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Evie got up on the microphone. “Good evening, defenders of democracy. This… radio program could be coming to you from an underground storm shelter in the heartland of America. Or from a reservation in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Perhaps we are broadcasting from a ship anchored off the coast of California, or from a tenement on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. We are everywhere, just like the radio waves reaching you in your living rooms at this very moment. Perhaps you’ve heard of us in the newspapers—the Voice of Tomorrow. Perhaps you’ve heard that we are radicals. Well, if the honest truth about what is going on in this country is radical, then so be it. There are ghosts in this land, ladies and gentlemen. Whether you want to believe it or not, they’re here. And we’re going to have to face up to it if we want to survive.?
?? Evie paused. She looked over at Memphis, who nodded. Evie turned back to the microphone. “And now, a message from the Voice. Of. Tomorrow!”
Evie shifted and Memphis took his place in front of the microphone. His heart sped up as it always did when he had to speak in public, even if he couldn’t see that public, and it amazed him to think that once upon a time, when he was the Harlem Healer, it had been no trouble at all for him to stand up in front of the congregation and heal the sick. But those had been his people, his church, with his mama standing by, smiling at him to show that it was all right. It had been three years ago, and it was forever ago, and he was no longer that young man who knew everything. At this particular moment, he wasn’t trying to convince anybody of anything. He only wanted talk to them, human being to human being. He only hoped he could be heard.
From his pocket, he retrieved the poem he’d written that morning and tried to get the words to sit just right in his mouth.
“America, America,
Who are we?
brothers and sisters, sons and daughters
I’ve seen the best of us, braving floodwaters
on eight miles of drowning earth.
Refugees, refugees
I’ve seen the hopeful, bathed in the torchlight of
Liberty, that harboring girl.
I’ve seen the worst of us, torches in the night
A mockery of the torch in the harbor.
Oh, America, America,
God shed his grace on thee,
Now He asks from His nightclub in neon heaven—
Think upon four score and seven
And ask yourselves, Is this who we are?
Is this who will we be?
Who will we be?”
Moved, Evie nodded at him to continue. Memphis held up the paper and shook his head. There’s no more, he mouthed.
“That concludes this inaugural program of the Voice! Of! Tomorrow! Stay tuned, America.”
Evie powered down the radio. “How do you feel?” she asked Memphis.
“Aahhhhh!” Memphis leaped up, laughing as he shook out his hands to release his nerves. He beamed. “I feel for all the world like a lamp somebody finally figured out how to plug in.”
The next day, Memphis wrote whenever he could. During a break when baling the hay. After planting corn. While Sam, Henry, Bill, and Jericho cooled off on the porch with tall glasses of lemonade before they started in on the rest of their chores. He’d always worried that he didn’t really have anything to say. But the last few weeks and last night had shown him that he did. He’d just finally stopped trying to say it like other people. As himself, he had plenty to say.
For the next few nights, after the Olsons had gone to bed, Evie and Memphis stole out to the barn. It gave Evie a sense of pride that she knew how to get the radio up and running. Those months at WGI had made her a star, then they’d been witness to her spectacular fall. Now they were giving her a sense of purpose beyond fun or fame. It wasn’t just Evie anymore; it was all of them.
They were still afraid to use their powers as a group, though. Instead, they paired up in different configurations, concentrating on sending the signal farther, hoping it worked. True to his word, Sam gave them cover while they touched the radio. One night, Evie asked the others to join in for a little radio play she’d written with Memphis’s help. Theta, Sam, Henry, and Isaiah played their parts. Even Jericho agreed to read one line.
Only Ling refused. “It’s like a hideous school play.”
The Diviners crowded around the one microphone, taking turns and trying not to bump heads as they did.
