Page 102 of Meet Me on Greenwood

Gema

Tulsa to Have Largest Colored Hotel in Country

"You look awfully happy," Rita noted, as we sat under the hair dryers, now thankfully on cool. She hadn’t convinced me to cut my hair into a bob like hers, but the hairdresser had shown me how to pin curl it in imitation. "There wouldn’t be a man in your life that is responsible for it?"

"Maybe," I said. "You look happy too, friend."

And she did. Rita no longer put on a front for me, pretending to be the life of the party, as if the vibrant, funny, endlessly loyal woman I already knew had finally stopped holding some of herself back.

"I have to tell you something…sensitive," she said.

I looked over my shoulder. "You better hurry before they lift our caps," I said, touching the mesh cap on my head. "My head is dry and crunchy."

Rita breathed deeply. "Bernie and I are moving."

I inhaled sharply which was unfortunate given the thick film of hairspray and aerosols in the air. "Where?"

"Harlem. She has a gig running a club, and I’ve found a family with two children who need private tutoring. Harlem is much more… accommodating than the south."

"You can be your authentic self," I said.

She smiled. "Yes. Have you thought of where you can be your authentic self?"

Home, I thought, but that would mean leaving Houston. I didn’t know if I could bear that.

"He wants to take me to the ball," I confided.

Rita looked alarmed, which deflated me a bit. "Gema, he can’t. He will lose everything."

"I told him that," I said defensively. "He says he has already lost his practice."

"You know as well as I, there are worse things. Do you remember that man they pulled out of jail? And now with that white man killed in the woods by the train depot a few days ago…" She looked around before whispering, "They are saying one of us did it."

My heart started beating fast. Houston and I had feared this would happen, that we’d been seen. "How do they know it was one of us? Did they see who did it?" I asked, as the beautician lifted the helmet of the dryer and motioned for me to sit in a chair by the smoking marcels.

"They are saying a Negro woman did it," the beautician answered.

I startled, realizing she’d heard us talking. I only hoped she wasn’t paying attention when we’d spoken of Houston.

"Can you imagine them thinking it was one of us?" she said, combing out my hair and clinking the hot metal iron together to test the heat on a section of it. My hair sizzled under the too hot iron, and I tried not to flinch as the heat neared my neck.

"No, it was definitely a man," Rita continued, unfazed by her own beautician’s ministrations. "And even if it was a white man, they will pin it on us. That is why you," she paused, "that is why we all should be vigilant. We wouldn’t want the people we love to get hurt."

I wanted to tell her that I’d heard enough, that I simply could not even imagine anything bad happening to Houston.

"I sound like my mother, don’t I?" Rita sighed, as if her worst fear had come true. "Hell must be freezing over because she is right about a lot of things."

She looked genuinely scared, so I reached over and gripped her hand. "Nothing is going to happen."

Steam mixed with the smell of burned hair rose into the air. "I’m sorry, miss!" the beautician said in alarm.

"Move aside!" the shop owner said, stepping in to remove the iron from my hair. "I’m sorry, miss. I’ll take care of your service from here on out. Give me a moment, and I will get a bit of coconut oil to protect your hair."

Rita and I watched as she grabbed a jar and leaned over to whisper something to the beautician she’d relieved. The woman was in tears.

"What is she saying?"

"You’re an Alderman now," Rita whispered proudly.