“Get down.” Lying Man tugged Joe.
“Heads up,” shouted Gabe, before diving, covering his head.
The church windows shattered. “Goddamn, eighty dollars,” cursed Bill.
The blast had lifted the two overturned cars and the first truck clear off the ground. The Greenwood men cheered. Joe heard Nate banging on the roof, screaming, “Go on, Gabe. Go on!”
“That showed them. Goddamn.”
The second truck careened wildly, backward, down the hill, bouncing over the curb, slamming into an elm, spilling men about onto the lawn, street, and sidewalk.
The third truck swerved and stopped on the roadside. Men leaped out, charging past the barricade, crumpled metal, and bodies.
“Ready,” said Gabe.
Joe checked his gun.
“Aim.”
Joe smelled gasoline. Then he heard a whoosh as the truck’s tank ignited. Flames shot twenty feet high. Joe ducked his head. Then, looked again. Moans rent the air. Men were on fire: rolling on the ground or else still, unconscious or dead. Bates’ flag was a blackened stick. A torched man zigzagged then spun in lazy circles; orange-red flames streaked; he dropped to his knees with arms outstretched; he fell flat forward. Black smoke billowed from the truck. Flesh stunk like grilled meat.
Nauseous, Joe swallowed bile. Mr. Jackson threw up. Chalmers closed his eyes. Lyman called for “Mercy.” Gabe watched the flames, unflinching.
“Ready, men.”
A dozen white men broke the spell and charged. Screaming, rifles flailing side to side, they ran mightily. Joe marveled.
“Fire,” ordered Gabe.
The Greenwood men opened fire.
“For the heart. Aim for the heart.”
Joe aimed at the figures, not certain he was hitting anyone. Was this what war had been like for Henry? No time to think or aim, just shooting. Confusion and smoke. He realized his gun was empty. He looked at the Greenwood men, intent, shooting down the enemy, striking back for lynchings, old grudges, and lost honor. Pieces of Christ were on the floor. Tater, tears on his cheeks, fired methodically. Gabe was shooting with two barrels. Lying Man squinted, aimed, repeating, “Mercy.” Joe started reloading.
Suddenly, the men gave a great cry. The charging white men turned, running back down the hill toward Tulsa. Greenwood was still theirs.
Except for the bodies, Greenwood Avenue was deserted again. Inside, they whooped and hollered. Tater beat his broom against a pew like a victory drum. “That did it!” “You saw them!” “I got two of them.”
Only Gabe failed to celebrate. Joe watched Gabe peer anxiously out the front of the church, then dodge around to glance out the back.
Outside they heard the whine and popping of the truck burning itself out.
Gabe called, “It’s not done. Get on back to your windows. They’ll come again.”
It seemed to Joe the waiting was even longer. The victory was disorienting. Joe wished he was gone. He could see the dead lying in the street. He didn’t want to shoot anymore men.
Then he heard the sound of a plane flying low. The sound was irritating as a mosquito. “Reconnaissance,” said Gabe. The Greenwood men held still, listening as the plane circled above the church. After a while the plane went away and the men went back to waiting.
Joe was wondering whether Tulsans were so startled by colored men returning fire, they’d decided to give it up, lose the battle, when a rifle shot cracked and Sandy jerked backward, bleeding from his gut, spilling his blood in a hot arc across Joe, the pews, the floor, before falling.
“Sniper!”
“Where is he?”
Lying Man crawled, reaching out to hold Sandy’s hand.
“I knew I was going to die,” Sandy whispered.
Lying Man murmured, “You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine, Sandy.” Even Joe knew Lying Man was lying. First time ever. Blood drained from Sandy’s gut. Joe thought of Henry torn by shrapnel. Another shot. Joe didn’t see where it hit. Peering over the window, he didn’t see anybody. No one in the street, no one hiding on rooftops.
A third shot and Gabe yelled, “There! In the trees!”
Joe aimed but missed. Nate was still firing from the roof.
“Second wave,” called Gabe. “Second wave.”
Three carloads of men toting rifles roared up the street. Two were police cars and Joe wondered whether the sheriff had come. They halted at the barricade, the men taking cover behind their cars, truck debris, behind trees. They didn’t move. “What the hell are they waiting for?” yelled Ernie. A straining truck shifted into third gear, climbing the hill. “National Guard,” said Gabe. The Greenwood men were stunned. “Bastards called the National Guard.”
Men in beige uniforms, round helmets, leaped from the truck, fanning out, scattering themselves, belly down in the dirt, rifles aimed at Zion. Some moved from the line of vision, skirting toward the back.
Gabe shouted, “Reye, Herb. Barricade the back door.”
“Outnumbered. Isn’t that what movies say? We’re fucking outnumbered,” moaned Chalmers.
Overwhelming odds. Nobody said a word.
Joe swallowed. Time slowed. The Greenwood men seemed to be moving beneath water. Gabe lowered his head to his chest. Chalmers edged slightly forward through the window. Even panicky Ernie seemed to shake his head in slow motion. Joe looked back, Sandy had stopped breathing. Lying Man, slowly, ever so slowly, closed his lids.
The sniper fired again. Nate tumbled from the roof. Joe gasped. Nate landed on the church lawn, flat on his back, arms outstretched, blood pooling around his chest.
Tater was crying aloud. Joe drifted beyond feeling.
The plane buzzed again. The sound was further away, to the west of the church. They heard short pows. Explosions.
“Dynamite,” said Gabe. “They’re throwing dynamite out of the plane. Barricades mean nothing to a plane.”
“We’ve got to get out.”
“Nadine,” hollered Clarence.
“Eugenia,” called Ray.
Hildy, thought Joe. He thought of his mother, father, Emmaline, but it was Hildy whom he saw and heard, “We all need loving, Joe.”
Before the Greenwood men could escape from the church, Tulsans opened fire.
“Shoot, men,” commanded Gabe. “Don’t fall apart. We’ve got to stand.”
Grimly, the Greenwood men returned fire.
“Be calm. No way we can stop a plane. But we can stop these men,” Gabe exhorted. “We’ve got to stop them if we want to leave Zion, see our families. We’ve got to stop them if we want to survive.”
Smoke rose like fog, outside and inside the church. Some of the whites fell, but more were always coming, marching forward, closer to the church. Joe kept firing at an oak until a man fell, cracking through green branches. For a moment, Joe felt exhilarated, then he saw Mr. Jackson clutch his stomach and sit quietly against a wall; he heard Chalmers screaming, his leg shot apart at the thigh. Ernie collapsed beside him.
“Reload. Shoot,” insisted Gabe.
Reload. Shoot. Joe thought he was dreaming; on the periphery, he saw flames. Wind was skipping fire across rooftops. Greenwood was burning and he was helpless, trapped, tied down in Zion.
Gabe clutched his arm. Blood dripped from his fingers.
“Clarence,” Joe shrieked.
“I’m all right,” said Gabe, dismissing Clarence, pacing behind the line, yelling, “Stand. Reload. Shoot.”
Another truck rumbled up the street, past the barricade, loaded with burning straw. The driver aimed it at the church and leaped clear. The truck bounced over the curb, crashing into the corner of the church, crushing Bill Johnson against the wall.
More shots were exchanged. The church got smokier. Men coughed, gasping; eyes stung. Almost a third of the Greenwood men had fallen. But the rest still shouldered rifles, aimed pistols, and fired. Joe realized they were all heroes. Crouching, Gabe pulled Joe and Lying Man toward the back of the church. “Gotta start getting some o
f us out here.”
“No.” Joe halted, pushing away Gabe’s hands.
“Retreat and regroup, Joe. Someone’s got to survive, help the town. You and Lying Man go first.”
“I won’t run,” said Lying Man.
“You’ve got to. You need to testify.” Blood draining down his arm, Gabe tore aside the wood planks stacked against the back door. “Slim. Help me with cover.” He looked at Lying Man and Joe. “Do as I say now.”
“Let me stay, Gabe,” murmured Joe.
Gabe shook his head. “Henry wouldn’t want me to.”
“Please,” Joe begged.
“Your life ain’t over yet. Ain’t meant to be. You need to care for Lying Man, Joe. Both of you need to care for each other.” Gabe pointed his gun at Joe’s abdomen. “I want you to go. You hear? I’ll shoot you if you don’t.”
Lying Man clutched Joe’s arm. “Come on, Joe.”
Gabe angled his head. “Thanks, Lying Man. You understand?”
“If we all go, they’ll overwhelm us, shoot us like dogs.”
“That’s right. Two can squeak by. I’ll send us out two by two.”
“What about you, Gabe?”
“I’ve got two sticks of dynamite left. When I open the door, I’ll throw one left, one right. Run like hell.” Gabe clasped Joe’s shoulder. “Slim and I will provide cover. Just run. Don’t look back. Ready?”
Reluctantly, Joe nodded.
“Find my wife,” said Slim. “Make sure she’s all right.”
“We will,” said Lyman.
“Joe. Tell Emmy I loved her.” Gabe lit the fuses, flew open the door, and threw. One, two explosions.
Joe stumbled.
“Run!” shouted Gabe, firing his pistol. “Run.”
They ran—Joe behind Lying Man, ducking and dodging. Running like wild men. Running down the slope toward home.
Joe couldn’t help looking back. Slim was down, sprawled in the dirt. Gabe was still firing, moving backward into the church.
Flames climbed the church roof. “Don’t, Gabe!” wailed Joe.
Gabe waved—Joe couldn’t see well—but he thought Gabe was smiling, striding into the burning church, like an angel wrapped in smoke. Overhead, Joe heard the sound of the plane again, like a spirit far off, going someplace he couldn’t imagine.
25
Mary felt a kind of happiness, solace. Hearing the women’s song, she’d felt her mother’s presence stirring. For the first time, she felt her Ma, like Tyler, was properly mourned. Loved. She’d dispelled the memory of her mother going cold, unremarked to her grave. She was a good daughter.
Now she hoped to be a good friend to Hildy Samuels. She sipped warm tea, lulled by the sun as Hildy collected a bowl, flour, lard, and water.
They’d received news that Joe was free. The men were preparing to defend Greenwood: some posted at Mt. Zion, others scattered throughout the town. Mr. Samuels had insisted on driving to his bank. The women had left at mid-morning.
“I should be going,” she’d said to Hildy, staring at the black-speckled linoleum.
“Dangerous,” Hildy had replied. “Wait ’til folks settle down.”
Mary sighed. She’d found grace. She’d never felt the Holy Spirit like she had in Tyler’s room, in Hildy’s kitchen. Not in Pa’s dreary sermons, his grating, “Repent.” It lived in the women, in Hildy.
She’d helped Hildy pack food for Joe, for the men at the church. They’d washed dishes, cleaned the kitchen. They’d gotten on their knees and prayed. Mary couldn’t help thinking God would listen to Hildy. There’d be deliverance. He’d protect Greenwood. There’d be a new, shining day.
Mary sipped as Hildy hummed, preparing bread for dinner. Brown hands kneading, twisting, turning dough on cool marble. How many times had she done the same thing? And seen no beauty, no grace?
How strange. How luxurious, taking tea and dreaming about building herself a future. Tomorrow, she’d celebrate Joe being safe. She’d look for work selling perfume and rouge. Or maybe dresses, soft and beautiful. No gray uniforms. Or else she’d cook meringues and sell pies. Nothing ordinary like apple or cherry. Rhubarb. Lime. Chocolate cream. She’d take care of herself just fine. No running home to Pa.
Mary licked her lips, feeling the mid-morning sun splashing her lap. Hearing the slap of Hildy’s loaves. Smelling pungent yeast. She thought about Allen. He didn’t mind a tall, not-so-pretty girl. Maybe she’d get a chance to know him better. She wanted to know him better. He wasn’t like Dell. Mary clutched her abdomen, remembering Dell’s rutting, repeating softly, “Allen isn’t Dell.”
She wanted to be caressed. Admired. She wanted, as she’d always wanted, a sweet respite. Someone’s touch to ease loneliness. Was that love? Had Ma loved? Mary felt her smile slipping. Maybe she was asking too much, being greedy—expecting love when she’d just started to feel a measure of happiness.
“Hildy, you ever been in love?”
Hildy stopped kneading biscuit dough. “Love?” Hildy wiped her brow with her forearm. “Have you?”
“No.”
“I thought I was in love once.” Hildy plunged her hands into the flour.
“What happened?”
“Found out my sister loved him.”
“Did he love her?”
“I don’t know,” said Hildy, smacking the dough. “He went to war. Left without asking Emmaline to marry him. He was one of my brother’s friends.”
“Joe’s?”
“No. My brother Henry’s. Henry died in the war.”
“I’m sorry, Hildy.”
Hildy shook her head. “Some men are born restless. If Henry hadn’t died in the war, he would’ve been killed here. Henry told every woman he ever knew he loved her.”
“Did you tell the man—”
“Gabriel?”
“You loved him?”
“No. He never looked at me.” Sprinkling flour, she patted the dough into a bowl and covered it with a towel. “Gabriel only knew me as Henry’s maiden sister. Sometimes I wonder if it would’ve mattered if I was younger. Baby-face pretty like Emmaline.”
“Life’s hard on a woman.”
“That’s the truth. I decided no sense in being soft then. No pretending you can’t do, when you can. So it’s been a while since I’ve been kissed.” Hildy sat, wiping dough from her nails with a kitchen cloth.
“Did you ever want babies?”
“Joe’s my baby. No, I shouldn’t be telling that lie. Joe’s a man now. That is, if he survives. Eighteen tomorrow.”
Mary stared at the leaves in her cup, wishing she could tell the future. But it had to be all right. Everything had to be all right. She peered at Hildy. “Do you think you could find someone else?”
“I might start looking,” said Hildy, suddenly deciding. “When I know Joe’s safe.” She stared at her hands. “But he’s got to be a kind man.”
“I met someone kind.”
“The secret is out,” Hildy teased.
Flustered, Mary pushed through the screen door. She inhaled. Last night she’d smelled the roses. She wished she could smell each peony, each marigold bordering the Greenwood fences. Birds glided along the horizon. The street was unnaturally quiet, empty. Mary knew women were inside their kitchens, parlors, trying to remain calm. She thought maybe she was foolish, thinking about love.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” said Hildy, following her onto the porch.
“You didn’t. It just feels funny,” said Mary, squinting in the sunlight. “Saying I met a kind man. I never said that before in my life. Not meaning it the way I did.”
“I’ve never met a kind, white man,” said Hildy, staring at the deserted street.
“I’ve never met a kind, colored man. Except Joe.”
“Negro,” corrected Hildy.
“Negro.” Mary clutched the rail. Tension settled lightly, like Hildy’s flour on dough.
Hildy looked at Mary. “How do you know he’s kind?”
“He found me, wand
ering, hurting. He looked out for me, treated me with respect.”
“Respect’s important.”
“Pa never learned the trick of it.”
“Neither did my father.”
Mary rested her head on the post.
Hildy sighed. “A woman sometimes makes do. That’s been my life’s surprise. Making do.” Hildy shrugged.
“Better than not making do,” answered Mary.
Hildy nodded. “See that spire? That’s Mt. Zion Church. It’d be a glorious day, if the men weren’t at Zion. These streets would be filled with children. Mrs. Jackson be gossiping about who loved whom. Nadine be murmuring about her visions. Eugenia be teasing her. Telling her to play the numbers. Saying eighty-three signified heaven. Sure to win—ten dollars on a quarter bet. You know,” Hildy looked at her curiously. “I’m not supposed to know you.”
“Yes,” said Mary, “I’m not supposed to know you either.”
“But knowing you, and if the men weren’t at Zion, I’d fix us a lunch and have us sit on the moss by Lena’s River. Relaxing, worrying about nothing. Not a damn thing.” Hildy closed her eyes. “You ever hear how Lena drowned herself?”
“Yes.”
“Over some man?”
“Yes. She wasn’t pretty enough.”
“I don’t believe it. I believe she was beautiful. Don’t believe she killed herself over a man. One day I hope to prove it.” Hildy stretched her arms high behind her head. Red highlights streaked through her hair; her skin was burnished copper. “One day, I’ll prove it.
“Don’t anybody know anything about Lena ’cept what had to do with some man. But Lena did things—had to have done things. Cooking, cleaning. Maybe she had the best potato pie. Maybe she sang like an angel. Or danced like one. I know she had a last name. But nobody remembers it.
“Don’t know if she was Negro or Indian. Don’t even know the year she died. But I know she was a woman—somebody’s daughter, sister, mother, maybe. Somebody’s friend. Someday, I’ll find out. That’s my dream.”
Sitting on the porch rail, the sun shining behind her, Mary thought Hildy was beautiful. At ease with herself. Mary had a glimmer of how to save herself.
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