Magic City

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  “Isn’t it time you left?” Henry didn’t say a word. Joe stepped forward. “Go on, Henry,” he whispered. “I don’t need you any more. I know where I’m headed.” His brother shrugged. A train whistled.

  Joe reached out, touching the space where his brother had been.

  24

  Joe jerked awake, lifting his head off his chest, and remembered where he was: Mt. Zion.

  He peered out the church window down the slope of Greenwood Avenue where Gabe said the men would come. “They’ll have to charge uphill, head on. One advantage we’ve got.” The street lay silent, empty of children playing stickball, women hanging laundry. Halfway up the hill, two overturned cars served as a barricade.

  They’d been waiting for hours. For a sound, a tremor. A movement just beyond the trees. Joe couldn’t see anybody yet, but they’d be coming. Gabe said so. He checked for the tenth time that the .38 was still loaded, that he had the safety off, that he was ready to shoot it. He’d never shot anything before—not even squirrel or rabbit. He kept seeing the man Gabe had shot—collapsing, rolling into his legs, eyes open, blood gurgling from his mouth.

  Joe realized he’d slept without dreaming. No nightmare. No haunting. Maybe he’d outrun his dread. Maybe saying good-bye to Henry, he’d laid his fear to rest.

  Joe looked around the church at the men—some rested on pews, some cleaned, recleaned their hunting rifles, some paced before the altar. Maybe thirty men in all. A dozen were perched in the balcony and choir loft, aiming at the roadway below. Others, like him, were on the ground floor staring through the church windows—stained glass pictures of Christ wrestling with the devil, Christ riding a donkey over palms, Christ hanging from the cross, Christ rising into the heavens. Sunlight streamed through the glass, wrapping the men in fractured hues of red, blue, and yellow.

  Bill Johnson fussed, “Preacher won’t like us busting his glass.”

  “Preacher won’t mind, long as we save Greenwood,” said Lying Man. “Everybody knows you bought these windows so Preacher wouldn’t preach against your cinema show.”

  “I was being Christian,” said Bill, indignant.

  “Complaining about your pocket,” smirked Ernie.

  “I’m not complaining,” said Bill, tapping his finger on Christ’s robe. “I’m just saying Preacher won’t ’preciate us ruining his church. Each window cost ten dollars. Eighty total.”

  “You charge ten cents for the movies. Last movie I saw—what’s it called? Queen of Arabia—was awful,” answered Chalmers.

  “I like Chaplin. Man’s funny,” said Sandy.

  “When you going to get movies with Negroes?” asked Chalmers.

  “I don’t make movies. I just show ’em,” said Bill, slinging himself into a pew.

  “I’ll pay fifty cents if I can see a Negro,” piped rheumy-eyed Herb. “A dollar for a Negro woman.”

  “Where you going to get a dollar?” barked Chalmers.

  “You can barely see,” muttered Ernie. “Shotguns no good for a half-blind fool. You expect to hit something? No, that’s out of the movies.”

  “Naw, it ain’t,” said Bill. “My movies are realistic.”

  “Realistic, hell,” said Chalmers. “Movies are filled with fools. I’ll bet you—”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” hollered Nate, disgusted. “Everybody loses.”

  The men hushed.

  “Talking about movies with the Klan rising. Johnson’s worried about breaking glass. Go on out the door, Bill. Shoot a rifle in full view. Get yourself killed. But if you want to shoot from inside, you’ve gotta shoot through stained glass.”

  Bill Johnson squirmed. Ernie stuck out his lip. Tater swept the aisles. Joe felt sorry Nate had stopped the men’s talk. For a moment, it’d felt like the barbershop. He’d felt almost peaceful.

  Nate stood sentry at the door.

  Lying Man patted Bill’s shoulder. “We’ll save what we can, rebuild later.”

  For hours, the men watched Greenwood Avenue, barely saying a word. Clarence had brought his medic kit and sheets from Nadine’s closet. Herb and Sandy helped cut bandages. Chalmers filled canteens of water, distributed ammunition. Ernie practiced aiming at a candle. Lying Man blew softly on his harmonica. From time to time, somebody would ask, “Why aren’t they here? If they want to fight, why aren’t they here?” The sky was cloudless, blue. Waiting pricked and frayed at their nerves.

  “White men must be chicken-hearted,” clucked Herb.

  Nate exclaimed bitterly, “White man’s playing with us. Wants us humbled. Fighting on his time.”

  Lying Man snapped at slow-witted Tater.

  Joe checked his gun a dozen more times.

  Hildy had sent her love, dry clothes, and baskets of food. Seeing the church fill with Greenwood men, Joe knew, for now at least, he couldn’t be anywhere but where he was. Gabe, like the best general, had stationed lookouts and snipers throughout Greenwood. A band of men were at Booker T.; others, at Standpipe Hill. But Zion was the main battlefield. “Strategic,” said Gabe. “They have to take Zion to take Greenwood.”

  On the far left, Sandy was perched in front of Christ walking on air; old Mr. Jackson rested on the stairs; Tater, who’d set aside his broom, passed out sandwiches. Chase, his belly resting on the sill, peered beneath the glass donkey. Last month, his wife had a baby girl. Joe smiled. Chase had gained more weight than his wife.

  Joe felt guilty he’d put the town at risk. He shouldn’t have rode the elevator. Never mind that that woman had seemed as lost, as hurting and needy as him. He’d only thought about wanting to be treated like a man, about wanting to ride because he’d been told not to. Regardless of what happened today, he couldn’t help thinking he caused it. Risked fine men, each one of them somebody’s father, brother, son.

  Shuffling backward, unrolling a coil fuse, Gabe entered the church. “There’ll be some surprise for ’em, hey, Nate?”

  “Won’t be nothing compared to me shootin’ ’em from the roof,” countered Nate. “Those white men’ll be ducks in a pond.”

  Price hollered over the balcony. “I can outshoot you ten to one, Nate. Got the sniper’s pin to prove it.”

  “Nothing beats hitting squirrel,” said rheumy-eyed Herb. “A man’s a big target. Now a little bitty squirrel—”

  “There you go again, Herb,” said Ernie. “Last time you killed a squirrel was ten years ago.”

  “A man can’t help getting old,” nodded Herb from his pew.

  “Some of us were born old,” said Lying Man, blowing a mournful chord. “Been old all our lives.”

  “Old is better than dead, don’t you think, Gabe?” asked Sandy. “Old is better than dead.”

  Heads lifting, the men stared. Something about Sandy’s tone challenged.

  “Guess so, Sandy,” said Gabe calmly. “But I wish I’d grabbed more dynamite.” He walked toward Joe. “Dynamite works better than bullets.”

  Joe watched Sandy approach, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders slumped forward. “I still don’t know about this, Gabe. Maybe we’d best go on home.”

  “We already decided,” snapped Nate.

  “I know. But I’ve been thinking some more, standing here waiting—”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Nate.

  “Don’t take His name in vain,” said Clarence, looking over his wire rims. “This is His house.”

  “Maybe they won’t be coming,” Sandy hurried, his voice high. “Maybe they don’t know who was at the jail. Maybe they’ll just let it be.”

  “You ever known a white man to let it be?” asked Nate, smacking his fist into his palm. “’Sides, we already argued this out.”

  “That’s right,” said Gabe, gazing at the men. “We all decided this was the best course. The best way to defend Greenwood.”

  “But what good are we doing here?” asked Sandy. “Mt. Zion ain’t going to save us. They’ll send more and more men.”

  “You’re a coward,” said Nate.

  Sandy made a
fist. Gabe stepped between them. Joe couldn’t help thinking it’d be an uneven fight: Nate, big enough to bust through a door; Sandy, small-boned, aging.

  “Ain’t fair, Nate,” said Ernie. “Ain’t fair. Sandy’s a Buffalo soldier. Fought cavalry. Spanish-American War.”

  “Negroes didn’t just learn how to fight in the 369th,” added Herb. “There was the 24th. My Daddy joined after the Civil War.”

  “I’m not a coward, Nate,” said Sandy, softly, shoulders squared. “Nothing wrong with wanting to live.”

  Lying Man slipped behind him. “That’s right, Sandy. Nothing wrong with wanting to live.”

  Sandy flushed with relief. “Thanks, Lyman.”

  The men gathered around, faces calm. Yet Joe knew by their eyes, there was something at stake. Another battle being decided right here.

  “I mean I haven’t done anything,” said Sandy. “Minding my own business. Sleeping in my own bed. Chalmers running over to my house saying Joe’s in jail.”

  Joe stiffened.

  “And here I am thinking, today I’m going to die in this church.” Sandy looked up at the balcony, at the men on his right and left. “If I go home, I might be left alone. But if I stay here—” A few men behind him nodded.

  “Get the hell out, Sandy.” Nate lunged for Sandy’s collar. Gabe restrained him, twisting his arms in their sockets.

  Nate raged, “In the war, they called us cowards. You’re a coward, Sandy. Never thought I’d be ashamed of a Greenwood man.”

  “It’s fair perspective, Nate,” said James, stepping forward. “Fair for a man to consider how he uses his life. None of us did anything wrong.”

  “I hear that,” mumbled Ernie.

  “It’s my fault,” said Joe, moving center. “You’re right, Sandy. No sense dying ’cause of me. It’s my fault.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Lying Man.

  “Joe!” cautioned Gabe.

  “No, I mean it, Gabe. It’s my fault. I’ll give myself up.”

  “It’s no more your fault for breathing,” argued Lying Man. “For living. Being. Just is,” he raised his voice so every man could hear. “It could’ve been any one of us. Sandy,” his voice soothed, “nothing wrong with wanting to live. But you’ve been living long enough to know a white man only has to look at you, to have an excuse to kill you. Now, ain’t that right?”

  Sandy studied his shoes.

  “Ain’t that right?” Lying Man asked the gathering men. Some men murmured assent, some stared ahead, baleful. Clarence said, “Amen.”

  Herb complained, “Fifty-eight. Been a nigger all my life.”

  “That’s my point,” bellowed Lying Man. “How many white men see us without thinking nigger? Even a Negro soldier can’t get treated equal.”

  “I can’t see you, Lying Man,” a voice called.

  Lying Man stood upon a pew. “Since soldiers came home, things haven’t been right.”

  “Truth is they never were right,” said Price, leaning over the choir railing.

  “Only been getting worse,” said Nate.

  A ceiling fan whizzed above Lying Man’s head. He was splashed with color. The altar cross towered behind him. Joe knew Lying Man was comforting them.

  “Hasn’t it always been that way?” asked Lying Man. “Blink an eye and another colored man’s been picked up. Run out of town.”

  “They tarred Bobbie’s boy,” said Ernie.

  “Has anybody seen young Jim?” asked Clarence. “Every Christmas his momma cries. He’s been missing for two years. Went out to chop a pine.”

  “Killed my dog,” said Tater, who rarely spoke. “Shot Dempsey. Said he was on Ambrose land. Shot him six times.” Eyes wet, he went back to sweeping.

  “Burned a cross in front of my store,” said Reye, “’cause I didn’t want to buy. overpriced feed from Ailey. Now I buy anything Ailey wants to sell.”

  Men nodded. Some fingered their guns; some crossed their arms over their chests.

  “Greenwood’s been safer than most places,” said Lying Man. “Safer than Chicago. Huntsville. Baton Rouge. We’ve been lucky. Tulsans’re content ’cause folk’s making money. Oil bubbling out of the ground like magic. Plenty of work for Negroes: hauling, lifting, cleaning. Samuels has more money in his bank. Folks can afford Bill’s picture show. I got folks wanting styling, instead of just a shave and a cut.”

  Joe thought Lying Man was working his own magic. Words, like hands, were gathering the men’s souls. Joe swayed, feeling Lying Man’s power.

  “Being Negro is serious business in America. Make no mistake—this is payback because us Negroes,” Lying Man slapped his chest, “we built a community. Thrived. We didn’t gamble or liquor our money away.

  “This is payback because we sent our men to war—”

  “And some came back,” interjected Nate.

  “I hear that,” said Ernie.

  Lying Man looked upward, then at the men pressing forward. His voice quieted. “Greenwood has to choose. Maybe we could give them Joe. Maybe they’d be happy with six, a dozen of us. Burn our houses. Businesses. Isn’t that their way? The Klan has its own seasons. The law is deaf, dumb, and blind when the Klan lynches another crop.”

  “That’s the truth,” said Ernie.

  “I might keep my shop. Bill, his theater. Reye, his merchandise. Chalmers might keep his home. Things’ll go on. Going from bad to worse. Or we can stand. Stick together. Not let them take us one by one. Sandy, you believe Joe’s guilty?” demanded Lying Man.

  Joe inhaled, waiting for Sandy’s verdict.

  Head bowed, Sandy reluctantly answered, “Guilty of being colored.”

  Lying Man smiled grimly. “You know the answer then, don’t you, Sandy? All of you,” he scanned the room, “know the answer.”

  “The best sermon never has to be preached,” said Herb.

  “’Cause it’s lived,” said Lying Man, his voice arcing high. “That’s what we’re doing right now. Living it.”

  “Maybe dying for it,” challenged Sandy.

  “Maybe,” said Lying Man.

  “Everybody’s got to die sometime,” said Nate.

  “Been dying,” said Ernie.

  “There’s heaven after,” said Clarence.

  “You want to know the colored man’s heaven?” shouted Gabe, climbing onto the bench beside Lying Man. “It’s standing. Standing, right here. Nobody expects anything of a Negro. But I need each and every one of you. Here. Right now.”

  Men edged closer; others leaned over the balcony.

  “I need Greenwood men. Not the boys the white men say we are. Braving war, we’re ’boys.’ Providing for our families, we’re ‘boys.’ Playing checkers as old men, wise from living, we’re ‘boys.’ I don’t see anybody’s boy here.” Gabe looked straight at Joe. “I see men. Trying to do right. Standing.”

  “Got to stand,” shouted Mr. Jackson, tossing his hat high.

  “I didn’t stand for Reubens,” shouted Lying Man, “but I’m standing now.”

  “I didn’t stand for Henry,” said Gabe. “I—” his words trailed. For a moment, Gabe’s heartache was exposed, then he said fiercely, “I’ll stand for Joe.”

  “Might as well call me Joe,” said Lying Man. “Same difference.”

  “I’ll stand,” said Sandy, solemnly.

  Gabe stooped, clasped his hand.

  “Count me in.”

  “Me too,” said Bill.

  “All together.”

  “I don’t mind dying,” said Nate.

  “Greenwood,” Chalmers shouted.

  “Greenwood,” murmured Joe, caught by the whirlwind, feeling pride swell his heart. The men in the balcony were stomping, the sound deafening; those on the ground floor were whooping, clapping hands. Chalmers grabbed Ernie and spun him around. Lying Man played a lively tune.

  “Okay. Okay, okay,” Gabe shouted, settling the men. “It’s been six hours. Not a good sign. The Klan—maybe the whole damn town—is marshaling some offense. I haven’t been
to church in a long while. But, today, we can’t afford to turn the other cheek.”

  “God didn’t always turn.”

  “He sent Moses,” said Lying Man.

  “Well, we got Joe,” said Gabe, cracking a smile. “Anymore magic left, Joe?”

  Joe looked around at all the brave men. “I’ve got a few tricks left.” He pulled a lit match out of Sandy’s ear. “So does Sandy.” Sandy scowled. Laughter shook the church. Chalmers slapped Joe on the back. Gabe jumped from the pew and hugged Joe. “Brother man.” Joe saw himself reflected deep in Gabe’s eyes.

  “Here! They’re here,” yelled Mr. Jackson. “They’re here!” He broke the stained glass with the butt of his rifle. Others followed suit. Chunks of colored glass fell onto the floor.

  “Hold up. Don’t shoot,” shouted Gabe. “Don’t shoot.”

  “Damn,” whispered Bill Johnson, awed.

  Joe gripped the window ledge. Behind him stood Gabe, Nate, and Lying Man.

  Gabe whispered, “War’s here.”

  Nate sighed, “They surely hate us.”

  Lying Man said, “Stand.”

  Sandy replied, sarcastic, “Nothing like good odds. Don’t you think, Gabe? Nothing beats good odds.”

  Gabe ignored him, ordering, “Wait ’til I give the signal, men. Wait for the signal.”

  Joe’s mouth was dry. Three truckloads of men with guns. “Ambrose Oil” was written on the cabs’ sides.

  “Damn that’s a lot of ’em,” said Chalmers.

  “Just more ducks for me,” called Nate, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “I’m going to the roof, Gabe.”

  “Don’t shoot ’til they’re past the barricade,” Gabe hollered as Nate scrambled out the back door.

  Joe held his breath as the flatbed trucks began lumbering up the hill. The men looked like they were on a hunting trip. Some were swigging beer. Others were hooting “nigger,” jagging bayonets, rifles into the air, calling to friends across trucks. Some wore infantry uniforms, others were still in their Sunday best. Just like this was part of the Decoration Day celebration. Bates, gleeful, in the first truck, waved a confederate flag.

  “Come on, come on. A little further,” Gabe urged the drivers. “Come on.” When the trucks halted in front of the barricade, Gabe lit the fuse. Crackling smoke snaked out of the church.