by Libba Bray
“Evangeline! Now!”
Evie closed the doors of the small office behind her. The wood thrummed with the gossiping of excited customers. “Yes, Unc?”
“What on earth are you doing?” Will demanded. He’d lit a cigarette and grabbed a handful of nuts at the same time and seemed uncertain which he should bring to his mouth first.
“I’m leading a tour.”
“I can see that. What sort of nonsense are you telling these people?”
“I am creating an atmosphere! Oh, Unc, we’ve finally got bodies in this joint! Paying bodies. We could have a good racket going here.”
“I’m not interested in a ‘racket.’ I’m an academic.”
“That’s okay, Unc. I won’t hold it against you.
“And since when do we have a gift shop?”
“Since last night. Now don’t cast a kitten—there are no precious artifacts being given away. I used your embosser and sealing wax on some tinfoil. Voilà! Instant charms.”
“That’s dishonest!”
“No, that’s business,” Evie replied. Will went to speak, but Evie silenced him with pleading hands. “Unc, when Lucky Strike sells you cigarettes, do they say, ‘We have a tobacco product in a box for you’? Why, of course not! They say, ‘Lucky Strike is the one for me!’ and they show you pictures of beautiful people in beautiful places enjoying that cigarette as if… as if they were making love!”
Will coughed out a lungful of smoke. “I beg your pardon?”
“They make you want it. You have to have it. It’s what everyone who’s simply anyone has, so you’d better get on the trolley, kiddo, or be left out. That is what I’m doing with our museum.”
“Our museum?” Will put the nuts back in the dish and took another drag on his cigarette. Then he pointed it at Evie. “You will not sell any more ‘charms.’ And stick to the facts. Do I make myself clear?”
“As you wish,” Evie said. She opened the pocket doors onto the crowd. “Right this way, if you please, folks. We’re walking to the dining room, where it’s possible that séances took place and spirits might have been conjured,” Evie said with a glance back at Will. “And while we don’t know for certain, it’s rumored that President Abe Lincoln himself may have communed with the other side at this very table.”
Will stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another.
“Ask me how much money we made today.” Evie beamed at Sam and Jericho. It was five fifty, and the last person had been pushed out only ten minutes earlier.
“How much?”
“Enough to pay the light bill and still have enough left over for a cup of tea. Well, hot water.”
“Good work, you,” Sam said.
“Good work, all of us,” Evie corrected.
The thud of the brass knocker echoed in the empty museum. Evie glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly closing time. Go away,” she said on an exhausted sigh.
“Want me to get rid of ’em?” Sam said.
“No, I’ll do it. Jericho, keep an eye on Sam near the till,” Evie teased with a wink.
Just outside, Memphis stood on the front steps of the museum, staring at the massive oak doors. Ever since Sister Walker had mentioned the story of the Diviners and Cornelius Rathbone’s sister, Liberty Anne, he’d wondered about the place. He’d wondered if this Dr. Fitzgerald might be able to shed some light on both the business with Isaiah and the strange symbol from his own dreams. Now, though, he wasn’t sure that he should have come after all. He didn’t even know these people. What could he say that wouldn’t make him sound like a fool? And how did he know if he could trust them? For all he knew, the museum wasn’t even open to black folks. Acting like you haven’t got a lick of sense, Memphis chided himself, as if Aunt Octavia were nearby. He was about to turn and walk back to the subway when the massive oak doors opened and a small, doll-like white girl with blond curls and big blue eyes leaned against the door frame.
“I’m afraid the museum is closing in another ten minutes,” she said apologetically.
“Oh, I see. I’ll come back another day, then. Sorry to have bothered you.” Memphis cursed the waste of a subway fare.
“Ah, gee. Come on in. But I warn you, it’s been a long day, and I may have to take my shoes off.”
Memphis followed her into the grand, dark mansion with its wood-paneled walls and stained-glass windows. It was more like a cathedral than an old house.
“Evie O’Neill, at your service.”
“Memphis Campbell.”
“Well, Mr. Campbell, seeing as we’ve only got ten minutes, I could give you a quick peek-a-loo at the collections room, though you may have to specialize. Pick your poison—witches, ghosts, or voodoo priests?”
Memphis opened his knapsack and removed his notebook. “To tell you the truth, Miss, I read about you in the papers, and I was wondering if you might be able to tell me what this symbol means?” Memphis showed her the drawing of the eye and lightning bolt.
Evie studied it. She shook her head. “I haven’t the foggiest. I’m awfully sorry, but if you’d like to come back another day, you could look through our library and see if you can find it.”
“Thank you. I’ll do just that,” Memphis said. He was frustrated that he still had no answers. He was almost to the door when he turned back.
“Was there something else, Mr. Campbell?” Evie asked him.
“Yes. Um, no. That is, I feel a little funny asking. You see, there’s this old house up north of where I live. It’s just an old wreck of a joint, though I hear it used to be a real showplace.”
The girl was smiling at him in a patient way, like one might with a feeble-minded grandmother, and Memphis was once again struck by how ridiculous this whole enterprise was. Still, he was compelled to tell somebody, even if it was nothing more than his imagination at work and he looked like a fool for worrying about it. He fidgeted with the buckle on his knapsack.
“You see, sometimes I go up there and, well… there’s something funny about that old house lately. It almost seems lived in, and, well…” You sound like a madman, Memphis. “I was just wondering if you might have any books on Knowles’ End or know anything about it. It’s just an old wreck, so—”
“What did you say?” The girl’s eyes were wide.
“I said it’s a wreck….”
“Before that. Did you say Knowles’ End?”
“That’s the name of the house. Or it was a long time ago. Nothing but spiders and rotting boards now.”
She was looking at Memphis in a way that made him very uncomfortable. He saw that her hands were shaking. “Would you mind waiting here, Mr. Campbell? I won’t be a bootlegger’s second.”
Evie O’Neill hurried down the hall, her heels click-clacking against the dingy marble floors. As Memphis stood in the empty foyer, holding tightly to his hat, it dawned on him: What if she thought he was the Pentacle Killer?
Memphis didn’t wait for Evie to return. He slipped out the front doors and ran for blocks, slowing only when he realized that he was drawing odd looks from the white people on the street. He forced himself into a stroll, employing the charm of his smile as he walked, as if he didn’t have a care in the world even though his heart was racing. Still smiling broadly, Memphis turned a corner and walked smack into a girl. He caught her as she stumbled. “I beg your pardon, Miss!”
“Go on, beg,” the girl said in a familiar smoky voice.
Memphis grinned. His heart was racing again, but this time, it was with pure joy. “Well, if it isn’t the Creole Princess!”
“We gotta stop meeting like this, Poet,” Theta said.
Back at the museum, Evie returned with Will, Sam, and Jericho in tow to find an empty foyer and no sign of Memphis Campbell anywhere on the street.
“He was right here!” Evie said on a long exhale. “And, Unc, he was talking about Knowles’ End! Don’t you think that’s peculiar?”
“Are you sure he wasn’t a reporter?” Will asked.
“I
suppose he could’ve been,” Evie allowed. “But he seemed very sincere. He was asking about a symbol—an eye with… oh, here. I’ll draw it for you.”
Evie sketched the eye and lightning bolt and held it up for Will. Sam sidled up close to Evie and said, “He was asking about this symbol?”
“What did you say his name was?” Will asked.
“Memphis. Memphis Campbell,” Evie replied.
“You know what that symbol means, Professor?” Sam asked. He was looking at the drawing of the eye with keen interest.
Will glanced briefly at the page. “Never seen it before. Now please don’t disturb me. I’ve work to do.” He turned on his heel and left them standing in the foyer.
Memphis and Theta sat in Mr. Reggie’s drugstore in Harlem with a couple of egg creams, talking and talking. Theta felt like she hadn’t talked this much since she first met Henry. She made Memphis laugh with her stories of the petty antics of the showbiz folks, and Memphis told her about playing the numbers and picking gigs, and about how irritating Isaiah could be, but Theta could tell he loved his brother fiercely. They talked so long that they both lost track of time. Theta had missed her call for the show, which she shrugged off.
“I’ll tell them there was a subway fire,” she said.
“You sure you don’t want something else? A sandwich, or some soup?” Memphis asked.
“For the last time, I’m jake,” Theta said. She was aware that everyone in the joint was watching them. The minute she looked up and caught their eyes, they’d look away quickly, busying themselves with their silverware or pretending to be reading a newspaper.
There were so many things he still wanted to ask her. Where was she from? Did she still dream of the eye? Had she thought of him at all since the night of the raid? Had she, too, lain awake, staring at the ceiling, picturing his face as he had hers?
“A Ziegfeld girl, huh?” was all he said.
“I heard the position of poet was already taken,” Theta joked. “Speaking of poetry, have you read The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes?”
“ ‘And far into the night he crooned that tune,’ ” Memphis quoted, grinning madly.
“ ‘The stars went out and so did the moon,’ ” Theta finished. “I never read anything so beautiful before.”
“Me, either.”
The rest of the drugstore seemed to fall away—the clink of dishes in the back, the bright brrring of the cash register, the low drone of people talking—and there was only Memphis and Theta and the moment. Theta’s hand slid just slightly toward Memphis’s. He inched his forward, too, just grazing the tips of her fingers with his.
“There’s a rent party this Saturday night at my friend Alma’s place, if you’d like to come,” he said.
“I’d like that,” Theta answered.
The drugstore seemed to swirl once more into noisy life. An older man walked past and frowned at them, and Theta and Memphis pulled their hands back and were quiet.
A TERRIBLE CHOICE
Evie and Jericho were having a late lunch in the Bennington’s dowdy dining room. Jericho was talking, but Evie was lost in her own thoughts. Her chin balanced on one fist, she stared, unseeing, at her coffee, which she had been stirring mindlessly for a good ten minutes.
“So I shot the man in the back,” Jericho said, testing Evie’s attention.
“Interesting,” Evie said without looking up.
“And then I took his head, which I keep under my bed.”
“Of course,” Evie muttered.
“Evie. Evie!”
Evie looked up and smiled weakly. “Yes?”
“You’re not listening.”
“Oh, I pos-i-tute-ly am, Jericho!”
“What did I just say?”
Evie gave him a blank stare. “Well, whatever it was, I’m sure it was very, very smart.”
“I just said I shot a man in the back and took his head.”
“I’m sure he deserved it. Oh, Jericho, I’m sorry. I can’t help thinking there’s a connection between this John Hobbes fellow and our murders.”
“But why?”
Evie couldn’t tell him about the song, and without that, there really wasn’t much to go on. “Don’t you think it’s interesting that there were some unsolved murders fifty years ago that were similar in nature?”
“Interesting but remote. But if you want to know about them, we could go back to the library….”
Evie groaned. “Please don’t make me go back there. I’ll be good.”
Jericho gave her the slightest hint of a smile. “The library is your friend, Evie.”
“The library may be your friend, Jericho, but it pos-i-tute-ly despises me.”
“You just have to know how to use it.” Jericho played with his fork. He cleared his throat. “I could show you how to do that sometime.”
Evie sat fully upright. “Jericho!” she said, grinning.
Jericho smiled back. “It would be no trouble. We could even go—”
“I know someone who could find out about the old murders for us!”
“Who?” Jericho asked. He hoped she couldn’t sense his disappointment.
“Someone who owes me a favor.”
Evie ran to the Bennington’s telephone box and shut the beveled glass door behind her. “Algonquin four, five, seven, two, please,” she said into the receiver and waited for the operator to work her magic.
“T. S. Woodhouse, Daily News.”
“Mr. Woodhouse, it’s Evie O’Neill. I’m calling in that favor you promised.”
“Shoot.”
“Can you dig up some information on an unsolved murder in Manhattan in the summer of 1875?”
She heard the reporter chuckle on the other end. “You got a history test, Sheba?”
“Just tell me what you find out, please. It’s very important. Oh, and Mr. Woodhouse—this is just between you and me and the garden gate. Do you understand?”
“Whatever you say, Sheba.”
Feeling very clever, Evie stepped from the telephone box and headed back toward the dining room. As she passed the elevator, the doors opened and a flustered Miss Lillian stood inside. “Oh, dear. I went down instead of up.” She was struggling with a bag of groceries, and Evie offered to help her carry the heavy bag to her apartment.
“Come in, come in, dear,” Miss Lillian said. “So nice to have a visitor. I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Oh, please don’t go to any trouble,” Evie said, but the old woman was already in the kitchen. Evie could hear the strike of the match, the hiss of the gas as it took. She hadn’t meant to get trapped in a conversation. That was the trouble with offering help to old people. She nearly tripped over a tabby cat, who meowed in surprise and darted away. A second cat, black with yellow eyes, peeked out from under a table. It was hard to see in the dim light. Miss Lillian reentered the room and turned on a lamp.
“What a charming home you have,” Evie managed to say, hoping that her grimace passed for a smile. The place was a dreadful mess, papers and books stacked all about, every surface covered in some sort of bric-a-brac: ornate clocks set to slightly different times, brass candelabras with dark candles burned down to nubs, a bust of Thomas Jefferson, a framed picture of solemn pilgrim ladies on a hill, plants, dead flowers in a glass vase whose water had dried to a film on the sides, and a small painted tintype of what Evie presumed were the young Lillian and Adelaide in their starched pinafores. If there were an award for hideous taste, Evie thought, the Proctor sisters would win, hands down.
“Here’s your tea, dear. Do have a seat,” Miss Lillian said.
Miss Lillian indicated a rocking chair beside an old pump organ.
“Thank you,” Evie said, already thinking up excuses for why she needed to leave: sick uncle, building on fire, a sudden case of gangrene.
“Addie and I have lived in the Bennington since nearly the beginning. We moved in in the spring of 1875. April.” She frowned. “Or perhaps May.”
“Spring of 1875,�
�� Evie said, thinking. “Miss Lillian, do you remember a story about a man named John Hobbes who was hanged for murder in 1876?”
Miss Lillian pursed her lips, thinking. “I can’t say that I do.”
“He was accused of murdering a woman named Ida Knowles.”
“Oh, Ida Knowles! Yes, I remember that. Ran off with a fortune hunter, they said. And then… yes, yes, I remember now! That man—”
“John Hobbes.”
“He was tried for it. Oh, he seemed a bad sort. A grave robber, if I recall correctly. A charlatan.”
“Do you remember any details of the case, or anything about him? Anything at all?” Evie sipped her tea. It had an odd taste.
“No, I’m afraid not, dear. I’m an old woman. Ah, here’s our Addie now.”
Miss Adelaide carried the black cat with the yellow eyes and wore a dress that had probably seen its best days when Teddy Roosevelt was president. “I found Hawthorne trying to eat my begonias, the little devil,” she said, nuzzling the meowing cat.
“Miss O’Neill was just asking about the Ida Knowles case—you remember that, don’t you, dear?—and that terrible man who hung for it. But I couldn’t remember much, I’m afraid. Hawthorne, come here and have some kibble.” She put a bit of chicken salad on a plate at her feet and the cat leaped from Adelaide’s arms and ran for it.
“They hanged him the night of the comet,” Miss Addie said dreamily.
“Solomon’s Comet?” Evie asked carefully.
“Yes, that’s it. He told them to. It was his one request.”
“John Hobbes asked to be hanged the night of Solomon’s Comet?” Evie asked again. She wanted to be sure she had it right. It struck her as important, though she couldn’t say why. “Now why would he do that, I wonder?”
“Comets are powerful portents!” Miss Lillian clucked. “The ancients believed them to be times when the veil between this world and the next was thinnest.”