Femme Noir (21 page)

To put a hasty patch on my broken race heart, I thought of basketball. I ran a series of flashbacks through my head as I gulped air.

I was running to the basket; oh, yeah, I drained it; I’m into the paint; I stroked it; a good one right into the bucket, I hit the tres. Oh, a stellar pass by Nora Delaney and I get it back and drive it to the hoop! Oh, yeah, it’s Delaney with the double double!

My breathing started to slow down. Thoughts turned to my team and coaching them, yelling at them as they pounded up and down the court.

“It’s your job when you’re going for penetration to get square to the hoop. We have no mid-range game; it’s either a layup or a free, let’s work on that, girls. I used to have a deep team, a Cinderella team, but I lost my seniors, so now I have a young team, a rebuild year, but that’s no excuse for how you’re playing out there. Now, Lindsay has outstanding execution and feeds to the post well, but she can’t carry us. Morgan, you had fifteen rims and eight boards, let’s get that number down. Jackson, you’re just throwing junk, sit down. Help me out, I can’t win these games by shouting; I need you to actually play basketball. Come on, be powerful. Be strong; be invincible; don’t think you are,
be
that you are!”

Those last viciously whispered words rang in my head as I finally stood and unlocked the stall. I washed my hands and splashed water on my face.

“C’mon,” I said to myself. I strolled outside, my lungs aching for the stinging pollution of smoke, my nerves shredded, my fingers and mouth unbearably empty. The blazing sun hit me like a wall when I opened the door. At every office, there were always legions of exiled smokers, standing around bullshitting and glaring righteously at passersby. I hoped to find them to bum a cigarette. At this library, there were none. Or perhaps I chose the wrong door. I needed a cigarette immediately. Even though I was perpetually quitting, I was ready to buy a pack
right now
if only a machine would
rise up out of the concrete. I hadn’t bought cigarettes in a year, but Greenwood had snapped me. I had borrowed cigarettes in my briefcase in the car that was parked through the heat so far away. I would rather bribe one off someone now than delay my need any further with an exhausting walk.

There was a homeless man sitting on a bench in the shade. He was smoking. I approached him. “Hey, man, what’s up?” The shade didn’t help.

The man nodded.

“Listen man, I ain’t gonna front. I
need
a smoke and you’ve got some. I’ll buy one off you for a good price.”

The man looked at me, waiting. I did some quick estimations in my head. In LA, the guy would probably want five bucks for a cigarette, so here, I should be able to get it for a buck or two.

“I’ll give you a dollar for one cigarette.” I held out the bill, my back steaming.

The man shook his head.

“Two?” My voice went high.

The man removed a crumpled pack from his pocket and removed one cigarette. “I can’t get a pack of these for less than three,” he said.

“Bullshit!” I cried. But my jones spoke louder. “Okay, three.”

“Twenty.” The man smiled.

“Twenty! Are you outta your motherfucking mind?”

“Nope. But you are.” The man tenderly replaced the cigarette into the pack and into his pocket. I watched it disappear. My desperation made this bargain okay.

“All right, asshole, here,” I held a twenty in my fist. “But I get two at that price.” I wiped my face on my sleeve.

The man laughed. “No, you don’t. You get one. You want two, I’ll give you the second one for fifteen more. Yield marketing.”

“Yield marketing,” I exclaimed incredulously. My chest was wet.

The man nodded. “What the market will bear. I don’t care whether you buy from me or not. I’m not
trying
to sell to you, so that’s the deal. Now, with this money, I won’t have to eat at Sally’s tonight.”

“Sally’s?” I asked, taking my precious cigarette and handing him the money. I felt through all my pockets. Damn. No matches. They were in my briefcase too.

“Salvation Army.”

I was flooded with shame that I had been so stingy. “Here’s another twenty. I’ll take a second one and a light.” I sat on the bench in the shade with him. I smoked my sweet cigarette slowly, taking it in deep and holding on to the smoke. I felt calmer, but suddenly Tulsa made me so sad. Homeless people, Greenwood, Michelle, while overhead, beautiful old trees swayed and waved in the roasting wind, leaves dropping like confetti. Green grass gone brown was underfoot. Flowers nodded in agreement, traffic flowed evenly. It all looked so peaceful.

“Well, look, I gotta go.” I said at last. “And I’m sorry—”

“It ain’t no thing,” he said. “We’re cool. Thanks for your business. Come again soon.”

I smiled. Once I reentered the library, I walked with shaking legs back to my seat. I felt nasty, like I had just done a drug deal and besmirched the hallowed halls of learning. It wouldn’t have mattered what that guy would’ve asked for a smoke, I would’ve paid. Do the tobacco companies know that? I sat at the table, flipping idly through the books, becoming freshly horrified at the graphic photos and feeling utterly lost, grief-stricken, powerless, and so angry. I understood Jack’s rant and had a lot more to add to it.

I looked up suddenly at the sound of a gentle cough. Practice had told me the sound was a woman, so I wanted to check it out.

Max stood in front of me, looking magnificent in faded jeans, boots, and a white T-shirt. Looking suddenly so
Caucasian.
My entire family seemed to be staring at Max through my eyes. I felt a nappy afro sprout on my gleaming black scalp. In my mind, my grandmother’s gnarled, arthritic hands petted me; my mother’s soft smile and steely spirit warmed me.

I felt every generation of my bloodline all the way back to Africa. I seemed to be growing darker by the second. And what am I doing, chasing her sorry cracker ass? I thought before I could stop myself. I shook it off when I noticed the worry in her eyes.

“Take you to lunch?” Max held out her hand. Wordlessly, I reached out and took it.

Chapter Twenty

We went to Olson’s Buffeteria, where Max assured me the food was legendary and old-fashioned in the very best way. There was a line of businesspeople out the door.

“You have to try the chicken-fried steak. It’s required that while you visit, you eat one. It is smothered in homemade cream gravy and it will melt in your mouth. Everything they make is good. And they have mile-high pies. Save room for a piece. Are you okay? You haven’t said anything yet.”

I shook my head. I was numb. Greenwood was nationally known black history. How had I not known it? Why hadn’t someone told me? Why the fuck did I waste all those years in school on the sanitized and revised history of white men when this was out there begging to be known? Why was the world so wrong? If blacks had done it to whites, it would be in every history book. I was revolted at white privilege. At straight privilege. Christian privilege. Money privilege. Power privilege. I wanted to run until my lungs burned out of me, wisps of smoke curling with every exhale. Run until my mind was jelly with no awareness and no memory. Run until I was pure.

The lunch line moved swiftly. Wonderful aromas almost relaxed me. I smiled stiffly at Max and shrugged. My vocal cords were paralyzed. If I tried to use them, I might start yelling instead. I felt as if I had found something new, like I had discovered fire. How could everyone around her be so calm and nonchalant? Didn’t they know what had happened?

The line for Olson’s led into a very narrow hallway. There were photos of old Tulsa on the walls. Signs commanded customers to be ready with their orders to keep up the speed. As they neared the food, I noticed it was all older black men serving plates to the white businesspeople. A knife in my throat unlatched my voice.

“No, no, no, no,” I whispered, my eyes fixed on the servers. Max stared, trying to guess what upset me.

“That’s just Solomon.” Max, confused and soothing, gestured to the oldest worker. “He’s great. He’s been here for a hundred years.”

I turned on her. “You call him by his first name? And what does he call you? Miss Abbott? Or ma’am? Does he tap dance for you?”

“What?” she asked. People were beginning to stare.

“I’ve got to get out of here.” I saw no way out other than shoving and pushing people as I fought my way back through the cramped line. Max followed, making apologies.

At the car, Max sat in silence with me. Finally, she asked, “What’s wrong?” I stared straight ahead.

“I’ll take you somewhere else.” She started the car and drove. I noticed we passed Swan Lake. Images and sentences from the books about Greenwood just kept flashing in my mind. It was apropos that the pictures were in black and white. They slid into my thoughts like a drowned savior.

to lynch a nigger tonight
, the white tourist couple posing in front of a black family’s burned-out, destroyed home, black children being held in custody at gunpoint by white police, photos of dead black people merely captioned: victim, victim, victim. A ghostly photo of twisted metal bedsteads, still standing in spite of the homes still smoking ashes; white Tulsans roaming free while blacks were imprisoned for no crime; BC Franklin practicing law out of a tent; black Tulsans forced to spend that winter in tents; cremated dreams, and for what?

Max stopped the car.

“The Savory Spoon?” I asked.

“Yes, we can sit outside in the shade if it’s not too hot.”

“You say, I’ll do.” I was indifferent to the scalding weather and molten air.

Max and I went inside where she just informed the hostess that we would be outside. As we turned to go, I noticed bold, brilliant colors everywhere—animal print carpets, and tens of beautiful torsos of nude women all painted vibrantly and hung many to a wall.

“Reese do those?” I gestured to the feminine forms gracing the walls. Max and I found a table in the shade. She laughed.

“No, she didn’t. Good guess, though. I’m afraid I don’t know what to recommend here since I love everything.”

“I really don’t care what I eat. Or that I do at all.” I leaned back, stretching, thinking I needed a long game and a great fuck to clear my mind. Then a slow cigarette to calm.

After we ate, Max finally asked again, “What’s wrong? Something about Michelle?”

I chuckled dryly. “No, that’s cool.” I shrugged. “I mean, fairly. At least I know how to handle it. But I don’t know how to manage this. I did what I told you, I researched Greenwood.”

Max sucked in her breath.

“It’s as if I’ve had on blinders and they’re gone, poof. It’s inside me like a virus. You know all about it, don’t you?” I prayed that she did. For some reason, that would redeem her in my eyes right now.

“Yes. I had a progressive education and had very progressive parents. I went through a private integrated school system that was sixty/forty black to white. I memorized ‘Lift Every Voice and Sing,’ which, as I’m sure you know, is the black national anthem.”

A flood of gratitude swamped me. I clasped her hand. “I thought Rodney King was bad. I thought Abner Luima was bad. I thought Amadou Diallo was bad. And those are only the ones we know about. I thought ‘Driving While Black’ and profiling were bad. I thought being passed over for promotions was bad. I thought not being able to get credit or a loan or a taxi was bad. Shit. I didn’t know anything. Now everything looks different. Now I’m different.”

Max listened attentively. The sympathy in her face made me weak and weepy, so I looked away. The Savory Spoon’s overhead fans and cool water misters barely provided any relief. I licked perspiration off the corners of my mouth. The ice in our drinks was melted, the glasses rested in puddles. After we ate, Max knew to change the subject.

“So, wasn’t the food fabulous?”

I looked around and said carefully, “The décor is amazing.”

“And the food was great, right?”

“The location is good.”

“And the food?”

“Sitting outside is very nice.”

“Okay, so I’ll take you to your car.” Max laughed.

“Yeah, I need some alone time.” I walked slowly to her vehicle feeling as if I were an unexploded bomb.

*

Near the library, we stood next to my rental car and hugged. I was regretful I couldn’t appreciate all the erotic possibilities of the hug, but I was too far gone. Max drove away and I got in my car and decided to look at north Tulsa.

As I drove, I admitted my profoundly naïve hope of finding a photo at the library of Old Man McKerr shooting the black man in the head. What I had found was much worse. And it had blindsided me. I knew that race riots were commonplace around 1921, and I knew vaguely about Rosewood in Florida and similar assaults on segregated thriving black settlements all over the nation including New Orleans, Boston, Philadelphia, Duluth, and even Los Angeles, but Tulsa was by far the worst of all. The most destruction, devastation, and death. The
most
hostile and racist aggression to prevent rebuilding or
any sort of restitution.
I remembered the beautiful monument I had seen at the cemetery. Not erected by the city, I realized.

“Probably some old brother bought the whole thing and paid to put it on his private plot,” I muttered. I just drove aimlessly through all of north Tulsa, spontaneously cruising neighborhoods, not caring where I ended up, only needing to see these people. Was sorrow stamped on their faces? Would I recognize an ancestor to such tragedy? I fumbled for the box of wooden matches I left on the passenger seat and lit one, watching it burn. I needed to smoke to do this. I extracted my emergency cigarettes from the briefcase full of paperwork and stats and game plans and put the end into the match and slowly sucked the cigarette to life.