“Sully, I thought you knew right from wrong,” raged Clay.
“White man’s justice,” chanted Nate. “White man’s justice.” The words were heralded, taken up by the crowd.
“Shut up,” said Lucas, firing his gun into the air. “Shut up.”
“If you want Joe Samuels,” Gabe stepped forward, “you need to go through me.”
“I don’t deal with niggers,” said Lucas.
“This is a police matter,” said Clay.
“Joe’s innocent,” said Lying Man. “Boy wouldn’t hurt a soul.”
“He had no business near a white woman.” Lucas glared.
“Men,” shouted Gabe. “Close ranks.”
The Greenwood men formed a solid circle around Clay, Lucas, and their men, trapping them against the steps, their backs toward the jailhouse door, cutting them off from the carloads of whites.
“Niggers are dumber than mules. I’ll shoot each one of you.” Lucas aimed at Lying Man’s heart. “Ten seconds. All of you, get the hell out. Go on home.”
“Don’t do this, deputy,” warned Gabe.
“Lucas. This is a police matter,” insisted Clay.
Clay heard Lying Man murmur, “I’m a witness, y’all hear. A witness. My people will be free.”
“No nigger’s worth a white man. Ought to have barred niggers from Oklahoma Territory. Are you with me, men?” shouted Lucas. “Are you with me?”
“We’re with you,” answered Bates, and there were other assents. Explosive curses, snarling at the colored men.
“Ten…nine…eight,” counted Lucas. “Niggers, get. If you know what’s good. Go on home.”
“We only want Samuels,” seconded Bates.
Clay lunged at Lucas, but Sully grabbed him and hung on. “Lucas!” Clay shouted.
“Six. Five. Move, niggers. Move.”
“I will be redeemed,” hollered Lying Man.
The Greenwood men—some, linking arms, some clutching bats, rifle handles—rocked with emotion. “Tell it, Lying Man.” “Preach.”
“We are all witnesses.”
“Shut up,” shouted Lucas. “All of you. Move or this man is dead.”
“Treated us like dirt in the war,” shouted Nate. “Always treated us like dirt,” echoed Sandy. “Never respected us for nothing,” said another.
“I’ll be redeemed.”
Gabe stepped in front of Lying Man, so Lucas’ gun pointed right at his chest.
“Three…two—”
Clay watched, helpless, as Nate, like quicksilver, darted forward, aimed his pistol, and shot Lucas.
The blast ripped through Lucas’ lungs. Mouth puckering, his eyes rolled backward in his head. He toppled sideways onto Clay. Clay heard more gunfire. Bursts of smoke dotted the air. Clay shoved Lucas off.
“Now it’s war,” said Clay, mournful.
“Always was,” answered Gabe.
Clay looked toward the park—the Greenwood troops scattered, some taking cover behind trees and parked cars, the truck cab. Those with guns fired wildly. One colored man and two whites lay crumpled, bleeding on the steps. Clay wondered if Ambrose would be able to get the blood cleaned off before his celebration. Sorrowfully, he shook his head. His deputies and Lucas’ stragglers were running and firing, scattering across the park, down the street, behind the jail.
“Lying Man, I’m going after Joe,” said Gabe.
“No, I’ll get Joe for you,” said Clay. “Get your men in formation, corporal. Klan reinforcements will be here soon.”
Gabe hesitated, then nodded. “All right, sergeant.”
Clay opened the jail door, his hands sticky with Lucas’ blood. He couldn’t help smiling. This was his chance to climb out of Lion’s deep, murky well. Clay pictured how astonished Joe would be when he set him free, put him on a train to Frisco, away from trouble, away from Tulsa.
21
A breeze touched Joe’s hair as he stepped onto the roof. Tar clung to the soles of his feet. He shivered; his clothes felt cold and stiff. He smelled musty—every part of his body ached. He could see the dirty rooftops of Tulsa edging the park. Northeast was Greenwood. He wished he was at his attic window. But there was no going home now. He’d head for the train, ride west toward water.
Joe wanted to shout. Thank the sun for rising. But he didn’t—he was free, but not safe.
He’d unlocked two doors to reach the roof. Now he had to get down. Seven stories. He tugged the flat bands of a fire hose through the steel door. Another bit of luck. But also will; Houdini had dared him not to quit.
Gunshots cracked, echoing across the roof. Joe ducked, then realized the sound came from the street. There was a volley of shots. He crawled to the ledge. A crowd below surged and broke apart like marbles. Two bodies lay in the street; three more on the jail steps. Joe could see Gabe, Nate, and Lying Man. Ernie and Chalmers. Old Sandy, crouched behind a tree, a Lucky dangling from his mouth.
Greenwood had come to Tulsa. Had they come for him? Joe felt elated, then fearful; he didn’t want anybody hurt.
Whites were fleeing. Gabe, gun in hand, lead the Negro retreat north. Sporadic fire continued.
“Gabe!” he shouted. “Lying Man. Wait for me!”
Nate swung around. Gabe, crouching, stared left and right.
“Here. I’m up here.”
Lying Man pointed skyward and Joe, hands sore, waved mightily.
“Joe.” “I don’t believe it.” “Joe.” “Hot damn,” shouted Ernie. “Joe!”
Joe wished he could fly off the rooftop, right into the men’s arms. Stunned, mouths open, his friends looked comical. Their disbelief became awe and amazement.
Lying Man ran, loping, toward the jailhouse. The others followed: sallow-faced Billy, Chalmers, Bertie, and Pete from Booker T., Clarence, one of Zion’s deacons, and James, a lawyer graduated from Howard. Joe waved them to the side, the alleyway.
He looped the hose through the drain bordering the roof, tied it off, and cast the end over the building’s side. The hose fell short but Joe didn’t have time to spare. He had to get away, climb down. He clutched the hose; his body felt awkward and stiff. His feet pushed off brick and he started downward. His left hand gripped poorly. One floor. Another. At the third floor, Joe dangled by his right hand. The pavement seemed miles away. He exhaled. His friends were looking up, breathless, expectant. Everyone silent.
Joe’s left hand was useless. He held on with his legs, scraping his knees against the brick wall. With his right hand, he lowered himself, inch by inch. His hand rubbed raw against the hose.
“Got to hurry, Joe. Troops coming back,” called Gabe.
Joe nodded. He focused on moving past each row of bricks, thin bands of mortar. He counted himself down—one row, two, three rows.
Strength was leaking out of him. He came to the end of the hose, thirty feet from the ground, wondering how to make it down. Wondering how to grip the ledges between brick.
“Let go, Joe,” Lying Man called. “We’ve got you.”
He looked down at the upraised brown and black faces.
“We’ve got you, Joe,” echoed Gabe. “We’ve got you.”
Back arching, arms outstretched, Joe let go. He fell through the air, for a moment, floating, feeling free, even of gravity—before landing in the arms of Lying Man, Gabe, and Nate. They lowered him to the ground; Gabe pulled him to his feet.
He was the center of a crowd. Palms reached, patting, turning him around. All the men wanted a look. Joe saw himself reflected in their eyes; he was one of them. Just Joe—but special.
“A miracle,” said Lying Man.
“Magic,” called Chalmers. Sandy crowed. Nate thumped his back, “Who’d have thought.” “Let my people go.” “Yes, Lord,” said Ernie. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Joe could feel their wonder. He’d done it. Escaped the prison. Slipped the cuffs. He felt as comfortable as he did in the barbershop. The same expansiveness, the same enveloping love. Joe smiled. He hugged Lying Man.
“Our Houdini!” whooped Nate.
Gabe hadn’t said anything. Joe turned to him, waiting. The other men fell hush as Gabe reached out, clasping Joe’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, little brother. Henry would be too.”
Staccato chants of “Joe. Joe,” rent the air.
“Quiet!” Gabe shouted. “We’ve got to get to Greenwood. They’ll be coming now.”
“Joe can magic us back,” exclaimed Sandy.
“Those whites won’t be in any hurry to see us again,” boasted Nate. “Did you see the way they ran? Scared out of their wits.”
“That’s right,” said Gabe. “Scared. But they’ll be back with an army. We’ll make our stand in Greenwood. Come on.”
Joe hesitated. How could he tell Gabe he wanted to hop a train, ride the rails out of Tulsa? “Sure. Greenwood. Let’s get back safe.” The train wasn’t leaving ’til nightfall. He’d help his friends, then go.
“We’ll cut back across the park,” said Gabe. “Tulsa’s waking up.” He led the charge, the dash from the alley, across the street, and onto cushioned grass. Through the trees, they saw vendors opening shops on Main. A custodian washed the Ambrose’s revolving door; an old man was walking his dog.
Someone gave a shout: “Hey!”
Gabe urged the men to run faster. Sandy held a hand to his chest. Herb was sweating heavily. The younger men ran swiftly, strong. Eager to prove themselves.
At the park’s edge, Gabe raised his hand. The men crouched in a circle. “Chalmers, give Joe your .38.”
“But—”
“Do it.”
Joe took the gun; it was heavier than he expected.
“The next two miles,” said Gabe, “will be the toughest. Not much cover.”
“Look.” Lying Man pointed.
A flat-bed screeched to a halt in front of the jail. “They’re coming,” said Joe. On the park’s west side, men, heads and weapons poking out car windows, cruised Main.
“Nate, get everybody safe to Greenwood. To Mt. Zion. Me and Joe will slow these folks down. Hole up in the church. Make a stand there if you have to.”
Nate nodded grimly, called, “Come on,” before darting, half-stooped into the alley behind Pearson’s Clothing, leading his troops. “This way.”
“Lyman,” hollered Joe. “Be careful.”
“Will do. Owe you a birthday shave.” Lying Man took off, supporting Sandy.
“Come on, Joe,” said Gabe. “We’re the decoy.”
Joe grinned, for now, content to dodge behind Gabe, zigzagging, following his lead.
Joe and Gabe moved to the center of the street, facing an oncoming truck. Joe heard men cursing, calling them coons. Niggers. He saw the tips of firearms. Heard voices shout, “Run ’em down.” The truck’s horn blared. Then another truck from the east side, near the jail, headed toward them. Others were running across the park.
“When I yell, follow me across Main,” said Gabe, calmly.
Joe’s heart started to race. The truck sped up; men held on like a wild, carny ride. Joe recognized the driver was Noland, a law clerk from the Ambrose. He’d shined his thin-soled leathers many a time.
The truck was almost upon them. Gabe took aim, fired at the front wheel. Rubber exploded; brakes squealed as the truck swerved, tilted, then rammed into a post.
“Now!” shouted Gabe. “Now!”
Joe sprinted after Gabe, his feet slapping on the dusty street. Run, nigger, run. He heard shots behind them. Gabe turned the corner onto Ash, pulling them up short, tight against the building. He held his gun steady, gut level.
A man with a rifle raced into view; Gabe fired point blank, hitting him in the chest. The man fell, rifle clattering, rolling into Joe’s legs and nearly knocking him down. Joe stared as the man’s mouth filled with blood.
Gabe turned and ran. Joe followed, unable to shake the feel of the man’s weight slapping his legs. He kept his eyes focused on the pavement, on Gabe’s heels. Tried to ignore his blood-streaked footprints. Stay alive.
Gabe skirted northwest then doubled back, coming full circle into an alley behind Main, not far from the dead man. He leaped down a stairwell, tugging at a padlocked door. He hammered it with the hilt of his gun.
Joe pushed him aside and pulled out Houdini’s pick. His hands shook. He steadied his breathing.
“Which way?” someone called from the street. Gabe readied to fire.
Joe probed the lock. The tumblers were stiff, but eased into place. He pulled the lock free; the door swung open. He and Gabe tumbled into darkness, closing the door, shutting out the stairwell’s gray light.
Neither man breathed, listening. The darkness stank of grain, machine oil, and dry rot. Gabe struck a match. A small glow. They were in the basement of Ailey’s Hardware. Picks, shovels, rakes were stacked against one wall. Another wall had two-by-fours, boxes marked: nails, sheet metal, tools. Pipes for plumbing, digging wells lined the far side. A maze of crates stacked two, three, four high, covered the floor.
The light blew out.
“We’ll rest here,” said Gabe, his breathing shallow. Joe heard Gabe crawling on his knees, before resting his back against crates.
Shouts came from above. Joe heard the heavy slap of boots against the pavement. Someone fired a rifle. “Over here, over here.” Then another shot. A fresh patter of feet. Scurrying like rats. “They found the body,” murmured Gabe.
Joe couldn’t move. The darkness had its own pressures, possibilities. Joe felt panic rising, unable to step right, left, forward or back.
“Sit, Joe. Straight down. Straight on down.”
It was all in how you relaxed.
A horn blared. Footsteps. Cleats tap-tapping. “Check here.” Outside, the railing rattled. Gabe and Joe didn’t move.
“Naw. Waste of time. They’re gone.” There was another shout. The sound of men running.
Joe sat, cross-legged, sweat rimming his neck, his body sore.
“Underground Railroad,” Gabe rasped. “Best hiding place was right before the slave catcher’s eyes.”
Joe arched his back, shivering from his still-damp clothes, the exhilaration of being safe.
“This train’s bound for glory.” Gabe struck a match. His eyes were velvet brown; his shadow stretched across the ceiling. “Brother man. An hour’s wait and we’re out of here. Moving on. Got that, Joe?”
“Yes.”
“Take my coat.”
The streets above fell silent. Gabe dipped a cigarette into the flame; a circle glowed. The match blew out.
Joe wrapped the coat about him. Rough, heady with Gabe’s scent. Not the pomades men got in Lying Man’s shop. More like loam, sweet and sour. Like the soil beside Lena’s River. Brother man. Inhale, exhale.
The cigarette flared. Smoke streamed from Gabe’s mouth.
Joe buried his face in the Army wool. He’d done it: sprung the trap, outrun the slave catcher, vanished like Houdini. Joe chuckled softly. He hoped the sheriff laughed when he’d found his cell empty.
22
The kitchen was in mourning. Sunlight poked through the screen door and a honeysuckle breeze stirred the curtains. Linoleum sparkled and the metal rim on the cold stove reflected rainbows. There weren’t cooking smells: no sweet yeast and rising biscuits, no berries, pungent, ripening to syrup, no smoked bacon frying. The pantry door was closed. Despite the sun, there was a wounded pall to the day.
If Mary held her breath, she could hear muffled voices, footsteps tiptoeing, shuffling through the Samuels’ house. Undertaker, preacher, doctor. Solemn men at work since dawn—the undertaker transforming the study into a viewing room for Tyler’s casket; the preacher ministering to a weeping Mrs. Samuels and Emmaline; and the doctor, trying to convince Mr. Samuels—arm broken, blind in one eye—his bank didn’t need him for one day.
Hildy was slumped over the kitchen table, her head cradled on crisscrossed arms, her lids fluttering with dreams.
Mary peeked out the screen door. A hearse was parked at the curb; behind i
t was another car with a white cross painted on its hood. The preacher had walked, his long-tailed coat flapping like blackbirds’ wings. Mary had watched him stop and bless the house—eyes closed, his mouth muttering prayers, then he’d strode forward and blessed the grass stained with Jody’s blood; the steps littered with shotgun casings; and the porch, its yellow light still on, insects flattened and dried on the glass.
Mary could go to Jody but, somehow, just before sunrise, she’d sensed he’d died—bitter, doubled over his wound, reaching for his missing leg.
Mary exhaled, digging her nails into wire mesh. She needed to help Hildy. Like a sentry, Mary watched the street, hoping she’d serve Hildy better than she’d served her mother. Everyone needed some time not to be strong. Some time to be safe.
Mary knew better than anyone that folks forgot the strong ones. If a woman didn’t cry, folks didn’t think you needed. If you kept your mouth shut and endured, folks forgot about helping. Forgot all about you, if you tried too hard to keep your dignity.
Since the evening’s terror, she’d watched Hildy moving gracefully among father, mother, sister. Kissing dead Tyler. Calling the doctor, the preacher. It was Hildy who soothed her mother, tucked her in bed. Hildy who calmed her sister by telling her how strong and helpful she’d been. Hildy who cleaned her father’s wounds while he cursed, complained just like Pa.
Feeling useless, Mary had shadowed Hildy, then left to do what she could—restore Hildy’s kitchen. She’d gathered the broken porcelain, mopped tea, swept dried beans and shattered jars of peaches, wiped the counters, placed the Bible on the table, and waited.
When Hildy stole away to the kitchen, Mary had seen the struggle she’d endured—hooded eyes, rigid mouth, knees locked to hold her upright, nails digging deeply into her own skin.
Hildy had looked across at Mary and whispered, “Joe?”
Mary’d wanted to cry. Joe was still on the run. Had to be. If he wasn’t…. She’d imagined Joe hanging from a tree, his tongue thick, his chin on his chest.
Mary’d said, “Rest. Rest, Hildy.” She’d helped her to the chair. Hildy laid her head down on the table and sighed. Mary understood the comfort of cool wood and warm arms.
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