“I don’t know how to thank you for being there, Mr. Johnson,” Octavia said, a catch in her voice.
“Well, ma’am, I’m just glad the Good Lord put me there.”
“That sure is a nice new hat and suit you have on, Mr. Johnson.”
“Bill. Thank you, Miss. Bought it with my winnings. My number come in big. Won two hundred dollars, just like that.” Bill snapped his fingers.
“Must’ve been a heavenly reward for your good works.”
Bill cleared his throat. “And, uh, how is the little man?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard?” He could detect the exuberance in the woman’s voice. “He’s fine. Why, he’s better than fine. All healed up like nothing at all happened.”
“I see.” Bill’s hands shook and he clasped them in his lap. “And does he remember what happened?”
“No, no, not a thing. The doctor says it may have been some kind of fever. Guess we’ll never know.”
“Maybe…” Bill said, then shook his head, as if dismissing the thought out of hand. “It may not be right for me to say.”
“What is it?”
“I got to wondering if maybe he just wore himself out guessing cards at Miss Walker’s place.”
He sipped his coffee and waited. When Octavia finally spoke, her voice was tight with both apprehension and anger. “Miss Walker helps Isaiah with his arithmetic. He has trouble with his sums. I don’t know anything about any cards.”
“Now I’ve done it. Said more than I had a right to. Don’t pay me no mind, Miss Octavia.”
“I would very much appreciate it, Mr. Johnson—”
“Bill.”
“Bill, if you would tell me what you know, thank you.”
He couldn’t see Octavia, but he could hear the rustle of her dress as she poised on the edge of the chair, and he knew he had her.
“Well, Miss, I ’spect I don’t rightly know ever’thing. The little man told me he had a gift, and that Miss Walker was teaching him how to use that gift. What my grandmother called the sight.” Bill took another cookie, dunked it in his coffee. It was delicious. “But you know how children do. The way I figured it, little man was just telling me stories. You know, trying to puff himself up some.”
“I see.” She was angry. There wouldn’t be any more visits to Miss Walker’s house, Bill was fairly certain of that.
“Could I look in on Isaiah, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”
“Well, he’s resting now,” Octavia said uncertainly.
“Oh, I see. Well, I wouldn’t want to be no trouble. Just felt a might like praying over him.”
“Prayers are always welcome.”
“Yes, ma’am. I ’spect they are.”
Octavia led Bill to a back bedroom and stood him beside Isaiah’s bed.
“Oh, Lord,” Bill said and bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Octavia, but I’m a might bit shy ’bout prayin’ in front of folks.”
“Of course,” she said, and he heard the door shut.
Bill reached out a hand and touched the boy’s head, which was as soft as a lamb. Just a taste. That’s all he needed. Just another number. He’d be careful this time. He felt the boy’s energy flowing into him, and then, suddenly, he was gagging. He pulled his hands away quickly. His fingers shook. What was that? What had he felt?
In the dimness of the room, Bill could make out the faintest of shapes—the broad bulk of a chifforobe, the weak light of a window. Shapes. Light. He could… see. Just a little, but there it was. And Bill knew somebody had put the healing power on the boy. Somebody had a bigger gift than Isaiah Campbell. Much bigger. Bill’s hands itched to try again, but he could hear the boy’s aunt calling his name. There would be time. He remembered a story he’d heard back in the fields when he was a kid. Something about a tortoise and a hare. Slow and steady wins the race. That was the phrase. Patience. Patience was called for now. Bill would be the tortoise. Yes, there would be time enough.
Bill Johnson was long gone by the time Memphis got home, but Aunt Octavia was sitting in the front parlor, her hands working a pair of knitting needles like she meant to kill the sweater instead of knit it.
“What is it? Did something happen with Isaiah?” Memphis asked.
“I know about your trips to Sister Walker, and the cards. I know about it, and it’s going to stop,” she said in a clipped tone. “It’s what you’re doing with that Walker woman that brought this on. I believe that.”
Memphis looked at the floor. “He’s got a gift.”
“What has she done to him?”
“Nothing! I told you, he’s got a gift.”
“Get the Bible. We’re gonna pray.”
Octavia marched into Isaiah’s bedroom. Reluctantly, Memphis followed.
“Memphis John, you need to get beside me. We’re gonna pray for your brother now, pray the woman hasn’t brought the Devil to this house.”
Memphis dropped to his knees next to his aunt at Isaiah’s bedside, but he didn’t like it. Why? he thought. Why should I pray to God? What has he done for me or my family? He felt the anger coming up inside, pricking into tears.
“I won’t do it.”
Octavia’s shock faded to a grim determination. “I promised your mama I would look after her boys, and I intend to do that. Now pray with me.”
Memphis exploded. “Why don’t you ask God why he took my mother? Why don’t you ask him when my father’s coming home? Why don’t you ask him what he has against my little brother?” He wanted to hit something or someone. He wanted to burn up the whole world, heal it, and burn it down again.
He expected Octavia to yell at him for blaspheming the Lord and throw him out of the house. Instead, she said softly, “Go on and get yourself some chicken from the icebox. I’ll do the praying, and we’ll talk after,” and it was almost worse. Octavia bowed her head. “Lord Jesus… please protect this boy. He didn’t know what he was doing. He’s a good boy, Jesus…”
Isaiah woke up. “Auntie, why you praying? Memphis? Where you going?”
Memphis wasn’t hungry, and there was no place for him to be. He hadn’t been back to the graveyard since he’d seen Gabe’s ghost. He no longer wanted to sit with the dead. It was the living he needed. It was Theta he wanted. He went to the library, and there in its quiet, Memphis offered his own prayer. He opened his notebook and wrote until his fingers were cramped and the light in the restaurant across the street had gone out. He wrote till he felt emptied out. He had a reason to write and someone to write for. At the bottom, he wrote only two words: For Theta. His confession complete, he folded it into an envelope and left it for the postman.
At the Globe Theatre, the Ziegfeld revue was in full swing. The audience was a live one tonight. They roared with laughter and applauded enthusiastically. The entire evening had a frenzied, feverish quality to it. Ever since Daisy’s murder, interest in the show had been higher than ever; the word backstage was that Hollywood scouts had come looking for the next Louise Brooks or Eddie Cantor. Everyone was giving it their all. Under the lights, Theta glittered in a shiny, low-cut dress as she and Henry traded jokes back and forth.
“That’s my brother, Henry,” Theta cooed, shaking a hip toward the piano. “At least, that’s what I tell my landlord.” She winked and the audience roared. They were eating it up, and the press took notice. At the back of the theater, Florenz Ziegfeld smiled. Some poor chumps could work their whole lives and never see their names in lights. But some people just had that special something, and Theta Knight was one of those people. She was about to become a star, whether she liked it or not.
“I’m a baby vamp who loves her daddy, I never wear paste when I can have pearls. So if you’ve got the Jack then everything’s jake, ’cause I’m just one of those girls….” Theta sang.
“Our dear mother taught us that!” Henry yelled, and the audience hooted.
The song was a lie, a shiny bauble meant to distract people from their cares and woes. But they’d all agreed silently to be blinded by it. The stage lights turned Henry and Theta into a pantomime against the painted flat behind them. Henry banged on the keys and Theta sang for all she was worth.
They kept the lie going, and the people loved it.