Octavia put her let-’em-down-easy smile on, and Memphis knew what was in the letter without even reading it.
“Not yet, baby. He’s still getting settled.”
“He’s been getting settled for nearly three years,” Memphis said, dropping an unwieldy spoonful of beans onto his plate.
“The man’s working hard and sending back money for the two of you. You don’t know everything, Memphis John.”
“What happened to the lady under the bridge?” Isaiah asked, and Memphis shot his aunt a dirty look.
“Never mind about that, now. Eat your beans. And drink your milk or you won’t grow.”
“And then we’ll have to call you Shrimpy. Old Shrimpy Campbell,” Memphis teased, trying to distract his brother. “So puny, folks had to carry him around on a piece of toast. So small he wore a hat made from a tooth. So incredibly stunted that even the tadpoles felt sorry for him.”
Isaiah blurbled up some milk, laughing. Octavia started to reprimand them both, but even she couldn’t keep from giggling. So Memphis kept the story going, spinning it out wildly, as if it could weave them all together and keep them there in that moment with strings of words.
In the quiet of her kitchen, Sister Walker turned on the radio. It hummed and hissed, then came to life with a man’s voice promising the benefits of the Parker Dental System. She left it on. That nagging cough was back, and she fished a lozenge from a tin near the sugar canister, then lit a match under the kettle for tea. The work with Isaiah was promising. Very promising. It had been a long time since she’d seen anybody like him. But she cautioned herself against too much excitement. She knew well that such a promise could flare, then dim and fall away entirely, like she’d heard it had with Memphis.
Sister Walker stepped back into the parlor and turned on a lamp. The bulb chased the evening shadows from the room. She lifted a painting of Paris from its hook and rested it against the wall by her feet. Behind the painting, a small, faint square had been cut into the plaster. She lifted the square and from the space inside the wall retrieved a thick portfolio. Sitting on the pristine sofa, she flipped through the files, reading over the material, looking for anything she might have missed. In the kitchen, the teakettle screamed. Sister Walker startled, then laughed at her own skittishness. She secured the files and sealed the wall, centering the picture again. The tea was hot; it soothed the rattle in her chest as she riffled through the newspaper clippings she’d been accumulating.
If she was right about Isaiah Campbell, the power was coming back. What did that mean? How many others like him were there? What were they capable of?
And how long before they were found?
THE HEARTS OF MEN
It was late when Evie, Will, and Jericho returned to the museum. Up in the tall stacks of the library, Uncle Will pushed from shelf to shelf on the rolling ladder, running a finger along weathered spines, handing things to Jericho. He shouted down to Evie, “See if you can locate a Bible. You should find one in the collections room.”
Evie didn’t relish going into that room, especially at night. “Can’t Jericho do it? He knows the museum better than I do.”
“Jericho is assisting me, and as far as I can tell, you’re capable of walking. You did insist on coming today, did you not?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then make yourself useful.”
Evie stepped quickly through the rooms of the museum, switching on lamps as she went. She didn’t care if the electric bill was enormous; she wanted it as bright as the Great White Way. At the doorway of the collections room, Evie paused, searching with her eyes only, in the hope that she’d locate what she needed without having to actually walk around in that cavernous space filled with mysterious objects. When it was clear she’d have to go in, she cranked up the old Victrola to keep her company and chase away the shivers. It was a tinny recording of someone playing ragtime piano. The jaunty tune helped ease her jitters as she got on with her search of the room. In the corner by the fireplace, she tripped over something under the Persian rug. Lifting a corner, she saw an iron ring in the floor for a small door, like a storm cellar. It was too heavy to lift and looked as though it hadn’t been touched in years. She patted the rug back down. On a side table, Evie spied a Bible holding up a potted fern. “And Mother says I’m a heathen.”
The music had stopped. The record hissed with a few seconds of silence, and then a man on the record began talking. “Been able to see the dead all my life,” he drawled. “Some of ’em just wants peace and rest. Not all of ’em, though. Not by a long shot. There’s evil in this world, evil in the hearts of men, evil that live on—” Evie scraped the needle across the record and ran from the room without turning out the lights.
