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“Yeah, yeah, tell it to Sweeney. Come on. Upsy-daisy.”
Theta helped Evie from the chair, plopped her into bed, and pulled up the blanket. “Tomorrow we’re going after Sam.”
Evie looked up into Theta’s lovely brown eyes. “We?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it? Hold on. You got a hair in your mouth. Yech.” Theta smoothed back Evie’s hair from her face. Then she turned off the lamp. “Scoot over, Evil. I’m coming in.”
Evie wiggled her back to the wall, and Theta lay down beside her in the dark. Evie’s heart had taken a beating. Now it swelled with gratitude. “You don’t have to go with me, you know.”
Theta rolled over, facing Evie, their noses nearly touching. “Evil?”
“Yes?”
“I love you. Now, shut up and go to sleep.”
Evie dreamed of a humming machine and of the Eye shining out from it. Everywhere, the Eye, like a golden sun shedding its tears of light. And then the Eye was on the forehead of the King of Crows. His skin absorbed it, covering it with gray scales and tufts of spiny feathers. When Evie looked closer, his body was a map of lines, ever-changing. Set into his long face were two black eyes flat as jeweler’s velvet so that every longing was reflected back as a jewel, a thing to covet. His thin lips stretched into a mustard-gas grin.
“Are you coming for me? Do you fancy yourselves heroes? How glorious! Now the real fun begins. Soon I will take all you love and watch you burn. Sweet dreams, Object Reader.”
The man in the hat pressed his thumb of forgetting against Evie’s forehead, and she felt herself fall.
BAD LUCK
With Isaiah at his side, Bill Johnson stacked boxes in the back room of Floyd’s Barbershop. It felt good to use his hands. To work. His eyes watered from all the light, but Bill couldn’t get enough of it. Ever since Memphis had healed Bill, it had been the talk of Harlem, in the pool halls and storefront churches, in the Elks Club meeting rooms and at stoop-side chats among neighbors. The day after the healing, when Bill Johnson had walked into Floyd’s Barbershop looking ten years younger, the men had gathered around. Some had touched his face, and Bill didn’t care that his face was wet with his own tears while they did.
“It’s a miracle. It’s a gall-danged miracle,” Floyd had exclaimed. “What can I do you for, Mr. Johnson?”
“Well, sir, I reckon I could use a good shave,” Bill had said.
“Miracle,” Floyd had said again, snapping the apron around Bill’s neck.
Even now, in the other room, where the men took up with talk of baseball and then the terrible fire that had taken Papa Charles and the Hotsy Totsy, Bill knew they’d get around to the topic soon enough: miracles. Miracles could happen. The papers were full of ghosts and hate and tragedy. But on the streets, change was in the air. The people still danced toward hope. Even Octavia had come around after she’d heard what Memphis had done for Bill. The night before, she’d cooked a whole chicken and put Memphis’s plate down first with the choicest cut. After the blessing, she’d watched him eat that chicken, her gap-toothed smile peeking out from behind her lips like sun pushing apart rain clouds. It was a pretty smile, and Bill was grateful to see it at last. He felt like he couldn’t get enough of that smile.
Memphis had regarded his aunt warily. “What is it?” he’d said, mid-chew.
“You look like your mama just now,” Octavia had said. “Like she’s right there in your face.”
And Bill had felt it in a powerful rush, like the flapping of mighty ancestor wings inside his soul: Take flight with us, Brother Bill.
The bell tinkled above the barbershop door and the men in the other room went quiet. Bill’s shoulders tensed. Years as a blind man had taught him to read silences well. This was not a welcome silence.
“Afternoon, gentlemen.”
It had been many years, but Bill knew that voice well. He could never forget it. Bill’s hands shook from a very old fear. He peered around the corner. Gray suits and hats. They might be older, but there was no mistaking them. Adams. Jefferson. The Shadow Men had found him at last.
Bill’s heart liked to jump from his chest as he heard Floyd, polite but not friendly: “Afternoon, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
“We’re looking for a young man, Memphis Campbell? Do you know him?”
No. Not there for him. For the brothers!
“Whatcha want with Memphis?” Floyd asked.
“We believe that Mr. Campbell is a traitor. He’s one of those anarchist Diviners.”
Floyd laughed. “Memphis? Naw. Boy’s a poet. He’s all heart.”
“He’s also a traitor to the nation. Anybody harboring him as a fugitive of the law will face prison time as well.”
