Belle City

by Penny Mickelbury

  Grady Allen stepped out of his Cadillac as they approached, excitement lighting up his face. It faltered and faded when he saw the grim expressions of the two younger men. "What's wrong? What happened?"

  "Mack here was just telling me how there's not so much of a New Deal in his part of Belle City."

  "No," the banker said, "I imagine that's true."

  Knowing that he had to change the mood, and quickly, Mack straightened himself and gave his head a patrician tilt. "I think I'll start calling myself Mack Roosevelt since I'll be starting my own new deal," he said, imitating the President's distinctive drawl. "Between building your bank, Mr. Allen, and renovating your house, Mr. Thatcher, I'll be putting enough men back to work to make a difference to a whole lot of families."

  They looked at him, at first not certain what he was talking about and then, their faces and manner still very serious despite his attempt to inject a bit of lightness and humor, they both nodded.

  "I hadn't thought about it that way, but you're right," Grady Allen exclaimed. "You can't build a bank by yourself or renovate a house by yourself. You have to hire men to work for you." He kept nodding his head. "Good. Good." Then he walked a few steps away from them and pointed toward the empty field adjacent to the school. "That's where I was going to put the bank. But down the road, what, Jonas? A quarter mile? Turn right and that's where Jonas owns a few parcels. Bigger than this one, actually, when you put 'em together." The old man seemed to be talking to himself, thinking through ideas and plans only he knew about.

  Mack began walking up the road. Jonas followed for a few steps, then halted as Mack turned around and came back to them. "That's where the new WPA road is coming from, isn't it? And where it'll connect to the old Colored Town Road?" And when he got confirmation of what he already knew to be true, Mack suggested that would be a better place for the bank. "When that road is built, all kinds of cars will be coming through, some coming here to the Crossing, others going on through to BC, but all of 'em riding right past your bank. Right here, next to the school, nobody will see it but the people who already live here." Mack stopped talking. He knew what he said made sense, but the decision wasn't his and it didn't matter to him where the man wanted to build his bank. What suddenly and overwhelmingly mattered to Mack was whether he could, actually, really and truly, build it. He knew he could build a house—any kind of house. But a bank. What had he gotten himself into? Why had he said he could build a bank when he'd never done such a thing? Suppose he couldn't?

  "Next Monday morning, nine o'clock, Mr. McGinnis," Grady Allen said, "will you come to my office at the Belle City bank? And bring your drafting pad?"

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Allen," Mack said, knowing it was too late to say anything else.

  "Good, because we're going to design ourselves a bank. And Jonas? I'll need something from you saying I've got permission to build a bank on your land and what you intend to charge me for the privilege."

  The man shook their hands, got into the backseat of his car and appeared to think no more about them as he immediately began reading a newspaper. Chauffeur Tom Jenks tipped his hat in their direction, got behind the wheel, and drove slowly away. Mack let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. "Do you have a surveyor's map of that land, Jonas?"

  He nodded. "It's at home. You have time to go look at my house now?"

  Mack nodded and they walked back to where their vehicles were parked. Mack got in his truck, Jonas got in his Packard, and they drove to the house that had been home to them both and to give Audrey Edwards Thatcher the shock of her life.

  "I didn't think he was paying any attention to me at all, Mr. McGinnis, when I'd talk to him about what I wanted to do. I thought he was ignoring me." Audrey was more excited than Jonas had ever seen her, which made him almost sorry that he hadn't thought to call Mack months ago. Jonas followed behind the two of them as they walked around the house, back to front, front to back, twice, three times. Mack readily agreed that yes, it was possible to add an enclosed porch to the back of the house from top to bottom, that it would pose no difficulty to open the back of the house to receive the addition. It was when Mack suggested adding wings to either side of the house and creating a formal entry hall at the front that Audrey all but swooned. She jumped up and down like a little girl, happiness pouring from her like water from a spigot. She could discuss her plans for the house for the next hour. Jonas could not.

  "I've got to get back to the office and to the store, Audrey. You and Mack can make your plans and fill me in later."

  Mack was so startled he couldn't speak for a moment. He quickly gathered his wits and addressed Audrey. "Let me make some drawings, Mrs. Thatcher, which I'll send to you for your approval. You'll be able to write on them, tell me what you like, what you don't like, until we come up with a final plan." He looked at Jonas. "Is that acceptable?"

  "Of course," Jonas said, not hiding his annoyance with Mack.

  "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Thatcher."

  "I'm thrilled, Mr. McGinnis. When can you get started?"

  "As soon as you all approve the plans and give me the OK." He shook her hand and followed Jonas down the front steps and around the house to the back where their vehicles were parked and then released his anger. "Don't you know you can't leave me in your house with your wife, Jonas? What were you thinking?"

  Jonas was totally confused. "What's wrong with you, Mack?"

  Mack was furious. And frightened. "I'm a Colored man. She's a white woman—and your wife. That's what's wrong with me."

  As it dawned on Jonas what Mack meant, his steps faltered and he tripped, almost falling. Mack caught him, steadied him, and they looked at each other, each man seeing the other as they had that night long ago, Mack the man on the inside of the house with a wife to protect, Jonas the interloper standing outside.

  "I didn't think...nobody would," Jonas said. "Audrey's... she's not that kind of person, Mack, to say...things."

  Mack had heard from Ruthie and her family for years how Jonas was not like other white men, had heard it and even had seen evidence to prove the point. However, he couldn't believe that even if the man didn't behave like his brethren, he didn't know where the perils and pitfalls lay. "Don't forget the kind of man your father-in-law is," Mack said and hurried to get into his truck and be on his way before Jonas left.

  Jonas was too shocked to move, not even when Audrey came running down the front steps, hurling herself at him. This time, he was stone to her bubbling excitement.

  "What's the matter, Jonas? And why did Mr. McGinnis leave like that?"

  He told her and was surprised when she understood immediately. "I didn't even think about that. Poor man. Whoever would do such a thing? Make up a lie just to get somebody in trouble?"

  "The lies don't just get 'em in trouble, Audrey, they get 'em lynched. As for the who: Your ma and your pa would do such a thing. Your brothers."

  "No, Jonas, they wouldn't. I don't believe it."

  He told her what Horace had done that very morning and then left her standing there in the chilly morning air while he went to confront the man who was her father, the man she loved more than she loved her husband, and he wished that she had come with him when Horace's first words were, "Did you leave that nigger in the house with my daughter?"

  Jonas hit him then, punched him right in the nose, and was glad that Audrey was not with him. Blood spurted and Horace fell to his knees, cursing and crying. Jonas wanted to hit him again, but he wanted more not to have to be in the man's presence any longer. "Get up, Horace, and wash your face so we can talk about who's going to build the dormitories for the construction workers. But I tell you, I've got a mind not to do it. Just not to be bothered."

  "That's too much money to let go, Jonas. The rent, the groceries, the furniture." Even gushing blood, Horace Edwards didn't lose sight of money-making opportunities.

  "And if I do lose it, it'll be your fault. The McGinnis proposal was the best one and you know it. These
?" He snatched up the two remaining bids and waved them at Horace. "They're not worth a depression nickel." He threw the papers on the desk and they flew into the air and toward the floor. "What materials they gonna use? What's the start date? The completion date? What are the payment dates? Penalties? None of that stuff is in here, Horace."

  "Is it in the...other one?" Horace asked, struggling to get to his feet.

  "Yeah, it is. All that and more, including a couple of different drawings of what the buildings could look like, letting us make the choice."

  "Then get him to give it to you. My man can build it from his plans."

  Jonas grabbed Horace by his shirt front and hauled him to his feet and pulled him in close, not caring about the dripping blood. "You get two proper bids in here by tomorrow this time. We got to have that housing built by the end of March." Jonas released the older man and pushed him away then Jonas turned and headed for the door. "I'm going to the store."

  "Why'd you do it, Jonas?"

  "Do what?"

  "Ask him to bid. Why?"

  Without turning or answering, Jonas walked out, closing the door hard, and trying to find an answer. The right answer. Why had he invited Mack McGinnis to bid? Most likely because he remembered Beau and First Freeman talking about what a master builder the man was. If he were honest with himself, he'd have to admit that it certainly was not because he had any idea of the man's professional proficiency. Maybe it was about Ruth: She still haunted his memory and his thoughts. But no, it wasn't that. It was, he realized, that he thought he could get the job done more cheaply; that McGinnis, being Colored, would be so happy to be working that he'd do the job for less. He envisioned the dollar amounts of the three bids. Mack's was the lowest. He went back inside the office. Horace, wet towel to his face, was dialing the telephone.

  "When you talk to Jasper and O'Connor, tell 'em to knock fifteen percent off their bids," Jonas said. "And tell 'em it's your fault they're not making a killing on this job."

  "You're a bastard, Jonas."

  "Takes one to know one, Horace."

  From the Recorded Memories of Ruth Thatcher McGinnis

  What should have been a wonderful couple of years suddenly became nightmarish. Those two years—1936 and 1937—were the heart of the Depression for almost every Colored person in America, but for a precious few of us in Belle City, Georgia, those years began a period of prosperity, and if I'm honest, I have to thank Jonas Thatcher. When Mack was hired to build Carrie's Crossing's first bank and renovate Jonas's house, he was able to put to work, almost overnight, about twenty men. And the way we were looking out for each other back then, that meant forty families lifted out of poverty. Mack had to hire a subcontractor to help with the bank because he had no idea how to put a steel vault inside a building. The fella he hired was white and a much bigger contractor than Mack, but he was so grateful to have work that from that day forward, every job he got, he offered Mack work. Then, when people saw what he'd done to Jonas and Audrey's house, everybody wanted him to build or renovate their homes. He was so busy that he was away from home more than he was present, which gave me the opportunity to leave the school system on a positive note instead of an angry one, because I truly was angry at how we had been treated. I was able to resign, I told the superintendent, because I was needed at home, and I was. My Pa and Mack's parents were getting too old to keep up with young children. For that matter, there were days when I felt too old to keep up with them. By the end of 1937, we were financially set for life, Mack and me and the children. I should've know better than to expect it to last…no, it's not cynical, it's realistic. I'd experienced it—overwhelming good fortune, followed by excruciating pain and disappointment. Sorrow follows joy as night follows day. What? Lose our money? Oh, no. We didn't lose our money. That we could have withstood. Money could have been replaced. No, we lost…Sissy, please turn off the recorder now. I can't…that's enough for now, please.

  ***

  –Belle City–

  Ruthie

  It was times like this that Ruthie sorely regretted having left the structured and mandated order of Ashdale Elementary School for the absolutely unpredictable life of full-time wife, mother, and student. The wife and mother part were manageable, though she knew women who marveled at her ability to keep all six of those balls—five children and one husband—safely in the air. She had an excellent role model: Her mother, who'd managed a home of five children, a husband, and an uncle; a twenty-plus acre farm that usually employed a dozen workers; and was central to a community. No, the family and the home didn't pose a challenge for Ruthie. Completing a dissertation, however, was proving to be more than a mere challenge; it was a mountain that grew taller every day. She no longer knew why she'd ever thought she needed a Ph.D. And in French! She'd more than made good on her promise to learn the language—she was fluent—and she knew as much about the history and geography of the country as it was possible to learn from a book. However, since she'd had no contact with her brother for more than five years now and since it became less likely with every passing year that she'd be able to journey across the Atlantic Ocean to look for him, the pursuit of things French seemed an absurd one. But what else would she do with her time? All five of the children went to school every day, none more enthusiastically than Nellie, and Mack worked, ate, and slept.

  She was so relieved when the telephone rang that she sprung up from the desk and all but ran down the hallway to answer it.

  "McGinnis residence."

  "Good day, Miz McGinnis, and I'm sorry to bother you. This is Grady Allen."

  "Good day to you, Mr. Allen, and you're not bothering me at all, and I'm sure you want Mack, but he's not here."

  "No, m'am, it's you I want…"

  Ruthie sat down hard in the chair beside the telephone stand. The man's words and tone of his voice—Beau! "Mr. Allen! Beau? Is it about Beau?"

  "Yes, ma'am, it is. He's…I think you'd better come and get him. He's here at my house. And he's…not well, Miz McGinnis. He's sick."

  She wrote down the address Grady Allen gave her, along with his telephone number. Then she sat holding the handset until she heard the operator asking her to please hang up. She did, and still she sat. Her brain had ceased to function in a logical and linear fashion. Beau was sick. She had to go get him. She couldn't. What to do? Beau is who they all turned to when there was a problem—Beau and Mack. And now it was Beau who needed help and Mack was—she didn't know where he was.

  She forced herself to her feet and found herself in the kitchen. She turned around and went back to the phone. Pa would know what to do. She dialed his number but then quickly put the phone down. Pa was sick, too—something with his heart. He wasn't to get upset, the doctor said, and Beau being so sick that they had to go get him would surely upset him. Silas was in Chicago. Tobias! She would ask Tobias to go with her. She donned coat, hat and gloves, grabbed her purse and keys, and ran out of the house, then ran back in to get Grady Allen's address and was back out and in the car faster than she would have thought she could move. It reminded her of what Beau and Mack said about Sadie Hill the night they rescued her.

  "Beau. Beau. Oh, please be all right, Beau."

  The curtains were drawn at Toby and Belle's house, and a small stream of smoke drifted lazily from the chimney. It hadn't occurred to her to call first, but surely they'd be home; where else would they be? The barber and beauty businesses had been closed for years now, and, as she understood it, they didn't go to the gambling parlor until night. So, Toby would be home. She prayed that he would be home.

  Sadie Hill opened the door to her knock and each woman showed her surprise at the sight of the other. "Miz McGinnis. What you doin' here? What's wrong? Somebody is sick? Your Pa? Mr. Thatcher?"

  "Calm down, Sadie, please. Pa is fine. It's Beau—"

  "Mr. Beau! What's wrong with Mr. Beau?"

  "He's sick, and I need Toby to go with me to get him."

  Sadie stiffened and her expressive face, w
hich had, in the last few seconds, registered shock, joy, pain and sorrow, shuttered like a window in a storm. "Oh, I don't know 'bout that, Miz McGinnis."

  "There's nothing for you to know, Sadie. Tobias is my brother and I need him to help me bring Beau home. Now, go get him, please."

  Now her face re-opened and anguish is what was there, and shame. "You don't know 'bout how things is with your brother these days, Miz McGinnis."

  Ruthie snapped. "I don't know what you're talking about Sadie, and I don't have time to listen to it. Tell Tobias I need him right now. I don't care if he just got home from his gambling two minutes ago."

  At that moment Belle appeared behind Sadie, covering a yawn with one hand and holding a red silk robe together with the other, the nails of both hands and her lips the same siren red as the robe. "It's me just got home from the club, Ruthie, and what Sadie is tryin' so hard not to tell you is that whatever it is you want with Tobias, you can't have it because he's on the drugs."

  Ruth didn't understand and said as much. Belle yawned again, told Sadie that it was fine to explain it, excused herself, and left them standing there. Sadie hung her head and mumbled something, then lifted her head and repeated it: "He's a heroin addict, Miz McGinnis. Like them jazz musicians what you read about in the magazines."

  "That's absurd. Where is he? Where's Toby?" Ruth pushed past Sadie into the dark and heavily curtained living room. Jazz played on the radio and smoke rose in a spiral from an ashtray on the floor next to a big, overstuffed easy chair, in which Toby sprawled. Ruthie knew that it was Toby because it must be. What other man would be sprawled in the easy chair in Toby's living room? A room that looked and smelled like a...like a...gambling parlor.