Page 103 of Meet Me on Greenwood

Though I took no pleasure in seeing a woman chastised for what was admittedly, a very preventable mistake, I was finally connected to something. At some point, I’d become a part of this community, and it felt good.

Two hours and several inches of damaged hair later, I stood outside The Black Star where Houston and I had agreed to meet. I was still a bit early, so I decided to wander a bit.

The stores were swept clean before eight in the morning. Wealthy Black men tipped their hats to each other on their way to work, while their wives lived a life of leisure, directing servants and tending to the children until their husbands returned. Some women even ran businesses of their own, like Ms. Lansing, the dressmaker. This was a community of prosperity, built for the Black community by their own hands, brick by brick.

I walked by a shoeshine booth on Elgin where three men were deep in conversation about something that made them laugh so loud, the sound carried down the street. I passed the confectionary shop where I’d eaten that sweet potato pie that had inspired me to begin my own baking journey. I watched a woman arrange a display of fashionable hats around an art piece she’d commissioned. Above the first floor was the Greenwood Bank, entirely Black owned with pristine windows. I smiled at the defiance of this place. There was an audacity in declaring that if we weren’t good enough to dine at their tables, we wouldn’t spend our dollars in their stores. We built our own table, and look what we made.

They don't know, I thought, that one day the envy of all this prosperity would lead to devastation.

I pushed it down and kept walking. It was a helpless feeling knowing what was coming. I couldn’t even warn them. They’d think I was crazy.

I walked faster after that, finally stopping in front of the Stradford.

For any time, it was an extraordinary achievement. Three stories of brick rising above the entire district, its facade detailed with the particular care of a man who had wanted to prove something when he built it. The windows were tall and arched. The entrance was wide and welcoming. It could match any hotel on the White side of town.

I was still looking up at the building when a voice called my name, and I turned.

J.B. Stradford was walking up the avenue with the confidence of someone on his own street, which it essentially was. He was always a step ahead when it came to fashion, with his hat slightly pushed back.

"Mr. Stradford," I said.

He shook my hand warmly, looking genuinely pleased to see me. "Call me J.B. How have you been keeping? I heard you've been doing good work over at Frissel."

"Trying to," I said. "Your hotel is beautiful."

He looked up at it with satisfaction. "She's coming along. The real test will be in three days." He raised his brows. "You are coming to the ball, I hope?"

"Of course."

He smiled. "Good. I need people there who know how to have a good time. I've been running around all morning dealing with the electrician. The chandeliers alone—" He shook his head. "Do you know what it takes to power a room full of chandeliers? I've had to bring in equipment I couldn't find anywhere in this country. I had to source it from the World’s Fair in Panama."

My heart raced, my pulse roaring in my ears.

"What kind of equipment?" I asked, keeping my voice even.

He waved a hand. "Generators. Big ones. More power than this building has ever seen running through it. Every room lit up, the ballroom, the hallways, all of it," he said with pride. "I want people to walk in and feel like they are in New York or Chicago. We can rival any of them."

"Could I see it?" I asked. "The setup, I mean. I've always been curious about how these things work."

He looked at me with mild surprise, then smiled. "A woman of science. How interesting. Of course. Come."

He held the door.

The lobby was still being transformed. There were staff moving furniture, flowers arriving in armloads, and a man on a ladder adjusting the angle of a chandelier that caught the morning light and threw it across the walls in pieces. Stradford walked me through everything, first the ballroom, the dining, and even the upper galleries where guests would look down over the dancing. Then I followed him to see a variety of rooms. Some looked like full apartments, with balconies and luxury baths. All were grand, as great if not greater than any five star hotel I’d ever stayed in during my time period. That is why I was surprised when he showed me a block of rooms that were simpler, with white cotton duvets instead of silk, and black linen curtains.

“Is this for your staff?”

Stradford’s thick eyebrows rose in surprise as I made my way through the room. “No. These are for guests.”

I opened the wardrobe and saw a woman’s coat and several dresses along with men’s trouser’s and a row shoes. “Is someone in this room? My apologies,” I said quickly closing it. “I wouldn’t have looked if I’d known.”

Stradford watched me curiously from the door, his face giving away nothing. “They won’t mind. Actually, Houston Whitaker, helped me design these rooms.”

“Really? I didn’t know.” I thought back to the speakeasy, where they’d been playing cards together. Were they friends?

“You should ask him. Come, there is more to see.”

He guided me through a service corridor to the back of the building, where we took an electric elevator. I tried not to panic from the loud humming as it carried us to the top floor where the generators were set up. They were more powerful than anything I'd seen so far in this time.