“But what does that mean?” Evie said, genuinely perplexed. “Who decides what’s un-American?”
“Now, now, as I said, it’s nothing to worry about. Just a formality. You’re simply stating that you are not a radical or an agitator or, ah, friends with any suspected radicals. That you would report any such radicals to the proper authorities.”
Evie read through the page. She looked up at Mr. Phillips. “You want me to say Mabel was a terrible person. To say that I didn’t know her and she wasn’t my friend. You want me to disavow Memphis and Ling and Sam.”
Mr. Phillips looked suddenly old to Evie. As if he’d gone to bed but woken in the morning more exhausted by sleep. “If you want to have a show at WGI, you’ll need to sign, Evie.”
Evie could lose her show. She imagined the busybodies back home in Ohio, the ones who thought she’d never amount to anything, being proven right in their minds. How they’d cluck their tongues over it and nod smugly. Told you that one was a bad apple.
In a daze, Evie left her seat. She wandered to the tall windows and looked out at the gray smoke wafting past jagged skyscraper roofs, and at the spring rain dotting the shiny glass windows. The view from up high had always thrilled her. Next, she cast her gaze down to the pavement below and the ant-like people racing about, unseeing.
“Evie?” Mr. Phillips called. He was waiting. He didn’t like to wait, she knew.
Evie walked back to the big desk and took hold of the pen. It was heavier than it looked. She rolled it between her fingers.
“You see, Mr. Phillips, the truth of it is, I am so very American.” She slapped the pen down on the onerous paper and slid them both toward her boss. “And that is precisely why I can’t—no, why I refuse to sign this.”
“If you don’t sign, I’ll have no choice but to fire you.”
“My dear Mr. Phillips,” Evie said sweetly. “You can’t fire me. I quit.”
Evie was now one of those anonymous ants on the street. She tried to put her gloves on the wrong hands, gave up, and shoved them in her pocketbook. It wouldn’t close. So many objects. Why did she have all these things in her handbag? She took the gloves out again, tucking them under her armpit.
A panhandler stuck out his empty hat. “Help, Miss?”
Evie looked into her pocketbook. First, she gave him everything in her coin purse, which came to two dollars and twenty-seven cents. Next, she put in her gold compact, a gift from a store owner who’d wanted a mention on the radio. Evie pulled out her sterling silver flask. It was the first item she’d bought for herself with her money from the radio show. Evie unscrewed the tiny top and took a solid swig. She held it over the open hat, then brought it back.
“Oh, applesauce.” She took one last swig for good measure. And then she dropped the flask into the man’s hat.
“God bless you, Miss!” the man called.
“That would be nice,” Evie said over her shoulder. “But I won’t hold my breath.”
The weather turned warmer.
Blue skies returned. But they were not the same blue. The sky was paler, harder. In the city, it was becoming dangerous for Diviners. A psychic in Greenwich Village, dragged from his storefront shop by a mob, lay in a hospital with three broken ribs. “That’s for Sarah Snow!” his attackers had shouted as they kicked the confused, crying man. Blame was the balm for the city’s fear and grief. It was the finger-pointing to the other—You! You did this! It’s your fault!
Evie sat at Theta’s tiny kitchen table. Her feet ached. She’d walked for miles before finally ending up at the Bennington. Theta poured them two glasses of milk and stirred in some Ovaltine.
“What are you going to do now, Evil?” Theta asked, putting one glass in front of Evie.
Evie swallowed down half. It was thick and chocolaty and good. “I’m going to find Sam. Those Shadow Men took him. I know it. And I’m going to follow every clue until I hunt him down and get him back.”
“You tell your uncle and Sister Walker what you’re up to?”
“They killed my brother. I’m not telling them anything ever again.”
Theta nodded, sipped her milk. “What about Jericho? You heard anything from him?”
Evie shook her head. Her bones ached. She could barely keep her eyes open.
Theta stood up. “Okay. That’s it. I’m putting you to bed.”
“I’m not tired,” Evie said on a yawn.
“Yeah, yeah, tell it to Sweeney. Come on. Upsy-daisy.”
Theta helped Evie from the chair, plopped her into bed, and pulled up the blanket. “Tomorrow we’re going after Sam.”
Evie looked up into Theta’s lovely brown eyes. “We?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it? Hold on. You got a hair in your mouth. Yech.” Theta smoothed back Evie’s hair from her face. Then she turned off the lamp. “Scoot over, Evil. I’m coming in.”
Evie wiggled her back to the wall, and Theta lay down beside her in the dark. Evie’s heart had taken a beating. Now it swelled with gratitude. “You don’t have to go with me, you know.”
Theta rolled over, facing Evie, their noses nearly touching. “Evil?”
“Yes?”
“I love you. Now, shut up and go to sleep.”
Evie dreamed of a humming machine and of the Eye shining out from it. Everywhere, the Eye, like a golden sun shedding its tears of light. And then the Eye was on the forehead of the King of Crows. His skin absorbed it, covering it with gray scales and tufts of spiny feathers. When Evie looked closer, his body was a map of lines, ever-changing. Set into his long face were two black eyes flat as jeweler’s velvet so that every longing was reflected back as a jewel, a thing to covet. His thin lips stretched into a mustard-gas grin.
“Are you coming for me? Do you fancy yourselves heroes? How glorious! Now the real fun begins. Soon I will take all you love and watch you burn. Sweet dreams, Object Reader.”
The man in the hat pressed his thumb of forgetting against Evie’s forehead, and she felt herself fall.
BAD LUCK
With Isaiah at his side, Bill Johnson stacked boxes in the back room of Floyd’s Barbershop. It felt good to use his hands. To work. His eyes watered from all the light, but Bill couldn’t get enough of it. Ever since Memphis had healed Bill, it had been the talk of Harlem, in the pool halls and storefront churches, in the Elks Club meeting rooms and at stoop-side chats among neighbors. The day after the healing, when Bill Johnson had walked into Floyd’s Barbershop looking ten years younger, the men had gathered around. Some had touched his face, and Bill didn’t care that his face was wet with his own tears while they did.
“It’s a miracle. It’s a gall-danged miracle,” Floyd had exclaimed. “What can I do you for, Mr. Johnson?”
“Well, sir, I reckon I could use a good shave,” Bill had said.