Healing, Chicago, 1913
Most newspapers didn’t report the Phipps Dry Cleaning fire. If they did, there was a line or two ’bout brave Chicago firefighters and risky chemical storage. Even the colored press was silent, not wanting to spread hoodoo tales or help the white folk think Negroes were careless or had truck with haints and devils. People gossiped though, claiming the fire was a curse and the storm a miracle. Didn’t the fire engine company get a call before the catastrophe even sparked? Surely the spirits of Lake Michigan were watching over, taking care, since only the Dry Cleaning burnt to the ground, and George Phipps had insurance and a second shop just about to open. Neighboring brick buildings come through almost unscathed. No patrons had been on the Dry Cleaning premises when the calamity began. Not one of George’s employees was stranded inside or got shot running to safety. Brave firefighters and volunteers who were wounded mended good as new. The fire chief concluded that the burnt bodies retrieved from the rubble were the very men who set the fire. The cowardly fellow shooting from the rooftop drowned in a puddle in the back of a truck.
Iris saw more trouble on the horizon: fire and race riots in the coming years. Chicago was a violent town. People went missing every night. So many dead poor folk—police claimed there was no time to track down the next of kin. Still, somewhere tears were shed, funeral laments sung, and a bitter ache gripped the hearts of those left behind.
Even bad men shouldn’t have to pay with their flesh.
After the fire, after stopping time, calling a rainstorm, and holding the whirlwind, Redwood fell into a stupor on the wet cobblestones and could not be roused. Aidan’s shoulder muscles were all torn apart, and the pain finally hit so hard, he couldn’t gather her up. He fell on his knees beside Redwood, rocking back and forth and muttering crazy talk.
“She’s exhausted,” Dr. Harris declared. “You’re a wreck too, Mr. Wildfire, and it’s no wonder.”
Aidan didn’t know what came out his mouth. By the look on Dr. Harris’s face, it was bad.
“I know what to do,” Iris said, calming Aidan a bit. “Don’t you worry.”
Dr. Harris sent a protesting Aidan home with Walter. Wrapped and splinted and woozy as a drunk man, Aidan couldn’t put up much of a fight. Walter brought him to George’s house first thing the next morning to look in on Redwood, but she was still dead to the world. Aidan was beside hisself till Iris made another dose of Miz Subie’s special brew—the one that brought Redwood back after the Chicago Fair spell. Iris poured it down Redwood’s throat before being dragged off to school.
Dr. Harris threatened to send Aidan to the hospital in an ambulance if he didn’t promise to go back to his bed and stay there. Watching the gentle rise and fall of Redwood’s chest, Aidan barely listened to him.
Clarissa said, “George is doing splendidly, but he asked to see you, Dr. Harris.” She opened the door to the hallway. When the good physician left, she patted Aidan’s hands. “Iris tells me that conjuring can tucker a person out, what with stealing heartbeats and all.”
Aidan raised an eyebrow at hoodoo talk coming out Clarissa’s good Christian mouth.
Clarissa smiled. “I don’t understand of course, but if the good Lord sees fit to let us help one another this way, who am I to argue?”
Aidan nodded at her sensible logic.
Clarissa’s lips were close to his ear. “Doesn’t Redwood need all her power for herself right now?”
“Yes, ma’am, but—”
She had a cool hand on his hot head. “You need mending too.”
“He won’t listen to anybody,” Walter said. “I told him already.”
Clarissa touched his sweaty neck. “When Redwood wakes up, she’ll be angry if you haven’t taken care of yourself.”
Aidan wanted to scoop Redwood up and carry her away, but just standing and holding his own bones up hurt like hell. “Tell her—”
“I will.” Clarissa laughed, bottles tinkling in the breeze. She stretched her long neck toward him, swaying sultry hips this way and that. She was a woman used to getting what she wanted out of ornery men, out of everybody.
“What?” Aidan said. “What you got up in your sleeve?”
“Don’t worry,” Clarissa whispered. “You haven’t lost her.” She opened the door for him. “I called Mr. McGregor. It won’t do for you to bang around in the trolley again.” She helped Walter sit Aidan down in the automobile. “I don’t want to see you abroad again until you’re well.” She smoothed his hair and boldly kissed his forehead. George was a very lucky man. “Do I have your word?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mr. McGregor drove off at a moderate pace till George’s house was out of sight. Clarissa wasn’t fond of anybody speeding.
“Did you hear?” Aidan grinned at Walter. “I haven’t lost her.”
And then Aidan couldn’t tell you what happened for several days.
George had an easy recovery. Every time Redwood lifted heavy eyelids for a second, he was sitting by her bed, dragon wings unfurled, hot eyes filled with tears. Indeed, he sat with Redwood through the night and into the next day, till she opened her eyes all the way and rasped a few words ’bout the sun hurting her head. George kissed her cheek with dry lips and was out the door like a shot.
Clarissa closed the curtains at the window seat. “Is that better?”
“Yes.” Redwood’s voice was rusty and the sound surprised her. She frowned.
“Don’t be mad at George,” Clarissa said.
“I ain’t mad at him.”
“He feels terrible about what happened.”
“He can’t tell me that?” Each word came a little easier to Redwood.
“He’s blaming himself, so hard…”
“That gang of hooligans come spoiling to burn George out.” Redwood pushed up on her elbows. “Chicago ain’t no place to be a man … or a woman.”
Clarissa lost half her color. “Why are you talking George’s line?”
“No, I mean, we got to fight for that place, make it up as we go.”
Clarissa sighed, relieved. “Granddaddy said freedom will take everything you got and then some more.”
Redwood tasted Miz Subie’s medicine in the corners of her mouth. “Iris did a cure.”
“I can’t hardly get her to school, can’t get her to sleep, she’s so busy fussing over you.”
“Aidan was here.” Redwood looked under the bed. His Maskókî hunting knife was lying beneath her, cutting through pain.
“I didn’t see him leave that,” Clarissa said.
Redwood blinked. “Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Mm-hmm,” Clarissa said softly. “Almost everything.”
“Don’t worry on me. I feel grand.”
“Still the time of your life?”
“Yes. The very best time.”
Clarissa stroked Redwood’s hand and glanced at the boxes of books, the bare walls, and the bound stacks of letters and papers. “Whatever will we use this back parlor for?”
“What’ll I do with no good friend such as you?” Redwood hugged her fiercely.
Clarissa gasped and dabbed her eyes. “Save your strength.”
“How will I bear it?” Exhausted, Redwood fell back into the bed. “Will you miss me too?”
“You will be a very good correspondent, writing with excellent grammar, and you will visit whenever you can. When my children are grown, I will visit you, wherever that may be.” Clarissa wiped Redwood’s damp face. “I won’t scold you or Iris about wearing men’s clothes. You’ll bring fat babies into this world, maybe even one or two of your own. There must be a sister club out in the wilds of California or Oregon, and you’ll persuade them to poetry. You’ll make more moving pictures or something magical. You will think of me, and I of you whenever we minister to those less fortunate.” Clarissa sighed. “And you’ll love Aidan like a good woman should.”