Page 75 of Meet Me on Greenwood

The understanding arrived slowly, and then all at once.

"Who is this?" I asked.

"My friend, Bernadette," Rita said quickly. "She is going to get us home."

My eyes darted between the two of them again understanding finally reaching me. "You are Bernie."

The drive home was silent. Rita had not said a single word since we’d climbed into Bernie’s car. I’d barely been able to meet Houston’s gaze when he saw us off. I could tell he wanted to say more, but I wouldn’t let him. "I’ll see you at Frissel," was all I could manage. As we’d drove away, he held an expression of someone watching the moment disappear, and he desperately wanted to claw it back. It was too much. I needed to find a way out of this timeline, and quickly.

As Bernie pulled up, just outside of the Alderman’s circular drive, I watched her squeeze Rita’s hand. The gazed at each other like they couldn’t get enough, like keeping the connection was essential to their being. When Rita finally got out, I followed her around to the side of the house where there was a wooden lattice woven through with flowers. Rita pulled some of the flowers out of the way to get a good grip before making her way up to my bedroom balcony. I followed behind, but by the time I reached my room, she was gone. I peered outside my door, and hers was shut tight.

28

Gema

Martin Makes Another Effort to Put the Star Out of Biz

When I came down to breakfast, C.J. and Camille were sitting together reading the latest paper. The bold print read "Tulsa Must Protect its Negro Citizens! Mob violence from the police at an all-time high."

"Good morning," I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee.

C.J. folded the paper down. "How did you sleep?"

"Very well," I said, as Flora, one of the servants offered me a cinnamon bun and a plate of fruit, while another, Evan, poured the coffee. These were not professionally trained men and women from a corporate office paid minimum wage, these were people from the community with warm smiles and dark complexions. C.J. didn’t even balk when Flora’s hands shook as she attempted to refill his cup. He waited patiently and mopped up the drops she spilled onto the delicate lace tablecloth with his napkin.

"What do you think of this headline?" he asked taking a sip of the freshly poured brew. "Do you think it is too much?"

I realized he hadn’t known how late we’d stayed out or that we did not actually see a movie. We’d snuck in without notice, without me having to explain I’d broken my promise and I’d spent time with Houston again.

I buried myself into the paper as if they could see the betrayal on my face. I could still feel his lips on mine and I feared they could too. There was no way for them to, but I felt guilt from putting them in danger all the same.

I busied my thoughts by searching the paper for any hints of the impending massacre. Of course there wouldn’t be. They had almost a whole year before everything in this community, including the house we currently sat in would be burned to the ground. The thought sobered me.

"No. I think it will certainly get people’s attention," I finally answered.

"There was a raid on the speakeasies last night." C.J. shook his head.

"Those establishments shouldn’t be running," Camille said with disapproval. "Nothing but devilry occurs in those places."

"Even though there are twice as many in the white part of town," he lamented, "everyone knows the best ones are in Greenwood. It is all about money. The businesses in midtown are upset that the money is flowing down here, and not into their pockets. Can you believe the police robbed the safe at The Red Pussy Cat?" he asked.

"She doesn’t know about such things, C.J." Camille said. "And she shouldn’t."

"Well, they were robbed all the same, and now they may have to close down."

"This isn’t an appropriate conversation to have amongst women," Camille said. "First you corrupt our daughter, and now you are cornering Gema."

"Where is Rita?" I asked, taking a bite of an apple.

Camille smiled proudly. "She’s getting dressed for a date with Charles Hale, the son of our Deacon. He is in town from Morehouse." She leaned into C.J. "This could be her chance."

C.J. rolled his eyes. "We should not push these young people, Camille. Let her find her own match."

Camille sniffed. "She is already twenty-six C.J. We need to help her."

I got up from the table, realizing I was witnessing a quarrel they must have often. Before I could excuse myself, Camille said, "Make sure you are ready, too. You will be their chaperone."

Charles Hale was handsome in a classic way with a medium build, chiseled face, and nice hair. He arrived punctually, hat in hand, with the practiced ease of someone who had been raised well. He shook C.J.'s hand, complimented Camille's home, and brought two sets of flowers—one for Camille, and one for Rita.