Free Magic City by Jewell Parker Rhodes

hawkers, clerks, and office workers, flowing around her, muttering, cursing, “Excuse me. Watch your way!”
    The albino man stood before her. His fingers were stained and he had a grease-streaked apron tied about his neck and waist. He looked at her inquiringly; his smile, kind. Though he wore no hat, he pretended to tip one to her.
    Mary smiled. He’d sung the odd song in her elevator.
    â€œI thought you needed help,” he said. A wide matron jostled them.
    The man drew Mary closer to the building. Again he spoke, gently supporting her arm, “May I help you, miss?”
    Mary shivered, feeling both hot and cold. She stared at his lips, expecting a song.
    â€œMy name is Allen. Allen Thornton. I’d like to help, if I may. May I help you? Miss Mary, isn’t it?”
    She touched the embroidery on her breast pocket.
    â€œA lovely name—Mary.”
    Allen’s eyes were the lightest blue with a thick fringe of white lash. His brows were nearly invisible; pale skin shone through.
    She stumbled.
    Allen’s arm wrapped about her waist. “Are you all right?”
    Her fingers traced his. She’d never met a man with such gentle fingers. Though the tips were dirty, there weren’t any calluses.
    She opened her mouth like a baby bird.
    Allen bowed his head, trying to catch her words.
    Mary liked the way his ear curled, soft and pink. A bit of hair was in his inner ear. “I…I…” There was no one else in the world but the two of them . “I—”
    â€œYes? Yes?”
    â€œI want to be happy.”
    Allen peered at her. His hand closed over hers. “Yes, my dear. I understand.”
    Tremors swept through Mary’s body. The sidewalk felt like water; horns blared. The press of bodies bumping about her, the grocer hammering a melon display, and the sun glimmering in shop windows overwhelmed her. Two coloreds on ladders struggled to hoist a banner. Far off, she heard a train’s whistle and the clang of a firemen’s truck.
    She felt lost. “I’m not all right. I’m not all right.” Her legs buckled.
    Allen lifted her as firmly and gently as he would a child. “Dear, dear Mary.” Mary tightened her arms about his neck. She closed her eyes against matrons’ shocked glances, ignored the giggling girls they passed.
    Allen walked determinedly and Mary relished the feel of being carried, gently bouncing, her head stable against the sweaty slope of his neck.
    â€œWe’ll go to my shop,” he said. “I’ll fix you a fine cup of coffee.” Then she heard his thin tenor:
    She felt she’d slipped inside a dream, swept along, floating above the sidewalk—people, store windows, flags, bright streamers blurring. Allen began the verse again.
    Heads turned, mouths opened in amazement, a Packard came to a halt.
    Letting her mind drift, Mary hummed the tune with Allen Thornton.

7
    T he barbershop bell jangled as Joe and Gabe walked through the door. Joe thought it was strange: nobody getting shaved; the shears, still. Over a dozen men sat silent, torsos pressed forward, listening to Lying Man, owner of the four-chair shop. Lyman was nicknamed Lying Man because in fifty years, he’d never lied. He could tell hard truths better than any preacher.
    Joe cocked his head, listening to Lying Man’s cadences.
    â€œThese folks were trying to organize workers. Oil gushing out of the ground every day, and these boys, mainly white, wanting to know why only certain folks held land, built refineries, decided who got jobs. One of ’em, named David Reubens, would even strip his pants, show his chicken legs and drawers, then tug his pants back on—demanding, wanting to know if any man did it any different. Was any different. David would scratch his head, curious why there wasn’t no justice. He’d say: ‘We’re supposed to be equal in America. Things supposed to be fair.’
    â€œI