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Sam stopped. “You don’t get it, do you? You have the strongest power, Memphis.”
Memphis rolled his head to one side. “Me?” I’m too scared to even show my writing to people, Memphis thought. I can’t even date my girl in the open.
“Any fool can kill somebody. But healing people up? That’s a whole ’nother ball of wax. You can save lives, Memphis! If I were those creepy Shadow Men, frankly, I’d be looking for you first.”
PROJECT BUFFALO
In her hotel suite, Evie gooped a Boncilla “invigorating” skin mask onto her face and opened the day’s paper to the gossip pages.
RUMOR HAS IT
BY HARRIET HENDERSON
This reporter has it on exclusive authority that radio’s true sweetheart, the saintly Sarah Snow, has been asked by none other than our brave national hero, Jake Marlowe, to appear at his eagerly awaited Future of America Exhibition next month. “I can think of no better person to represent the future of this great country than Miss Snow and her ministry. She is pure of heart and deed and a shining example of American exceptionalism.” Rumor has it… that Mr. Marlowe admires more than Miss Snow’s pure heart, and that the millionaire might be set on making Miss Snow into Mrs. Marlowe. As for the question of whether Diviners will be included in his exhibition, Mr. Marlowe remained firm that they are not jake with him. “I don’t go for chicanery and flimflam. If you want to see a magic trick, why, you can walk over to Forty-second Street and watch those sidewalk boys taking nickels from the gullible. Even Harry Houdini himself, the greatest magician of all, worked to expose the fraud of spiritualism and mediums and all that hooey. A bunch of folks calling themselves magical? Why, that’s un-American, if you ask me.”
I did, Mr. Marlowe. Thanks for setting the record straight.
And that’s today’s Rumor Has It!
Evie crumpled the newspaper into a ball. Harriet Henderson was a snake, but she was a snake on Sarah’s side, and that was a problem. Radio’s true sweetheart. Harriet was gutting Evie in the papers without even showing her blade. No doubt Mr. Phillips and the Pears soap folks read that, too. She had to get in to see Luther Clayton!
It wasn’t only about shoving Sarah off the front pages, though that would certainly be worth it. Deep down, Evie really wanted to know why Luther had tried to shoot her. It seemed too much of a coincidence the way the soldier kept colliding with her life. She remembered meeting him for the second time, how he’d grabbed her arm and cried, I hear them screaming… ! as if he desperately wanted her to understand. But what? Why her?
If Woody couldn’t manage to get her in, she’d just have to do it herself. Evie dashed off a letter to the hospital’s warden using her special WGI letterhead, mentioning how much she hoped to also shine a light on the stellar work of the dedicated staff, and signed it, With Pos-i-tute-ly the Utmost Sincerity, Evie O’Neill, WGI’s Sweetheart Seer. She spritzed it with her perfume and spritzed the envelope, too, for good measure. Then she raced into the hall and dropped the note into the hotel’s letter chute for the next day’s pickup, frightening a bellhop. The skin mask. She’d forgotten.
“Boo!” Evie said, and watched the young man hurry away.
When Evie returned to her room, the telephone was ringing. She dove for it, pressing the bell-shaped receiver against her ear as she lay back on her silk pillow. “Good afternoon,” she said in her best radio voice.
“Miss O’Neill? Call for you from Mr. I. M. Hansom,” the operator said.
Evie couldn’t help but grin. She was grateful for the distraction of Sam just now. “You may patch Mr. Hansom through, thank you,” she said around the tightening mask.
“Sheba! What are you doing tonight?”
“Entertaining heads of state. Just the heads, though. Saves on having a butler for their coats.”
“So nothing, then. Swell. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“Now, hold on a minute! As a matter of fact, I… I have a date. With a darling boy. From New Jersey,” she lied.
“Nothing darling comes from New Jersey,” Sam said. “Listen, can you break it?”
“That depends. What’ve you got in mind? And if you say the words ghost or Creepy Crawly Museum, I’m hanging up.”
“How ya feel about rum runners?”
“Those are two words I pos-i-tute-ly adore!”
“Swell. See you at eight. Oh, and doll?”
“Yes?”
“Wear something you don’t mind getting wet.”
“What does that mean? Sam? Sam!” Evie shouted into the phone, but the line had gone dead.
Now Sam and Evie drove along the quiet nighttime roads of Long Island’s North Fork. Evie had been silent most of the way, her mood darkening as she stared out through the passenger window at the dotting of houses, lonely train stations, and occasional mansion giving way to long stretches of scrubby country watched over by a seemingly endless line of telephone poles, sentinels of human connection that only made Evie feel more alone.
