She waved to him with her free hand and smiled. “We’ll stop back by another time,” she said. Mr. Morris nodded along, but she wasn’t sure he’d actually heard. Decades of close-up work with machinery had taken with it the majority of his hearing.
He wore blue overalls and a newsboy cap, and he smiled with all his teeth. “See you when I see you, little lady!”
Angel was beginning to realize a quick stroll through Greenwood might not be feasible. Everybody knew everybody, and Angel with sleeping Michael on her shoulder, on a school day no less, was fair reason for investigation. She quickened her steps even more. Past the manicured lawns, budding flower beds, and monstrous magnolia trees shading bits of sidewalk; then she finally reached Deep Greenwood, the business district.
Relieved to see the rim of town, she slowed her stroll to take in the red-and-brown brick buildings along the busy strip. The finest of restaurants, clothiers, grocers, hardware shops—all owned by families she knew. Walkways filled by tailored men with dainty ladies holding on to their right elbows. Black, brilliant, self-sustaining Greenwood Avenue was proof that Booker T. Washington was correct about tolerance and eventual progress. He’d called it “Negro Main Street,” which was in all ways apropos. Greenwood’s success always brought to mind a famed quote of Washington’s:
Success always leaves footprints.
Angel saw Washington’s wisdom throughout Greenwood. She also saw it in the railroad tracks, dividing white Tulsa from Black Greenwood. Those tracks were ever present in the consciousness of those on both sides. Unfair, of this there was zero doubt, but Washington gave permission to thrive alongside in segregation. And booming Greenwood proved him correct, rest his soul.
Michael burst awake as they entered the crowded drugstore and soda shop. An interested procession of questions greeted Angel, but now she didn’t mind at all.
“Why aren’t you at school, Angel?”
“Mrs. Nichelle’s really been catching it with this sweet baby boy, hasn’t she?”
“Did God send you straight from heaven, child? You truly live up to your name. Cokes on the house.” Mrs. Williams had placed an ice-cold cola in Angel’s free hand, and Michael was happy, cooing in the coolness of the storefront.
When Dr. Owens walked in the door, Angel immediately felt tension in her low gut. He was one of the only residents in the district who knew the extent of her father’s condition, and she in no way wanted to discuss it. Greeted by soda-shop patrons at every step, he slowly made his way toward her table.
As Greenwood was concerned, Dr. Owens was as close to a famous person they had. A dapper man, always pressed and buttoned beneath his crisp lab coat. His unaffected smile never left his cheeks, making them plump, shiny, and youthful. He breezed through the town like a wide-winged bird. Unattached and without public conquests, he was the most desirable and classy of bachelors. Angel liked him enough, but since her father fell ill, all of his likability melted away. Now he was only the bearer of bad news.
“May I sit?” he asked her.
“You may,” Angel replied, trying hard to give the impression that she most certainly did not want him to sit without being overly rude.
He pulled up a seat and spread his infectious grin ever further across his face. “How do you get him so calm?” he asked of Michael. “Every time he visits my office, the whole town can hear his cries. You’ve turned him into a reverie.”
Angel stroked Michael’s upper back with gentle, frustrated hands. “He’s upset because he senses exactly this—the town’s rebukes of him. We wouldn’t speak so judgmentally of the temperaments of an adult; why does everyone feel so free to speak illy of a child? Let alone one also who cannot yet speak for himself. Anything could be bothering him. An itch he cannot reach, a sneeze he cannot release, a foul smell he cannot stand.” She smiled and lifted him into the air. “He loves me because I dare give him grace.”
After her speedy rant, Angel grasped the doctor’s long silence and looked up at him to see concern on his usually jovial face.
“Angel,” he started finally. “How are you holding up?”
This is exactly why she didn’t want him to sit across from her that day. A wonderful doctor he was, that much was undeniable, but he meddled too much in feelings and emotions he knew nothing about.
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you,” she replied stiffly. “Why do you ask?”
“Your father…”
“Anything else I can get you?” Mrs. Williams said only to Dr. Owens, forgetting completely that Angel was sitting there.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” he replied to her, smile re-plastered on his face.
Without asking, Mrs. Williams pulled out the third seat and leaned in close to Dr. Owens. “My daughter is coming back from Spelman for the summer months,” she said softly before peeking around to make sure no one else could hear. “She was first runner-up in the beauty contest this year. Did you know that?”
He grinned, but Angel could tell it was empty and rehearsed. “I think you’ve told me that a time or two, yes.”
“She’s mighty sought after, Doc.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied again. “You’ve told me that, too.”
While they spoke, Angel slyly tightened her grip on Michael and guzzled the remainder of her Coke.
“Thanks for the drink, Mrs. Williams,” she interjected, but Mrs. Williams waved her away. “See you soon, Dr. Owens.”
Dr. Owens attempted to stand, but Angel held her hand out to stop him from doing so. “Next time,” he started. “We need to have a real sit-down, sound good?”
Rudely, Angel didn’t reply to that at all. Instead, she scurried out the door and toward home.
Angel took the long way and stayed close to the railroad tracks to avoid Mrs. Tate and, surprisingly, had run into no one. An extra-long passenger train passed, car after car after car. She always paused to revel in the beauty of trains, especially this kind—deep burgundy with opulent golden swirls. This train was mostly first-class and only available for whites, so she’d likely never tour the inside. This was as close as she could get, a timely peek here and a perfectly placed glance there. She could almost catch a glimpse of exquisite ladies in large, feathered hats walking the length of the cabins. In a particular light, she could see the dining car, her favorite, with smooth white tablecloths, laughing patrons, and stainless-steel towers of tiny biscuits in the center of each table.
Michael began to coo at the train, and Angel smiled. “I know, little man. It’s mighty beautiful, isn’t it?”
Again, he cooed and added a sweet smile along with it as the final box car rushed by them.
When she was small, her father had told her to always wave at the caboose of a train until it was completely out of sight. He’d told her it would bring her good fortune and the best of luck. For that reason, no matter what was happening, and no matter how foolish it made her look, she’d wave frantically at the backmost train car.
So she stood, feet planted, saying goodbye to the fleeting, exclusive, out-of-reach train. Just like that, it was out of sight. Gone and on its way to a place not Greenwood.
After this, she went straight home to find out if Mrs. Nichelle had come looking for her.