,” he said softly. “Even if you encouraged him.”
“I didn’t encourage anyone.”
“Boy deserves a lynching. He had no business in that elevator.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand plenty.” Lucas grinned, shifting his weight into his hips. “There’s misunderstandings at times. A woman might say no when she means yes. Now isn’t that right? You might encourage a man without realizing it.”
“I didn’t encourage anyone.”
“No need to be embarrassed, ma’am. Most women marry the man, misunderstanding or not. You know what I mean?”
“I didn’t encourage him.”
“But no respectable woman,” Lucas paused, “ever has such a misunderstanding with a colored.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Allen.
“She knows what I mean, look at her.”
Allen lunged. Lucas gripped his arm, pulling him face down onto the floor, his arm bent behind his back. “I can arrest you for assaulting an officer.”
“Let him go, Lucas,” ordered Clay.
Reluctantly, Lucas released his hold.
“He’s got to answer for his lies,” Allen raged.
“That’s enough, Thornton,” Clay snapped. “Lucas, do your rounds. Sully and I will handle this.”
“Suits me fine,” said Lucas. “But I know my duty. Niggers need to be kept in their place.” He belted his gun about his waist. “And ma’am,” he looked pointedly at her breasts and crotch, “whatever you did, still don’t excuse a nigger from looking at you.” He sauntered out, closing the door softly.
“He’s gonna see the Knights,” murmured Sully.
“I know.” Clay tossed his pie in the trash.
“Can’t you stop him?” demanded Allen.
“He hasn’t broken the law.”
“You mean you won’t stop him.”
“I mean I can’t,” said Clay.
“Fine logic. A sheriff can’t uphold the law. Is that why you let a mob lynch David Reubens?”
“That’s enough, Thornton.”
“You’re going to let them take Joe, aren’t you? Take him and lynch him.”
“That’s enough.”
“Planning another fishing trip?”
“Damn you, Thornton.” Enraged, Clay stood, his chair toppling. “Joe Samuels is safe in this jail. There’s only one entrance and exit. Guards are posted on each level. So, I’m telling you, Mr. Thornton, Joe Samuels is safe. I know how to do my job. I intend to do it.”
“Then you should release Joe,” said Mary. “He’s innocent.”
Clay sighed, “Miss Keane, Miss Keane. The circumstances are suspicious.”
“Dirty minds make it so.”
“I uphold the law.”
“There’s been no crime.”
“Miss Keane, this is a delicate situation.”
“Nothing’s delicate about it.”
“Sit down, Miss Keane.”
“I will not,” she shouted. “I will not sit down. You’re holding an innocent man. Joe Samuels and I, we work in the same building. He’s never been less than a gentleman. No, that’s not quite right,” she exhaled. “He’s never been anything to me. Those coloreds, those shoeshine boys never stared at me. The truth is, sheriff, not too many men pay me any mind. I am not a pretty woman.”
“Mary—” Allen reached out, protective.
“It’s true. I do know what I look like.” She looked at the three men—Al, Sully, the sheriff, daring them to contradict.
Clay cleared his throat.
“Sheriff, I have no reason to lie. I am not half-witted. Or overcome by imagination. I am a woman, with a woman’s feelings. I know how to recognize advances.” She paused. “Sexual advances. Joe Samuels never—” Mary closed her eyes, trembling coursed through her.
She remembered Joe’s hands: dark, slim, and strong like a piano player’s.
“He never touched me.” She opened her eyes, repeating, “He never touched me.”
The room was still. Mary looked at Allen; he was slouched against the wall. Sully, head bent, still held the glass of water. Sheriff Clay was the only one looking directly at her. Mary thought he looked sorrowful, like Jody.
“I believe you, Miss Keane. But there’s something you’re not telling. Why’d you scream, Miss Keane? Something made you scream.”
“Is this an interrogation?”
“Stay out of this, Thornton. I’m trying to help her. That colored boy too. I can’t let him go without a credible explanation for her scream. Everyone heard it. By now, everybody in Tulsa knows about your screaming.”
“He’s innocent,” Mary said stubbornly.
“I know that. Only a complete fool would rape a woman on an elevator, then ride the elevator down to a crowded lobby. Any other floor would’ve had a fire escape. Samuels could’ve been off and running by the time your elevator reached the lobby.”
“So you think he’s innocent.”
“What I think won’t matter. I need proof. I need to know why you screamed.”
Mary compressed her lips.
Al nodded sympathetically. Mary appreciated his silence. It’d felt right to tell Al about Dell. But did that mean she had to tell the sheriff, his deputy? Would the sheriff even understand she’d screamed because hours ago a man had raped her, years ago her mother had died, and, in a moment, she’d realized she’d let life slip through her fingers?
Except for the afternoons with her mother, she’d never been happy.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Joe had asked. “Yes,” she’d replied. She believed in ghosts.
“He didn’t touch me,” she said to the sheriff. “Why can’t you believe me? Why isn’t my word good enough?”
“Oh,
it’s good enough. But it isn’t satisfying. A mob is likely organizing as we speak. We need a story. A good one. One that quenches their need for blood. It’s like war, Miss Keane. Once the adrenaline gets going, you want to kill something.
“If I’m to keep Joe alive, I’m going to need a better story, Miss Keane. Something that explains why you screamed, something that makes these men not want to,” Clay looked at Allen, “burn him alive. Can you give me such a story? A better explanation for your screams?”
Mary said nothing.
“She’s given you her answer,” said Allen.
Clay stepped toward Mary. “Why don’t we go see the boy, maybe that will jog your memory?” He grabbed a ring of keys.
“You don’t have to, Mary.”
“I want to.” Allen took her arm and they followed the sheriff down the hall. Sully unlocked a gate that let them into a passageway of cells.
Eyes darting, Mary saw young men, old men lying on cots. Coloreds were on the left; whites, on the right. Some were sprawled, drunk. Others slept, their mouths hanging open. A rheumy-eyed man reached through the bars. Mary cringed. A man, bleeding on one side of his face, stared. Someone whispered, “Is she the one?” Whisperings circled her like bees. “Is she the one?”
They turned a corner. Clay stopped short in front of an empty cell.
“Goddamn,” hollered Clay. “Shit.” He quickly inserted his key.
“I don’t believe it,” muttered Sully. “I don’t believe it. The nigger’s gone.”
Allen whistled, “It’s a miracle.”
“Miracle, hell,” said Clay, struggling with the lock.
“He’s gone,” breathed Mary.
Clay unlocked the door. Enraged, Clay kicked the cot, overturned the frame, the thin mattress belly-flopped on the floor. Cards—aces, kings, numbered hearts, diamonds, and spades—flew.
“I’m glad he’s gone,” sighed Mary. “He’s free now.”
Clay slammed his hand against the wall. “Don’t you understand? He hasn’t a chance now. Not a goddamned chance. They’ll kill him.”
Mary stumbled backward.
“If they find him, they’ll hang him.” Clay stooped, grasping the eight of spades. “Shit.” He ripped the card. “Who’d a thought? A goddamned Houdini.”
Magic City Page 12