Angel of Greenwood Page 13

  Staring down at the now-wrinkled brown dress, Angel decided to wear the pink one instead.

  The church filled even earlier than usual that morning, Greenwood folks congregating in from the parking lot, to the church foyer, and even spilling into the fellowship hall. Clumps chattered, some holding their palms to their lips in surprise while others whispered details into curious ears.

  Muggy, Angel thought. That rascal had really done it this time. That morning, her mother had implied she’d heard what actually happened at Mrs. Tate’s, and she seemed so upset that Angel didn’t want to ask her to elaborate. She knew, however, that it had to be bad. She then noticed a hush over the crowd as she approached. They were discussing her.

  Angel had never been on the receiving end of church gossip before. It was a strange feeling, to know that neighbors, church members, and friends were creating narratives with her as the star. She quickened her steps to get to the pastor’s study, where the other members of her praise dance team were congregated.

  “Wooo,” said Truly, the youngest. “You look like a lady!”

  Betty, the second youngest, took Angel’s hand and twirled her around to make her dress poof out. “So, so, so pretty!”

  “Thank you,” Angel told them with a smile. “Do either of you know what everybody’s talking about out there?”

  “You don’t?” asked Truly. “My mama said you were there, kissing and hugged up on that cute Isaiah.”

  “That’s not all they’re saying!” added Betty. “They say Muggy Little Jr. got his tail beat by your boyfriend. My daddy said Isaiah laid him out, right there on the dusty ground. My uncle helped carry him home.”

  Angel lost control of her legs and slid down the wall into a heap. “My God, he didn’t.”

  “He most certainly did!” said Truly. “Mama said the boy’s had it coming for some time.”

  Organ sounds broke into their conversation, and Truly and Betty got up to leave. “You coming?” Truly asked.

  “I think I’ll stay back for a few minutes.”

  “Save you a seat!”

  They skipped into the main fellowship hall. Angel curled her knees tight to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible. Looking down at her delicate pink dress, she desperately regretted wearing it. The brown would’ve blended better, made less of a splash in the already-buzzing church. She’d really picked the wrong day to fix herself up. As the congregation sang “The Lord Is My Light and My Salvation,” she couldn’t make her body move when the door opened behind her.

  “Hey,” whispered Isaiah. Angel first saw his bandaged hand and immediately knew the rumors were true.

  “How did you know where to…?”

  “Truly,” he said, smiling. “As soon as I came in.”

  “You’re at Sunday school,” Angel said, briefly forgetting all the madness happening at Mount Zion.

  He placed his hands on her upper arms and said, “After seeing you dance, I’ll never miss Sunday school again.”

  Angel watched his keen eyes watching her, but she didn’t feel uneasy at all anymore. It felt right actually, him looking at her. She thought of her mother’s words from that morning.

  Angel had always thought it was her job to help people. Be Christlike and serve. She’d never thought of wasted time or opportunity or what she herself deserved. Looking from Isaiah’s wanting eyes, to his beautifully spread nose, and, finally, to his full lips, she only wanted to kiss him, even if she didn’t know how. So she did. Right there in the pastor’s study even if it might have been a horrible sin.

  His bandaged hand made its way to her lower back and wispy tingles traveled with it everywhere it went. His hand was streaming the best magic. His other hand rested on her cheek, and it, too, carried its own enchantments. But most mysterious of all were his lips. Soft and plump like nothing else she’d ever touched. She tried to compare them to something, but she wasn’t able to. His lips moved in ways that made her never want to stop kissing him. She shifted her body closer into his, as close as possible. After a moment, he pulled away, leaving her stuck in time with her eyes closed and lips puckered.

  “We should go out there before they all come looking,” he whispered, blowing his sweet breath into her cheek. “They all saw me come back here. Angel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Open your eyes.”

  Angel fluttered them first and then opened to see his broadly smiling face. “Would you feel more comfortable leaving separately?”

  “No,” she said, grasping his hand without hesitation. “We leave like this.”

  “They’ll talk.”

  She planted a quick but passionate kiss on him. “Let them.”

  MONDAY, MAY 30, 1921; THE DAY BEFORE

  ISAIAH

  Isaiah snuck up behind his mother, who had been cleaning dishes, and kissed her on the right cheek.

  “What was that for?” she asked, turning to face him.

  “I love you, Ma,” he told her. “And I appreciate you.”

  “I love you, too, baby,” she said, wiping her hands and eyes on her apron. “Thank you for saying it out loud. A ma needs to hear that from time to time.”

  “I know,” he replied. “From now on, I’m going to be helping you out a whole lot more around here. With cooking, cleaning, yard work, all of it. You keep this house a home by yourself. No way you should have to do it alone.”

  Instead of replying, she hugged him tightly.

  “All right, now,” he said through her squeezing. “I have to get to Miss Ferris’s for work.”

  She quickly turned back to the dishes, avoiding eye contact. “Go, get on, now.”

  Walking through his own front door, he decided, right then and there, that he would be entirely different. No longer selfish or lazy or unworthy.

  For the first time in years, he took in his surroundings. Tree-lined, kept Greenwood. His world, insulated from the cruel one Du Bois had talked about. One thing Booker Washington was right about was Greenwood. He’d called it the Negro Wall Street of America. A mecca. A beacon of hope for his people and Isaiah was blessed enough to live there every day of his life.

  Passing well-loved houses filled with well-loved families, he again wondered, why him? Why did he, a seventeen-year-old rascal, get to live in such a place? At least for the time being, he decided it didn’t matter why. What was important now was that he truly appreciated this rare opportunity. He would take his freedom of knowledge and spread it like wildfire to the rest of his people. Set their minds ablaze in the same way his was born free.

  He’d come up on Mrs. Tate’s corner lot. He smelled the juniper before he saw her sitting alone on her porch. Everything in him wanted to pretend he hadn’t seen her sitting there all by herself. A few short weeks ago, he absolutely would have done. He pushed in her gate and took a seat to her left.

  “How you holding up?” he asked her. Though he knew she’d seen him, she hadn’t yet acknowledged that he was there. “Didn’t see you at Mount Zion yesterday.”

  “He had no right,” she told him through clenched teeth. “No right to so easily crush a life with his words. None at all.”

  Muggy didn’t have the right. That much was obvious, but to Isaiah, it wasn’t as simple as Mrs. Tate’s family revelations and new sulk. It was a lifetime of this. Ruining people’s dreams and self-esteem. Twisting daggers into his own Greenwood neighbors. And for years, Isaiah was an accomplice.

  “I had no right, either,” Isaiah said to her. “Bearing witness … no. I’ve been equally guilty as Muggy of terrorizing my own people. With you, that was the first time I didn’t go along with it. I should’ve punched him long ago.”

  Mrs. Tate shifted toward Isaiah, showing interest in his presence for the first time since he sat next to her. “You’re a drop in the bucket, young man. Younger than you know. Young enough to learn how to think for yourself. Stand up against what you don’t believe is right. Fight, punch, protest, whatever you want to be is ahead of you completely. Begi
n now and you’ll make for a damn dynamic man. Maybe as good as my Timothy.”

  “Thank you for saying that,” he replied. “I know even putting me in near the same ballpark of the same category of your Timothy is a high compliment.”

  She laughed at that. “Sure is. And I should be thanking you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Watching that horrible boy moan on the dirt brought a bit of joy back into my body.”

  “He had it coming,” Isaiah said before getting up from the front stoop.

  “He did.”

  Again, Isaiah was late to Miss Ferris’s house, but this time she wasn’t angry. As she fawned over the freshly finished bicycle, she was happier than he’d ever seen her. Next to her stood his glowing angel in a green dress that reached her ankles. As he approached, Angel waved, and he felt himself beam back at her.

  “Can you believe it?” asked Miss Ferris. “Mr. Morris installed it early this morning. It’s so much better than my drawing. Look at this.”

  Isaiah had to peel his eyes from Angel to get a good look at the wooden carrier at the back of the bicycle. It really was a wonder. Smooth at the edges with dark and light brown swirls still adorning the shiny wood. Individual, removable book compartments soldered into each rectangular stall. One was marked from birth to five, then six to ten, then eleven to fourteen, and, finally, fifteen and up.

  “Mr. Morris did an amazing job with Blue,” Angel said slowly and sweetly.

  He could feel her eyes searching him. “He really did,” he said, meeting her gaze with his own.

  Miss Ferris took the moment in, grinning and clearly pleased with their connection. “Well, what are you waiting for then?” she said to them. “Load her up and deliver these books. You’re both on the clock.”

  ANGEL

  Angel had a feeling about that day. Not a good feeling or a bad feeling; she knew, somehow, that the winds of change were pending.

  She’d been kissed, for one. And two, she’d initiated a kiss herself. That feeling had to be love, she thought, and since she’d never actually been in love before, she didn’t know that it came with an uneasiness. Everyone under such a spell must be ill at ease, she thought. Was that why so many people acted so strangely?

  “You’re either thinking of something wonderful or horrible,” Isaiah said to Angel as they rode Blue slowly down the dusty road. “And I’m afraid to ask.”

  She didn’t quite know how to reply, so she placed her hand over his hand, which was holding the handlebars, and spoke about something else. “For the last few nights, I’ve been reading the Du Bois works you chose.”

  “And?”

  “There’s no denying his genius,” she said, trying not to offend. “His words are as intellectually sound as any I’ve ever read. Quite philosophical.”

  “You don’t have to say that.”

  “I know that I don’t.” Angel waited for Isaiah to bring up Booker T. Washington in response, but she was glad he didn’t. It would have been forced. And she wanted only truth from this Isaiah. “It’s fair since you told me about how much The Secret Garden made you cry.” She clasped his lean arm.

  “Did I say cry?” He laughed, hiding his face with his free arm. “Okay, I did, but in my defense, that book is—what’s the word?—melancholy.”

  “Melancholy?”

  “You know, gloomy. Depressing.”

  “It most certainly is not gloomy!” She playfully threw his arm away from her. “It’s a magnum opus, as our Latin teacher would say. A work of art. Think of it: a family of wealth. A girl given anything she’s ever asked for. Surrounded by pomp, circumstance, jewels, riches, but all she truly longs for is the love of her dead parents. It’s a tragedy, and with tragedy comes a fair dose of gloom.”

  “So you agree!” he shouted. “It is gloomy.”

  She lightly thumped him on the upper arm and grabbed ahold of it again. “You do love to win an argument.”

  “It’s a character trait,” he said. “No use trying to fight it.”

  “I like it. It’s simultaneously annoying and endearing.”

  They rolled through half of Greenwood in order to reach the less affluent blocks within the community. Angel rarely ventured into them. Typically, she had no reason to, but today she was ready to deliver books.

  The dwellings in those last couple blocks of Greenwood were more shacks than houses. The yards much less flowery, most of them dusty dirt, same as the road. The people were the same as the people in her neighborhood, though. Dirtier, yes, but the same.

  Kids chased one another through multiple houses’ yards, playing tag while their mothers hollered after them to slow down. Lines of clothing caught air, swaying and puffing up to dry. And even though Angel and Isaiah recognized only a few of the people, they all waved and welcomed them.

  “Stop up there.” Angel pointed to a congregation of seven young girls sitting in a tight circle near the end of the Frisco tracks. They looked to be playing patty-cake.

  Isaiah pulled close to the girls. “Hi, young ladies.”

  The eldest looked to be around eleven, but they swooned in his presence. He, in response, had no idea what to do or where to look, so Angel took the lead.

  “I’m Angel,” she started. “And this is Isaiah.”

  “Hiiii, Isaiahhhh,” they all chuckled in unison, sending him into a full shiny-cheeked panic. He waved quickly and ducked behind the books.

  “We’re here to bring you the best books in the world.” Angel crouched down next to them, right there in the dirt. “Hand-chosen by myself and the one and only Isaiahhhhh.”

  Angel caught eyes with him before he rolled his at her.

  “May I sit?”

  “You’ll dirty your pretty dress,” said one of the youngest girls in the circle. “Our dirt’s hard to get out.”

  Angel could see the worry on this child’s face. It reminded her of her own. “A little dirt in the dress is well worth the privilege of sitting in such a circle.”

  They all smiled up at her as if she were royalty. “I’m Sally Ann,” the girl told her. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Then the rest of the girls took their turns telling their names—Mattie Hayes, Anna Grace, Wilhelmenia, Cora Faye, Fannie, and Hattie.

  “Pleased to meet the lot of you,” Angel said, careful to make eye contact with each girl.

  “You go to Washington High School?” asked Cora Faye with wonder in her eyes. “That’s where I’m going.”

  “You wish,” said Wilhelmenia. “None of us going to the big school. We’ve got our own schoolhouse, right over there.”

  She pointed to a sooty shack right off the lines of the railroad track. Angel followed her finger to make sure she was looking at the right place. This was no place to adequately learn physics and history and Latin. The train whistles alone would make the environment unproductive to learning. She must’ve shown her disdain on her face, because Isaiah, out of nowhere, jumped into the conversation.

  “We’ll bring Washington High School to you, then,” he said with extra exuberance in his voice. “How’s that sound?”

  Still swooning, they nodded in approval.

  After three hours sitting cross-legged in the tight circle of seven girls, Angel and Isaiah had only covered the first few pages of The Secret Garden. They could barely get through a paragraph without the girls asking the meaning of a new word or even deeper questions about wealth and privilege.

  Around her, Angel felt brilliant Blackness, the same as she felt in Greenwood’s booming business district. From Isaiah to the other girls, all longing for knowledge, know-how, strength of mind and spirit. Books were an avenue, but not the only one. Angel wanted to introduce them to everything she loved about her own Greenwood, a couple dozen blocks away. The cushion of thick grass, the peace of planted seeds emerging slowly. This was her mission now. To reach these girls. But not only these: all Black girls, like Sojourner Truth did.

  As Isaiah carefully discussed his interpretation of
the book with the girls, Angel felt a tear quickly fall from her right eye. And then, through a blur, she saw ominous clouds suddenly form overhead. Teasing clouds with no condensation in them. These were the ones her papa had told her about. With these clouds came sirens.

  ISAIAH

  Isaiah’s mother knocked on his bedroom door. “Time to get ready for the parade.”

  He’d been reading one of Angel’s other selections, Harriet, the Moses of Her People. Only halfway through, he knew there was no way he’d finish it. Reluctantly, he placed the book under his pillow alongside Du Bois—a high compliment.

  “I’m up. Here I come.”

  Everything in Greenwood had closed down for Memorial Day. All shops’ blinds were lowered and shades drawn, but the streets were filled with excited people, ready for the festivities. Most Greenwood folks called it the greatest parade of the year, with baton twirlers, high steppers, and the best band in the land, from Isaiah’s own Booker T. Washington High School.

  The band was popular for good reason. Preparation was extensive and lengthy. The vibrations of barrel drums shook Greenwood for six weeks leading up to Memorial Day. High steppers got tongue-lashings from the band director, Mr. Monty, for being mere centimeters off their marks. Forearms were plucked for hanging lower than ninety degrees. And if twirlers dared drop their batons? Laps.

  The closer to Memorial Day, the more intense the rehearsals became. The week immediately beforehand, though the final week of school, band members could be seen in steady formation before the sun rose over the school, and then in the same formations steadfast as the moon took its place.

  Isaiah thought of joining the band once. He’d tinkered with flute early on in middle school, but Muggy denied him that right, calling it a girl’s instrument. Thinking back, that would’ve been a good time to take a stand. An early adolescent rebellion could have done them both a lot of good, but alas, Isaiah simply tucked the instrument underneath his bed to collect dust. Before socking him in front of Mrs. Tate’s juniper, Isaiah had thought it was impossible to stand against Muggy. But now that he had, he’d been ruminating on perfect opportunities when he could’ve done so earlier.