Lair of Dreams

Page 26

The man in the passenger seat retrieved a pistachio from the oil-stained bag in his hand and maneuvered it into his mouth, cracking the shell with his back molars. But he kept his eyes on the museum the whole time.
“I did indeed, Mr. Jefferson,” he answered at last.
The wind whipping down 125th Street in the wake of the zippering trolleys was brisk, and Memphis Campbell blew on his hands for warmth. A tall ladder leaned against the outside of a brownstone where two men hoisted a banner above a second-floor window: MISS CALEDONIA: READER OF OBJECTS, HEALER OF MALADIES, DIVINER EXTRAORDINAIRE. Memphis shook his head. Everywhere he looked, it seemed people were trying to cash in on the Diviners craze.
As he walked with his younger brother, Isaiah, and old Blind Bill Johnson, Memphis counted the signs hanging from doorways or posted in windows up and down the streets of Harlem: FATHER FORTUNE WILL FREE YOU FROM HARM. MYSTICAL MOHAMMED, TELLER OF TRUTHS FROM BEYOND. OBEAH MAN: PALMS READ, FORTUNES TOLD, CURSES LIFTED. Most of them couldn’t tell a crystal ball from a bowling ball. And the only fortunes were the ones they were collecting from gullible clients.
None of them had half the stuff Isaiah did, and Memphis knew it galled his little brother not to be lapping up the attention. Ever since Isaiah had gotten sick, their aunt Octavia had kept a watchful eye on him, preaching about “the dangers of the Devil’s business.”
“You remember what happened? How you lay in that bed for three days?” she’d said, pronouncing each word as if she were spitting it into stone to stand the test of time. “Jesus healed you, so don’t you go throwing his blessings away. This family has no business with Obeah men, mambos, houngans, and card readers. And we certainly don’t have business with Miss Margaret Walker. Never again.”
But it hadn’t been Jesus who’d healed Isaiah. It had been Memphis himself.
He’d never told his aunt that he’d gone to his brother’s bedside as Isaiah lay in that sleep between life and death. In secret, he’d put his hands on his brother, and the power he’d thought had left him forever the night he tried to cure his dying mother had rushed through him once more, just as it used to do back when he was the Harlem Healer, curing the sick in a storefront church with his mother looking on and praising God. It seemed that Memphis had been given a second chance at his gift. He didn’t know why. But he did know that this time, he’d figure it out on his own terms. And no one, except for Theta, would need to know until he was ready.
“You awful quiet back there, Isaiah,” Blind Bill said, breaking Memphis out of his reverie.
“I hate this stupid tie,” Isaiah grumbled, pulling at his collar, and Memphis knew it wasn’t the suit that was bothering him. He put a hand on Isaiah’s shoulder, but Isaiah shrugged it off.
“I have powers bigger’n a lotta these fool Diviners making money now. I coulda had a radio show, too!” Isaiah said and kicked a small rock down the street.
“No, you couldn’t. Too shrimpy to reach the microphone,” Memphis said, hoping to tease Isaiah out of his mood. It didn’t take much to set his brother off these days. Not being able to use his clairvoyant gift was like keeping him inside the house when there was a warm, sunny day taunting him on the other side of the window. Lately, he’d been talking in his sleep again. Nightmares.
“I liked going to Sister Walker’s house. She was a nice lady. She was good to me,” Isaiah grumbled.
“Now, now, now. I can feel you pouting clear over here, little man. Gonna get your face stuck like that,” the bluesman said. These days, Bill seemed to be the only one who could calm Isaiah when he was in a mood.
For the past month, Bill had been a boarder in Octavia’s house. “Can’t let the man who saved my nephew live in some flea-ridden flophouse,” she’d said as she readied the small room off the parlor that wasn’t big enough to hold anything other than a cot, but Bill insisted he didn’t need more than that, anyway.
“This is like a king’s room to me, Miss Octavia,” he said, smiling as he patted the cot with a rough, scarred hand.
It seemed like no time at all before Bill was part of their family—sitting in at meals, going to church with them, telling stories about the Louisiana cotton fields, or showing Isaiah how to bend his fingers to make guitar chords. Sometimes it was nice to have Bill around. There was more time for Memphis to write, more time for nights with Theta.
“Come on, little man,” Bill said now. “Let’s get you something good to drink.” The bluesman offered the hand that was not on the cane, and Isaiah came to his side and took it easily, as if they belonged together.