“I’ll tell folks Joe’s innocent. To leave him alone. Let him go.”
“Too late, Miss Keane. A jailbreak? Colored man on the run?” Clay kicked the cell door, shutting himself in. “It doesn’t matter if you say anything now, Miss Keane,” he said savagely. “Doesn’t even matter you exist. Nothing matters now. In Tulsa, Joe’s guilty.”
Mary started weeping. Al held her.
“Damn.” Clay examined the lock mechanism; he rattled the door. “Sully, get Eddie, anybody else you can find. Have them search the building.”
“Yes, boss,” said Sully, running off.
Clay tugged the window bars.
“You shouldn’t have screamed, Miss Keane. If nothing happened, you shouldn’t have screamed.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand plenty. We’re here because you screamed. Joe’s on the run because you screamed. What else is there to understand?” Clay unlocked the cell door with his keys.
Mary clamped her hands over her mouth.
Sitting on a bench in the center of Courthouse Square, Mary searched the darkness for Joe. She remembered his gold-flecked eyes, how they’d looked as if they were floating in a pool of tears. Though a man and colored, he’d seemed as vulnerable as she.
Mary peered into the shadows. She imagined Joe jumping from the arms of an oak tree, pressing against its trunk before darting across the lawn, weaving among forsythia bushes, daisies, and maple seedlings. She caught her breath; in the shifting light, she saw a man hurrying across the lawn, a coat flapping at his knees. Joe? On a clear patch of bluegrass, she thought she saw Joe stop to wave. Thought she saw him spinning, his feet lifting before he flew straight toward the moon.
She asked, “Do you think Joe’ll make it?”
“No,” Allen sighed, his head bent, his arms dangling. “A man only has so much luck.”
“I never had any luck,” Mary said. “If I was lucky, Ma never would’ve have died; Pa would’ve struck oil. Would’ve loved me better.” She edged sideways on the bench. “Are you lucky, Al?”
He laughed softly, his shoulders shaking. “Would you believe this is the luckiest I’ve ever been?” He laughed again, letting his head tilt upward toward the stars. “I used to dream of nights like these. Sitting in the square with a woman, feeling the summer breeze, the day’s heat fading.” His fingertips lightly touched her hair. “I used to dream of kissing a girl here. Having fireworks explode, a band strike up. I’m a romantic, Mary. Nothing sadder than a middle-aged romantic.” He dropped his hand.
Except for the white Decoration Day chairs, the park was cloaked in comforting black. If it weren’t for daybreak, Mary thought, she and Allen could hide themselves forever. There didn’t seem to be any town beyond the square park.
“Were you born in Tulsa?” Mary asked.
“Yes, to my dismay. Though I like to lie and say I was born in New York. Only problem is that I know the difference between reality and fantasy well enough.
“Every train trip to New York, I think I’ll never come back. But I do. I told myself I was too old to fight Germans—I had responsibilities here, as though no one but me could fix the clocks of Tulsa. Five years ago, perhaps, I could’ve left. But I waited too long. I’m too old.” He paused. “Maybe I was waiting for you, Mary. I could leave with you.”
Mary stared into the shifting shadows.
“They’re going to kill Joe Samuels,” he said softly. “We won’t be able to stop them. Can you live here, after that?”
Mary could already hear whispers blowing through the trees, tickling strands of grass. “She’s the one…she’s the one he touched.” If she stayed, Pa would force her to marry Dell. Dell would expect her to be grateful for the rest of her days.
“Leave with me, Mary. I wouldn’t touch you, unless you wanted me too. But I would hope you would—that you’d want me to love you.” He slid closer. “I’m nobody special. I know that, Mary. But I did something special today. Didn’t I, Mary?”
“Yes,” she squeezed his hand.
“I helped you, didn’t I? Brought you into my shop. And I helped again at the Ambrose. I brought you home. Covered you with a blanket. Let you sleep.
“I’ve felt magic today, Mary. I’m not making good sense. All my days I’ve wanted to be happy. I’ve never been. I’ve never reached out to anybody, even when I wanted to—in theaters, I imagine I’m the tap-dancing hero winning the girl.” He shrugged. “I’m a foolish man, Mary. An ugly and foolish man. Yet I believe I can be happy with you. I want to be happy. I think I can make you happy. We just have to leave Tulsa.”
“Al, don’t—”
“If we stay, I’m afraid I’ll do what I’ve always done—hide. Not really live in this world. It’s been an extraordinary day. I’m not myself. Yet I’m more myself than I’ve ever been. I could do it with you. I think I could be happy with you.”
“Please, Al.”
“You can’t stand to look at me, can you?”
“That’s not it.”
“Then you’ll come with me?”
Mary tried to imagine what it would be like to go with Al, journeying to Chicago or New York, leaving Pa and Jody behind. Try as she might, she couldn’t quite see herself anyplace but Tulsa. And then there was Joe. His trouble was her fault. She had to do something.
“You’re telling me no, aren’t you?”
“For now,” she said softly, then blurted, words tumbling, “I need you to help me one more time. Please, Al. Drive me to the Samuels’ house.”
“They’re not going to want to see you, Mary.”
“I know.” She felt small again. Joe’s folks would hate her for sure. But she had to do something. She’d tell them he was innocent. But they knew that, didn’t they? He was their son. So, why was she doing it? To make herself feel better? To ease her guilt?
Allen closed his eyes, letting the emotion drain from his face. “It’s late. Almost eleven o’clock.”
“I don’t think they’ll mind.”
“Sure, middle of the night, white girl goes calling in Greenwood. They’ll strike up a band, welcome you with open arms. Sing ditties for you. Dance a cakewalk.”
“Stop it, Al.” She plucked at threads on her dress. Back-handed, she wiped her tears.
“I’m sorry, Mary.”
“I’m sorry too. Sometimes I think it’s not right I was even born.”
“Mary,” he breathed, rocking, “Mary, Mary.”
“My Ma taught me to say ’sorry.’ Maybe my sorry won’t do the Samuels any good. Maybe it’s just about my heartache. But I tried the sheriff. That didn’t work. I’m scared the Samuels might throw me out, curse me. But I’m trying to do right. If I shut up now, Al, I might never open my mouth again. Might never say another word.”
The train moaned again; a gust of wind shuddered through the trees; several chairs tipped over.
“Mary,” said Allen, his voice bleak, “this is real, isn’t it? The sun will rise and I won’t be a prince. Nobody’s hero. Just Allen Thornton, repairer of clocks. I don’t even carry a watch. Did you know that, Mary? People should tell time from the sky, from the positions of sun, moon, and stars.”
“I never paid time any mind,” said Mary. “But time matters now. Particularly for Joe and his people. He’s out there lost.”
“And you, Mary?”
“I’m lost too.”
“This is it. At least I think it is.” Allen applied the brake. “It must be the biggest house in Greenwood.” A street lamp illuminated the gingerbread porch, white shutters, and gabled roof. “It’s beautiful,” murmured Mary.
Allen pointed to the side. “A light’s on in the kitchen. A maid, most like.”
“I didn’t know coloreds had maids.”
“Samuels’ father owns a bank.”
“Why’d Joe shine shoes?”
“None of this is his. Leastwise not until his father dies. The boy probably wanted to make it on his own.” Allen opened the car door. “Le
t’s get this over with.”
Mary stopped him. “I’ll do this alone.”
“I’ll wait for you then.”
“No. You’ve done plenty.”
“Mary, it’s dangerous.”
She studied the empty street, the row of pastel-colored houses, the abandoned rockers on porches, the gardens packed with peonies, berries, and marigolds. The Samuels’ house was less welcoming, more formal than the others, but the light from the kitchen gave her hope.
“You can’t do this, Mary.”
“Good-bye, Al.” She opened the car door, her feet touched gravel.
“Mary, please—”
Smiling, she poked her head through the car window. “You can leave, Al. You’ve got a fine courage. You don’t need me to leave Tulsa.”
“Mary—”
“Sssh. It’s late. Go home, Al.”
“Mary, let me wait. I won’t go up to the house with you. I’ll stay here in the car.”
“White men are hunting the Samuels’ son. They won’t appreciate you sitting out here.”
“But I want you to be safe.”
“Joe’s the one in danger. And it’s my fault. The sheriff was right. Go home, Al. I’ve got to see if I can help.”
She walked toward the house, and didn’t look back when the engine hummed into gear, and the Packard, reversing, caught her in a flood of light before screeching down the road.
Her shoulders slumped; her steps slowed. She couldn’t turn back now. No Allen to use as a safe haven. She’d been brave enough to make him go, now she needed to be brave enough to do as she’d promised herself. She smelled roses. She stared, studying the vines clinging to the porch rail and threading upward to the second-floor windows, heavily curtained and dark.
She’d never been close to coloreds, never been close to where they lived. They lived better than her. She ducked her head, feeling as self-conscious as when she saw rich, oil wives’ homes.
She glanced up again at the dark windows, wondering if anyone was watching her. Wondering if there were ghosts in the Samuels’ house. Wondering what it would have been like to grow up here, on a street with other families, instead of on a farm with Jody and Pa.
She inhaled, focusing on the kitchen light. She murmured, “Joe.” His name gave her courage. His people had feelings too.
She ought to be woman enough to honor that.
16
Hildy kept seeing Joe, caged and hurting. A jailer wouldn’t feed him proper. Wouldn’t care if he was cold and heartsick. Father refused to let her visit, saying, “One Samuels inside a jail is enough.” She should’ve gone anyway, disobeyed his commandment. Now Hildy imagined Joe beaten and downtrodden, with nobody to comfort him. She fidgeted about the kitchen, restacked the dishes in the drying rack. She knew she wouldn’t sleep. First thing in the morning, she’d see Joe, take him cornbread and pie. Read scripture to calm his spirit.
Hildy sat at the table, her tea beside her, trying to focus on the Bible passage she’d just read—Shadrack thrown into the fiery furnace. An angel had protected him. Hildy prayed the Lord would send an angel to guide Joe.
She’d known something was wrong with Joe. He’d been out of kilter—like a child’s spinning top. She should’ve found out what was wrong. It nagged her that she’d somehow failed him. When Joe was newborn, she’d been charmed by his down-covered body, his sleepy eyes, and she’d sworn to love him better than she’d been loved. But she hadn’t loved him well enough to find out what was wrong.
She’d seen Joe’s haunted look, the circles under his eyes. He’d said he was all right, but she’d known he wasn’t. He’d become a man and she didn’t understand him. She didn’t know his dreams anymore, didn’t know why he defied Father. She’d let him slip away. Lord forgive her.
She didn’t know what she’d do without Joe. He was in the fire now and she feared she couldn’t get him out. She feared she’d never see him again. Joe knew she loved him. But did he know caring for him had kept her alive, kept her from being bitter?
Hildy bowed her head. She tried to feel the Lord’s song in her heart. Tried to feel His grace and charity. A noise startled her.
“Who is it? Who’s out there?” She turned on the porch light.
Behind the screen, Hildy saw a sorry-looking white woman. Low class, Hildy knew, because the woman didn’t wear a hat. She looked pitiful, hair tangled like a bird’s nest. Her shoes and legs were scratched; her arms, dirty. Hildy wanted to slam the door. It didn’t make sense for a white woman to be in Greenwood. Days, salesmen with cheap goods knocked door-to-door; nights, Klansmen splintered mailboxes with baseball bats. White women stayed across the tracks. Always.
“Miss Mary, I think you’d better go on home.”
“You know who I am?”
“It says so on the dress.”
Mary clutched her breast pocket.
“You sick?”
“No, I just thought you knew all about me. I thought it’d started.”
“What started?”
“The rumors.”
Hildy stepped closer, studying the face pockmarked by shadows. “What should I know about you?”
Mary flattened her palms on the screen. “Please, I’d like to see Mrs. Samuels.” A moth swooped, attracted by the light. “I need to talk with her.”
Hildy hissed. It was her, thought Hildy, the woman who caused Joe’s trouble. She slapped the screen; the door rattled. Mary jerked back.
“You’ve got no business coming here, the trouble you’ve made. If your business was honest, you’d be coming to the front door. Coming during daylight. There’s no need for you to see Mrs. Samuels.”
“Please, you don’t understand.”
“I understand plenty.”
“I’d like to see Mrs. Samuels. Call her. I’ll wait right here.”
“I’m not calling anybody.”
“You’ve got to. Mrs. Samuels can decide if she wants to see me. Not you.” Mary flushed. “I’ll wait on the porch.”
Hildy didn’t move. She’d never wanted to hurt anybody in her life. But she wanted to hurt this scraggly woman. Joe in jail and Miss Mary wanting to pay respects. Like he was dead, like she hadn’t any blame. “You must be stupid. Thinking I’m a maid.”
“I only want to see Mrs. Samuels. Mr. Samuels, if he’s in.”
“I’m Joe’s sister.” Hildy glared, wanting to scare this woman, drive her away from the house. Hildy noted how Mary didn’t flinch. How she pressed against the screen, insisting, “Let me in. I need to talk to you.”
“You’ll be sorry if you do.”
“Not any sorrier than I already am. Please,” she said. “I need to say I’m sorry about Joe.”
“You’ve said it,” said Hildy. “Now, go on home.” She started to close the door.
“Forgive me,” Mary said desperately. “Please forgive me.”
Hildy stopped short. “Forgiveness.” Psalms 145. The Lord is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.
“Please, let me in.”
Hildy closed her eyes. Surprising herself, she opened the door. Mary needed a bath, a clean dress. And she needed a keeper if she felt talk could ease Joe’s troubles. Yet, Mary stepped bravely into the kitchen, arms wrapped around her waist, holding in her fear. “You can sit,” Hildy said gruffly.
Mary nodded, moving toward the Blue Willow tea service. Beside a porcelain cup was a Bible with gold trim. Lovingly, Mary touched the tissue-thin pages.
“You read the Bible, Miss Mary?”
“I can’t read.” Mary ducked her head like a baby bird. “Pa reads. Parts about daughters obeying their fathers. Lot’s wife.”
“There’s lots better parts than that.”
“Pa doesn’t know them then. Sometimes I think all he knows is how to make good things bad and bad things worse.” Mary flushed again.
“If I didn’t read my Bible, you wouldn’t be here. I figure I can be charitable for five minutes. Then you’ve got to
leave.”
Mary nodded.
Hildy surprised herself again by offering tea. Mary sat.
“Sugar?”
Mary lifted the sterling spoon, dipped it in the sugar then twirled it in the tea, creating puffs of steam. “I’ve never seen such a lovely service.” Carefully, she laid the spoon on the saucer.
Hildy blinked. If she disremembered who this woman was, disremembered the whiteness of her skin, she’d appreciate the moment more. She’d offer shortbread, berries, and cream. Mother and Emmaline never sat in her kitchen. Church women sometimes visited. Nevertheless, her evenings were lonely. Hildy tapped her Bible. Colossians 3:13. As the Lord has forgiven you, you also must forgive.
Hildy wouldn’t let herself sit. Christian or not, she wanted to hurt this woman. She wanted to rage at her for hurting Joe.
Hands unsteady, Mary lowered her cup. “Thank you. You don’t owe me any kindness.”
“No, I don’t.”
Mary shook her head, wonderingly. “I should be ending my day in my own kitchen, Pa’s kitchen. On the farm. Instead I’m here. Drinking the best tea of my life. In a colored person’s house.”
“Are you trying to be funny, Miss Mary?”
“No, no, I’m not.” Tea spilled onto the saucer. “I’m trying to understand how I got to this place. How I began the day milking and ended here. How I hurt Joe when I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing that folks say.”
“I know that. What did happen?” asked Hildy, her lips thin and dry.
“Sheriff says it doesn’t matter what I say. Joe’s escaping changed everything.”
Hildy felt as if she’d been struck. “Escaped? When?”
“An hour ago.”
“You waited this long to tell me? You come strutting in here worried ’bout sorry, knowing Joe’s running—and you don’t tell me? You don’t tell me ’bout my brother? You’re truly a fool, Miss Mary.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think. You don’t know what I’ve been through today.”
“My brother might be lynched and you’re talking about you.” Hildy knocked aside Mary’s cup. “Get out. You think being white makes it okay for you to be here. Saying ‘sorry.’ Saying ‘Oh, I forgot, your brother’s on the run.’”
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