Angel of Greenwood Page 12

  “But it doesn’t take all that long to realize with Mr. Morris,” Angel interjected. “He wears his virtuosity on his sleeve.”

  Isaiah rubbed the long neck of the now-shining bike. “This is a feat that I honestly never thought possible. Does it work?”

  “Give it a go,” Miss Ferris said, motioning to her flat backyard.

  “Coming with?” Isaiah asked Angel.

  She smiled in response. “You first. I’ll watch from here, thank you.”

  Angel looked on as Isaiah skeptically mounted the bike. He eased himself down onto the seat slowly, not wanting to give all of his weight before testing the seat. When he finally did, the bike gave off an apprehensive creak.

  “What on earth…?” he asked.

  “Never mind,” said Miss Ferris. “Just one single lap should tell us what we need to know.” She took a small pad and pencil out of her pocket. “Go on.”

  He placed his feet on the pedals. The first roundabout was shaky at best, but soon, it got better. Aside from squeaking and squawking, the bike rode beautifully.

  “Look,” he said after a few quick laps around the yard. “No hands.”

  Miss Ferris and Angel laughed at his childishness. Something about riding a bike could do that to a person. The wind blew his shirt tight to his chest, and he smiled with all of his teeth showing. What a lovely sight, Angel thought. And what a perfect moment in time. She closed her eyes and wished she could freeze it.

  “I’d say we’re done for the day,” said Miss Ferris. “Get home, both of you, before you miss the streetlights again.”

  Isaiah dismounted and held his hand out for Angel to grab. She thought of turning this gesture down. She stared at his hand. In Greenwood, holding hands meant something serious. It meant a relationship, exclusivity, and it meant they were going public. They wouldn’t get two houses before the grapevine picked it up and spread it across town. She didn’t know if she was truly ready for that or not.

  She peeled her eyes away from his hanging hand and locked eyes with him. He was beaming, just like he had been while riding the bike. Tired and dirty with tiny bits of wood stuck to his shoulders, hair, and cheek, he looked more handsome than ever. Filthy yet washed clean of nastiness. If this was Isaiah, truly Isaiah, she realized she might love him. She took ahold of his patiently waiting hand and walked to the gate.

  “Tomorrow and the next day, I’m helping with the Memorial Day float down at the school,” Miss Ferris called after them. “See you both back here after the holiday.”

  “Will you be dancing this weekend?” Isaiah asked Angel before the gate closed behind them.

  Angel’s palm was already beginning to sweat from Isaiah’s shared heat, and she could hardly focus on anything else. She’d never held hands with anyone before, not like this. In the books she’d read, holding hands was a romantic gesture reserved only for couples that wound up together in the end. But for the moment she’d been doing it, there was shared sweat and that was all.

  She glanced over at Isaiah, wondering if he felt the same discomfort. He seemed so much younger than he had in the past. Like an excited child, whereas before, he’d been projecting himself older. He and Muggy did that for many years—walked with elder hunches and hanging cigars.

  “What’s Muggy really like?” Angel asked, suddenly needing to know more about the connection between the two. “I mean, I know he’s mean as a snake to the likes of me, but what’s he like when he’s at his best? He can’t be only unkind. No one is that.”

  “He’s…” Isaiah took a moment to stare into the single cloud in the darkening sky. “I think he’s in pain a lot.”

  “Explain.”

  “His own dad is…” Isaiah paused. “You know. Not ideal.”

  Angel did know; everybody knew. Angel could vividly remember a Sunday afternoon, maybe three years back, when she saw Muggy Sr. smack a young waitress on the rear with one hand while holding Mrs. Little’s hand with the other. Angel remembered being mortified for Muggy’s mother. She also remembered everyone around her looking embarrassed for her, too. She couldn’t, however, recall Muggy Jr.’s face. And she certainly couldn’t remember anyone seeming mortified for him—his father’s namesake. Actually, Angel never considered that carrying a name of such a man might be hurtful. In her mind, she’d turned off Muggy Jr.’s capacity for pain. All of Greenwood had, except Isaiah.

  “And he’s, well, fun, I guess,” Isaiah said, seemingly realizing that Angel understood the brief reference to Muggy Sr. “When he’s not lost in mischief, he’s actually a lot of fun.”

  “Explain.”

  “Well…” Isaiah started swinging Angel’s hand back and forth like a seesaw. “It’s hard to explain. Girls don’t seem to need other girls in the way boys do. I may well be wrong about this, so don’t be mad.”

  “Not mad,” Angel replied, grateful he’d acknowledged the possibility of his wrongness. “Go on.”

  “I can…” He paused. “I could talk to Muggy about things I might have talked about with my dad. Things girls get offended by, but boys understand. Funny things. Silly things. Things I don’t dare tell you about.” He winked.

  That was the first time he’d mentioned his dad, and Angel caught the intense, new sadness in his voice despite his attempt to gloss it over. She squeezed his hand, just now beginning to feel comfortable holding on to it. For some reason, she hadn’t given the death of his father much thought. It was unlike her to overlook obvious areas of compassion, but with him, she felt off. Different in a way she couldn’t understand. More flawed, less easygoing, out of character. He stripped her down in ways no one else had.

  “My papa’s dying,” she told him, surprising even herself. “I haven’t said anything to anyone, not even my mama, who helps me take care of him. It’s just, I suppose, speaking about such things makes them live. Or no, that’s wrong. It makes them real. More real than his diminishing stature or his graying skin.”

  This time, it was Isaiah’s turn to squeeze Angel’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

  “I’m sorry about your father, too,” she said to him. “I did know.”

  “It’s not fair to lose a father,” he started, eyes glued to the ground as he walked manicured Greenwood. “I think it might be less fair to lose a mother—she’s life and death. But a father can make the difference between a thriving child and a struggling one. Actually, that’s another thing Muggy and I talked about. His own father works so much he’s never home. He gives Muggy money and cigars and whatever he asks for, but he refuses to give of his time. And he runs around on his mother quite a lot. Muggy is very angry about this.

  “My dad, though, he was everything good that a man can be,” Isaiah went on, this time with his eyes toward the sky. “Treated my ma like the queen she is. He wouldn’t let her lift a thing. Even skillets when she cooked. He’d jump up from the dining table and help her even when she didn’t need help. She deserves that still.”

  Angel could tell Isaiah’s mood had changed when his hand went limp. “Hey,” she said, trying to sound in high spirits. “We have two blocks left to talk about something happy. Tell me, what do you plan to do after graduation? What do you dream of doing?”

  Isaiah irately let go of her hand, surprising her. Following his gaze, she observed why he’d done it. Muggy Little Jr. and Dorothy Mae were sitting on old Mrs. Mable’s front stoop, awaiting their approach.

  ISAIAH

  Well-worn habits crept into Isaiah, threatening to overtake him. For a fleeting moment, instinct told him to deny Angel. Pretend she’d accidentally grabbed ahold of his hand in error or desperation. He felt a familiar mischievous smile sneak across his face, forcing itself on like a too-tight costume. Then he looked over at Angel. She’d noticed his hesitation somehow. Felt his shifted energy, and that snapped him back to reality.

  “May I?” he asked, again reaching for her hand.

  She glanced from him to Muggy, who was nearly doubled over with laughter. T
hen she locked eyes with Dorothy Mae, who wasn’t laughing at all. Actually, she looked about to cry. But Isaiah was grateful when Angel agreed to take his hand. So grateful, in fact, he pulled her hand to his lips and gently kissed it.

  Muggy halted laughing and began clapping slowly and quite dramatically. “Well,” he said. “Isn’t that just sweet.”

  “Move along, Muggy,” Isaiah said with an overpuffed chest. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “Do what, exactly?” he replied, chuckling like a child. “Disturb your romantic stroll home with your dancer?”

  “Leave them alone, Muggy,” Dorothy Mae said in a voice smaller than her actual one. “They’re just walking.”

  “What are you, blind?” he snapped at Dorothy Mae, who lowered her head in response. “This is no walk. This”—Muggy stuck an unlit cigar between his bared teeth—“is love. Black Angel love.”

  Isaiah, who was now standing right in front of Muggy, eased Angel slightly behind his body for her protection. Surely Muggy wouldn’t hit a girl. He’d never actually seen that side of him, but from the looks of Dorothy Mae, something was amiss.

  “Step aside, Muggy, I’m not playing with you.”

  “No,” he replied firmly. “You step aside.”

  “Gladly,” Isaiah said, happy to guide Angel around Muggy and Dorothy Mae, who now were blocking the path. But Muggy stepped closer to him. “I’m warning you. Don’t do this.”

  A protective fury Isaiah only ever felt in the presence of his mother rose inside of him. Angel’s hand squeezed his slightly, a warning, he thought. Or maybe fear, he couldn’t quite tell without looking at her, but he didn’t dare break eye contact with Muggy. To look away would be a show of weakness. Then Angel squeezed again, harder, so he looked away. And when he did, so did Muggy.

  In the commotion, Dorothy Mae had snuck to the nearest house—Mrs. Tate’s. The woman emerged from her juniper, curious and annoyed.

  “Angel, gal,” she said, her voice thick with disapproval, as she smoothed down her signature housedress and adjusted her bonnet. “What in God’s name are you doing with this lot? And you, Dorothy Mae Bullock. You gaining a dirty reputation all up and down these streets. Get on home now, girls, both of you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Angel and Dorothy Mae said in shamed unison as they headed in opposite directions to their respective homes.

  “And you two,” Mrs. Tate said, turning her full judgment on Isaiah and Muggy. “Running the streets like wandering willows, oughta be ashamed. My Timothy was never such a rascal as the two of you, thank the good Lord for that.”

  Muggy burst into laughter and then covered his mouth, his shoulders still bouncing.

  “And just what is so funny, young man?”

  Isaiah knew why he laughed. “Don’t you dare, Muggy,” he said. “You keep your filthy mouth shut and go home to your mama.”

  When Muggy looked into Isaiah’s eyes, he knew he should’ve kept his mouth closed. Now that he protested, Muggy would surely tell Mrs. Tate the truth about her beloved son.

  “I’ll go, ma’am,” Muggy said. “But before I leave, I’ll say this…”

  Isaiah knew him well enough to know that he was about to inflict pain upon Mrs. Tate. Isaiah should’ve punched him square in the face right then and there, but just like in the curtains the day he saw Angel confronted by the white boys, he froze as Muggy continued. “Your sweet, perfect boy is just as into whores as I am.”

  “Lies!” she spat like a stepped-on rattlesnake. “Dirty lies from the pit of hell.”

  Muggy replaced his cigar and spoke through it. “You should ask your husband.”

  “Stop, man,” Isaiah pleaded, noticing a small crowd growing. This time reaching out to touch his shoulder. “This isn’t your business.”

  Muggy’s hands shot into the air. “You’re right. You’re right.” He smiled. “I’ll just talk to him myself next time I see your perfect Timothy rolling in the brothels.”

  The next thing he knew, Isaiah’s balled fist hurled toward Muggy’s unsuspecting nose, meeting it with such force that Muggy’s feet flew from under him and his head hit the ground. Senses heightened, Isaiah heard multiple screen doors squeak open and slam shut.

  “What in God’s name is happening out here?” someone yelled.

  Another voice hollered in the near darkness, “Who’s that on the ground?”

  “It’s the butcher’s boy,” a woman’s voice replied. “Isaiah clocked him one.”

  “You all right, Mrs. Tate?” a closer voice asked, but Mrs. Tate didn’t reply.

  Isaiah couldn’t make any of them out. He heard them, but all that he saw was Muggy Little Jr. splayed out on the ground, where he belonged. Then he felt a palm on the back of his neck.

  “Son?”

  When Isaiah turned around, he was surprised to see Mr. Morris leaning on a cane behind him, with sawdust in his eyelashes.

  “How did you?” Isaiah asked him, curious how he could make it a few houses down without assistance.

  “Never you mind, young man,” he said. “You need to go. We’ll handle this.”

  Mr. Morris motioned to the dozen or so men behind him. With a quick scan, Isaiah noticed many of his older neighbors including Mr. Morris’s own son staring down at Muggy, who was now moaning.

  “Kid had it coming,” said one of them. “Go on home.”

  And Isaiah did.

  SUNDAY, MAY 29, 1921; 2 DAYS BEFORE

  ANGEL

  Angel had heard about the commotion, but longed to hear it from Isaiah himself. Angel got up extra early to get ready for Sunday school. Actually, she’d been impatiently waiting for the sun to rise all night long. Varying accounts had made their way to Angel’s ears, from Isaiah beating Muggy to a pulp, and the other way around. One rumor even involved Mrs. Tate beating both boys in the juniper. Angel wanted to find out what had happened from Isaiah’s own mouth, and she hoped he’d be at Mount Zion that day. Her prayer was that they’d simply dispersed after the brief altercation and everyone had gone home. But if she knew Mrs. Tate as well as she thought she did, Angel knew better.

  Piddling through her closet, Angel pulled down the light pink dress her mother had bought her some months back. Her special-occasion dress, as she’d told her. Still stiff in plastic with hanging tags, the dress was too dressy, Angel told herself before hanging it back up and grabbing an old faithful brown one.

  She heard a knock on her door. “Angel,” her mama whispered. “You already up?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she replied as she laid the dress on her bed. “Come in.”

  Her mama, concerned in the eyes, opened the door and stepped inside. “I love it when you free your hair,” she said, smiling through tears.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” Angel felt panic rising from her gut. “Is it Papa?”

  “No, no. He’s sleeping.” Her mama softly sat on the edge of Angel’s bed and patted the empty space next to her. “Please sit. We’ve been due a talk.”

  Angel obliged, moving the brown dress out of the way. “You’re scaring me.”

  Her mama’s hand glided to Angel’s wild hair, still patterned from braids from the night before. “I’d always dreamed of a crown of hair like this. Soft, fluffy, and uninhibited.” Then her mama’s hand returned to her lap. “I don’t know what I’ve done in my life to deserve such a girl as you.”

  Angel watched as her mama’s gaze went to the floor. To Angel, she looked ashamed, embarrassed about something, and she’d never seen her like this. She was usually quite the spitfire, direct but somehow still charming. Never this.

  “Last night I had the most beautiful dream. I dreamed that you danced with such freedom. Without a care in the world, you danced. And that was the whole of the dream. My beautiful girl dancing free.” She paused. “I’ve allowed you to miss the best parts of being a girl. Playfulness, abandon, and, mostly, love. I let time slip and didn’t think about it at all. But you, more than anyone else I know, deserve to be loved fiercely and wit
hout limits. I’m sorry I didn’t see.”

  “Mama,” Angel said cautiously. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’re sixteen and beautiful,” she continued. “You shouldn’t have to take care of me and your father and the neighbor’s screaming baby.”

  “But, Mama,” Angel said, just grasping what her mother meant, “I was put on this earth to—”

  “Help people,” she finished for Angel. “I know.”

  “Well, then you know I don’t mind one bit.”

  “Mrs. Tate came by late last night,” her mother said. “She’s a mealymouthed woman, that much you know. After declaring war on Muggy Little Jr., she told me about you and Isaiah holding hands. The rest of her rant went away, and all I could think of was you. I was angry at the thought of losing your help.” A tear fell from her eye and crept down her cheek. “Without you, there’s no way to stay afloat. And I’m a selfish woman for thinking this.”

  Angel watched her mama hide her face behind her hands. She began rubbing her back for comfort.

  “It’s okay, Mama,” Angel said. “I think everyone thinks this of me.”

  “Yes.” She lifted her shoulders. “But that’s not fair to you. If you want to be with friends after school, you should be able to. If you’d like to hold hands with a boy that lives down the street, you should be able to do that, too. Not wasting away here with me. And I’m sorry for allowing it. From now on, no more baby Michael.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” she interrupted. “No more cleaning Papa with me, either.”

  “You can’t lift him alone…”

  “Listen to me.” Her mama smiled. “You have one year left at Booker T. High School. That’s all. After that, you’ll be an adult. If you so choose, you may then save the world one colicky baby at a time. But this year, you get to hold hands with a boy. That’s it. You understand me?”

  Angel nodded.

  “Good girl,” she told her before getting up and opening the door to leave Angel’s room. “Now get ready for Sunday school.”