White men—some robed, some not—were ducking, dodging behind azaleas, juniper bushes, circling like cowboys in a picture show. They carried shotguns, ax handles. Clarence and Ernie were a few feet from the door. “Round ’em up,” a hoodless Klansman ordered with fierce pride. “Run,” Joe murmured, “Run.” There was a barrage of fire.
“Got to help them.”
Lying Man clutched his arm. Joe was surprised at his strength.
“No good going back. Got to go forward. Can’t go back. Look.” Lying Man pointed.
Soldiers with rifles, bayonets flowed from the church’s sides. Thin, strutting boys dressed in fatigues, helmets. Moon-faced ghosts. Joe heard Ernie scream as soldiers flung him down, as bayonets threatened his back.
“No retreat,” muttered Joe. “No retreat.” Tulsa had sent its army, invaded Deep Greenwood. Didn’t matter if Joe was innocent. Didn’t matter if Greenwood men were defending their homes.
“National Guard,” Lying Man cursed. “Uncle Sam appreciates his niggers. Appreciates their valiant dedication to the war. Decoration Day, shit.”
Soldiers and Klansmen: some, Joe guessed, were just following orders; some just hated coloreds, some did and felt both. Some were ordinary Tulsans protecting their womenfolk. Joe felt himself stiffening. Felt his skin turning brittle. Felt as though parts of him would fall away, be buried in the dirt.
Clarence almost made it—a man dressed in suit and tie slipped out from a hedge and (like he was hitting a homer) slammed a wood plank into Clarence’s face. Joe shuddered, watching Clarence go down like a felled steer. No, like a good nigger.
The church door remained closed. How many were inside? Twenty? wondered Joe. Nonetheless, their choice was no choice—be burned alive, killed escaping, or surrender.
Joe cocked his gun, veered the barrel right, then left. The range was too great. As he thought about firing, guardsmen drew closer to the church. Fire raged, consuming air, both inside and outside the church. Sandy was right—Tulsa had numbers on its side; they’d always win the war. What was Greenwood? A small town where Negroes lived.
The church door opened and black men filed out—weaponless, faces streaked with soot, hands upraised. He saw Guardsmen grab, shove them ’til everyone lay face down in the dust. No more two by two. “Gabe?” Joe called, woeful.
Lying Man squatted, drawing a square in the dirt. “I remember when we built Zion. Just enough wood for the frame.”
Joe stared at the thick church door. It swung open again. Harry, Ray, Ed, hands up, heads down, ducked under arching flames. Ray was coughing. Smoke rose from Harry’s jacket. Ed squinted like a newborn.
“We had a picnic—cobbler, potato bread, corn relish.”
Gabe was a bones man.
“Remember we didn’t have a town without a church. I can remember sawing wood, nailing, tugging on the rope with a dozen men, Sandy, your grandfather, Tyler, to raise the frame.”
“He’s not coming out,” said Joe, softly. The church’s east wall collapsed onto the scorched truck. Greenwood men were hauled to their feet, cuffed and chained.
Lying Man stood. “We’ve got to go, Joe. Time to be moving on.”
Joe stared at the door. Flames peeled the door’s varnish, the mahogany stain. He heard troops marching, officers shouting orders, Tulsans taunting as soldiers herded Greenwood men—his friends—into two thin lines. Except for the whine of burning wood, yielding plaster, breaking glass, and the roaring fire itself, no human sound rose from the church. No sound from Ernie, Ray, from the men standing tall, prisoners of war.
“Come on, Joe.”
He jerked from Lying Man’s reach. Gabe was the hero, he was the coward.
“Got to run.”
Joe stared at the closed door; Lying Man tugged. “Come on, Joe. Got to run.”
Almost every man he’d loved was dead, dying, or a prisoner. He imagined Gabe in the fiery furnace, deciding to die instead of being taken alive.
“Gabe,” he whispered, lifting a hand. “Gabe.”
The soil rocked. His knees buckled. The truck in the church wall had exploded. Zion collapsed inwards like cards—roof crashing, sides falling—wood and oxygen fueling a fireball.
Joe swore he smelled burning flesh. No more Gabe, no more Zion.
He hadn’t the strength to get up. He wanted to lay quietly in the dirt until the sun bleached his bones. He would have—except Lying Man was raging, cursing, his hands digging into his arms, lifting, pulling him up. “Don’t you quit on me. Don’t you quit.”
He could hear the smaller man’s fury; miraculously, it felt like a balm. Gave him something to reach for, to steady his legs and walk. To keep moving until nightfall, when he’d take the train west.
Lying Man led Joe deeper into Greenwood. Around a corner, down First Street and Missouri, down Elm. Homes, gardens, cars burned, smoldering or layered with smoke. Guardsmen hadn’t yet infiltrated Greenwood. But they would. Air attack, then land. They’d march down from Zion.
He’d thought his nightmare had been only about him. But it was Greenwood’s nightmare.
A breeze rocked a porch chair. An oak he’d climbed as a boy swayed, inviting. Below it, ripening tomatoes hung ready for picking. But Greenwood would never be the same. Joe knew Lying Man was headed for his shop.
The business district staggered him. On either side of the street, for the length of three blocks, buildings were burning or bombed into rubble and ash. The Dream Time Cinema blazed, its marquee and ticket booth destroyed. A singed Mary Pickford smiled behind glass. The Confectioner’s fountain stools tilted at odd angles; the tiled, black-and-white counter had been blown to bits. Reye’s Grocers was simply gone. Amazingly, Samuels & Son was unharmed. The barbershop still stood.
Joe looked skyward. No rain clouds, no water to quench the fires. He felt helpless beyond imagining. Felt a sheen of sweat on his skin. The heat was intense. His eyes stung. Air stunk of melting tar, scorched brick. Shards from the barbershop window layered the sidewalk.
Lying Man opened the door and the bell rang clear.
Pomades and sweet aftershave had spilled. Towels, straight razors, red and black checkers littered the floor. Tater’s stale pop had dripped red from the counter. Glass speckled the leather chairs.
Lying Man didn’t cross the threshold.
Joe got scared, thinking Lying Man had turned to stone, wasn’t real any more.
“I’ll help clean, Lying Man. Like new. We’ll have this place like new.”
Lying Man shut the door, the bell tingling. “Best to get home, Joe.”
“What about your shop? We can save it.”
“No need.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The men from the church are my shop. God willing, they’ll survive. Let’s go, Joe.”
“I dreamed this—”
“Best get home to your family, Joe. We’ve got to save who we can, where we can.”
“No, you don’t understand. I dreamed this, Lying Man,” he whispered. “All of it. Dreamed it three days running. Greenwood burning. Up in smoke.”
“Part of your magic, Joe.”
“I don’t want it.”
The Confectioner’s roof caved, showering sparks and embers.
“We’ve got to get on,” said Lying Man. “I’ll see about Slim’s family. You see about yours.”
“Hildy,” Joe murmured.
“That’s right.”
Joe blinked. Lying Man’s skin was ashen, covered with wrinkles. His eyes a bit dulled. He wasn’t big at all; he barely reached Joe’s shoulders. As a boy, Joe’d thought Lying Man was the biggest man in Greenwood.
“When’d you get old, Lying Man?” he asked mournfully. “You’ve gone and gotten old on me.”
“I could say the same about you, Joe.”
“Gabe let himself die.”
“Gabe’s been dying ever since he came home from the war. He chose it, Joe. Don’t you choose it.” He started walking.
“Why me, Ly
ing Man?” Joe asked, insistent. “Why’d you look out for me?”
“I don’t answer fool questions. Need to get to Slim’s family,” he answered, his pace quickening.
Joe ran after him. “Why me?” He needed some other magic, some missing piece to make him strong.
Lying Man kept walking. “You should know what you’re worth, Joe,” he lashed out angrily. Joe staggered beside him. “A man should know his own worth. Otherwise, he’s not a man. That’s why I let you sit up in my window. Hoping you’d find it. Hear it in the echo of the men.”
“I don’t understand.”
Lying Man stopped. “Your dream, Joe. What did your dream tell you?”
Joe closed his eyes, remembering: himself, charred and screaming. Sparks leaping from his skin, clinging to porch steps, the rooftops of Greenwood. Bursting into showering flames.
“You’ve got to figure this out for yourself, Joe. Your dream told you Greenwood’s going to burn? Well, it’s burning. Zion’s gone. By nightfall, none of these buildings will be left. Maybe nothing will be left. And I tell you, Joe, it’s never been more alive.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Then I can’t teach you.”
For the first time, Joe felt as if he’d disappointed Lying Man. He stared at the ash blanketing the road.
“Break the news gently to Hildy that Gabe died.”
He looked up. “You mean Emmaline?”
“I mean Hildy.” Lying Man shook his head, disgusted. “Just ’cause your eyes are open, don’t mean you can see. ’Cause you dream, don’t mean it’s all coming true. Don’t even mean you understood what you dreamed.”
Turning his back, Lying Man walked off, blowing his harmonica. Joe knew the tune:
This train’s bound for glory.
This train’s bound for glory.
This train’s bound for glory.
Children get on board.
There’s room for many a more.
For the first time, Joe thought Lying Man was mocking him. Maybe he guessed Joe was leaving at nightfall. Else he was playing a truth Joe couldn’t understand.
Looking around at the devastation, Joe felt shame welling again. He needed to help. Joe set off running—running, heading back from where he started. Home.
Joe thought he was dreaming. A white woman, shoulders rounded, arms limp, stood in the middle of his street, watching him run. Maybe she was Francine, Gabe’s girl. Another ghost come to haunt him. He wanted to run, plow right through her. Knock her down.
He ran faster. Closing in on the woman. Fifty feet. Forty. Thirty. Her features sharpened, her hair darkened against the backdrop of thick smoke rolling over Greenwood. It was the woman from the elevator, watching as fire dried gardens, destroyed what generations of ex-slaves and their children had built. Tyler had run for this land. He wanted to scream, “Look what you’ve done.”
That wasn’t fair.
In the elevator, she’d looked so forlorn: eyes and nose rimmed red, her hands shaking as she closed the doors. “What floor?” she’d asked, not looking at him, her chin on her chest. In the tight space, the mirrors duplicated them endlessly. She’d pressed fourteen. Bathroom. Where else would a nigger be going?
“That all right?” she’d asked, looking across at him. The thinnest thread of…what? Concern, compassion? Seeing the pain in her eyes, he couldn’t help showing his. For a brief moment, they were at the bottom of the well together, trapped in the same cage, needing comfort. A healing touch.
The white woman—what was her name?—was smiling now. The woman pointed, calling his sister’s name, “Hildy! Hildy!” Joe looked to the left; his sister ran to meet him. He embraced Hildy, swinging her off the ground. His sister breathed, “Joe, Joe, Joe.” He felt Hildy’s tears, the strength in her fingers, her faith in him.
“Where’s the fire trucks?” Joe murmured, his arm still about his sister.
The Jacksons’, Nedicks’, Williams’, and Bakers’ homes were all black and burning.
“Not coming.”
Joe turned. It was the albino man from the elevator. The one who’d called him “nigger.” What an odd couple he and Mary made. Odder still they’d both be in Greenwood, but Joe was too tired to challenge them. Hildy accepted them; for now, that was good enough. Besides he knew the man was right. Greenwood would be leveled.
Women and children, a few old men stared, demanding something from him. He could feel light hands touching, stroking his sleeves. He shifted nervously. Some had already lost husbands, cousins, friends. He couldn’t tell them about the men being chained.
Joe shouted at his neighbors, “Load up. Take food, clothes, money, whatever you need. We’re going to caravan out of here. We can’t put these fires out.”
Dirty, tired women surged, clambered round him. “We’ll lose everything, Joe.” “Help will come.” “We can’t give up.” His mother was irate: “I won’t go.” Voices rose steadily; Joe could hear the panic. No one wanted to yield their faith that their homes would be all right.
“Do you think that’s wise?” asked Miss Wright, her sister leading her forward.
Joe sighed. “Yes, Miss Wright. If help was on its way, it’d be here.”
Clarence’s wife, Ernestine, had her new baby wrapped in a shawl. Her son, Dovell, who loved marbles, looked about to cry. Eugenia, her dress singed, looked furious. His mother was thin-lipped and proud.
Joe wanted to gather the women in his arms. Especially the older ones whose skin and hair had thinned, whose spines had gently curved, making them small again, like children. They’d watched over him when he played kickball, chastised him when he’d been headstrong. They’d passed him pieces of pie, candy, jars of iced tea, put iodine on his knees.
“It’s safer to go than stay. Few more hours the air won’t be fit to breathe.”
“Mrs. Jackson died, Joe,” said Pauline, pulling on his shirt, her pigtails unwrapping. “Her house fell on her.”
“I’m sorry.” Joe bent and hugged the small girl.
“Are the men coming?” asked Eugenia.
“Mr. Jackson didn’t make it,” he offered.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jackson are angels,” said Pauline.
“That’s right, honey,” said Hildy.
“Bless the Lord,” answered Martha.
“Are the rest of the men coming? My Ray?” asked Eugenia.
“Was Clarence all right when you left him?”
“Did the men send you here?” asked Leda.
Looking at the taut, strained faces, Joe decided to lie. He didn’t want the women to despair. Didn’t want to hurt already mourning children. “The men sent me ahead to get you ready. To make sure you’re all safe, if they’re delayed. But they’re coming. They’ll all be here.” He rubbed his hand over his heart, feeling he’d missed something. Some grace in the women. Some resiliency in their children.
Hildy said, “You have to tell the truth, Joe. You mustn’t lie.”
Joe looked again at the women. Weary. Afraid. But not brittle. He met Eugenia’s gaze.
“Ray was captured. National Guard charged Zion and captured all but four men. Ray was standing when I left.”
“Bent but not broken.”
“Not broken.”
“Clarence?”
“I’m not sure. I saw him go down. He was hit in the face with a board.”
Ernestine stooped, hugging her baby and son to her chest.
“Gabe?” asked Hildy.
Joe shook his head. Mary touched Hildy’s arm. Joe was amazed Mary knew what he hadn’t known.
“Reckless?” asked Hildy.
“Brave,” said Joe, averting his eyes, looking at the flames burning beyond the small group. “Gabe burned inside Zion.”
“Lord, have mercy,” said Miss Wright.
Hildy touched her hand to her throat; he could see her pulse fluttering. Gabe had missed smelling gardenias. Missed knowing Hildy’s loyalty.
“He refused to surrender.”
�
��I’ll tell Emmaline he died a hero.”
Joe nodded.
“Hurry,” he urged the grieving women. “Grab what you need. Guardsmen will have us all surrendering. Chained. Go on, now. Load up your cars. Hurry!”
Women who’d lost their homes and belongings helped others—scooping up fat-legged toddlers, guiding frail Miss Wright and Leda. Eugenia aided Ernestine. Lilianne held brave Dovell’s hand.
“You need to get your father and Emmaline, Joe,” said his mother pointedly. “You need to get them.”
“Aren’t they here?”
“Father wouldn’t stop worrying about the bank,” said Hildy. “He was in no condition to go. When he didn’t come home for lunch, Emmaline went after him.”
“Damn. I’ll drive by the bank.”
“He took the car,” Hildy said, urgently. “Joe, most these women can’t drive. How are we going to get them out of here?”
“Help might come soon. Maybe Lying Man, some of the other men.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
Joe shook his head. “I don’t know, Hildy. I don’t know.”
“I’ll help.” The albino man stepped forward. “There’s some men, cars left here. We can caravan the people first, come back for possessions later.”
“Don’t trust this man,” said Ruth, vehemently. “This woman either. They want us to leave our homes so they can steal everything. A man protects what belongs to him, Joe. That’s what your father is doing. That’s what Henry would be doing, if he were here.”
“Mother, please,” Joe tried to explain. “You need to be safe.”
“I trust them,” said Hildy. “Allen and Mary.”
“You’re all fools,” said Ruth, quietly. “I will be in my house. I will not leave my house.” Spine erect, moving as languidly as if she were hosting tea, Joe watched his mother leave.
“Don’t worry, Joe,” said Hildy. “She’ll leave if Father says leave.”
Joe looked blankly at Allen, not quite able to focus. But he could feel his own fear rising, taste bitter smoke in his mouth.
Magic City Page 24