Page 6 of Meet Me on Greenwood

“Did you hear him?” Sarah said, irritation sharpening her voice. “You nearly ran us over.”

The man replaced the cap on his head and addressed her. “My apologies, ma’am.”

My head swiveled the moment I heard his voice. My eyes narrowed on his crooked nose, broken when we were both eleven years old in in a fist fight and his gold tooth, because of the lack of dental care too expensive for farm boys to afford. I recognized this man. I held my breath waiting to see if he recognized me too.

Instead, he nodded past me like a stranger would. “I beg your pardon, sir. I will watch where I’m going next time.”

I couldn’t find words fast enough to matter. Sarah grabbed my arm and turned me around. “You are lucky we are late,” she called over her shoulder, “or I’d have my Houston make you answer for that.”

“Houston?” the man asked, but we were already walking away. That man was from my past and I had no desire to revisit those humbling beginnings.

“Can you believe him?” Sarah continued, straightening my collar. “I think he was one of those mulattos. I don’t know what he is doing over here. I should let you put him in his place.”

“I don’t think so. Are you hurt?”

She leaned in for a kiss. “I have to say, the way you pulled me out of the way was sheik, Houston Whitaker.”

I returned it, pulling her closer but, she pushed me back, glancing around. "Not here," she giggled, but her face was serious. She smoothed down the strays of my hair, then took my hand and led me inside.

Whatever unease the man had left in me, I tucked it away. There wasn’t room for anything else.

The room was arranged with rows of white chairs for community members, facing the mahogany tables up front where nine white men sat next to the Oklahoma and Confederate flags. Sarah led us up to the first row.

"Last order of business before we move to the evening's awards," Larry said, acknowledging us with a wink, "is a petition from the Negro Business League." He paused, letting the room settle into order so that he could read. "It seems they are once again requesting an expansion of Greenwood's commercial boundaries. To continue—" he looked down at the paper in front of him with an expression of theatrical distaste, "—the growing elitism of Black Wall Street."

Everyone in the room laughed as his face strained in disapproval, including Sarah. She tapped her gloved hand against my shoulder. "Black Wall Street?" she cackled. "Can you imagine? The audacity of these people."

"It is something," I said noncommittally.

Sheriff Barnaby Sterling reached across the table and lifted the petition. He turned it over, riffling through the pages with slow deliberateness.

"Over eight hundred signatures," he said. "Eight times what's required to bring it forward." He looked up. "They're serious."

The room went quiet with anticipation as Sterling reached for his belt and produced a petrol lighter. Opening it with a flick of his thumb, the flame caught on the first try. I sucked in a breath as he held the corner of the petition to it. My heart raced so quickly it dampened the cheers in the room.

The paper caught slowly at first, then all at once. Sterling set it in the large ashtray at the center of the table, and they all watched the eight hundred signatures curl and blacken and disappear while the room erupted around them.

I did not react. Instead, I settled on an expression of cool detachment, but if anyone cared to look deeper, or asked the right questions, they’d see a different man entirely. I pulled out my watch, reminding myself of the long night I had ahead of me and the work waiting for me at home—work none of these men would ever understand.

Larry took his gavel to regain control of the room. "Now, onto more important things. We have an award to present to this bright young doctor. Come up here, Houston," he said. Claps sounded in the room, Sarah loudest of them all.

I pulled at my collar and drew in a shallow breath before standing and approaching the head of the room.

"Nice job," Larry said, giving me the award and shaking my hand. "Someday, son, all this will be yours too. Now turn to that camera and smile."

3

Gema

Hot Springs Liver Buttons Make You Feel Fine

Present Day

Ineeded to do something, anything other than be alone with my thoughts. I pulled out a key and pushed open the door that led to my boyfriend’s loft.

"Andre!" I called, dropping the keys on the kitchen island that held a nearly empty bottle of wine. Mid-day drinking was unusual for him unless he was coming down from a big case. Andre was a partner at Maise’s firm. We’d met during one of her swanky benefits where I’d hoped to attract a few donors for the ORI.

Andre had approached me at the bar and shared his love for trash television, especially Love Island, which I’d never seen. Before I could blink, I was in his living room watching the first season, and his hand down my shirt, and the rest was history. The sex wasn’t great, but it was a good distraction, and he had an espresso machine that I couldn’t help but envy. Sometimes I would stop at his place solely to get a cup before heading into work.