Belle City

by Penny Mickelbury

  Loud shouts and the sound of breaking glass caused Beau to stop in his tracks and lift his head. He was practically at the mouth of an alley he'd not have seen otherwise, for the darkness down that alley was complete and total. He took a hesitant step forward, arms outstretched, like a blind person in an unfamiliar room. He brought to mind the sketch he'd drawn of the area. The alleyway really was a driveway behind the buildings on parallel streets, residential on one street, commercial on the other, but both so poor that little light would spill out from the buildings because there was no electricity here. If the inhabitants were lucky, there'd be a kerosene lantern. If not, wax candles would light their way. Six steps into the alley and Beau could make out structures on either side, but no light was visible in any of them, not necessarily surprising on the residential side: It was after midnight, and people who didn't earn a living working the work that the night offered were asleep. Beau turned his attention to the right side of the alley, creeping forward slowly, step by step, arms moving from side to side. Suddenly he saw dim light ahead, and heard the tinny sound of radio music. And saw the Belle City Police Department car parked in the mud beside a grime-covered Packard roadster that he knew belonged to a hoodlum named Ollie Smith and which hadn't been driven in months because Ollie, his reputation as a high roller notwithstanding, couldn't afford to put gasoline in it.

  Beau stood still, his breathing shallow, while thoughts bounced around in his head until they formed a plan. With the knife in one hand and the lead pipe in the other, he hastily circled the police car, slashing all four tires. Then he slashed Ollie's tires, as he saw his plan gain clarity. He planned to kill Gilbert Edwards as soon as he showed his face, but he had experienced a moment of trepidation when he tried to imagine the firestorm that would erupt when a white man—a white policeman—was found murdered in a Colored neighborhood. The thought of Ollie Smith being the Colored man called on to explain the situation almost made Beau smile, but the levity was momentary as angry shouts ruptured the still darkness. It was him—Gilbert Edwards. He was drunk enough that his words were slurred, but the vile hatred that he'd spewed at Beau now was directed to a woman whom he was dragging into the alley by her hair. He cursed her. He threw her to the ground and kicked her. She tried to stand, but he knocked her down, and as she tried to crawl away, he kicked her again. The he turned away from her and, drinking from a bottle, he staggered toward his car.

  "Somethin's wrong," he muttered as he approached the car. "Wha's wrong?" He got to the car and leaned heavily on it. He bent over to look at the tires and fell into the mud and mire. "Goddammit!" he roared. "Goddamn niggers! I'll kill you. I'll kill every one of you ugly..."

  Beau was behind Edwards and whispered in his ear, "You won't kill nobody, and you won't hurt nobody, not ever again."

  Edwards whipped around and when he did, Beau hit him with the lead pipe, and as he dropped to his knees, he looked up, surprise and recognition in his face giving way to snarling hatred. Before he could speak, Beau kicked him in the gut, just as Edwards had kicked the woman, except Beau kept kicking him, and then he no longer was in a filthy alley in East Belle City but back in the prison work camp being forced to wallow in mud and slop for the amusement and entertainment of the prison guards who wanted to see the Colored pigs "do what comes nat'rally." Beau kicked and kicked. Then he bent forward and grabbed Edwards by his shirt front and pulled him into a sitting position. His head rolled from side to side as he struggled to open his eyes. Beau hit him in the face and blood gushed out of his nose. Beau hit him again, and kept hitting him, neither man any longer feeling pain—one because his body was dead, the other because his spirit was.

  "Hey! Hey! Who you? Get on 'way from here 'fore Mr. Gilbert find you up next to his police car. He won't like that none atall. Go on, now. Git!"

  Beau dropped to his knees, as much from exhaustion as to disappear from sight. A weak lantern light had illuminated a tiny circle around the man who'd called out, but there wasn't enough light for him to have seen anything more than the shape of a man. On his hands and knees in the mud, Beau wretched as he felt around for his knife. He didn't care about the pipe—anybody could have a lead pipe—but the knife was distinctive. Beau had taken it from a German soldier who had tried to kill him. The two soldiers had rolled around in the stinking mud, grunting and growling, their hands too slippery to grip or to hold anything—a man or a knife—and the German had dropped it when Beau gave him a head butt. Beau had grabbed it and shoved it into the German's gut, lay beneath him while he died, then rolled away, snatching the knife as he did. This mud this night was not as deep and not nearly as putrid as that French mud those long years ago, and this night Beau was not afraid. He found his knife, struggled to his feet and lurched toward the mouth of the alley. He did not look back.

  He could see the glow of the streetlights ahead of him and knew that he could not walk there in his condition. He'd passed a horse barn and his nose led him to it. There'd be a trough inside, and buckets. The owner would wonder in the morning at his horse's sudden great thirst, Beau thought, as he scooped out water and poured it over himself. He made sure to get the mud out of his hair and off his face and hands. He couldn't see himself, but he could feel when he was free of the thick, cloying goo. Because it was July, it was as hot at night as during the day, so his hair and clothes dried a bit as he made his way out of the alleys and dead ends back to the main street and a trolley stop.

  He kept his head down as he walked, waiting for a feeling of some kind to present itself as it had—quite suddenly—after he had made Tom Jenks pay for what he'd done to Nellie. He hadn't expected to feel anything. He knew where the man would be and when. He watched and waited and attacked when the opportunity presented itself. He made sure Jenks saw him and knew who he was so he'd know why he was about to die. Afterward, he felt an enormous relief, as if some huge weight had been lifted. But he felt nothing as he walked away from the dead Gilbert Edwards, not relief or excitement or satisfaction.

  ***

  – Belle City –

  Ruthie and Jonas

  Neither Audrey nor Grady wanted Jonas to go to Belle City to talk personally to the Colored workers who'd be making the weekly journey under the auspices of the newly formed Belle City-Carrie's Crossing Transportation Committee, quickly dubbed by Ruth the BCCCTC. It was, they said, too dangerous. Jonas argued that if it was dangerous for him, it certainly would be dangerous for the Colored people they were trying to convince it was safe. "We can't have it both ways," he said, deliberately ignoring the real source of their fear, the reason neither would say out loud: Jonas would be meeting with Mack and Ruthie and some thirty-five maids, butlers, chauffeurs, and gardeners at the Baptist church most of them attended. What Audrey and Grady didn't know was that Jonas was no stranger to Belle City's Colored communities, that he'd been driving in and out of them for close on fifteen years.

  Jonas wanted to tell them that he, a white man, was safer in their parts of town than they ever would be in his, but then he'd have to explain how he knew this and that he could not do. The only thing bothering Jonas was the fact that he did not like churches—any of them. He belonged to the First Baptist Church of Carrie's Crossing at his wife's insistence. He went under duress, the Sunday morning service merely the beginning of his least favorite day of the week, since after church they made the obligatory journey to her parents' house for Sunday dinner. It was bad enough he had to endure her parents, but to also endure her two brothers, their wives and children was too much though, thankfully, Horace Jr. rarely attended because he usually had to work on Sunday. But to make bad matters even worse, now Jonas had to shelter JJ from the stupidity of his mother's relatives.

  He pulled into the parking lot behind the Friendship Baptist Church eleven minutes early. He knew where the church was because he knew this was where Ruthie had gotten married, though he'd never acknowledged that fact to any one. He parked his Packard sedan next to an identical one and, after his surprise abated, he surmi
sed that it probably belonged to the pastor, until he saw that the parking spot labeled PASTOR was empty. His question was answered when the church door opened and Mack stepped out. It was Mack's car. They walked to meet each other and Jonas got another surprise. He'd only ever seen Mark dressed in his work clothes—either the overalls, flannel shirts and well-worn boots he wore while on a construction site, or the khaki pants, jacket and shirt he wore to meetings or bid openings. Today he was dressed like the pillar of the community he obviously was in a suit, shirt, tie and shoes the excellence of which rivaled Jonas's own. New York haberdashers were doing great mail-order business in Belle City.

  "Thank you for coming, Jonas," Mack said, extending his hand.

  "Thank you for making it possible, Mack, you and Ruthie. I don't doubt for one minute that the people inside are here because y'all told 'em it was all right to be here and that it would be all right—and safe—for them to come to the Crossing to work, and I do appreciate it." He gave a sideways grin. "So does my wife, even more than me."

  Mack held the door open and Jonas stepped into a long, cool hallway. He could hear the low murmur of voices coming from one of the meeting rooms near the fellowship hall, knew because this church—all Baptist churches, he thought—was laid out like the one he attended. The front door was for church service; the side door was for meetings, social gatherings, fellowship, though he doubted that any pastor, Colored or white, would call what was about to happen here "fellowship." He wasn't sure what exactly it was, but he knew the information about this evening's meeting, in the wrong hands, would spell trouble for all the participants, which probably is why the PASTOR space in the lot was empty. It did speak well of the man, though, that he allowed the meeting to take place in his church, and it made clear how highly Mack and Ruth McGinnis were regarded.

  Jonas thought that since he'd spoken to Ruth, since they'd had a relaxed and warm conversation, that he'd have no particular reaction to seeing her. He was wrong. At the sight of her, the breath caught in his chest just as it had done all those years ago when he first saw her. She was more beautiful now—still tall and lean and bronze but now with the poise and elegance of a grown woman. Her hair was gathered at the base of her neck in a bun. She wore a suit that only could have been handmade. Audrey had told him that men could order designer suits from New York and have them fit. A woman, she said, could not. Clothes had to be tried on, and even then, adjustments had to be made. Or—and this was Audrey's preference—start from scratch with a good pattern and a talented seamstress. Judging by the suit Ruthie wore, the seamstress was extremely talented. Nobody looking at her would imagine that she'd borne five children, the oldest of whom was sixteen years old.

  The circle of people that was surrounding her shifted, and she looked up and saw him. She smiled warmly and walked toward him, hands outstretched. "Jonas. How wonderful to see you. Thank you for coming."

  He took her hands in his. "I'll tell you the same thing I told Mack: I'm the one should be doing the thanking since you're the ones doing the favor."

  "We should get started" Jonas heard Mack say; he'd forgotten the man was there.

  "Yes," Ruth said, "if we want to be finished before it gets dark." And they did, all of them, want to be finished and gone before night fell. A young man approached them and both Ruthie and Mack smiled at him. "Jonas, this is our oldest son, Mack McGinnis the third. Mackie, this is Jonas Thatcher from Carrie's Crossing."

  "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Thatcher," Mackie said, extending his hand.

  Jonas took it, momentarily speechless as he looked directly across at the boy, he was that tall, and very good-looking; he looked more like Ruth's side of the family—looked a lot like Beau as a matter of fact. "I'm pleased to meet you, too, Mackie. I've got a son—he's still just a little fella—but when he grows up, I surely do hope he's as fine a young man as you are."

  Mackie gave a slight smile and ducked his head. "Thank you, sir," he said and, like a much younger child, he grabbed his mother's hand and pulled her along with him to the meeting room. She hadn't wanted him to be here, but Mack had thought it important that he see what she was calling an historic moment. The BCCCTC was an unprecedented organization, and if they could get it off the ground without anybody being killed, surely it would be an unprecedented and historic event.

  Some fifty people sat quietly in the meeting room though Jonas knew they probably felt anything but quiet inside themselves, expected that their insides were roiling too, just like his. He was standing on a slightly raised platform behind a podium. He gripped it with both hands so the audience wouldn't see them shaking. Public speaking was not his strong suit. In fact, he'd never done it before. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said and was startled when a lively chorus of "good evening" came back to him. "My name is Jonas Thatcher, and I live in Carrie's Crossing."

  "You any kin to Silas and Beau and Ruth Thatcher McGinnis?" somebody called out.

  "We grew up on the same land," Jonas said, knowing that the older members of the group would understand his meaning. "Little Si—you know him as Dr. Silas Thatcher—and Ruth and I played together as children. Their folks didn't like that, and my folks didn't like it, but we were friends, and we spent time together whenever we could. We fished and hunted, picked berries and climbed trees and talked about what we were going to do when we grew up." He looked out at the faces turned toward him. "Sometimes friends can be closer to you than family, and when I was growing up, Ruth and Little Si felt closer to me than my own brother and sisters."

  "Y'all still friends?" somebody else called out.

  "Of course we don't see each other like we did, but when I called Mack and Ruth to ask for their help, they agreed right away. And when they told me I needed to come over here and talk to y'all in person, I agreed right away. I'd say that's how friends treat each other."

  Murmurs of assent floated through the crowd, and several people asked Mack and Ruth directly if Jonas was telling the truth about the friendship; when they responded in the affirmative, the crowd settled and returned their attention to Jonas. He explained the proposal and how it would work. He answered questions, and he asked a few. Finally he said, "I know it's not a perfect plan, but if it works, we can add to it. Right now, it's only for the live-in help because the pick-ups are on Monday morning at six o'clock and the return is Friday evening at six o'clock, in the parking lot of the Episcopal Church on Ashby Street. And here's something for you to think about while you're thinking about what happened to Sadie Hill: We've got a list of everybody who's participating. I have a copy and Mack and Ruth have a copy. We know who's working where. I also have the word of every person on that list that nobody will ever do what was done to Sadie Hill." He looked at the list in his hand and called out three names: "Miz Ernestine Smith, Miz Ruby Johnson and Mr. Samuel Johnson. If I could make your acquaintance, please?" He went out into the audience to meet them and shook their hands. "I'm pleased to have y'all working for me and my wife, and I'm also pleased to tell you, Samuel and Ruby, that you will have your own, private quarters in a separate structure on my property."

  When the clapping stopped, Mack read the list of drivers who would make the first trip on the following Monday morning, and the names of those who'd ride with each driver. "We know that many people want to do day work, want to be able to ride the street car or drive to work in the morning and come home in the evening, and we are still talking to the police chief about how we can make your journey safe, and how we can make sure that what happened to Beau Thatcher doesn't happen to anyone else—"

  "You won't have to worry 'bout that," a man called out. "He won't be doin' that to nobody else." And at Mack's confusion and lack of response, the man added, "That's 'cause he dead. The one put Beau on the chain gang—he dead."

  More applause, this time louder than before, and Mack had to work harder to restore order, a task made more difficult by the look on Jonas's and Ruthie's faces. "How do you know that?" Mack said. "Is that just some gossip? What's
your name, sir?"

  "I'm Leroy Patrick and no, indeed, that ain't no gossip. My brother is the janitor at the police station and he told me. They found the man's body early this morning over in the Fourth Ward. Beat to death."

  The energy in the room shifted so suddenly that Mack had to yell to be heard. "Monday morning at six o'clock in the Episcopal Church parking lot. If you're gonna work in the Crossing, be there on time." Excitement carried the crowd out of the room. Mack hurried over to Leroy Patrick, took his arm, and pulled him aside. "Can you tell me everything you know about what happened to that police officer?"

  "Yessir, Mr. McGinnis, and I swear it ain't no gossip. They say he got kilt some time last night, but they didn't find him 'til early this mornin' on account of where he was: In a alley over on the East Side, a place so rough the rats and roaches is scared to go there. It's a place for gamblers and 'hos and cutthroats, a place where that Officer Edwards used to go pract'ly every night."

  Mack was astounded. "The police chief knew Edwards went to a place like that?"

  Patrick nodded his head. "My brother said they don't bother him too much 'cause his pappy is a rich man. Only reason they got after him for what he did to Beau Thatcher is 'cause the man Beau worked for is even richer."

  "Do they know who did this thing? Did your brother say?"

  "Yeah. Pimp by the name of Ollie Smith. And one other thing: They can't find where he lives, that policeman. The place where he told 'em he lived, the woman there said she ain't his wife and he don't live there."

  Mack thanked the man and hurried over to Ruthie and Jonas. Mackie was there with his arm around his mother. Mack didn't want him to hear what he had to say but at this point, it couldn't be helped. He told them what he'd learned, and Ruthie began breathing again at the news that perhaps Ollie Smith had killed Horace Edwards, Jr., but Jonas still was ghost-white.