“You think I don’t know about this?” Dollie said, her voice tense, her words edged with anger.
“I just wanted you to understand why I couldn’t let you buy all those new things for me. I don’t think I could wear them without feeling guilty.”
“You think I should feel bad about wearing this?”
Her dress was a blue print with white dots all over it and tan buttons and matching piping along the broad collar. I thought it was pretty and she was pretty in it.
“Do you have any idea what I have to do to be able to wear clothes like this?” Now her eyes flashed and everything in her face was drawn taut. She told me, in graphic detail and with words hurled like a drunken sailor, exactly what she did.
I stood stunned, thrown into a world I could never have imagined. But now I understood all the signs that should have told me where I’d landed when I arrived at the house on Ithaca.
“Aunt Julia, too?”
“Yes, your precious Aunt Julia, too. Wake up, Odie. It’s a fucked-up world.”
“I’ll walk back,” I said.
“Fine. I can only imagine what Julia will say. Thanks for nothing, kid.”
She stormed away, and I was left alone, staring down at the only world that seemed familiar to me anymore, because the one I’d awakened to that morning felt alien and so wrong.
I wandered into Hooverville, muddied my boots among the hovels, and studied the people standing idly against doors that were constructed of cardboard or scavenged wood or often simply tattered blankets hung in an attempt to keep the weather out. I saw struggle on every face. And disappointment. And hopelessness.
And then I saw something that, in the midst of all the darkness of that moment, gave me hope—a handbill posted on a telephone pole, with a bold headline that read SWORD OF GIDEON HEALING CRUSADE.
* * *
THE TENTS HAD been set up in a place called Riverside Park, which turned out to be a long walk from Hooverville. I heard piano music coming from the big tent and found Whisker there, tickling the keys. He seemed overjoyed to see me, a smile as broad as the Mississippi across his thin face.
“Buck Jones, as I live and breathe.” He didn’t just shake my hand. He wrapped his skinny arms around me in a warm hug. “Where’s the rest of your crew?”
“We had to split up,” I said.
“Sorry to hear that. Still got your harmonica?”
I showed him and then asked about Sister Eve.
“Last I saw her, she was headed to the cook tent. Sticking around, son?”
I told him I didn’t know, then hurried to the cook tent but didn’t find Sister Eve there either. Dimitri crushed my hand in his eager grip and nearly knocked my lungs out with a hearty slap to my back.
“Where’s the big Indian?”
I didn’t want to go into it with everyone I met, so I gave him the same nonexplanation I’d given Whisker. When I asked about Sister Eve, he directed me to her dressing tent, but she wasn’t there either. I thought about how, in New Bremen, she’d told me that wherever she went, she sought out a quiet place a little removed from all the crusade activity so that she could listen to God.
On a rise overlooking the river stood a pavilion that, from a distance, appeared empty. I found Sister Eve sitting on a bench there, in full sunshine, her eyes closed. To me, a kid desperate for some kind of salvation, her face seemed to glow.
Because she appeared so deep in reverie, I said in a whisper, “Sister Eve.”
She opened her eyes. As if she’d been expecting me all along, she said simply, “Odie.”
We talked. I told her everything that had happened since we’d fled New Bremen and ended with my final discovery about Aunt Julia.
“You believe that’s the whole truth of who she is, Odie?”
“She’s . . .” But I couldn’t haul up a word harsh enough for what I felt about Aunt Julia. “She’s not what I imagined at all.”
“What did you imagine? That she would be a saint and take you in?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“And hasn’t she taken you in?”
“She stuffed me away in the attic.”
“Did you ever pray about making it safely to Saint Louis, Odie?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“But what you’ve found here wasn’t the answer to your prayer?”
“Home, Sister Eve. I prayed for home. Aunt Julia’s house isn’t home. It’s not what I prayed for at all.”
“I told you once that there’s only one prayer I know absolutely will be answered. Do you remember?”
Because it had sounded simple and so soothing, I’d never forgotten it. “You said to pray for forgiveness.”
“Do you think maybe Aunt Julia might be in need of forgiveness? And do you think you can find it in your heart to offer that? From what you tell me, under the circumstances, she’s tried her best.”
The view of the river from the pavilion was deceptive, the foul color of the water hidden under the reflection of the blue sky. I stared at it, wanting to forgive, but my heart was stone.
“I can’t live in that house,” I said.
“You can rejoin the crusade, if you like. Whisker has certainly missed you and your harmonica.”
Her words were the salvation I’d been seeking. I said yes, yes, and hugged her with such gratitude.
“I need to be sure about Emmy,” she said, darkly serious. “She’s special, Odie.”
I believed I understood what she meant. Alone on the bum from Saint Paul, I’d thought a lot about Emmy, stringing oddities together. How she’d been waiting for us in her room at the Brickmans’, already dressed as if she understood that she’d be leaving. How she’d known before the distraught man had threatened Sister Eve with his shotgun that “Beautiful Dreamer” would save the day. And how, long, long ago, she’d known the importance of those five-dollar bills in my boot. I believed I finally saw what Sister Eve had seen from the moment she first took Emmy’s hand.
“You see the past,” I said. “She sees the future.”
Sister Eve gave a little nod but said, “Maybe even more special, Odie.” She folded her hands and composed herself. “What I’m going to say may sound impossible. But I’ve seen impossible things before, so here goes. Those fits she suffers? I think they may be her attempt at wrestling with what she sees when she looks into the future. I think she might be trying to alter what she sees there.”
That knocked me over. “She changes the future?”
“Maybe just tweaks it a little. Like a good storyteller rewriting the last sentence.”
I let that sink in and thought about Emmy’s fits. She’d had one before Jack grabbed us, and when she’d come out of it, she’d said, “He’s not dead, Odie.” And when she’d come out of the fit before Albert’s snakebite, she’d said, “He’s okay.” And after her fit on the island where we found the skeleton, she’d said, “They’re all dead,” and also, “I couldn’t help them. I tried but I couldn’t. It was already done.” Was that because she’d seen the tragic history of Mose’s people, but it was the past so she couldn’t change it?
I stared at Sister Eve. “I was supposed to kill Jack? And Albert was supposed to die from that snakebite? But Emmy changed things just enough?”
“I’ve heard that time is fluid, Odie, like this river in front of us. I was given the gift of moving backward on it. Maybe someone with a different kind of gift can glide forward, ahead of the rest of us. And if that’s possible, why isn’t it possible that things can be changed, just a bit?”
“You held her hand after her fit in New Bremen. What did you see?”
“It was like peering into a fog. I asked her, and she didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. If what I’m thinking is true, it may be that she doesn’t fully understand it herself. At least not yet. She’s still so young, Odie, and I want to be sure she’s safe.”
“Flo and Gertie will take good care of Emmy,” I assured her. “And Albert and Mose are there, too. They�
��d never let anything happen to her.”
She seemed comforted. “Good,” she said. “Good. So.” She tilted her head and studied me. “What now?”
“I guess I need to go back and let Aunt Julia know I’m leaving.”
“Would you like me to go with you?”
“Maybe a ride,” I said. “It feels like I’ve been walking all day.”
“I can handle that.”
We strolled together to the tents, where we found Sid talking with Whisker at the piano. Sid gave me a sour look.
“Whisker told me you were back. Like a bad penny.” He eyed Sister Eve. “Not sticking around, is he?”
“He’ll be rejoining us, Sid, and that’s that. I need the key to the DeSoto. I’m giving Buck a lift.”
“Where to?”
She glanced at me for an answer.
“Ithaca Street,” I said. “It’s in Dutchtown.”
“Five minutes from here,” Sid said. “Know where that is, Evie?”
“I’m sure Buck can tell me.”
Sid reached into his pocket and brought out the key, which he dropped into Sister Eve’s open palm. He gave me one final look of concern. “Christ, you better not bring trouble with you this time.”
“Hope, Sid,” Sister Eve said gently. “That’s what people bring when they come to us.”
We located Aunt Julia’s house easily. “I’m not surprised you were able to find it,” Sister Eve said, smiling at the pink exterior. “Would you like me to come in?”
“I can do this, but it might take a while. I’ll join you at the crusade when I’ve settled things here, okay?”
She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes soft but intense. “You believe you’ve been looking for home, Odie. This is where your belief has brought you. That doesn’t mean it’s the end of your journey.”
“Wherever I go from here, I want it to be with you.”
“All right, then.” She kissed me softly on the cheek.
I walked to the door and rang the bell. Dollie opened it, still unhappy with me, I could see.
Her voice was ice. “Your aunt’s waiting for you.”
I followed her to the attic room, where I found Aunt Julia sitting on the bed. Flanking her on either side was an array of photographs, most in frames. The room felt cool and fresh. Once the rain had stopped, I’d kept the window wide open, both for the breeze and for the convenience of relieving myself in the night without trudging down several flights of stairs.
“Thank you, Dolores,” she said. “That will be all.”
Dollie left, the air chill in her wake.
I stood before Aunt Julia, fully prepared for her to be angry with me. Angry for not accepting the gift of new clothing. Angry for storming off. Maybe most angry because I’d learned the truth of who she was from Dollie, and she’d had no real chance to prepare me.
The thing was this: I’d already forgiven her. I didn’t care anymore about what she was, how she kept the roof over her head and saw to the needs of the girls who lived in the pink house. I’d killed a man. Two, I’d once thought. I’d lied more times than I could remember. I’d stolen, or as good as. I’d sinned a thousand times over. Whatever my aunt was, I was no better.
So, I was prepared to accept whatever harshness was about to befall me. But Aunt Julia surprised me. She took one of the photographs and held it up for me to see.
“Do you know who this is?” she asked quietly.
“A baby.”
“What baby?”
I gave a shrug.
“You, Odysseus.”
I couldn’t recall ever seeing a photograph of myself. Albert and I came to Lincoln School with nothing, no photos or anything else that might be a guide to our past. She handed the photograph to me, but looking at it was like staring at a picture of an exotic animal. I felt that it had nothing to do with me.
She lifted another photograph from the bed. “And this?” It was of a very young child astride a rocking horse. “That’s you at three. And here you are at four,” she said, pointing to another. “And at five. This is the final one I have of you. You were six. It was taken the only time you visited me here. Until two days ago, the last time I ever saw you. I keep them in my room.”
She took the baby picture from me and seemed entranced by the smile on that child’s face—my face, although it didn’t feel that way to me.
“My parents sent you those?”
“Rosalee. Almost every year.”
“I don’t see any of Albert.”
She didn’t seem to hear, she was so lost in the baby photo and whatever deep meaning it had for her. “I remember the day you were born. Remember it as if it were yesterday.”
“You were there?”
“Oh, yes. It was here in this room. You were born on this bed.”
Well, that was certainly news, such a huge revelation that I didn’t know what to say.
“I named you Odysseus because Rosalee and I had grown up listening to our mother read Homer’s epic story to us. You know your namesake, Odysseus?”
“A Greek hero. Cora Frost, a teacher at Lincoln School, told me about him.”
“He was a great leader, and I knew that you would be, too, someday. But also I named you that because you were born on Ithaca Street. It seemed a sign.”
This was too much. “My mother named me,” I declared.
She gazed at me silently. A buzzing began in my head like a swarm of flies going round and round, looking for a way out.
In the end, I gazed right back at her, and a look of understanding must have dawned on my face, because she nodded and said in a whisper, “Yes.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
“THIS WAS NO place to raise a child,” Aunt Julia explained.
No, not Aunt Julia. Mother. I tried the word in my head, but it sounded all wrong.
After her remarkable revelation, she couldn’t be still. I took her place on the bed while she paced, glancing at me periodically to gauge my reaction as she talked. Which must have been hard, because I was stunned to silence and sat looking as senseless as a scarecrow.
“Rosalee had a child already. I knew how good she was with Albert. Much better than I could ever be with you, especially here. Oh, I suppose I could have left and tried to make a living for us some other way, but I had no skills, no training. This”—she lifted her hands to embrace the room, the house, the whole circumstance—“this is all I know. And, Odysseus, they were so good to you, and Albert was such a good brother.”
“So . . . who?” I finally asked.
“Who?”
“My father.”
That stopped her pacing. She stood a few moments with her face downcast, her body so still it might have been carved from granite. “I wish I could tell you.” She brought her eyes to bear on me, gauging my reaction. “In a place like this, Odysseus, despite precautions, a baby sometimes happens.” She opened her hands toward me like a beggar hoping for alms. “But that’s the past. He’s not important now. What’s important is that you’re here and I’m going to take care of you, if that’s what you’d like.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“When my father was killed . . .” But I stopped myself, because that was wrong. He wasn’t my father. “When my uncle was killed,” I corrected myself, but felt that, too, was all wrong, “why didn’t you send for us then?”
“I’ve told you already. I didn’t know for a long time what had happened. And when I found out, it seemed best to leave you where you were. I talked with people who know about such things, and they assured me Lincoln School was an excellent institution.”
“I grew up a white kid among Indians.”
“Was that so bad?”
“What was bad was how they treated us all.”
“I didn’t know any of that, Odysseus. I swear to you. I received a letter from the superintendent every year telling me how well you were doing.”
“The Black Witch.”
She’d resumed
her pacing but paused once again. “What?”
“That’s what we all called her, the superintendent, Mrs. Brickman. The Black Witch because she was so horrible to us.”
She hung her head, and the nervous energy that had fueled her movements seemed finally to have been exhausted. “I’m sorry, Odysseus. I truly am. But you’re here now. I can make things better.”
“I’m not staying. I have friends in Saint Louis.”
“Who?”
“It’s called the Sword of Gideon Healing Crusade.”
“What is it? A church?”
“Something like that.”
Aunt Julia—I still couldn’t think of her as Mother—came and gathered up the photographs and sat beside me on the bed. For a long time, she said nothing. Then: “Can you ever forgive me?”
There it was again, just as Sister Eve had said, all boiling down to forgiveness.
“Maybe,” I said. “There’s so much to think about. I just need some time. Then I might be ready to come back. You understand?”
“I do.” She reached out and took my hand.
We are creatures of spirit, I have come to believe, and this spirit runs through us like electricity and can be passed one to another. That’s what I felt coming from my mother’s hand, the spirit of her deep longing. I was her son, her only son, and the photographs in her lap, the money she’d sent, her naïve willingness to believe the lies of the Black Witch, all told me that she’d never stopped loving me.
I didn’t leave right away. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and Aunt Julia asked Dollie to bring up sandwiches and lemonade. In that attic room where I’d come into this world, we prepared to share what I figured would be our last meal together, at least for a while. But after we’d taken only a few bites, Dollie returned.
“Some people are here to see you, Julia.”
“Not now, Dolores.”
“Oh yes, now.”
It wasn’t Dollie who’d spoken. The voice came from below, unseen, but I knew it well. Dollie stepped aside, and Thelma Brickman appeared on the attic stairs, and behind her came Clyde Brickman.
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