One of the Good Ones

by Maika Moulite

“What else is there to check out here anyway?” Derek asks me.

  “Genny mentioned there’s an ark or something,” I say quickly. Anything to stop thinking about my terrible performance. And Santiago.

  “Sheesh. First Jonah’s whale and now an ark? We’re definitely in the Bible Belt.”

  Derek and I head down the path in the opposite direction from the blue whale. There’s a gift shop not too far away that looks like it hasn’t been renovated since Hugh Davis made his anniversary present. There’s no paint covering the narrow logs that stand vertically to create the walls of the store. The no-nonsense decor of the shop screams that it is here for function and not form. Donate to the establishment or keep it moving.

  The pathway is still neatly trimmed as we move farther away from the main attraction. Even so, it gives the impression that, one bad week, and the place will be overgrown with vegetation, an invasion of untended grass and untamed weeds reverting the grounds back to their original state before there was any blue whale or mildly interested tourists.

  We follow a bend in the curve, and there’s no missing the massive structure that is the ark. Derek and I step closer, and the signs of rot spring into focus. I can see straight through the hundreds of small holes of decay that dot the wooden planks of the boat. It gives the impression that dozens of animals with unevenly sized eyes are staring right back at us, watching our every move. Or that someone used this place for target practice. The single string of white fairy lights draped around the ark in an attempt to make it more inviting only serves to highlight the neglect of what a sign has listed as the “Animal Reptile Kingdom.”

  “Oh I see what they did there,” Derek says.

  We peek our heads inside the now glassless windows and view signs with arrows of various sizes strewn across the floor, useless directions on how to reach the now-defunct attraction. The chunks of wood that have disintegrated look as if they’ve been chewed off.

  “Um. Do bears eat wood?” I ask Derek.

  “There are no bears here, Happi. We’re too close to the highway. Besides, what we should really be concerned about are the alligators.”

  “Gators?!” I say and take a quick step back.

  There’s an overgrown tree root I don’t notice until it’s too late. The heel of my right shoe somehow gets wedged beneath it, and I start to go down. My arms spin like a rogue windmill but still, Derek lunges to catch me. His grip on my arms is firm and, luckily, I don’t fall, but my shoe is stuck staunchly in place. I unintentionally shift all my weight on Derek for support, leaning into him. I look up to say thank you, but the words get lost on my lips. We’re so close that I can see the light blue ring around his dark brown eyes. We used to stare into each other’s faces as kids to try to show each other the “pretty parts” of our eyes. Before we knew better.

  “You always did have gray around your irises,” Derek says so softly. He must remember our childhood game too. But there’s nothing childish about the look he’s giving me now.

  “Finally!” a familiar voice shouts. Derek and I pull away from each other like we’re standing near a too-hot stove. My traitorous shoe has now sprung free.

  “We’ve been looking everywhere for you two!” Ximena says. “We’re gonna get some food from that taco truck and then get back on the road.”

  “Great!” I’m practically running I’m moving so fast, to put some distance between my and Derek’s moment. I ignore the look of puzzlement on Genny’s face as I rush past her and try my hardest not to trip over my feet again.

  * * *

  It isn’t long before we’re back on the road. I don’t know what that was between me and Derek, and there’s no way I’m going to unpack it in the back seat of a car with my oldest sister driving. I set my book bag on the seat between us for good measure. There.

  When we arrive at Montgomery Baker’s Filling Station and Museum, it looks like a snapshot taken in decades past. The two gas pumps are tall and rounded with a giant sticker placed on the front of each that reads MB Gas in large letters, with the silhouette of an old-fashioned car emblazoned in the background. The nozzle to pump the gas is placed high on a hook ready to fill the tank of any car, thankfully. I bet you could use it to travel through space and time if you lifted it at precisely the right angle.

  The sound of our car dying as we putter into the station must be kismet. Genny pulls the key out of the ignition then sticks it back in and twists, but the engine doesn’t start. She tries again and nothing.

  Genny climbs out of the car and stands in front of one of the pumps, trying to figure out how it works. Upon closer inspection, she groans aloud and sticks her head in the Mustang through the rolled-down driver’s seat window. “The pumps are just for show, y’all.”

  “Ugh,” I moan. “That’s just cruel.”

  Just as we get out of the car, an old man approaches us.

  “I’m sorry, kids. We got rid of the actual gas part of the station about twenty years ago. It was so expensive to keep up, and it was either this or the museum. Business just isn’t what it used to be.”

  Derek slides down in his seat in distress.

  The dark brown skin of the man’s scalp glistens under the late morning sun. He has a straw hat that he promptly plops onto his head, presumably to protect from the harsh light. The white tufts of hair that poke out of his ears make him look like a cartoon teapot puffing steam.

  “You can try asking for a gentleman named Richard at SaloonEd a little ways away,” he says apologetically. “They always have extra gas to keep their generator going. They should have more than enough to spare.”

  “Thank you, that’s perfect,” Genny says. “We actually have in our schedule to spend time at your establishment this morning. Since we’re already here...”

  The man straightens up and claps twice.

  “Well, in that case! Welcome to Montgomery Baker’s Filling Station and Museum,” he says, waving his arm in a grand gesture to show off the sign above the building. “I’m Dwight Baker. Where are y’all visiting from?”

  “We’re from Los Angeles, but our adventure started out in Chicago,” Genny says with a smile. “We’re on a road trip along Route 66. Or any other road we accidentally find ourselves on, to be honest.”

  “Now, isn’t that something!” Dwight says. “It’s rare that I get people taking the entire journey on the Mother Road. Or what’s left of it anyway. Come on inside and get out of this heat.”

  We follow Dwight into the station and see that the interior has been completely remade into a full-fledged museum. We each go our separate ways to explore. Lining the walls are pictures of Black families who stopped to refuel on their cross-country road trips. Replicas of old treats from back in the day are safely stored inside glass boxes with ten-cent labels lying next to them. As I stroll around the museum, there’s no avoiding the two large signs placed high on the wall amongst pictures of grinning babies and Oklahoma landscapes. Whites Only. Colored Only.

  I’ve made almost a full circle around the museum when I come across a photo of a grinning man wearing round glasses. His kinky hair is cut close on the sides but stretches into a rounded bouffant at the top of his head.

  “That’s my father, Montgomery Baker,” Dwight says as he stands beside me. He’s holding his straw hat in his hands as he smiles up at the picture. “He took that photo the first day he opened up this place. It was a few years before I was born, but he would talk about it all the time.”

  “He was a handsome man,” I say.

  “Oh yes.” Dwight nods. “MB Gas was his pride and joy. And he had to make sure that he presented himself as respectable when he opened this gas station. There weren’t too many Black business owners round these parts in Oklahoma in 1950.”

  Genny, Ximena, and Derek walk up to where Dwight and I stand admiring the photo of Dwight’s dad.

  “My father’s gas station was on
e of the only stations available to Black people in Edmond. While white folks could travel safely throughout the state, and the entire country really, it wasn’t the same for Negroes, as we were called back then. Oklahoma in particular had many sundown towns, and you’re standing in one of them.”

  Derek looks down at Kezi’s notepad. It’s his turn to read her messages. “Kezi mentions sundown towns here, but she says we should ask someone at the museum to explain.”

  “Kezi?” Dwight says. “Who’s that? The name sounds familiar...”

  “A friend,” Derek says with such finality that Dwight doesn’t ask any follow-up questions.

  There’s a moment of awkward silence, then Ximena asks, “What’s a sundown town?”

  “Well, sundown towns were places where Black folks weren’t welcome after dark. As soon as the sun went down, if a Negro was found out and about, it wouldn’t end nicely for them. The person could be subjected to anything from intimidation to lynching, depending on who they were unlucky enough to come across.”

  “Wow,” Ximena whispers.

  Dwight nods. “Yup. Imagine my dad running this store and having to close up before evening came. My mother used to get worried sick waiting for him to get in. Not only would it be unsafe for him to be caught outside at night, but any other Black person who might have been looking for a place to fill up would be in grave danger too, if they happened upon here after he was gone for the day.”

  “I can’t believe things really used to be like that,” I say.

  “Believe it,” Dwight replies. “Sometimes it feels like nothing has changed... But I guess that just means we’ve got to keep fighting the good fight, doesn’t it?”

  Genny clears her throat. Bites her lip briefly.

  “Mr. Dwight... Could you please point us to the bridge? I think you know the one.”

  His eyes widen and he shakes his head furiously. The ripple of anxiety that radiates from the older man is as tangible as any of the artifacts he’s shared with us. My chest tightens in response. There’s nothing so contagious as fear.

  “Oh, no, I can’t—you don’t need to be going there—”

  “Sir. We do. It’s very important we make this stop,” Genny says politely but firmly. “It’s for personal reasons.”

  Mr. Dwight’s face falls. “Lord. If you’re telling me your family was trying to come here back in the day... I want you to know my daddy would have stayed open later if he could’ve,” he whispers. “He had no choice—”

  “Sir, we would never blame you or your father,” Genny says.

  He shakes his head again. Ximena and Derek look as confused as I felt until I saw the distress on this man’s face at the mention of a local bridge. My family’s history collides at once as I remember that Kezi isn’t the only family ghost.

  I realize what it means to be where we are. Edmond. Oklahoma.

  Genny waits.

  “It’s just a ten-minute walk from here if you head east,” he says in defeat. “Right across from the restaurant I mentioned, where you can find Richard to get some gas.”

  We thank Dwight for being a lovely host and leave some cash in the donation jar he has at the front of the museum as we head out.

  We walk in silence. Genny sighs occasionally, as if she’s trying to release some of the heaviness following her conversation with Mr. Dwight. I think about whether or not things have really changed for people like us. If you had asked me a year ago, I would’ve replied, absolutely. But life after Kezi’s death is different. I know we’ve made advances. Not acknowledging that would be a slap in the face to those who have worked so hard to improve our society. But we have a hell of a long way to go. It’s like I’d been walking around with blurry vision, thinking that fuzzy trees were the norm. And then someone finally decided to slam a pair of glasses on my face and force me to see the world for what it was. The clarity is sickening.

  The bridge is unimpressive. There are five pairs of thick towers holding up the weathered main cables on each side. The crisscrossed suspender cables lead your eyes down to the wide deck they hold up. Looks sturdy. It must be, to have carried the lifeless weight of a grown man. To carry the far-reaching calls of justice, or at the very least, revenge for the lives of all who were lost here. To hold the missing remorse of the hordes of people who witnessed these lynchings and saw them as only something to keep Negroes in line, or an entertaining spectacle.

  Genny takes the now-wilted bouquet of flowers she carried in her backpack and splits it in half, then into quarters. She hands a bunch to each of us. Derek, who knows our family almost like he knows his own. Ximena, who has become family. And me, who is trying to catch up. Now it makes sense.

  “Kezi wanted us to take this time to do a little introspection,” she says. “Whatever you want.”

  We spread out instinctively, each of us clutching our roses. Genny bends her head, eyes closed. Ximena looks far into the distance, not focusing on anything in particular. Derek eyes the railing suspiciously.

  I stare down into the water. Look away when the splashing of fish near the surface distracts me. Are these the descendants of fish that would crowd around a fallen body in interest? Maybe—No. Nope. I can’t. My stomach can’t take where my mind has found itself. I walk over to Genny, and she smiles faintly.

  “How about we do this together?” I ask, letting the wind carry my voice away.

  “Yeah.”

  “Joseph. Um. Great-Grandfather Joseph?” I pause. “We’ve never met, obviously, but... I know you? If I think about it, you kind of shaped our entire childhoods. The number of times I heard Mom and Grandpa Riley—oh, that’s just Riley to you—talk about what a wonderful father you were. How you gave your wife red roses every week. You were just as playful as the kids you raised until you couldn’t anymore... The grown folks never went into the gritty details of what happened on this bridge, but we all know, don’t we? It broke Grandpa’s heart. But when he finally put it back together, when Grandma helped him do that, and they moved forward with their lives together...you were always there.”

  I stop here, giving my sister space to speak.

  “You said it all,” Genny says, eyes shining.

  24

  FOR NAOMI SMITH.

  MOTHER OF KEZI. A LETTER.

  WRITTEN MONDAY, APRIL 16—1 DAY BEFORE THE ARREST

  Dear Ma,

  When I started this assignment for my AP Human Geography class, I had no idea I would end up falling headfirst down a rabbit hole of discovery. I’ve learned about myself, our family, and our history. And because I didn’t want to hoard all of this newfound knowledge, I’ve been working on a little something I’d like to share with you.

  Growing up, you taught me, Happi, and Genny about what happened to Grandpa Riley’s father all those years ago. And while I knew the story, it wasn’t until I dug into this project that it felt like more than just a distant tale. You spared us the details as children because there’s no manual for sharing such an ugly truth. But as I moved deeper into my research, there was no more hiding from what happened to Great-Grandpa Joseph. It was murder, and that no one was held accountable for it is an injustice that has no name.

  I remember when Grandpa Riley died two years ago, you mentioned that he was finally at peace. And I didn’t understand at the time. That was something you say when someone’s suffered with an illness for a long time, and Grandpa Riley passed away suddenly from a heart attack. But now, after these weeks of learning how he was forced to grow up so quickly and forfeit the new life of opportunity that forever remained just outside of his grasp, I finally understand what you meant.

  That kind of loss is one that sits with you for an eternity, a heavy blanket that constricts just as it comforts. Because you can’t ever truly cast it aside. Doing so would mean that you are forgetting the person that you’re mourning. Wouldn’t it? Grandpa Riley carried that weight around wit
h him from the time he was eight years old until the day he died. It informed who he was as a person. And whether he was aware of it or not, he passed a little bit of that on to you. How could he not?

  You’ve stressed the importance of education because you learned from your father how it can open doors to spaces you could only dream about. And how when that door is slammed in your face, its impact can reverberate long after it’s shut. All I want to do is make you proud. To reach the heights I know I’m capable of. To show that despite it all, we can not only survive but thrive.

  I want you to know that I’m so grateful for you, Ma. You’ve raised your children with love and discipline. But I’m learning progressively each day that there is more to life than following rules and obeying orders. I have to go tomorrow. I can’t remain seated while another family endures what ours has already endured. I want to fight for their justice, even as I know your grandfather never got his.

  Love,

  Kezi

  25

  RILEY

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 1955—

  62 YEARS, 7 MONTHS, 13 DAYS BEFORE THE ARREST

  EDMOND, OKLAHOMA

  “Riley! Hurry up, child! We’re already runnin’ behind!”

  Momma shouting from the front door where all the neighbors could hear meant she was serious, so he zipped through brushing his teeth and splashing water on his face in the bathroom. Last-Minute Riley, that was him. Riley ran to join his family outside, taking special care not to bump into any of the boxes marked “fragile” as he went. The house was all packed and he and Debbie had taken turns rocketing through the home moaning like ghosts, because their voices finally had enough space to bounce off the walls. Poppa even joined them in haunting last night, the gloomiest specter of them all with that white sheet over his head. Momma had made them share one among the three of them. (Riley and Debbie were pleasantly surprised she’d let them use any.)

  It would’ve been too hard to move everything with just Ma to help and three kids. So Poppa was driving them all the way to Oklahoma to his brother, Uncle Frank. They would stay with Uncle Frank’s wife, and Uncle Frank and Poppa would head back here to gather what was left behind.