“Jody,” Mary couldn’t help crying out. Jody looked toward her. The man fired and Jody clutched his gut, blood spilling through his hand.
“Dammit, man,” hollered Dell. Mary saw Dell grab Jody and drag him, face down, into the back seat. The car swerved down the street, the door wide open, Jody’s legs dangling, his artificial foot flying off.
“Jody,” Mary moaned. She searched but the man in the coat had disappeared.
A small crowd surged into the Samuels’ house. Standing on tiptoe, Mary could barely see inside. Tyler was dead on the stairs. Joe’s father was still on the floor, his head cradled in his wife’s lap. She couldn’t find Hildy. A doctor pushed past her. The crowd parted then closed again, and Mary found herself alone on the porch. The yellow light was still attracting bugs. Mary walked around to the kitchen. Opening the screen door, she saw Hildy, her head resting on the table.
“You all right?”
Hildy looked up. Woeful, she shook her head.
Mary put her arms around Hildy. Chest heaving, Hildy was swallowing her grief. Mary rocked her, murmuring, “It’s all right to cry. Cry it out.”
The scent of gunpowder lingered in the house. Mary thought how quiet the kitchen seemed against the gunshots still ringing in her ears.
19
Tuesday, May 31, 1921
Joe moaned, slowly pulling out of darkness, a dreamless sleep. He was back in jail, clothes torn, stale blood in his mouth. He tried to move, but his hands were cuffed, roped, and tied to his feet. Someone—the sheriff?—had tossed him onto the cot. His body ached. He could feel where boots had scarred his ribs, clubs had battered his spine. He remembered being outnumbered, helpless, hands trapped behind him, trying to dodge blows, unable to shield his face and abdomen.
It was all a matter of will.
Houdini had lied. Twice he’d failed to escape. When Ambrose’s fist slammed into his mouth, he’d tried to disappear. Displace himself outside his body. Poof Puff of smoke. Instead, his beating and nightmare had intertwined.
“Who do you think you are?” He’d been startled by Ambrose’s eyes—fierce like Houdini’s, like the man in his nightmare, daring him to show any defiance. He’d thought: here was the man who’d stolen Tyler’s land, the man Father had begged for his life. Hatred had swelled in Joe and he’d answered Ambrose’s glare. Ambrose swung with such force, Joe saw stars. He remembered shoes—polished wing tips, dulled work boots scraping the ground, rearing backward before battering his legs, back, and arms. “Who do you think you are, boy?” He’d managed not to cry out, not to groan. He’d dodged as a metal-rimmed boot rushed toward his face; the blow glanced off his head; and, then, he hadn’t felt or dreamed anything.
“I’m nobody.”
Tied like a heifer, wet, sticky in a cold cell, Joe felt doubly betrayed—by himself and by Houdini.
Houdini had never been hunted, beaten. He didn’t know anything about being called a nigger. Joe felt he should’ve just crawled into his brother’s grave. Accepted he was ordinary. Plain Joe. The banker’s son. He should’ve spent his life counting dollars, making his father happy.
Houdini was a poor hero for a Negro.
Joe flailed; rope cut into his ankles and wrists. Pain was the only real thing about him.
“Who do you think you are, boy?” His nightmare mocked, letting him know beyond a doubt, he was going to die. He wasn’t anyone special. It didn’t matter that he’d promised to quit dreaming. Ambrose would kill him.
Despairing, Joe remembered he’d lost his lock pick. When he’d dived into the railroad’s trough, gulping for air, the pick had floated out his mouth, sinking to the murky bottom.
Joe arched his fingers, trying what he’d never tried before. He concentrated on his left hand, clasped in steel, resting on the small of his back. He tugged, steady and hard. Sweat covered his forehead. He shifted his forefinger and thumb, dislocated bones until he could slip his hand, trembling, through the loop of the cuff. He unclenched his teeth, swallowed blood. He inhaled, trying to control his pain.
Joe shuddered. The sky was lightening. Mist streamed through the window. It was Decoration Day. They’d parade the veterans home from France. Maybe Henry would parade with them, haunting the white soldiers.
Tomorrow was his birthday. He thought of Myra, his “easy girl”—how last week as he’d kissed her hair, the slope between her breasts, she’d refused his dollars, claiming her loving was his birthday gift. He’d been thrown off-balance by her generosity, by the notion that maybe, just maybe, he was worth loving.
Damn Houdini. Damn his brother’s ghost.
Grunting, he slid out of the hog tie, unwinding the dirty cord from between his legs. He swung his feet to the floor. Joe tried to stand—dizzy, blood rushing through his limbs, he fell to the floor. “Goddamn.” They’d beat him good. He wouldn’t be able to run anywhere. He couldn’t even stand. “Well, fine. Goddamn fine.” He’d lay here then until the sun rose, until they came for him. Until they took him to a field, beat him again, and burned him alive.
His eyes rolled back in his head; darkness taunted him. Joe cradled his hand; it was monstrous, swelling, just like in his nightmare. He was helpless. Gently rocking, he focused on the dust, the rough cracks in the floor. He knew he’d never see his family, never see the rooftops of Greenwood again.
He saw shoes. He flinched, his hand flying upward to protect his head. Black, polished leather. Brass couplings for the laces.
“Sheriff?”
No answer.
Joe blinked. He hadn’t heard the cell door open or the shuffle of steps. Henry? No, Henry wore service boots. These were rich man’s shoes—calves’ leather—something his father might wear. The pants cuffed, pleated, and shiny like a dime. The stance solid.
Joe was scared. He felt like a child, afraid to look up, afraid to be, afraid to do anything other than shiver in his wet clothes, gasping at the pain in his bones.
A soft swish and the shoes stepped inches from his face, smelling of sweet wax. Joe was thirsty, bone weary.
Legs bent. Buffed nails, lean fingers snaked around a cup brimming with water.
Trembling, Joe swatted the cup. It disappeared. He looked upward into Houdini’s eyes. Eyes which had haunted him; eyes which had always dared him to be better than he was. Joe scuttled backward. Houdini squatted, smiling, without a care, in his cell.
“Hello, Joe.”
“You can’t be here.”
“Why not?”
“You’re a picture. From a magazine. The pictures in my trunk.”
“As you say, Joe,” Houdini whispered dryly. “As you say.”
“Shit. How’d you get here?”
“You invited me. Don’t you remember?”
Furious, feeling mocked, Joe dragged himself forward and, with a shove, toppled Houdini.
Hair ruffled, feet splayed, Houdini stared at Joe, angry, imperious. Light cut across his blunt face, deepening shadows. Then, he smiled. “You shouldn’t waste your strength, Joe.”
Joe stared at his hand, startled he could touch Houdini. His fingers tingled from sensing skin beneath wool, from feeling bone, sinew, and the tremor of a heart.
“I’ve gone crazy. That’s what Emmaline said. Crazy nigger.” Houdini’s luminous eyes pierced him, seeming to press him against the cot’s rail.
Wildly, Joe thought Houdini had come to kill him. Like the man in his dream tossing the match, like Ambrose hitting him—the same unnerving look, the same arrogance daring him to be better than he was. But the underbelly of the glare also said he was nothing. Nobody. Joe moaned; his head lolled to the side. He howled, a low rattle tearing up through his gut.
“Quiet, Joe.” Houdini was beside him. “No one must hear. I’m here to get you out.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“There are three rules of survival, Joe. The first is dream what you need.”
“Is that what this is—a dream?”
“Perhaps.” He cocked his head. “Did
n’t Hildy say dreams are important, Joe?”
“How do you know that?”
“I know everything about you, Joe.”
“You’re the devil then.” Joe hooded his eyes. “Not a dream. Not a ghost. You’re too solid to be either.”
“Sleight of hand then. Mysticism. Wonder. You, better than anyone else, should know such things. I’m your magic, Joe.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Magic is survival, escape. Moses’ magic turned a rod into a snake, transformed the Nile into blood, and freed the Israelites. The greatest magic of all time, Joe.”
“I know you’re the devil now.”
“You think I blaspheme?” Houdini glared.
Joe felt a churning in his gut.
“The second rule of survival is will.”
He smelled ash, an acrid burning. Bile rose his throat.
“Who are you, Joe?” Houdini gripped his shoulder. Joe felt fingers digging into his skin. It was a mystery. All of it. Houdini here. A photograph come to life. Broad brow, angular nose, jutting chin. But it was the eyes—always the eyes—which challenged him.
“Who are you, Joe? You’ve got to be somebody.”
Joe felt hypnotized; flecks of light shifted within Houdini’s eyes. He trembled, believing suddenly that it was really he. Houdini. This was the man who escaped from coffins floating underwater; who escaped from straitjackets while hanging, upside down, from skyscrapers; who escaped boxes, locked and chained, and lowered into the muddy Charles River.
“You have to be a man sometime. It’s not how the world sees you, but how you see yourself.” Houdini produced a small mirror. “It’s not my eyes or your father’s that matter, but yours. Who are you, Joe?”
Joe cringed, seeing his swollen face, blood crusted above his eye, lips split and bleeding. He didn’t know who he was. He only knew he was a disappointment as a son and a failure as a brother.
If he knew who he was, he’d want something. But all he wanted now was to stop struggling. He pushed the mirror away. He was crazy. Everything that had happened served him right. He let his head fall backward onto the cot.
“I can’t abide quitters, Joe. Quitters or liars. You’re lying to yourself, Joe. Night before last you wanted something.”
“Get out of here.” His head ached; he closed his eyes.
“What did you want, Joe?”
He’d wanted to hop a train to the Pacific, dive into the waves, to be as brave and as willful as Houdini.
“There’s only one Great Houdini.”
“Yeah. That’s right. One Houdini. And he’s white,” Joe said bitterly. “I might as well give up now. No hope for a black man here.”
“Joe, Joe.” Houdini shook his head. “A whole people escaped from Egypt’s bondage, surely you can escape from this tiny cell?”
“I did,” he said stubbornly. “They just caught me again.”
“Don’t be caught. Disappear. Outwit them all.”
“Shit. I’m dreaming.”
“You’re conjuring, Joe. I’m your magic telling you what you need to know, what you’ve always known. The first thing you can do is believe in your own power. The only thing keeping you from freedom is will. Tyler, David, Henry—they never found theirs. ’Let my people go.’ Some make it. Some don’t.”
“You telling me I’m going to make it?”
Houdini’s eyes glittered. “It’s not decided yet. You haven’t decided yet. Who are you, Joe?”
Joe shivered. He could see himself in Houdini’s eyes. The image changed. He saw Tyler trapped in his bed, gripping his arm, trying to tell him about his lost acres. Then, Henry, in a coffin, buried, coming back as a spirit, unable, either living or dead, to stay in Greenwood. A ghost train taking him away.
“And David,” Houdini whispered. “Don’t forget David.”
Houdini’s breath touched his face. Light flickered inside his irises. Joe heard Lying Man’s grave murmur: “Same age as you, Joe. Same age as you.”
Then he saw David’s battered body—handcuffed and chained, hanging from a tree, awash with fire. “He wanted to build houses and schools. Same age as you, Joe.”
Shaken, Joe turned away. “You said it was a matter of will.” Even to himself, he sounded petulant, childish.
“Survival is will. Escape artists survive. You’re doing that, Joe. You could’ve crawled in a grave like your brother. Instead you chose me. David waited to be captured. You ran. Tyler trapped himself, letting his son decide his fate. Choose, Joe. Stay or escape.”
“Escape? I can’t do anything without a pick.”
“You’re out of your cuffs.”
Joe cradled his mangled hand. “I dislocated my thumb and finger. Read that’s how you did it—so I did it too.”
“A lie, Joe. I never did. Smoke and mirrors. I said that so no one would ever look for my pick. I always had my pick.” He touched Joe’s blood-swollen palm. Joe winced. “I didn’t think it was possible to slip a cuff like that.” Houdini slid a pick from his vest; he unlocked the metal cuff dangling from Joe’s right wrist.
“You said you were trying to reach the dead. Is that a lie too?”
“No. I consider spiritualism the real art. Proving resurrection beyond the grave. Yet, except for you, I haven’t met a spiritualist who hasn’t cheated. I’ve debunked them all. Charlatans. I hate chicanery, Joe.
“I’ve never known anyone who could reach the dead. But, you, Joe, you’ve done it. You reached Henry. I am in awe. I think your will, your magic is far greater than you know.”
Sunlight streamed through the window. “You’re not dead,” Joe said, awestruck.
“No, Joe, I’m not of the spirit. The first two rules of survival: Dream what you need, and will yourself free. Come. We must get ready for your next escape.”
“I’m not going to die?”
“Only if you want to. Fix your hand, Joe.”
Joe looked at his crumpled index finger and thumb.
“It’s all in the hands. Flexible. Strong. Isn’t that right? Fix your hand, Joe. You’ll need it. Two swift, steady pulls.”
“I can’t.”
“I dare you.” Houdini’s lips quirked into a smile.
Joe inhaled. He gripped his thumb, swallowing his cries as he pulled, waiting for the bone to slip back into the joint. Beyond the pain, he heard Houdini’s low murmur.
“Magic is in the hands, but also in the head, in the heart. It’s all a matter of will—wanting to live. Believing in yourself.”
“Yes,” Joe gasped, nearly speechless.
“The index finger, Joe.”
His hands pressing hard against his abdomen, Joe pulled.
“And, then, sometimes it’s just luck you survive. I was buried in a coffin. The panel behind my head was a trap door. The plan was once I’d freed myself from chains, opened the panel, I’d dig myself out. I tested the trick at two feet, three feet, five. But, for the challenge, I insisted upon six. A mistake that almost killed me.”
It was done. Joe’s hand hurt horribly, but it was whole again. He collapsed on the cot, overcome by the effort.
“My second mistake: I panicked inside the coffin. Being buried alive unmanned me. Once I controlled my breathing, my anxiety subsided. I freed myself. But the soil was too hard, the weight of the earth too much. Digging upward, dirt caking my eyes, nose, I realized I wouldn’t make it. I screamed for help. Dirt flooded my mouth. I was going to die.”
Houdini, elegant in his black suit, stood over Joe.
“I nearly gave up. Then I found a shard of pottery—my luck—nondescript, red clay. But it was enough. I could dig faster with it. I nearly died anyway. Suffocated. I’ll never climb in a grave again, not while there’s life in me.”
“Are you really Houdini?”
“I’m yours, Joe. Your magic, not mine. Tell Henry you’re not a black-faced Houdini; that’s vaudeville. A minstrel show. This is something else. Finer. When the Egyptian magicians failed to match Moses’ wonders, the
y told Pharaoh, ’He’s touched by the finger of God.’” He handed Joe the lock pick.
“Trust your skills, Joe. Escape.
“It’s about creating the magic, the miracle. It’s about picking a lock, slipping past sleeping, stupid guards, crawling through tunnels, air ducts, scurrying across rooftops.”
Joe felt hopeful. Yes, he could do it again. He’d survive.
“But what are you escaping to, Joe? Who are you?”
Other than a vague dream of traveling West, mimicking Houdini, Joe didn’t know who he’d be once he got there. He’d just known he’d wanted to leave Tulsa, leave his father’s house.
“You’ve got to be a man sometime.”
“Yes,” Joe breathed.
Houdini started to lose substance.
“What’s the third rule? You only told me the first two.”
“I told you. Luck. Chance. Fate.” Houdini was vanishing. “Divine intervention. Call it what you will.” He pointed at the barred window. “Daybreak—you haven’t much time, Joe. Best be about it.”
Joe stood. The circulation in his legs was better. He limped toward the window. The horizon glowed orange; the sun and moon shared the sky. He felt hungry. He guessed he wanted to live.
Turning around, he saw his plain cell. Bare walls. Cot. Urinal. Houdini was gone.
He opened his palm. The pick was solid, real. Joe smiled, feeling lightheaded. In a matter of minutes, he’d be out the door, tiptoeing down hallways.
Joe inhaled. He felt strong again.
“Relax, Joe.”
Yes, the trick was to remain calm.
Pick ready, he leaned against the door and it swung open. Joe chuckled softly. The sheriff had forgotten to lock his cell. Probably thought a man, hog tied and beaten, had run out of luck. Grace.
“Who are you, Joe?”
For now, he was Joe Samuels—Escape Artist, running for his life.
Joe felt invincible. He’d never be captured again.
20
Clay was cold. He arched his back, trying to ease his stiffening spine. The chair was damnably uncomfortable. He buttoned his jacket, stuffed his hands in his pocket, and tried to dream. To imagine himself gutting fish beside an open fire, tasting burned trout and smoke beneath a blackened sky. His dream was simple: land for hunting, a job that offered self-respect. He’d enlisted eager for glory, eager to escape a lifetime of driving iron into a forge, heat blistering his hands and face. He’d gone from defending democracy to enforcing Ambrose’s civic pride. Tulsa—no better than Pittsburgh.
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