“Lots of folks can seem nice,” Memphis said, but in truth, he’d always liked Sister, too. There was no proof that the work Isaiah had been doing with her, developing his powers, had anything to do with his fit. Otherwise, why wouldn’t he have had more of them? It troubled Memphis.
“She made me feel special,” Isaiah said. “But I guess I’m not special after all.”
“Don’t say that. That isn’t true,” Memphis said, putting his face near his brother’s like they used to on Christmas Eve when they’d try to stay up and catch Santa Claus, reasoning that he’d have to come to Harlem first; after all, Harlem even had a St. Nicholas Avenue.
“Memphis? Will you tell me a story? To help me sleep?”
“All right, then,” Memphis said quietly. “Once upon a time, there were two brothers, and they were close as close can be.…”
Isaiah reached out a hand and placed it on his brother’s arm while Memphis cocooned him with words, wrapping him tightly in the magic of a story well told. Just before he fell asleep, Isaiah murmured to Memphis. “I ’member something else from when I was sick. There was a man. A man in a tall hat…” Isaiah muttered, trailing off into sleep at last.
Memphis wondered if these nightmares were the toll that not using his gifts was taking on Isaiah—all that energy bottled up till it had to come out somewhere. Octavia might’ve believed that it was the Devil’s business, not the Lord’s, but it seemed to Memphis that if there was a God, it would be downright cruel of him to bestow people with certain talents and then expect them not to use those talents. People had to be who they were. And if that was true, why shouldn’t Memphis use his healing gift again? Why was he so afraid to explore his own power?
The truth was, Memphis had liked healing. He’d enjoyed the shine it had given him in Harlem, the way the women at church praised him as “God’s special angel” and made sure he had the best piece of cake at their after-services suppers. He had basked in the silent approval of the men, who nodded and patted his back and told him he was setting a fine example for other young men, and who welcomed him to say the blessing at their various lodge meetings. When the girls fought to sit near him during Bible study or batted their lashes and asked shyly if they could bring him a cup of water, he’d loved that, too. Sometimes, he’d stood in his bathroom and practiced that winning smile of his, saying to himself in the mirror with all the sincerity he could muster, “Why, thank you, sister. And may God bless you.”
It was only Octavia who’d made Memphis doubt, the way she stared at him through narrowed eyes when she would come to sew with his mother some evenings.
“You trying to draw Memphis’s face in your mind, sister?” his mother scolded. They were sitting on the front stoop under a summer night filled with stars while a block party took place, all their neighbors dancing and singing and laughing, the good times bathed in the hopeful, buttery light of the brownstones lining 145th Street.
“Just keeping an eye on him,” Octavia said.
“He’s my angel.” Memphis’s mother had smiled at him like he was the only boy in the world.
“Sometimes angels fall,” Octavia said meaningfully.
Memphis’s mother stopped smiling. “God made my boy special, Tavie. You questioning the Lord now?”
Octavia turned her head slowly toward her sister. “Was it God you made a bargain with, Viola? Or somebody else?”
His mother’s eyes went mean. “Maybe you need to make your own children so you can quit telling me about mine,” she had fired back, slamming the door on her way inside.
“Pride goeth before a fall,” Octavia had whispered as she kept her eyes on the impressionistic street carnival to hide the injury Viola’s comment had inflicted, a wound Memphis knew that even he couldn’t heal.