by Randi Pink
Isaiah peered over to the group Muggy had just pointed out. These were the same boys who’d broken Angel Hill’s belongings. Minding their business, they were not. That much was so apparent, and Isaiah couldn’t understand how Muggy didn’t notice it, too.
ANGEL
With two blocks left to walk, Angel’s upper arm was nearly numb from Michael’s weight. Small but solid, he was beginning to feel like a stack of heavy books, and she longed to shift him to another shoulder. Also, his baby sweat shone through his tiny clothing and now began to saturate her school shirt. She quickened her steps; he needed cool.
With one and a half blocks remaining, she heard her name again. “Angel, Angel!” Mr. Morris called out from his porch swing across the sidewalk. Angel knew his voice without seeing him. He peeked over his own impressive garden, filled with blooming pink evening primrose and freshly popped basket flower. Mr. Morris was one of her favorites of Greenwood. So very kind and patient, he’d recently retired, passing on his wood-carving shop to his eldest son, George.
She waved to him with her free hand and smiled. “We’ll stop back by another time,” she said. Mr. Morris nodded along, but she wasn’t sure he’d actually heard. Decades of close-up work with machinery had taken with it the majority of his hearing.
He wore blue overalls and a newsboy cap, and he smiled with all his teeth. “See you when I see you, little lady!”
Angel was beginning to realize a quick stroll through Greenwood might not be feasible. Everybody knew everybody, and Angel with sleeping Michael on her shoulder, on a school day no less, was fair reason for investigation. She quickened her steps even more. Past the manicured lawns, budding flower beds, and monstrous magnolia trees shading bits of sidewalk; then she finally reached Deep Greenwood, the business district.
Relieved to see the rim of town, she slowed her stroll to take in the red-and-brown brick buildings along the busy strip. The finest of restaurants, clothiers, grocers, hardware shops—all owned by families she knew. Walkways filled by tailored men with dainty ladies holding on to their right elbows. Black, brilliant, self-sustaining Greenwood Avenue was proof that Booker T. Washington was correct about tolerance and eventual progress. He’d called it “Negro Main Street,” which was in all ways apropos. Greenwood’s success always brought to mind a famed quote of Washington’s:
Success always leaves footprints.
Angel saw Washington’s wisdom throughout Greenwood. She also saw it in the railroad tracks, dividing white Tulsa from Black Greenwood. Those tracks were ever present in the consciousness of those on both sides. Unfair, of this there was zero doubt, but Washington gave permission to thrive alongside in segregation. And booming Greenwood proved him correct, rest his soul.
Michael burst awake as they entered the crowded drugstore and soda shop. An interested procession of questions greeted Angel, but now she didn’t mind at all.
“Why aren’t you at school, Angel?”
“Mrs. Nichelle’s really been catching it with this sweet baby boy, hasn’t she?”
“Did God send you straight from heaven, child? You truly live up to your name. Cokes on the house.” Mrs. Williams had placed an ice-cold cola in Angel’s free hand, and Michael was happy, cooing in the coolness of the storefront.
When Dr. Owens walked in the door, Angel immediately felt tension in her low gut. He was one of the only residents in the district who knew the extent of her father’s condition, and she in no way wanted to discuss it. Greeted by soda-shop patrons at every step, he slowly made his way toward her table.
As Greenwood was concerned, Dr. Owens was as close to a famous person they had. A dapper man, always pressed and buttoned beneath his crisp lab coat. His unaffected smile never left his cheeks, making them plump, shiny, and youthful. He breezed through the town like a wide-winged bird. Unattached and without public conquests, he was the most desirable and classy of bachelors. Angel liked him enough, but since her father fell ill, all of his likability melted away. Now he was only the bearer of bad news.
“May I sit?” he asked her.
“You may,” Angel replied, trying hard to give the impression that she most certainly did not want him to sit without being overly rude.
He pulled up a seat and spread his infectious grin ever further across his face. “How do you get him so calm?” he asked of Michael. “Every time he visits my office, the whole town can hear his cries. You’ve turned him into a reverie.”
Angel stroked Michael’s upper back with gentle, frustrated hands. “He’s upset because he senses exactly this—the town’s rebukes of him. We wouldn’t speak so judgmentally of the temperaments of an adult; why does everyone feel so free to speak illy of a child? Let alone one also who cannot yet speak for himself. Anything could be bothering him. An itch he cannot reach, a sneeze he cannot release, a foul smell he cannot stand.” She smiled and lifted him into the air. “He loves me because I dare give him grace.”
After her speedy rant, Angel grasped the doctor’s long silence and looked up at him to see concern on his usually jovial face.
“Angel,” he started finally. “How are you holding up?”
This is exactly why she didn’t want him to sit across from her that day. A wonderful doctor he was, that much was undeniable, but he meddled too much in feelings and emotions he knew nothing about.
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you,” she replied stiffly. “Why do you ask?”
“Your father…”
“Anything else I can get you?” Mrs. Williams said only to Dr. Owens, forgetting completely that Angel was sitting there.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” he replied to her, smile re-plastered on his face.
Without asking, Mrs. Williams pulled out the third seat and leaned in close to Dr. Owens. “My daughter is coming back from Spelman for the summer months,” she said softly before peeking around to make sure no one else could hear. “She was first runner-up in the beauty contest this year. Did you know that?”
He grinned, but Angel could tell it was empty and rehearsed. “I think you’ve told me that a time or two, yes.”
“She’s mighty sought after, Doc.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied again. “You’ve told me that, too.”
While they spoke, Angel slyly tightened her grip on Michael and guzzled the remainder of her Coke.
“Thanks for the drink, Mrs. Williams,” she interjected, but Mrs. Williams waved her away. “See you soon, Dr. Owens.”
Dr. Owens attempted to stand, but Angel held her hand out to stop him from doing so. “Next time,” he started. “We need to have a real sit-down, sound good?”
Rudely, Angel didn’t reply to that at all. Instead, she scurried out the door and toward home.
Angel took the long way and stayed close to the railroad tracks to avoid Mrs. Tate and, surprisingly, had run into no one. An extra-long passenger train passed, car after car after car. She always paused to revel in the beauty of trains, especially this kind—deep burgundy with opulent golden swirls. This train was mostly first-class and only available for whites, so she’d likely never tour the inside. This was as close as she could get, a timely peek here and a perfectly placed glance there. She could almost catch a glimpse of exquisite ladies in large, feathered hats walking the length of the cabins. In a particular light, she could see the dining car, her favorite, with smooth white tablecloths, laughing patrons, and stainless-steel towers of tiny biscuits in the center of each table.
Michael began to coo at the train, and Angel smiled. “I know, little man. It’s mighty beautiful, isn’t it?”
Again, he cooed and added a sweet smile along with it as the final box car rushed by them.
When she was small, her father had told her to always wave at the caboose of a train until it was completely out of sight. He’d told her it would bring her good fortune and the best of luck. For that reason, no matter what was happening, and no matter how foolish it made her look, she’d wave frantically at the backmost train car.
So she stood, feet planted, saying goodbye to the fleeting, exclusive, out-of-reach train. Just like that, it was out of sight. Gone and on its way to a place not Greenwood.
After this, she went straight home to find out if Mrs. Nichelle had come looking for her.
“Hey, Papa,” Angel said to her fragile father. “Mrs. Nichelle been by?”
“Not today,” he replied with a labored smile. “Good thing she’s married to the vice principal or else I might be worried about you playing hooky on the second-to-last day of school. Didn’t you have a big Latin test this morning?”
“Like you said,” Angel said. “Good thing this little guy’s father is my vice principal. Besides, Mrs. Nichelle was really catching it this morning.”
“I’m sure she’s grateful,” he said, wincing as he shifted himself on the couch.
“Anything I can bring you before I go back next door?”
“Just want to sit with my favorite girl for a while,” he replied in broken breaths.
When he lifted his arm, he nearly tilted off the couch. Angel leaped to stop him from crashing onto the living room floor; she’d caught him in time, but Michael lunged on her hip and began to scream. He reached his tiny fingers for her father’s cheek, and when Angel stopped him, he began wailing even more.
“Give him to me,” said her father, who was hardly able to lift his own arm without flinching.
“You sure?” she asked. “You’ve been feverish lately.”
“I think I can handle seventeen pounds pretty well,” he said with a labored chuckle. “Come here, little man.”
An unseen energy came over her father as the boy fell into his arms. Angel felt her heart break a little as she watched him bounce the baby on his tired, skinny knee. It must’ve been excruciating and exhausting to bounce like that, but her father did it with joy all over him. A similar joy came over Michael, too. He stopped flailing as soon as he sat with her father.
“See?” said her father. “He knows that I’m about to leave this place.”
“Papa…,” Angel tried interrupting, but her father wouldn’t allow it.
“Let me finish,” he said calmly. “Children this age can tell who’s coming and going soon. You ever notice that babies gravitate to expecting women? It’s the same thing. They remember what we’ve forgotten.”
“Papa,” Angel started. “God’s going to bring you out of this. I just know it.”
Angel’s father’s breathing quickened. Then, after much thought, he said, “You know what? I agree with that with my whole heart.”
Angel watched them, grinning at each other as if they were sharing a secret, and it hit her that she and her father were talking about two different types of deliverance. She meant healing, while he meant death.
She lifted Michael from her father’s knee. “You need rest, Papa,” she told him before walking back out the door.
“Did you see the sky today?” he asked her. “And yesterday, too?”
“I did see that,” Angel replied.
Her father smiled, but it didn’t reach his tired eyes, not even close. “A warning. Something’s coming.”
Angel watched his eyes slowly blink as if every one took away energy he didn’t have to spare. “Rest now, Papa.”
As she left her own dreary living room and looped her own backyard, Mrs. Nichelle ran outside to find her. “My God, Angel, I’m so sorry. I’d just closed my eyes for a minute, and I fell asleep by accident.” She eased the baby from Angel and hugged her too tightly. “You’re an angel, truly. I’ll call Jack, I mean, Vice Principal Anniston, and let him know why you’re so late.”
“Anything you need, Mrs. Nichelle,” Angel replied. “Now, I have to get to school before I miss it altogether.”
“I can walk with you!”
“No, ma’am,” she said, picking up her thick stack of books from her front porch. “Baby boy has been in the heat all day. He’s worn out and calm. Enjoy the quiet while you can.”
She jogged toward school with a wave.
Her high school was nearly a half mile away, but the walk was flat with new walkways and freshly popped purple verbena everywhere. The sunlight had been pulling them out for a while—all bright and warm—telling the underground bulbs that it was the ideal time to reveal their beautiful faces to the waiting world. They reminded her of another quote from her favorite orator, Booker T. Washington:
Success in life is founded upon attention to the small things rather than to the large things; to the everyday things nearest to us rather than to the things that are remote and uncommon.
Washington spoke directly to her tender heart with such axioms. He packaged his activism in tolerance, a method highly superior to the likes of W.E.B. Du Bois, whose so-called action would only lead to more destruction. Washington, unlike Du Bois, was wise, patient, and calculating in his strategies of eventual change. Much like the sun teasing out verbena, Angel thought, Washington believed in the gentle power of waiting his turn. She was glad her high school donned his brilliant name.
She did, however, question. When she stood staring at burgundy boxcars with golden swirls that she could never see on the inside, she questioned. The blaring injustices and inequalities she’d learned about in history class, the stories and warnings from her father, the plight of her distant relatives. Angel was not naive; she certainly questioned. Never aloud, but on the quiet inside, doubt ran through her mind as quickly and as often as those fancy, untouchable trains ran along the Frisco tracks.
ISAIAH
“I can’t right now,” Isaiah whispered to Muggy. “I have a Latin test.”
“It’s Mrs. Greene,” Muggy said as if Mrs. Greene weren’t a real teacher who could give a real failing grade to both of them. “She’s my father’s best customer. We can throw a bit of extra bacon in her bag this Thursday or something. Come smoke with me. I’ve got to tell you about Dorothy Mae.”
Nothing within Isaiah’s body wanted to hear about Dorothy Mae or Frances or any other one of Muggy’s conquests. Isaiah wanted only to take the Latin test. He’d studied hard for many days. He wanted to ace it as he knew he would, but in the same way Mrs. Greene would likely let Muggy slide, Isaiah couldn’t say no to him, either. He hung his head and followed Muggy out to the back bleachers for a smoke.
Muggy slashed alive a matchstick before they even left the inside of the school and lit his fat cigar until it sizzled red at the tip. Puff, puff, puff, and then Muggy passed it to Isaiah.
“Here,” Muggy said, smiling and proud. “Take a taste of that. My father brought it back from vacation last week. Well, what he calls vacation.”
A hint of sadness flooded Muggy’s usually overconfident countenance, so small only Isaiah could see it.
“All right?” Isaiah asked, not wanting to say too much. Muggy was a spitfire on edge whenever he brought up his father.
“All right,” Muggy replied without seeming upset. “I know what everybody’s saying about us. I’m not as stupid as you all act like I am.”
“Muggy, I…”
“Know what my father told me when he got back this time?” Muggy asked as if Isaiah hadn’t interjected. “He saw us walking together, me and you, and had the gall to tell me I should be a little more like you.”
“I…”
“Isn’t that just a hoot? Because when I was younger, he told me I should be like him. And you and him couldn’t be more different.” Muggy paused for a moment. “What is a son to do with such a father?”
After that, Isaiah knew better than to say anything else about it. Muggy’s father was as successful a businessman as Greenwood had to offer, but he was also a notorious double-dealer, with both his butcher business and his family.
He flaunted women freely throughout the district. Shamelessly embarrassing his demure wife and, Isaiah was now realizing, his son, too. While Muggy mostly spoke positively of his father, these rare moments of doubt were becoming more common and more apparent to Isaiah. Muggy was beginning to disapprov
e of his rogue father’s fraud.
It was a strange position to be in, Isaiah thought. Wedged uncomfortably between an outwardly buoyant best friend’s lifelong denials and a town’s relentless gossip. Greenwood chattered about Muggy’s father from as far back as Isaiah could recall. A crook, a shyster, fast-talking know-it-all, they’d called him. But above all, they labeled him a horrible husband, which was a source of irrevocable shame in Greenwood.
In the district, some men philandered, quietly stepping out on knowing wives in the dark of night, terrified of consequence. But Muggy Sr. was brazen. Uncompromisingly cheating. Grinning with all of his teeth as he grabbed ahold of a young, dainty willing hand while walking up and down Greenwood Ave. He relentlessly made his widely desired wife look both a fool of a woman and a victim to be rooted for. Isaiah long thought Muggy’s father was the fool for not appreciating and respecting such a woman.
Muggy’s mother stood up straight, and Isaiah couldn’t recall a single wrinkle in her wardrobe, not one in the decade and a half he’d known her. She was easy to smile but never on his level. Her chin held a steady posture high in the air like a gazelle. And on the rare occasions when she was seen with her husband, she made him look like a shrimp of a man. Sad, short, and wider than he was tall. He wasn’t on her level, either, and maybe he knew it. Maybe that was the point.
She’d taken the brunt of the Greenwood gossip since she dared to stand tall alongside a spouse so unworthy. But to look at her, no one would know she was affected. Isaiah recalled Muggy once justifying his father’s public cheating as his mother’s fault.
“If a man steps out,” Muggy had long ago told Isaiah, “don’t look at the man himself. Look instead at the man’s wife. God punishes such a woman with eternal sadness and shame for not satisfying her husband.”