by Libba Bray
“From ev-er-ry-y mountainside, le-eh-t free… dom…”
“Listen,” Mabel croaked. She had so little air left. “The doves. They’ve stopped ticking.”
“Rrrii—”
AFTER
After, when people talked of the explosion, they would all remember the blue, blue sky. It was such a glorious, cloudless blue that the billowing black smoke appeared like the pencil scratches of an angry child. They would say that the smoke could be seen from the windows of office buildings near Grand Central by busy people momentarily paused in their work. It could be seen by curious ferry captains hauling twists of rope onto wobbling boat backs, and by tired governesses pushing prams along the East River promenade near the sparkling apartments of Beekman Place. It was impossible to imagine that such harm could ever come under the promise of such a blue sky.
The city stalled, weighted by its grief. It rained. For two days, the sky soaked the ground in its tears. By the time they went to bury Mabel Rose in a private cemetery outside the city, the graveyard was a sopping mess. There was a rabbi who gave a prayer and a poet who gave his, an offering of words, because words were needed even if they seemed as flimsy as a paper aeroplane thrown into a bruising wind. Mrs. Rose sobbed into her handkerchief. Mr. Rose kept an arm around his wife’s shoulders. His face had been hollowed of anything but pain. The Roses’ friends had helped to pay for the funeral. Not one dime came from Mabel’s wealthy grandparents. They were not in attendance.
Evie, Henry, Ling, and Memphis had pooled their money to buy a carnation wreath, a patchwork of color, for the grave. Evie had asked that Mabel be buried with one of Evie’s rhinestone headbands that Mabel quite liked. “So she won’t be lonely. You’ll have all our memories with you always, Mabesie.” Isaiah had offered his baseball, too. “Just because,” he’d said with no other explanation, for what more was there to say? The gravediggers lowered Mabel into the ground. One by one, her friends stepped up and tossed their handfuls of dirt onto the simple pine coffin, listening as each heartbreaking clump hit with finality. The gravediggers set their shovels to work, tamping down the wet earth. There was no headstone yet, not for another year, so Evie marked the grave with a rock. She stared at the dirt on her fingers. Grief squeezed her tightly in its grip.
“Oh, Mabel, Mabel,” she cried. “How can you be gone? It isn’t possible!”
Theta put her arm around Evie’s shoulders. She was crying, too, but trying to hide it. Somebody had to be strong. And it was Evie’s turn to cry.
“I should’ve stopped her. I should’ve done something,” Evie sobbed into Theta’s shoulder.
“Shhh,” Theta murmured. “It wasn’t your fault. Mabel made her own choices.”
“She was the best person I ever knew other than James. She was so good,” Evie said, half-choked on her tears.
“Sometimes,” Ling said from under her umbrella.
Evie’s head was up, teeth bared. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean that she was complicated. Everybody is,” Ling said quietly. “Don’t erase her like that. She deserves better.”
“I don’t think she can hear that right now,” Henry whispered in Ling’s ear.
Ling stared at the new grave. “Then when can she?”
There were new ghosts in the streets. Hollow-eyed. Questioning. Why? The mayor declared a citywide day of mourning for the victims of the bombing and a public memorial for Sarah Snow. In death, Sarah had become even more popular. Her beatific face shone down from billboards in Times Square: OUR HEARTS ARE WITH OUR FALLEN ANGEL, SARAH SNOW. High school girls who once worshipped Hollywood motion picture stars now wore corsages and black armbands to show their grief over their lost radio evangelist. As Sarah’s funeral procession passed down a crowded Fifth Avenue—six white horses drawing a white coffin under a giant spray of white roses—the girls pressed themselves against the barricades, sobbing.
“We will find and punish the people responsible for this tragedy,” the mayor promised. It was echoed by the lawmakers and citizens.
In a city jail, Aron and Gloria awaited trial for the bombing. Luis had been shot dead at the fairgrounds with his hands still up in surrender. Gloria’s wealthy parents had found her a good lawyer. In the press, the lawyer insisted that Gloria had been brainwashed by the anarchists, that she knew nothing of the bombing. The newspapers were sympathetic. They ran a picture of Gloria in a simple dress, hands folded almost prayerfully in her lap: CONNECTICUT COED CONNED BY CROOKS.
Alliteration.
On the tenth floor of WGI, in Mr. Phillips’s smartly appointed corner office with the big windows dotted with rain, Evie sat on the other side of her boss’s desk, her hands fidgeting in her lap, her heavy heart still capable of racing. This, she knew, was not a happy meeting, though she hadn’t any idea of why Mr. Phillips wanted to speak with her.
“Evie.” Mr. Phillips’s voice caught on her name and he cleared his throat. “There will be some changes to WGI’s programming. We are requiring a new loyalty oath from all of our radio stars.”
“Loyalty oath?” For the first time, Evie noticed the one-page contract on Mr. Phillips’s desk.
“Yes. It’s fairly standard. Nothing to worry about. It simply states that you are a loyal citizen of the United States. And that you disavow anything un-American.”
“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.
“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.”