Hazel let out a deep breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The sight of Myron in any uniform—his Pullman porter’s, his Marine Corps dress blues on their wedding day, and now his police officer’s uniform—had always made Hazel feel safe, calm, and proud.
Myron was a tall willow compared to Eugene. His thick-rimmed glasses reflected the indigo of his skin. Alarm was etched on his face. He walked quickly to Hazel and pulled her to him and asked quietly but firmly what in the entire hell she was doing there. She held up the paper bag.
“Lunch,” she said.
Myron lowered his head and kissed Hazel softly on the cheek.
“Y’all know this is the jailhouse and not the courthouse, right?” Eugene said to them.
Hazel heard Barnes flap his newspaper, burying his head in it. Still, Hazel could feel his eyes sear through the paper.
Eugene watched them with his arms folded across his chest.
Hazel thought of her mother. What would Della have done here in this police station? Two white men harassing her daughter. She figured her mother would’ve set fire to the damn place. With the white men inside it. It was all Hazel could do not to spit on the floor as Myron steered her out of the station, his grip on her tight.
“You can’t come here anymore,” Myron said sharply once they were outside. It was sweltering on Beale. There was no breeze off the Mississippi, and the sound of cicadas, even at midday, was overwhelming. Myron led Hazel to a storefront with a wide awning, so she could rest in the shade. “Here,” he motioned. Then added, “Never again.”
“I understand,” she said.
“This…this isn’t the kind of place I want my wife in,” he said, his voice softening. He took the brown sack from Hazel’s hands with a tenderness meant as an apology. “What do we have in here?” he asked.
“Catfish po’boy. Some slaw.”
“You’re too good to me,” he said.
“I know.”
“I got a warrior for a wife.” He shook his head and smiled.
“You do,” she said, beaming.
“Never again, though,” he repeated. He placed his hand on her abdomen, swollen with life, and gave a weak smile. “But we don’t have to talk about this now, Hazel. Thank you for the lunch. How’s my firstborn son?”
“She,” Hazel said, “is just fine today, husband.” Myron’s hand stroked her belly as she spoke.
“It’s a boy,” he said. “I’m not sure how I could bring forth women into this world.” He planted a tender kiss atop Hazel’s forehead. One of the myriad tender gestures Myron made, and Hazel’s favorite. “I got you,” he said. “But never again, you hear me?”
“Myron, you’re worrying me. What are you talking about? I’ve been telling anyone who’ll listen my husband is Memphis’s first Negro detective. I—we are so proud of you, love.”
Myron tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “They won’t let me arrest white folk.”
Hazel stepped out of their embrace. “What?”
“They won’t let me. I’m hot on a case. I can’t talk about it too much, baby, while I’m here.” Myron checked over his shoulder and continued. “But I know who it is. I know. Some white college kid enrolled at Memphis. Staked him out and caught him in the act. They won’t let me arrest him. Told me to check my evidence again. They figure any john raping women in a colored neighborhood better be Black, too. Found some poor fella to pin the thing on. That’s the way of it.”
The heat was getting to Hazel. She felt faint. And hungry again. With all her effort, she pushed herself up on her toes to kiss her husband. The love of her life. They had survived a great flood and a great war. They would survive this, too. She leaned in close and adjusted his tie. “Come home to me,” she said.