“Miracle,” Floyd had said again, snapping the apron around Bill’s neck.
Even now, in the other room, where the men took up with talk of baseball and then the terrible fire that had taken Papa Charles and the Hotsy Totsy, Bill knew they’d get around to the topic soon enough: miracles. Miracles could happen. The papers were full of ghosts and hate and tragedy. But on the streets, change was in the air. The people still danced toward hope. Even Octavia had come around after she’d heard what Memphis had done for Bill. The night before, she’d cooked a whole chicken and put Memphis’s plate down first with the choicest cut. After the blessing, she’d watched him eat that chicken, her gap-toothed smile peeking out from behind her lips like sun pushing apart rain clouds. It was a pretty smile, and Bill was grateful to see it at last. He felt like he couldn’t get enough of that smile.
Memphis had regarded his aunt warily. “What is it?” he’d said, mid-chew.
“You look like your mama just now,” Octavia had said. “Like she’s right there in your face.”
And Bill had felt it in a powerful rush, like the flapping of mighty ancestor wings inside his soul: Take flight with us, Brother Bill.
The bell tinkled above the barbershop door and the men in the other room went quiet. Bill’s shoulders tensed. Years as a blind man had taught him to read silences well. This was not a welcome silence.
“Afternoon, gentlemen.”
It had been many years, but Bill knew that voice well. He could never forget it. Bill’s hands shook from a very old fear. He peered around the corner. Gray suits and hats. They might be older, but there was no mistaking them. Adams. Jefferson. The Shadow Men had found him at last.
Bill’s heart liked to jump from his chest as he heard Floyd, polite but not friendly: “Afternoon, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
“We’re looking for a young man, Memphis Campbell? Do you know him?”
No. Not there for him. For the brothers!
“Whatcha want with Memphis?” Floyd asked.
“We believe that Mr. Campbell is a traitor. He’s one of those anarchist Diviners.”
Floyd laughed. “Memphis? Naw. Boy’s a poet. He’s all heart.”
“He’s also a traitor to the nation. Anybody harboring him as a fugitive of the law will face prison time as well.”
The mood in the shop sobered. Bill could sense the fear from where he stood. And he hoped Floyd wouldn’t let that fear push him into doing anything stupid before Bill could get in there.
“What’re they saying about Memphis?” Isaiah asked.
Bill crouched down, whispering urgently. “Son, do as I say now. You hear me? I want you to slip out back here, climb over the fence. Run to your aunt Octavia’s house and tell Memphis I said to hide till I can get there. Don’t open the door to nobody. You understand?”
Isaiah started to speak, and Bill put a finger to his lips. “Understand?”
Isaiah nodded. Bill pried open the back door. “Go on.”
Bill slipped on his blind man’s glasses and grabbed his cane, tapping his way out into the sitting room. He hoped and prayed nobody would be fool enough to comment on it. And then he hoped and prayed that the Shadow Men wouldn’t recognize him. It had been many years, and even with the healing Memphis had put on him that had peeled back the years, Bill had a certain weariness to his face now and probably always would.
“Bill!” Floyd called as he sharpened his razor on the strop. “These gentlemen looking for Memphis. Said he’s in some kind of trouble with the law.”
“That a fact?” Bill said.
“You know where he is?” the smaller Shadow Man asked. Adams. The scent of pistachios hung over him. It made Bill’s knees tremble, remembering.
Bill didn’t dare turn around. He kept his eyes on the floor. “I heard that fool got hisself mixed up in a gambling debt and had to run off to some cousins down ’round Virginia. Floyd, you ’member his cousin, Francois Mackandal, live up in the hills?” Bill said, coding his words behind a smile. “Yes, sir. Just two days ago they left. Old Francois got a farm down there, if I heard right. Oughta make a man of him. Yes, sir. Don’t imagine he’ll be back before summer,” Bill added quickly. “Bad luck.”
“Yes. Bad luck,” Mr. Adams said. “We heard he’s got an aunt who lives here, though. A Miss Octavia Joseph. You know where she lives?”
Behind his dark glasses, Bill watched Adams in the mirror. Bill remembered those tiny teeth and the smell of pistachios. The things those men did to him. The things they made him do. Even now, it twisted his guts. The tips of his fingers remembered, too. They called to him, wanting revenge.
“No, sir. ’Fraid I don’t,” Bill said, and tapped his way out the door, his heart beating with each rap of the cane. He managed two slow blocks, till he was sure they weren’t behind him. And then he broke into a run, heading straight for Octavia’s house.
When Octavia opened her door, Bill Johnson was standing there, looking like the Devil himself was after him. “Miss Octavia. I got to come in. Please!”
“What’s the matter?” Memphis said, coming into Octavia’s pin-straight parlor.
“Shadow Men know ’bout you. They’re at the barbershop right now, asking where you live. We got to get outta town.”
“I’m not running. Let ’em come,” Memphis said.
Bill took hold of Memphis’s arm. “What about Isaiah?” he said quietly. “You know what they done to me. What you think they gonna do to your brother? Make a stand later. Now we run.”
“What on earth you talking about?” Octavia said, wiping her hands on her apron.
Octavia was a good woman, the sort of woman Bill wished he could marry. He would spare her this pain if he could. “The men who killed Papa Charles, they know what Memphis and Isaiah can do. They want ’em for it. They’re on their way.”
Octavia put a hand to her mouth. Bill took her in his arms, held her. “I got to get them out of town. Before it’s too late.”
“Memphis. Isaiah. Pack your things,” Octavia said.
Quickly, Memphis and Isaiah stuffed a rucksack with only what was necessary. Isaiah was sad to leave behind his leather catcher’s mitt, but he packed some drawing paper, a pencil, and a small photograph of his mama and daddy back in happier days. Memphis added his notebook and pencil. He paused at the copy of Leaves of Grass that Theta had given him. He wanted to call her, to tell her he was leaving, but it would have to wait. He shoved the book into his rucksack, too.
Octavia wrapped some corn bread in wax paper and added it to their bounty. Octavia cradled Isaiah’s cheeks between her palms. “When you’re out on the road, don’t you talk to a soul unless they talk to you first. Keep your head low till you’re around your own. The less people know about you, the better.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She kissed his forehead. He threw his arms around her waist, and she sniffled back her tears. “You listen to Uncle Bill and your brother, now. Do what they say. And don’t forget to pray.”
Isaiah nodded against the softness of her belly.