The Florsheim man’s gang was so fired up and rowdy that not one of them heard me the first time I shouted for them to stop. Second time, either. Third one did the trick; they all looked to me, then to their leader, who eyed me like I’d sprouted horns. “What did you say?” he asked in a growl that made the hackles on my neck stand up.
I swallowed hard. Said it a fourth time: “Stop.” And his growl dropped even lower as he asked me, “Why?”
“Because I promised him to Vernon Fish,” I replied. And the whole lot of them stared with their jaws aflap. All except the Florsheim man, that is.
“You know Vernon?” he said, coming so close that the bootleg whiskey on his breath set my eyes to watering.
I stammered that I did. Then my voice steadied, and I spun a yarn about how Mr. Fish was a friend of my father’s and liked to tease me about not knowing how to handle Negroes properly. I said how I’d argued back earlier that day that yes I did, and that I’d go out and hunt one down myself to prove it. I even told him Mr. Fish had promised to let me use his whipping strap if I succeeded, adding, “I reckon he’d be pretty sore if I showed up with this boy already whupped.”
The Florsheim man ran the leather of his own strap across his palm, caught the end of it, and snapped it tight.
I swallowed hard. Said, “I sure do want to join the Junior Klan once they start up here in Tulsa.”
And he snapped the strap again, saying, “So you’ve never schooled a nigger?”
A shudder passed through Joseph’s body.
“No, sir,” I said. “But Mr. Fish told me all about how he handled that chicken thief up Vinita way, and how Maybelle shot an old man’s eyes out.”
I stopped then, for something had eased in the Florsheim man’s countenance. He even chuckled, saying, “I doubt Vernon Fish ever will love a girl so true as he does that Colt of his.” Which set a few of the men around Joseph to tittering. Then he yanked Joseph’s head up by the chin and said, “What do you think, boy? Should I leave your hide to Vernon?”
Joseph said nothing.
“You answer him, boy!” one of the uniformed men shouted. Another hauled back and kicked Joseph in the stomach so hard the air rushed out his mouth. But Joseph kept his eyes down and did not move.
“I sure would appreciate it if you’d let me handle this boy myself,” I said, stepping closer to the Florsheim man. “I’ve been struggling lately, bucking rules and acting all kinds of awful. If you were to let me deliver him like I promised, it might prove to my pop and Mr. Fish that I’m on track for real. And, well… I’d just be awful grateful, sir.”
The Florsheim man looked from Joseph to me. Said, “Who’s your pop?”
“Stanley Tillman,” I replied.
And he tipped his head sideways and looked surprised, saying, “The same Stanley Tillman who sold me my Victrola last year?”
“That’s him,” I replied.
“The one Vernon’s been trying to bring into the Klan for months even though he’s married to an Osage squaw?”
I told him yes. Then I felt the thin ice under my feet starting to crack as the Florsheim man came at me. And just when our chests were near close enough to touch, he laughed and slugged my arm so hard my teeth clattered.
“Why didn’t you say so, Half-breed?” he boomed. “Your pop saw the light and joined up tonight. He’s one of us now!”
Pop had filled out his application, paid his fee, and joined the Klan right there on the courthouse steps, in front of God and Vernon Fish and the Florsheim man. Whose real name, I learned, was Reggie Gould.
Reggie told me the whole tale with relish, saying how Pop’s view on Negroes being harmless had changed soon as he saw the first armed carload of them drive up to the courthouse, and how Pop said that if they were willing to confront the sheriff with guns, they surely wouldn’t hesitate in doing the same to him at his shop. Which sounded close enough to Pop’s sort of reasoning for me to believe it was true.
But bad as it hurt to hear them tell about Pop’s change of heart, some good came of the exchange. For Reggie and his boys let me drive off without harming the Tylers or Joseph, believing as they did that I was about to deliver all three to Vernon Fish. That’s how I ended up driving down the outer edges of the city like a madman, desperate to get Joseph and the Tylers safe.
Turned out I’d no choice but to stop again, when a second body turned up in the street with a fist-sized hole blown out of its chest. For even after all the trouble we’d run into so far, my instinct was to pick it up and see that it was buried proper. But Joseph peeked up as the truck slowed, and when I pointed to the corpse, he said, “It isn’t safe, Will. Keep driving… please?” His voice bobbled about, which was understandable given what had nearly been done to him not five minutes prior. And there was no question it would be risky to stop.
So I drove on near a half mile until the next obstacle presented itself. Only that time it wasn’t a corpse, but a living man.
A living man who I hit with the truck.
It happened at the intersection of Fifth and Detroit. He’d only intended to step out into the street long enough to flag me down, that much was clear. But he misjudged my speed and distance by a good ten feet, so there was no way I could avoid him. Fortunately, I only clipped his hip. The man and the shotgun he’d been holding spun through the air separately and landed hard on the ground. Then came an awful silence, followed by the sound of Mrs. Tyler’s sobs and a moaning from the street. I told Joseph to stay put and got out.
Judging by his grease-stained overalls and the black under his fingernails, the struck man was a roughneck. That didn’t account for the red spot blooming on the leg of his pants, though, for even in Tulsa, there was no mistaking blood for oil.
“Help me,” he wheezed. “Please!”
Then his gaze jerked to something past my shoulder. It was Joseph, standing behind us with his legs set wide and the roughneck’s shotgun aimed at its owner’s head.
“Give me my gun and get away from me, you goddamned nigger,” the roughneck hissed.
Joseph pressed the muzzle to the man’s cheek, whispering, “How many goddamned niggers have you killed with this gun tonight, sir?”
I leaned away out of sheer instinct and contemplated telling Joseph not to shoot. But given all we’d seen that night, it didn’t seem right, me trying to influence his decision one way or the other. So I rose, silent, and stood at his side.
The man’s dry throat clicked. Joseph’s finger came out of the trigger guard, flexed, and went back in.
“Might be this is my chance to even up the score a little,” Joseph muttered, though whether to me or the roughneck I couldn’t say. And his hand trembled so bad I feared he might fire whether he meant to or not.
He squeezed his eyes tight, opened them, resighted down the barrel, and spoke so there was no doubt he was talking to me: “I’ve spent my whole life forgiving white folks, Will,” he said. “And I am so very tired of it.”
Then he lifted his head from the sight, lowered the shotgun, and carried it back to the truck without another word.
“Who shot you?” I asked the roughneck once Joseph had got safely in the back.
He was silent.
I poked my toe into the flesh of his leg near the bullet hole. He gritted his teeth. Said, “I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’, boy.”
It was a poor choice.
I pressed the sole of my shoe down square over the bullet hole. He roared in pain and set about expanding my repertoire of curse words until I lifted my foot to stomp him again. At that, he quieted and held up his hand, breathing ragged. And he feigned contriteness, saying how he was bleeding bad and couldn’t move because the truck had broke his other leg, and wouldn’t I please help him.
“Only if you tell me the truth,” I replied. “I bet it was white men who shot you, wasn’t it?”
He spit on my shoes and told me to go to hell. Only I went to the truck instead, to fetch twine and the handkerchief Reggie had stuffed in Joseph’s mouth. And I caught that roughneck as he cursed and howled and tried to drag himself away, and I tied his hands tight behind his back and stuffed the handkerchief in his gob. For it was at that moment that I realized how very much I wanted to be a righteous man, just like I’d told Vernon Fish lo those many weeks ago. And a righteous man would never leave another human being to bleed to death in the street.
Of course, a truly righteous man would take pains to keep the roughneck’s ruined legs from knocking against the truck bumper as he loaded him in, so I can’t say I was quite there yet. But I kept that miserable so-and-so alive and did him no permanent harm. Which, in my book, was at least a step in the right direction.
The church was dark and locked up tight when we arrived, and the clouds overhead had cleared enough for the moon to shine on the empty roadway. Still, there were dark shadows and corners aplenty.
No one came when I knocked. So I knocked again, and the lock turned and hinges squeaked as the door cracked open. I recognized the oval-faced girl peeking out. Her name was Claire, and like Addie, she was a year ahead of me. Unlike Addie, she wasn’t pretty. Not in the standard sense, at least. But there was something pleasing about the way her strong features fit together, especially with the electric light casting a halo’s glow around her nest of disheveled brown hair.
“Yes?” she said.
My words tumbled out ahead of my thoughts. “Please… Mr. Tyler’s head’s hurt bad, and Mrs. Tyler, she’s…”
Before I could bumble on, Claire lit up with recognition and opened the door wide and called me by name. And there was such a sweetness about her that my tongue tangled and my eyes filled with tears. And I feel no shame in saying that, for it was a moment of true grace.
“Where are they?” she asked. “Can they walk?”
I pointed in the direction of Seventh Street and said I didn’t think so. Then Claire told me to drive the truck across the grass and park close to the door.
Once I’d done as she said, she came out of the church with a man and a sturdy woman in a nurse’s cap, both of whom climbed inside the truck before I got the engine shut off. I heard the nurse talking in a worried voice, and Joseph saying something about a rifle butt. Then the man went back inside the church and fetched a makeshift stretcher made from a sheet and two mops. Jackrabbit quick, he and Joseph loaded Mr. Tyler onto it and carried him inside.
That surprised me, I’ll admit, for I’d been raised in a world where white folks’ needs always came first. It shocked the roughneck, too, and he sputtered and coughed around the cloth in his mouth while old Mrs. Tyler watched. Then Claire climbed in and introduced herself, and the roughneck quieted enough for her to take out the handkerchief. And he plastered a false smile across his face and commenced to lying, saying how the Negro boy who’d just carried the old man away had shot him, and how I’d run him over with the truck after that and stepped on his wounded leg to torture him.
Claire looked at me as if to ask was it true. I hung my head and said I’d hit him with the truck all right, but it had been an accident. She didn’t inquire about the torture, only told the man there was a doctor inside who could tend to his injuries till morning.
Then the church door opened again and a trim and dapper Negro with rolled-up sleeves stepped out of the church. “He’s been shot in the leg, Dr. Butler,” Claire said. The doctor climbed into the truck, ignoring the man’s curses and slurs. And when he tried to touch the roughneck’s leg and the fool commenced to screaming bloody murder, Claire picked up the handkerchief and stuffed it back into his mouth so tight that even his grunts were muffled.
Which was a relief to everyone, most especially Mrs. Tyler. Her eyes sparked to life, and she asked if I wouldn’t please take her inside to her husband. I said it would be my pleasure and helped her out of the truck, bending low so she could get her arm across my shoulders for support. We made our way into the church, down a set of stairs, and through a door that swung open when I tapped it with my toe. And it’s a good thing I’m built sturdy, elsewise the blur that flew across the room into my chest would have knocked Mrs. Tyler and me down like so many ninepins.
The smell of roller skate grease and the feel of small arms squeezing me tight hit all at once, so that my heartbeat skipped about and the shadow over my soul lifted like a thousand sparrows taking flight. And I reached down with my free arm and lifted Ruby up and hugged her hard.
“Ow, ow, ow!” she squealed. “You’re gonna squeeze my guts out, Will Tillman!”
Only I didn’t let go.
And neither did she.