“Do. You. Deny. It?”
“No, sir,” Memphis said, his voice nearly a whisper. “But I’ve only done it that one time,” Memphis lied. “I don’t know if I can do it again.”
“Then I guess now’s as good a time as any to find out.” Papa Charles stubbed out his cigar. “Grab your hat and come with me.”
Out in front of the Carringtons’ apartment building on 127th Street, a handful of schoolgirls skipped rope and sang a clapping song. They giggled as Memphis walked up the stoop and Papa Charles rang the bell, but Memphis was too uneasy to play along with them and they picked up their clapping song again: “Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black…” they sang, and a shiver crawled up Memphis’s spine.
“Afternoon, Bessie. We’re here to see Mr. Carrington. I believe he’s expecting us,” Papa Charles said, handing over his hat.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Charles,” Bessie answered, taking their coats, too. She smiled shyly at Memphis. “Hey, Memphis.”
“Hey, Bessie,” Memphis said.
“Lord, I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said in hushed tones as she led them upstairs. “I’m scared to even change the bedsheets.”
They followed Bessie down the hall to a closed door, where she knocked gingerly. “Mr. Carrington? Mr. Charles and Mr. Campbell are here to see you, sir,” she said.
“Show them in,” came a muffled voice.
Bessie opened the door wide, stepping aside so that Memphis and Papa Charles could enter the sick woman’s room, then closed the door quickly behind her as she left.
The bedroom was still and gloomy. The drapes had been drawn. Mrs. Carrington lay in the four-poster bed with her mouth partially open. Her lips quivered just slightly, as if she were about to speak, and her fingers twitched where they lay against the covers. Under the lids, her eyes moved back and forth. A cluster of red marks showed on the pale map of her neck. Memphis tried not to stare at the marks, but he couldn’t help it.
“Thank you for coming,” Mr. Carrington said. He smelled of liquor. “Do you need anything before you, um…?”
Papa Charles placed his hands on Memphis’s shoulders. “He’ll be just fine. Won’t you, Memphis?”
“Yes, sir,” Memphis croaked, and he hoped that was true.
“Would you all kindly bow your heads?” Memphis asked Mr. Carrington and Papa Charles. It wasn’t that he wanted them to pray; he just didn’t like being watched. It made him nervous. Once the men complied, Memphis approached the bed and placed his hands lightly on Mrs. Carrington’s arm. Whatever is good in this world, be with me now, he thought and shut his eyes.
The connection came faster this time, the current of it traveling up Memphis’s arms. Under the warm yellow sun, the hands of ancestor spirits welcomed him. But no sooner had Memphis joined to Mrs. Carrington than he sensed that something was wrong. Every time the healing began to take hold, it was quickly undone. Something was fighting him.
His mother’s voice came to him. “Memphis, stop!”
His mother was there in the tall reeds, and she looked scared.
“Mama?” Memphis said.
The spirits of his ancestors faded into mist. Angry clouds moved across the sun. It grew colder.
“Memphis!” His mother choked and coughed. A tuft of feathers tumbled from her lips. Her eyes were huge; her voice rasped toward a squawk. “Memphis, get out now!”
But it was too late. His body twitched and jerked as he was pulled under a great wave, and when he surfaced again, it was as if he were awake inside Mrs. Carrington’s dream. He was on a blue bicycle, riding through a bright green field of freshly mown grass that smelled of high summer. Mrs. Carrington’s laughter echoed in his ears. She was young and free and happy. The happiness affected Memphis like a drug. His body relaxed. It was nice here in Mrs. Carrington’s dream, and Memphis struggled to remember his purpose.