Page 90 of Meet Me on Greenwood

Houston stood in the doorway, breathing hard, a cut opening above his eye that hadn't been there at supper. He took in the sight of me, my robe nearly falling off, my bare feet, and both hands tightly clasped around the porch railing. He swallowed hard.

"Gema."

"Don't." I held up my hand.

"Gema, it is not safe out here! The storm."

"Leave me be," I said, running from the porch into the front lawn. Lightning flashed, illuminating my path.

"Gema!" Houston continued to call.

I picked up speed, wishing I had boots on as I sank in mud and puddles that were deeper than anticipated. The bottom of my chemise would be ruined, but I did not care.

I stopped in front of the red barn on the edge of the house, only tonight it was locked. I pushed at the doors, trying to will the lever to open, until I felt Houston’s hand on my back.

"Gema, we need to get back to the house. The winds are picking up. It could be a tornado."

I whipped around, ready to tell him the truth—that I’d spent most of my life in Oklahoma and had never once feared a tornado. Only those words never left my lips. A large funnel of wind and dust whirled over the pond in the distance, carrying large tree trunks and roof particles with it. Houston saw my eyes widen and turned.

"In the barn," he said with authority, unlocking the door with a key, and pulling it open enough for us to slip through. When I hesitated, he gripped my shoulders. "Gema, we have to get into the barn, now!"

I nodded, pushing myself inside as the wind began sucking us in the opposite direction. Houston entered right after me, struggling to close the door. "I need your help!" he called over his shoulder.

I rushed to his side and we were able to close the door long enough for Houston to lower the bar, locking us inside.

We gasped, both of us soaked through with rain, trying to catch our breath. Houston doubled over, but he recovered quickly, flipping on a single Edison bulb hanging from the rafters. It was just enough light to cast shadows everywhere. "We need to get to the interior," he insisted.

I ignored him, pulling a crowbar off the wall.

"What are you doing?" he asked in alarm.

Thunder cracked somewhere close, rattling the windows in their frames. Finding the first crate of boxes marked medical supplies, I wedged the bar into one of the corners, ripping out the nail just as the wind threw a fresh sheet of rain against the walls, loud enough that I felt it more than heard it. It lifted so easily I went to work on the next corner, working faster now, matching my pace to the storm like it was daring me to hurry.

Houston watched in silence, surely believing I'd gone mad, his silhouette lit in flashes every time lightning found the gaps in the curtains. But I wasn't mad. I just needed to know I'd not imagined it all.

When I’d lifted enough, I pried off the top and found several containers of vodka. I met his eyes before opening another crate. It was full of guns.

Houston stayed near the doorway. He had the sense not to come closer.

After I’d opened a third container full of bourbon, I stopped. "The alcohol," I said, without turning around. "The guns. You are a bootlegger, a racketeer. Honestly, Houston I wouldn’t have cared, but you lied to me!"

"No."

I turned. "Are you going to gaslight me on what I saw?"

Houston narrowed the distance between us, staying just out of reach of the crowbar in my hand.

"I don’t know what you mean about gaslight, but the alcohol and the guns are a cover, a front," he said. "It gives people a reason to look at me closely, but not too closely. It explains all the deliveries I receive, if anyone were to ask. Most people don't."

I waited.

"The room behind the wall—" he paused. "Men and women come through here. From even further South, Tennessee and Mississippi, some even further than that. These are families who've had visits from the Klan. Whose churches have been burned. Who have been told they have until sundown." He looked at his hands. "Families like little Susan’s at Frissel, only hers never made it."

My eyes searched his, trying to process his words. "Susan’s family was trying to get to you?"

He nodded. "I am fairly certain, but they were caught and lynched, even the kids. Susan only survived because she was able to hide," he said. "The families that get here—I help them move them north with money, contacts, and places to stay along the way. Whatever they need to get out."

Winds howled by. The wooden boards were cold under my feet.