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“Friends.”
She scrabbled to her feet and set off at an uneven run. “Last one to the tire swing’s a rotten egg!”
From a short distance away, Bill watched the two of them taking turns on the swing. “Don’t like the way Sarah Beth plays with Isaiah,” he said to Memphis. They were mending a break in the fence near the road. “Don’t seem natural.”
“Nothing about any of this is natural,” Memphis said. “That girl can’t help the way she is.”
“Ain’t that.”
“What is it, then?”
“Her parents baby her too much, for one.”
Memphis couldn’t disagree with that. The Olsons loved their daughter, but they’d let that love keep them from disciplining the girl. They treated her like a fragile little bird who might break. Memphis didn’t think she was fragile and believed that her parents should give her a chance to show how resilient she could be. But it wasn’t his place to say so.
“What else?” Memphis asked.
“Don’t know. Sometime, they run off together into the corn or down by the river, and when they come back, Isaiah seems… different. Not himself. I think the boy might be getting sweet on her.”
Now Memphis was worried for a whole different set of reasons. All the time Memphis had told Isaiah he needed to start growing up and become a man, maybe Isaiah really was becoming a man. But he hoped Isaiah wasn’t foolish enough to practice on the Olsons’ daughter.
That night before bed, Memphis took Isaiah aside. “Isaiah, I don’t think you should play with Sarah Beth so much.”
“But she’s my friend!”
“She’s the Olsons’ daughter.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Memphis bit down on all the worry and anger climbing up into his mouth: Because you never know if the farmer who seems friendly suddenly reaches for his gun because he has the gun and the power and you don’t have either one.
“We don’t know these people,” he said,
“Sure, we do.”
“No. We don’t. They’re letting us stay on till Evie’s better, and we need to show them we appreciate it by working.”
“But Mr. Olson said—”
“Never you mind what Mr. Olson said. I know different. We’re here to work on our powers and stop the King of Crows, and then we’re gone. I don’t want you playing with her all the time. Tomorrow, you’ll help Bill and me paint the barn.” Memphis hated that it had to be said, but he needed to protect his brother in a world that wasn’t going to do it for him.
Isaiah crawled into his bed. He turned away from Memphis, facing the wall.
“Hey. Ice Man. You want me to tell you a story?” Memphis asked.
“No,” Isaiah said angrily. “Too old for bedtime stories.”
And that cut Memphis the most.
Jericho dreamed of Lupe. She was standing in a beautiful garden with the sea behind her. The wind lifted her dark hair, and in his sleep, Jericho moved his fingers as if they might stroke that hair. She carried a bouquet of flowers. She walked past a Ferris wheel turning slowly. Evie sat in one of the Ferris wheel seats. She opened the little door to welcome Jericho, but he let the chair take Evie up and away. Lupe was ahead on the path, and he would follow her wherever she was leading.
Jericho woke panting. Seeing Lupe, even in a dream, really got his heart beating. It was racing, in fact. He sat up to try to get it to calm down. His hands were shaking, too. Why were they shaking? Out of habit, he tried to make a fist. Only his pinkie and ring finger curled in. With his other hand, he forced the fingers down, and after a moment he was making a fist just fine. He was tired was all. He hadn’t done farmwork in a long time. All that milking and roping and plowing. Anybody’s hands would ache. Some fresh air was what he needed. He tiptoed out of the farmhands’ quarters and into the cool, clear night. The stars were extra shiny. He spied Taurus and Canis Major making a show of it. He made another fist. A little stiff, but fine. In a few weeks, he’d meet up with Lupe. They’d made a plan to go to Coney Island and stroll the boardwalk. She was going to make him mofongo, which was a dish that had plantains, which were like bananas, she’d said, but sweeter and better.
“Hey, kid. Mind if I join you?” Sergeant Leonard was there in the grass. His dark-ringed eyes shone out from his dead face, and he was smiling.
“You’re not here.”
“Okay. Have it your way.” Sergeant Leonard’s smile disappeared. “Go on. Make a fist.”
