by Randi Pink
Dorothy Mae stopped moving and shielded her eyes for a better look at the plane’s underside. “Dear God,” she said simply.
“Get everyone out!” Angel yelled as she pushed past her.
Angel followed by Isaiah followed by Muggy followed by Dorothy Mae burst into the sanctuary to let everyone know that the one place they all thought they could be safe was about to be destroyed.
MUGGY
Muggy followed closely behind Isaiah, taking in all of the skeptical eyes scrutinizing his every move. Who did they think they were anyway? Looking at him like he was some sort of criminal. They had so much more to worry about than him. And they wondered why he’d hardened. They should hold a mirror to their noses, and they’d see why.
Then he looked again and began to question his own intuitions. He saw Timothy Tate consumed with wrapping burns and lesions. He saw George Morris tending his father’s blistering feet. He must’ve been hurried from his home without shoes. Everyone busy with the hope of survival. Maybe they weren’t scrutinizing him at all. Maybe, just maybe, they were looking to him for leadership, direction. He lifted his chin, ready to leave all of the hurt behind and step into that role.
“They’re about to bomb the church!” Muggy announced before Isaiah had a chance to. “Everyone needs to get out.”
Expecting pandemonium, he braced for the rush, but no one moved a muscle.
“Isaiah,” someone said from the thick of the congregation. “What’s happening?”
Isaiah shoved Muggy aside and began his own eloquent speech. “The airplane above”—he pointed to the sky—“is circling. Angel spotted its target to be most likely where we are standing now.”
An audible gasp ran about the audience. The gasp Muggy himself had expected when he’d announced the same impending event just moments earlier. Isaiah would’ve denied the attention. Maybe he didn’t even notice it, Muggy thought, but Isaiah was always favored by the people of Greenwood. They loved Isaiah while they loathed him. Daily incidents like this had been happening since they were children. Slights from the hands and mouths of those who should’ve believed in him.
When they were very small, Muggy mimicked Isaiah’s charming head tilts and his annoying usages of ma’ams and sirs, but it didn’t work. Everyone saw through Muggy. His own father told him to stop being such a follower. To think for himself. To use his head for more than a hat rack.
His father beat him with the relentlessness of a prize-fighter until he wasn’t a follower anymore. And when Muggy turned mean, his father grinned and bragged about his leader of a boy. Strong, he’d called him. Now that his father had beaten the weak out.
The thought of his father made Muggy’s blood boil. He’d hung on every flawed word he’d told him since childhood. Even the most outrageous dodging of rules and responsibilities. But looking around the sanctuary, he saw his mother stood alone.
His father had ducked out before the massacre altogether by disappearing with one of his mistresses the night before. Muggy and his mother knew the drill of it. Take over the butcher shop for a couple days while he took the train down to the coast alongside a woman with no name.
“Take care of your mom,” he’d tell Muggy with a tip of the hat. “Be back in a few days.”
But he shouldn’t have to take care of his mom. That was Muggy Sr.’s job, after all. But his father benefited from the title of “married man.” The delicious meals from a loyal wife. The beauty of a well-run home by a well-dressed spouse. But when the town burned, he was nowhere to be found, likely catching wind and sipping brown with she, her, whomever.
Muggy’s mother stood near the organ, poised and seemingly not frazzled at all. Posture was one of the only weapons in her arsenal, shielding her from town judgment associated with a cheating husband and mischievous son.
Watching his mother standing near the choir stand, he knew she’d been punished enough. By him and by his father and by this town, surely she had. As if sensing his gaze, she lifted her hand to wave at him and held hand to chest with pride, and she mouthed something to him. There was no way to hear over the scrambling crowd, so he elbowed his way to her.
“I’m proud of you, son,” she said, calm and easy in the midst of the free-for-all. “So proud. You speak like a revolutionary.”
“They didn’t listen to me.” Muggy looked to his feet. “They hate me, all of them, and they should.”
There was no room left for phony bluster or unfounded arrogance. Raw truth was all that could be spoken in times like these. Besides, she likely knew all of this. She’d always been a watchful woman. Never one to step in and fix the broken things. The type to instead wait for those around her to come to their senses and change themselves. An admirable trait if she’d married a better man. A man like Isaiah’s father had been, or like Angel’s, or Dorothy Mae’s. Even dead they were better than his own.
“You’ll have the opportunity to make it up, son,” she said with such dignity. “We need to go before what happens happens.”
The church had nearly cleared with the exception of the Mothers of the church waiting too patiently for someone to help them along.
“Go on ahead, Mom,” Muggy told her. “I need to get these ladies out.”
One by one, Muggy guided the Mothers along the aisle, through the foyer, and down the front steps.
“Stop biting your fingernails, boy,” said Mother Williams as they slowly made their way along the maroon carpets. “Release hold of your worries.”
Muggy hadn’t realized he was doing it. It had been a habit he picked up long ago, and it showed up now only when he was terrified. He looked down at Mother Williams’s wrinkled hand as she squeezed his.
“There’s time for you yet,” she told him. “Still yet time.”
He led her to the bottom step, and Dorothy Mae took her over to the rest of the Mothers.
In that moment, he felt more connected to Greenwood than ever before. Not because he was wealthy or well-off, but because he was in the trenches with them. All of them, from the Mothers to the smallest of children. He stood watching them as they fluttered around one another. Even in the face of destruction, the ingenuity, the kinship of Greenwood folks reigned. And finally, he was a part of it.
After the last person was assisted, Muggy joined Isaiah, Angel, and Dorothy Mae, who’d congregated a few houses down from the church. They were in active debate when he showed up.
“The school will surely be next,” said Angel with expressive, flailing hands. “This whole place will be gone by morning; the school’s as much a target as the church.”
“Don’t say that,” injected Dorothy Mae with much hurt in her voice. “You don’t know that.”
“She does,” said Isaiah. “She’s right, and you know she is.”
“Oh!” Angel spotted Hattie’s father, huffing after what seemed to be a lengthy run. “This is Hattie’s father. One of the girls from the patty-cake circle,” Angel told Isaiah. “Why have you come?”
“We’re … going to the field.” He panted between words. “We saw a group headed down there until they stop their burning.”
Isaiah spat on the ground. “They told us to go to the field—why should we go where they say we can go?” he asked. “They don’t own us. We’re free! We could go clear across the world if we wanted to.”
“Look around you, Isaiah,” Angel told him. “Look at our mothers. Their mothers! We need to help them survive the night before we even think of revolution. There are people in the town still sleeping. Think of them first, not us.”
“I passed whole streets of folks who haven’t yet awakened,” said Hattie’s father. “There’ll be lots of death by sunrise.”
Muggy looked up at the circling plane and wondered why it hadn’t yet dropped the bomb through its open shaft. Then he caught sight of the bronze church bell atop Mount Zion Baptist. Framed with brick and glowing orange from the reflection of flames, it called to him as the answer.
His mother had told him he’d get hi
s chance to make it right, and the shining bell was the way. Muggy knew he himself had been burning Greenwood from the inside, long before the white men showed up with their torches. One neighbor at a time, he’d sown so much discord that there was only one way to gain penance, and looking above, the opportunity was fleeting.
“Go to the field,” he told Isaiah, Angel, and Dorothy Mae. “Take everyone there and survive. That’s all that should be done on this night. I have an idea for those still sleeping.”
Isaiah stepped forward in protest. “Whatever you’re planning, I’ll help you.”
“Isaiah,” Muggy said, holding Isaiah’s face in his palms. “You’re better than me. By leaps better. You know it, I know it, Angel Hill certainly knows it,” he said in her direction, smiling. “Dorothy Mae, you do, too.” Their attention was briefly taken by the sound of the menacing plane above. “Let me be better,” Muggy said. “For this night only, let me be better.”
Grudgingly, Isaiah nodded and let him go.
Muggy scanned the crowd to find his mother and ran to her. “Mom!” he called after her. “Mom! I need to tell you something.”
She narrowed her eyes, reading something within him. “What are you about to do?”
He smiled at her quiet wisdom and kissed her on both cheeks. “I love you, Mom. I really, truly do.”
“I love you, too,” she replied, sensing a dangerous reflex in her son. “Please don’t.”
She couldn’t know what he was about to do, but still, she knew to tell him not to. He grabbed her into a tight hug and ran back into the church, taking the steps three at a time, all the way up to the bell tower.
ALL
Angel, Isaiah, and Dorothy Mae joined Isaiah’s ma to tell her they were going to the field. Isaiah’s ma had become a facilitator of sorts; everyone looked to her for instruction and direction.
“Everyone,” she said over the chaos. “The only safe place left is the field. We have to walk, so if you’re able-bodied, find someone who isn’t and help them along. I need nods from everyone! George, you take Mr. Morris in the bike…” And she went on assigning specific townspeople to specific jobs.
Isaiah and Angel watched the crowd nod to her command and march toward the field. Dorothy Mae walked ahead to check in on her own family, who thankfully was still intact. Her father and mother got out unscathed with the clothes on their backs, and her younger sister had the presence of mind to grab the comforter and light blue, fuzzy doll from atop her bed. Isaiah and Angel watched as her whole family held their arms wide and embraced her upon approach.
“That’s nice,” Angel said, almost to herself. “Some families are still one.” She looked over at Isaiah with full eyes. “That’s hope.”
Isaiah wrapped his left arm around her, allowing her to relax into him for support. As they briskly walked, they held one another, stealing a moment to breathe in what was left of the now-unbreathable Greenwood.
“I love you, too, by the way,” she said into the nape of Isaiah’s neck. “I wondered if I’d have a chance to tell you that. I love you with all of my heart, Isaiah Wilson.”
With the Mothers of the church being carried, the crowd walked slower than Isaiah and Angel would’ve preferred. But they would not disband. This was their community now, and community stayed together regardless of circumstance.
Angel glanced back at the church, but she could only see the top of the bell tower glistening like a beacon. Then a figure inside grasped the rope and began ringing the bell louder than it’d ever been rung before. The slow-walking crowd of townsfolk all looked up to investigate the noise, and then, as if in concert, looked up to see the plane drop even lower over the church.
“Muggy,” Isaiah said. “No!”
Isaiah released Angel from their embrace and tried to run back to Mount Zion, but he was stopped by Deacon Yancey.
“Let him do what he’s meant to, boy,” Deacon Yancey said, his voice deep with emotion. “And you do what you’re meant to.”
Isaiah easily pushed around the deacon, but he was then halted by Vice Principal Anniston.
“Deacon’s right, son,” Vice Principal Anniston said. “Let him be.”
It was harder to pull himself around the vice principal, but once he did, Mr. Morris, held up by his son George, protested as well.
“You will not interrupt what that boy’s doing up there,” he told Isaiah with so much force he nearly fell backward. “He’s made up his mind to ransom what’s left of his time to save the multitude. No greater love than that.”
As the bell tolled, the Mothers began to sing again.
“There is no greater love,
There is no greater love,
There is no greater love,
No greater love.”
Angel then stepped alongside Mr. Morris, silently in agreement. And then, with heavy tears, Muggy’s mother joined the stand.
“No greater love,
Than a man would lay down his life for a friend.”
As the bell continued to ring and the plane circled still closer as if warning Muggy of his impending death, the town sang on.
“No greater love,
No greater love,
No greater love.”
Isaiah knew they were correct, but his heart stopped still.
“We have to walk on,” Isaiah’s mother announced.
The townspeople did as they were told, but didn’t stop singing the three words, no greater love, over and over again. This time, Angel wrapped her comforting arm around Isaiah and led him onward. Heavy feet led Isaiah for blocks, and he began to think the plane wasn’t going to drop the bomb. Maybe, just maybe, it had all been bluster from above and Muggy would survive.
As he walked on, Isaiah realized Muggy’s bell was working. Porch lights ticked on one by one as they passed what had been dark houses, and whenever a curious nose cracked open the door, someone from the crowd would yell, “Greenwood is burning! Greenwood is burning!”
And someone else would yell, “To the field! To the field!”
All broken between the chants of no greater love, the tolling of the bell and the humming of the plane’s engine.
Muggy Little Jr. had already saved more lives than likely anyone else within the town. His idea was a brilliant one. His execution, perfect. The courage that it took to drag that heavy rope back and forth with death closing in on him, Isaiah couldn’t fathom it.
The town would never recall Muggy’s misdeeds now, no matter how horrible. His mischief paled in comparison to the bravery he’d exhibited this night. Mr. Morris was right to stop him, Isaiah realized. Muggy needed this moment. Deserved this moment.
With the field finally in sight, Isaiah and Angel smiled at one another. They’d made it. All of them, together, from the Mothers to the tiniest children. They filed into the field, mostly with no earthly possessions, but grateful still somehow.
But their brief beam of hope was darkened by the sound of the bomb dropping atop the Mount. The townspeople gasped in unison, and Isaiah yelled out.
Isaiah couldn’t tell the difference between sunrise and Mount Zion exploding.
FRIDAY, JULY 1, 1921; 1 MONTH LATER
ANGEL
DIGNIFY AND GLORIFY COMMON LABOR. IT IS AT THE BOTTOM OF LIFE THAT WE MUST BEGIN, NOT AT THE TOP. —BOOKER T. WASHINGTON
Angel sat, bandaged and sewn, in the middle of a circle of giggling girls. Reading the saved copy of The Secret Garden to them aloud. Ages ranging between six and ten, the girls didn’t find the book depressing at all, like Isaiah had. They instead reveled in the descriptions of place and person.
Every one of them hung on Angel’s every word, and every few pages, one of their tiny hands would shoot into the air with advanced questions. Angel was proud to sit in that circle, discussing that which she loved and saved with them. To carry them away to better places than this. Tell them to close their eyes and imagine smells and sights and sounds of The Secret Garden. Then, like clockwork, one of the girls would interject …
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“Do you love Isaiah Wilson?”
“He’s cu-u-u-ute!”
“I like his eyes!”
“I like his whoooole face!”
Angel, as if dangling a juicy apple in front of them, would whisper to them, “I like his whole face, too.”
“OoOooOo!!!!!!” they’d say. “Angel’s in love!”
And she’d lose them for a giggling while. They were so young, Angel thought. Displaced and lost, but still whispering and chuckling about the cuteness of a boy. Angel smiled at that. Hope, she thought, in the midst of what some might see as hopelessness.
One of the girls pointed at Isaiah in the far left corner of the field.
“What’s he telling them? I wonder,” Truly said to the circle of girls.
“Probably how beautiful his Angel is,” Hattie said, laughing. “She’s all he talks about, after all.”
As they went on whispering, Angel began to wonder, too. Isaiah stood postured before a group of ten men. He spoke expressively, and they looked up to him like a congregation looked to its pastor.
“He’s not talking about me, girls,” she said to them. “But he’s saying something important, that’s for sure.”
She beamed in his direction.
ISAIAH
I BELIEVE IN LIBERTY FOR ALL MEN; THE SPACE TO STRETCH THEIR ARMS AND THEIR SOULS; THE RIGHT TO BREATHE AND THE RIGHT TO VOTE, THE FREEDOM TO CHOOSE THEIR FRIENDS, ENJOY THE SUNSHINE AND RIDE ON THE RAILROADS, UNCURSED BY COLOR; THINKING, DREAMING, WORKING AS THEY WILL IN A KINGDOM OF GOD AND LOVE .—W.E.B. DU BOIS
“The world we live in now, gentlemen, will not be our world for long.” Isaiah forced an invisible rod in his back to straighten it before ten men much older than him. “We’ve seen what life is supposed to be for men and women and children and families. For humans. We’ve tasted glory. Peace. Held them both precious in our slippery hands, and we will grab hold of them again, men, heed my words.