From Magic City

Abstract

from Magic City* Jewell Parker Rhodes (bio) Chapter 22 Click for larger view View full resolution Figure 1. Jewell Parker Rhodes. Photo by Susan Rae Lakin. The kitchen was in mourning. Sunlight poked through the screen door and a honeysuckle breeze stirred the curtains. Linoleum sparkled and the metal rim on the cold stove reflected rainbows. There weren’t cooking smells: no sweet yeast and rising biscuits, no berries, pungent, ripening to syrup, no smoked bacon frying. The pantry door was closed. Despite the sun, there was a wounded pall to the day. If Mary held her breath, she could hear muffled voices, footsteps tiptoeing, shuffling through the Samuels’ house. Undertaker, preacher, doctor. Solemn men at work since dawn—the undertaker transforming the study into a viewing room for Tyler’s casket; the preacher ministering to a weeping Mrs. Samuels and Emmaline; and the doctor, trying to convince Mr. Samuels—arm broken, blind in one eye—his bank didn’t need him for one day. Hildy was slumped over the kitchen table, her head cradled on crisscrossed arms, her lids fluttering with dreams. Mary peeked out the screen door. A hearse was parked at the curb; behind it was another car with a white cross painted on its hood. The preacher had walked, his long-tailed coat flapping like blackbirds’ wings. Mary had watched him stop and bless the house—eyes closed, his mouth muttering prayers, then he’d strode forward and blessed the grass stained with Jody’s blood; the steps littered with shotgun casings; and the porch, its yellow light still on, insects flattened and dried on the glass. Mary could go to Jody but, somehow, just before sunrise, she’d sensed he’d died—bitter, doubled over his wound, reaching for his missing leg. Mary exhaled, digging her nails into wire mesh. She needed to help Hildy. Like a sentry, Mary watched the street, hoping she’d serve Hildy better than she’d served her mother. Everyone needed some time not to be strong. Some time to be safe. Mary knew better than anyone that folks forgot the strong ones. If a woman didn’t cry, folks didn’t think you needed. If you kept your mouth shut and endured, folks forgot about helping. Forgot all about you, if you tried too hard to keep your dignity. Since the evening’s terror, she’d watched Hildy moving gracefully among father, mother, sister. Kissing dead Tyler. Calling the doctor, the preacher. It was Hildy who soothed her mother, tucked her in bed. Hildy who calmed her sister by telling her how strong and helpful she’d been. Hildy who cleaned her father’s wounds while he cursed, complained just like Pa. [End Page 417] Feeling useless, Mary had shadowed Hildy, then left to do what she could—restore Hildy’s kitchen. She’d gathered the broken porcelain, mopped tea, swept dried beans and shattered jars of peaches, wiped the counters, placed the Bible on the table, and waited. When Hildy stole away to the kitchen, Mary had seen the struggle she’d endured—hooded eyes, rigid mouth, knees locked to hold her upright, nails digging deeply into her own skin. Hildy had looked across at Mary and whispered, “Joe?” Mary’d wanted to cry. Joe was still on the run. Had to be. If he wasn’t. . . . She’d imagined Joe hanging from a tree, his tongue thick, his chin on his chest. Mary’d said, “Rest. Rest, Hildy.” She’d helped her to the chair. Hildy laid her head down on the table and sighed. Mary understood the comfort of cool wood and warm arms. Before she drifted to sleep, Hildy had murmured, “Let me know when the women come. Wake me when the women come.” Such a strange idea. Wake me when the women come. Mary remembered the years she’d been waiting for women, a woman to come. Always just Pa and Jody came. Later Dell. Mary turned and saw her mother sprawled on the floor. The linoleum spotted red. “Oh, Ma.” Tears welled. Dying without any women. Just a terrified daughter who hadn’t any power in her hands. Ma’s body was bathed...