Lair of Dreams

  “He won’t like it.”

  “He won’t be around to stop it, and once we put the plan in motion, what’s he gonna do? Bold action, Jericho.”

  Jericho leaned back in his chair, his eyes on Sam. “So what’s your brilliant plan to get Evie to host the party? She and Will haven’t spoken since she told all of New York that she’s a Diviner.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I can persuade Evie,” Sam said, hooking his hands behind his head.

  Jericho turned back to his book. “Yeah? Did you discuss that last night at the Grant?”

  “You’re really put out about that, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Jericho flipped the page. “So… how is she? Did she seem happy?”

  Sam shrugged. “Sure. It was a party. You know how those things go. Or no, you don’t, do you?”

  Jericho ignored Sam’s jibe. “Do you see each other often?”

  Sam could tell Jericho the truth, that Evie had practically kicked him out of her party. But it was more fun to let the giant think otherwise. “Oh, gee. As a gentleman, I probably shouldn’t say more than that.”

  “Fine. Don’t tell me.” Jericho glanced at the clock. “It’s almost time. Go open up.”

  “Me? How come I gotta go? C’mon, Freddy. It’s cold out there. If I get sick, half the girls in New York will be crying their eyes out.”

  “No doubt the other half will volunteer to dig your grave.”

  “Aww, Freddy. That hurts my heart.”

  “You don’t have a heart. It’s your turn. Go.”

  “But—”

  Without looking up, Jericho pointed to the door. “You are banished. I banish you.”

  “Fine,” Sam grunted. “I’ll go hang out the ‘open’ shingle. Not that it matters.”

  “Now who’s the nihilist?”

  Jericho waited until Sam had gone. Then he slid the newspaper out from under his book and opened it to the article on Evie. Over the past few months, he’d sent her two letters and composed at least two dozen more that he hadn’t sent. The letters were all the same: Dear Evie, I hope you’re doing well. I really enjoyed your radio show. The Bennington isn’t quite as interesting since you left. But he was fairly certain she could read between the lines: Dear Evie, I miss you. Do you ever think of me?

  Together, he and Evie had lived through their own small war of a night. No one else truly understood the pure evil they’d faced in that house with John Hobbes. A few days later, as the morning light crept over the city, he’d kissed her for the first time. How often he relived that moment—the taste of Evie’s mouth, the feel of her body against his, the comfort of her arms around his back. It had been the best few hours of his life. And then it was over. Evie had come to his room that night, and all he wanted was to kiss her again. I can’t, she’d said quietly as she pushed his hands away. It’s no good. It’s Mabel, you know. She adores you. And she’s my dearest friend in this world. I can’t, Jericho. I’m sorry. She’d left him sitting in his room in the dark. But she’d never left his thoughts.

  Jericho tore Evie’s picture neatly from the paper and slipped it into his pocket even though he’d promised himself he’d stop doing that.

  “What a chump,” he said—a phrase he’d gotten from Evie. Then he closed the book and set about his work in the empty museum.

  Sam peeked his head out the museum’s front doors. Nothing. Not a soul. With a sigh, he sauntered down the steps in the light rain and slid open the wooden panel that read CLOSED, exposing the OPEN sign.

  He couldn’t tell Jericho the real reason he needed to keep the museum alive. Two months ago, he’d asked his informant for a tip about Project Buffalo—a place to start. The contact had written down a name: William Fitzgerald. It had seemed like a joke. What could the professor of the world’s dullest museum know about a secret government project during the war that had taken Sam’s mother away from him? But it was the only lead he’d gotten in a very long time, and so even though it made him feel like an ungrateful heel, any chance he got he searched every drawer, cabinet, crevice, and corner of the place for clues that might lead him to the truth. So far, his search had yielded bupkes. He couldn’t let the museum be sold off until he’d found what he was looking for or proved that his contact had been wrong and that Will was in the clear. At times, he wasn’t sure which of those scenarios would be best.

  Sam craned his neck, looking for signs of possible visitors. A mother pushing a carriage. A window washer packing up his supplies. Two men in dark suits waiting out the rain in their sedan. And one fellow in a Harvard letter sweater striding up Sixty-eighth Street.

  Sam smirked. “Perfect,” he said under his breath. He bounded down the steps toward the fella, smiling and waving. “Buckwald? Buck Macy, is that you, you son of a gun?”

  “I’m sorry. You must have me confused with someone else—”

  “Do I?” Whip-fast, Sam stuck out a hand. “Don’t see me,” he intoned, and the college boy’s eyes glazed over.

  Sam reached into the fella’s jacket, found his wallet, removed five dollars, and placed the wallet back inside, all in the space of six seconds.

  “Nine, ten, eleven, twelve…” Sam counted. When Sam hit fifteen, the man came out of his hypnotic trance, blinking and befuddled. Not bad, Sam thought. Fifteen seconds was the longest he’d ever been able to put somebody under.

  “Are you all right, pal?” Sam said, all concern. “You got a little woozy there.”

  “Must’ve been that party last night at the Harvard Club,” the college boy said, still a little dazed.

  “Must’ve been that,” Sam agreed. “Sorry that I had you confused with somebody else. A Yalie,” he whispered.

  “Well. It’s… I’m fine now. Yes,” the fella mumbled. “Thanks, old boy.”

  “Anytime, old boy,” Sam parroted and sent the still-wobbly fella on his way. He kissed the five bucks he’d stolen and shoved it into his pocket.

  “The Museum of the Creepy Crawlies thanks you for your generous donation, sir,” he said to himself, then hurried up the steps into the museum.

  “Did you see that, Mr. Adams?” the driver of the sedan asked, breaking the silence in the car.

  The man in the passenger seat retrieved a pistachio from the oil-stained bag in his hand and maneuvered it into his mouth, cracking the shell with his back molars. But he kept his eyes on the museum the whole time.

  “I did indeed, Mr. Jefferson,” he answered at last.

  The wind whipping down 125th Street in the wake of the zippering trolleys was brisk, and Memphis Campbell blew on his hands for warmth. A tall ladder leaned against the outside of a brownstone where two men hoisted a banner above a second-floor window: MISS CALEDONIA: READER OF OBJECTS, HEALER OF MALADIES, DIVINER EXTRAORDINAIRE. Memphis shook his head. Everywhere he looked, it seemed people were trying to cash in on the Diviners craze.

  As he walked with his younger brother, Isaiah, and old Blind Bill Johnson, Memphis counted the signs hanging from doorways or posted in windows up and down the streets of Harlem: FATHER FORTUNE WILL FREE YOU FROM HARM. MYSTICAL MOHAMMED, TELLER OF TRUTHS FROM BEYOND. OBEAH MAN: PALMS READ, FORTUNES TOLD, CURSES LIFTED. Most of them couldn’t tell a crystal ball from a bowling ball. And the only fortunes were the ones they were collecting from gullible clients.

  None of them had half the stuff Isaiah did, and Memphis knew it galled his little brother not to be lapping up the attention. Ever since Isaiah had gotten sick, their aunt Octavia had kept a watchful eye on him, preaching about “the dangers of the Devil’s business.”

  “You remember what happened? How you lay in that bed for three days?” she’d said, pronouncing each word as if she were spitting it into stone to stand the test of time. “Jesus healed you, so don’t you go throwing his blessings away. This family has no business with Obeah men, mambos, houngans, and card readers. And we certainly don’t have business with Miss Margaret Walker. Never again.”

  But it hadn’t been Jesus who’d healed Isai
ah. It had been Memphis himself.

  He’d never told his aunt that he’d gone to his brother’s bedside as Isaiah lay in that sleep between life and death. In secret, he’d put his hands on his brother, and the power he’d thought had left him forever the night he tried to cure his dying mother had rushed through him once more, just as it used to do back when he was the Harlem Healer, curing the sick in a storefront church with his mother looking on and praising God. It seemed that Memphis had been given a second chance at his gift. He didn’t know why. But he did know that this time, he’d figure it out on his own terms. And no one, except for Theta, would need to know until he was ready.

  “You awful quiet back there, Isaiah,” Blind Bill said, breaking Memphis out of his reverie.

  “I hate this stupid tie,” Isaiah grumbled, pulling at his collar, and Memphis knew it wasn’t the suit that was bothering him. He put a hand on Isaiah’s shoulder, but Isaiah shrugged it off.

  “I have powers bigger’n a lotta these fool Diviners making money now. I coulda had a radio show, too!” Isaiah said and kicked a small rock down the street.

  “No, you couldn’t. Too shrimpy to reach the microphone,” Memphis said, hoping to tease Isaiah out of his mood. It didn’t take much to set his brother off these days. Not being able to use his clairvoyant gift was like keeping him inside the house when there was a warm, sunny day taunting him on the other side of the window. Lately, he’d been talking in his sleep again. Nightmares.

  “I liked going to Sister Walker’s house. She was a nice lady. She was good to me,” Isaiah grumbled.

  “Now, now, now. I can feel you pouting clear over here, little man. Gonna get your face stuck like that,” the bluesman said. These days, Bill seemed to be the only one who could calm Isaiah when he was in a mood.

  For the past month, Bill had been a boarder in Octavia’s house. “Can’t let the man who saved my nephew live in some flea-ridden flophouse,” she’d said as she readied the small room off the parlor that wasn’t big enough to hold anything other than a cot, but Bill insisted he didn’t need more than that, anyway.

  “This is like a king’s room to me, Miss Octavia,” he said, smiling as he patted the cot with a rough, scarred hand.

  It seemed like no time at all before Bill was part of their family—sitting in at meals, going to church with them, telling stories about the Louisiana cotton fields, or showing Isaiah how to bend his fingers to make guitar chords. Sometimes it was nice to have Bill around. There was more time for Memphis to write, more time for nights with Theta.

  “Come on, little man,” Bill said now. “Let’s get you something good to drink.” The bluesman offered the hand that was not on the cane, and Isaiah came to his side and took it easily, as if they belonged together.

  The after-church crowd filled the booths of the Lenox Drugstore soda fountain for a little refreshment and Sunday gossip.

  Bill excused himself for a moment. Memphis and Isaiah hopped onto the stools at the counter in the back and ordered two root beers. The brothers sipped their drinks, Isaiah arguing baseball with Mr. Reggie.

  “If you ask me, the Homestead Grays are the team to beat. The Giants are finished,” Mr. Reggie said, wiping down the counter.

  Isaiah took umbrage at the insult to his beloved New York Lincoln Giants. “Si Simmons gonna pitch for the Giants and win it all this year!”

  “Suppose we’ll have to see about that,” Reggie teased.

  Memphis pulled out his notebook, scribbling some changes to a poem he’d been working on for the better part of a week. The words didn’t feel quite right yet, like he was trying to write in somebody else’s clothes, and he wondered when he would know he’d written something that felt true to himself instead of feeling like an impostor with a pencil.

  “Hello, Isaiah. Memphis. How are you boys getting along?”

  At the sound of Sister Walker’s voice, the boys’ heads shot up. If Sister Walker was sore that Octavia had forbidden them from seeing her, she didn’t show it, offering them one of her warm smiles.

  “Fine, ma’am,” Isaiah said almost shyly.

  “Well, I believe you’ve grown a foot since I saw you last,” Sister Walker said.

  Isaiah grinned. “Gonna be as tall as Memphis. Taller, even!”

  “Keep telling yourself that, shrimpy,” Memphis said. Isaiah socked Memphis in the arm. It barely hurt, but Memphis pretended it was a mortal wound, which pleased his brother greatly.

  “And how are you feeling, Isaiah?”

  Isaiah’s smile faded. “Fine, thank you, ma’am.”

  “I believe my candy dish misses you,” Sister Walker joked.

  “I miss it, too. You still got Bit-O-Honeys?”

  “A whole mess of them. You’re welcome back at my house anytime. I want you to know that.” Sister Walker lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. “Memphis, I need to talk to you about something. It’s important.”

  “I don’t believe I ought to, Miss Walker. My aunt Octavia—”

  “It won’t take long, I promise. I’m leaving town for a bit. But before I do, it’s very important that we—”

  “Well, well, well, is that the Campbell brothers I hear talking to some pretty girl?” Bill called as he tapped his way over to the group.

  Memphis made the introductions, and Bill bowed, all charm, making small talk about the weather and the wisdom of the reverend’s sermon they’d just heard.

  “Do I know you? You look familiar,” Sister Walker said quite suddenly.

  Bill’s mouth worked its way into a smile. “I always look like somebody. Got a familiar face, my mama said.”

  “You have family in Baltimore?”

  “No kin that I know.”

  “Where are your people from?” Sister Walker pressed.

  “Georgia,” Bill said, his mouth tense around the word.

  “I thought you were from Louisiana,” Isaiah said.

  Bill placed his hands on Isaiah’s shoulders, pressing down slightly. “I’m from everywhere. Been all over this country.”

  “Memphis! Isaiah!” Aunt Octavia’s angry voice announced her arrival. She marched through the drugstore and right up to Sister Walker. Her body had the feel of a slingshot pulled to breaking.

  “Afternoon, Octavia,” Sister Walker said.

  “Don’t you ‘afternoon’ me, Margaret Walker. I know what you were doing with my nephew behind my back. I told you before and I’ll tell you for the last time: This is a God-fearing family. You understand?”

  Every head in the drugstore had turned in their direction. All chatter had ceased. “Octavia, Isaiah has a gift—a rare gift. It’s important that we continue our work—”

  “Don’t tell me how to raise my sister’s children!” Octavia stood a hair’s breadth from Sister Walker. “That boy lay in bed near death thanks to you. You’re never getting near my family again, you hear me?” Octavia turned sharply to the boys. “Isaiah, Memphis—we are leaving.”

  Like a scared jackrabbit, Isaiah scrambled down from his stool and, with a backward forlorn glance, said good-bye to Sister Walker before taking Blind Bill’s hand and leading him from the drugstore. The after-church crowd made a pretense of moving food around their plates, but they were still watching. Nothing in the preacher’s sermon carried the same fire as the scene they’d just witnessed.

  Sister Walker laid a hand on Memphis’s arm as he walked past. “Please. It’s important.”

  “Memphis John Campbell!” Octavia shouted from the door.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  “Memphis, you don’t believe I would harm Isaiah, do you?”

  “To be honest, Sister… Miss Walker, I don’t know what I believe,” Memphis said and ran to catch up with his family.

  While Octavia bustled about the kitchen, preparing Sunday supper, Memphis sat on the front stoop and read over his latest love letter to Theta one last time before mailing it. But his mind was on the earlier encounter with Sister Walker. What could be so important that
she had to speak to him? And if it was that important, why hadn’t she brought it up before? Aunt Octavia said that Sister Walker had been in prison—for what, no one seemed to know for certain, though there’d been a rumor floating around church that it had been for sedition during the war. “Can’t trust a word that woman says,” Octavia declared, and Memphis wished he could be so sure.

  “Memphis? You out here?” Bill tapped his way out the door.

  “Over here, Mr. Johnson,” Memphis said, guiding the old man to a seat on the stoop.

  “What you working on out here in the cold?” Bill asked.

  Memphis stuffed the letter into his pocket. “Nothing.”

  “Hmph. Sound like a woman to me,” Bill said and laughed.

  Memphis grinned. “Might be.”

  “Sound like a pretty woman.”

  “Might be that, too,” Memphis said, embarrassed.

  “Aww, now, I don’t mean to be in your business. Mostly, I got to wondering if that Walker woman upset you earlier.”

  “No, sir,” Memphis lied.

  Bill fished in his pocket and came out with two sticks of chewing gum and passed one to Memphis. “What she want with you, anyhow?”

  “Just to talk,” Memphis said, brushing the lint off the gum. It was brittle and stale, so he stuffed it in his pocket.

  “And did you?”

  “No, sir.”

  Bill nodded. “You did right, Memphis,” he said, like an older, wiser uncle. “You did right to look out for your brother thataway.”

  Memphis bristled. He wasn’t sure that keeping Isaiah from using his gift was the right thing.

  “Little man ever talk about what happened to him the day he got sick?” Bill asked, chewing his gum slowly.

  “No. He doesn’t remember anything.”