Page 21 of Meet Me on Greenwood

"You're going to watch her all night aren't you," Lettie said. It wasn't a question.

"Someone has to."

"What is this child wearing?" she grimaced, giving me a wary look. "Be honest with me. Is she your mistress?"

"No! Do you think Sarah would allow me to bring a mistress here?"

She shook her head. "I never know what you white folks are into. It’s none of my business."

"I’m not—"

"Hush," she said giving a sharp look. "Don’t say it, not even here."

I nodded. Lettie was the only one who knew me from my life in Arkansas. She and my mother had been childhood friends. She was right though.

I could never let on that I was a Black man.

9

Gema

Colored Man Wins! Maj. R.R. Jackson Goes to Illinois Legislature

Iawoke to the sound of boots hitting the pavement. "Bri!" I called out. "Bri, get away from the edge. Please, Bri."

A cool cloth settled against my forehead as I sank deeper into the memory.

"Please, Bri."

"No one is on the edge," a voice soothed. "Whatever you were running from, you are safe."

"Not safe. Bri."

"Where is she?" the voice asked. "Maybe I can help."

I blinked, trying to see through the fog of my mind, but it was useless. I couldn't tell if I was still in the water, still reaching for Bri's hand as it slipped through my fingers, or somewhere else entirely, somewhere that only sounded safe. The cloth on my forehead felt like a hand pressing me under. I didn't know this voice. I didn't know if it belonged to someone helping me or someone standing over me, and in that fog, the two felt dangerously alike.

I sat up flailing, some part of me convinced that if I could just get my feet under me, I could still reach her.

Hands came down on mine, pinning them to the bed, and the pinning was the worst of it, worse than the fog, worse than not knowing where I was because pinned meant caught, and caught meant I'd failed her again, whoever was holding me down now indistinguishable from whatever had been pulling Bri under. I flailed harder. Finally, a hand came down on my chest, tapping there slowly, patient in a way that should have grounded me and instead felt like another thing to fight against. When I continued to protest, I heard a faint humming.

I hate to see the evenin’ sun go down

I hate to see the evenin’ sun go down

It makes me think I’m on my last go ‘round

The sound was deep and rich and just what I needed to lull me back to sleep. But before I did, I placed my hand on top of theirs and whispered, "I found you."

"You did," a male voice answered.

The scent of freshly baked bread filled my nostrils, willing me awake from my slumber. I touched my chest, feeling my mother’s amulet around my neck. I wrapped my arms around my head as light filtered in from the bay windows. I winced, looking over to see it was in a sling.

"You’re awake," a female voice called. "Dr. Whitaker said to take it slow now. Don’t try to stand." A woman I’d never laid eyes on came to my side and took my arm. She was older than her voice had suggested, silver threading heavily through hair pulled back into a tight, practical knot, and her dress was high-collared, buttoned to the throat, the fabric stiff with starch like something out of a photograph rather than a closet.

"What happened?"

"I was hoping you could tell us. Dr. Whitaker thought you might’ve been struck by lightning."