Lair of Dreams

Memphis swallowed hard. “What sort of favor?”

“You know Mr. Carrington, owns the big store on One Hundred Twenty-fifth?”

Carrington’s was a department store where mostly white people shopped. Memphis had been inside once, but when one of the store detectives seemed to go everywhere Memphis did, he’d left in a hurry.

“Yes, sir. I know it,” Memphis said tightly.

“Mr. Carrington has been a good friend to us. And he needs a favor. I heard this morning that his wife has the sleeping sickness.” Papa Charles tapped his cigar against the side of a silver ashtray. “Part of my job is to look out for Harlem, for what is in our best interests. We don’t need the trouble people are having down in Chinatown. Don’t want the health department up here shutting down our businesses and restaurants and clubs. It would be very bad for all of us if this got out.”

“So why doesn’t Mr. Carrington get a doctor? He can afford one.”

“Doctors haven’t been able to cure the sleeping sickness. Mr. Carrington remembers you, remembers your work at the Miracle Mission.” Papa Charles picked a stray thread from his spotless wool trousers. “If we do a good turn for Mr. Carrington, he’ll do a good turn for us. Like help to keep Dutch Schultz’s men from causing us trouble.”

The whole mess of the situation was dawning on Memphis. “Papa Charles, you know I don’t do that anymore. Not since my mother.”

“Memphis,” Papa Charles said on a sigh, and then he gave Memphis the sort of stare that got things done in Harlem. His words were quiet and deliberate. “You think I was born yesterday? I knew the minute Noble Bishop came into Floyd’s talking about a heavenly healing that it was you. Do you deny it?”

Memphis looked down at his hands.

“Do. You. Deny. It?”

“No, sir,” Memphis said, his voice nearly a whisper. “But I’ve only done it that one time,” Memphis lied. “I don’t know if I can do it again.”

“Then I guess now’s as good a time as any to find out.” Papa Charles stubbed out his cigar. “Grab your hat and come with me.”

Out in front of the Carringtons’ apartment building on 127th Street, a handful of schoolgirls skipped rope and sang a clapping song. They giggled as Memphis walked up the stoop and Papa Charles rang the bell, but Memphis was too uneasy to play along with them and they picked up their clapping song again: “Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black…” they sang, and a shiver crawled up Memphis’s spine.

“Afternoon, Bessie. We’re here to see Mr. Carrington. I believe he’s expecting us,” Papa Charles said, handing over his hat.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Charles,” Bessie answered, taking their coats, too. She smiled shyly at Memphis. “Hey, Memphis.”

“Hey, Bessie,” Memphis said.

“Lord, I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said in hushed tones as she led them upstairs. “I’m scared to even change the bedsheets.”

They followed Bessie down the hall to a closed door, where she knocked gingerly. “Mr. Carrington? Mr. Charles and Mr. Campbell are here to see you, sir,” she said.

“Show them in,” came a muffled voice.

Bessie opened the door wide, stepping aside so that Memphis and Papa Charles could enter the sick woman’s room, then closed the door quickly behind her as she left.

The bedroom was still and gloomy. The drapes had been drawn. Mrs. Carrington lay in the four-poster bed with her mouth partially open. Her lips quivered just slightly, as if she were about to speak, and her fingers twitched where they lay against the covers. Under the lids, her eyes moved back and forth. A cluster of red marks showed on the pale map of her neck. Memphis tried not to stare at the marks, but he couldn’t help it.

“Thank you for coming,” Mr. Carrington said. He smelled of liquor. “Do you need anything before you, um…?”

Papa Charles placed his hands on Memphis’s shoulders. “He’ll be just fine. Won’t you, Memphis?”

“Yes, sir,” Memphis croaked, and he hoped that was true.

“Would you all kindly bow your heads?” Memphis asked Mr. Carrington and Papa Charles. It wasn’t that he wanted them to pray; he just didn’t like being watched. It made him nervous. Once the men complied, Memphis approached the bed and placed his hands lightly on Mrs. Carrington’s arm. Whatever is good in this world, be with me now, he thought and shut his eyes.

The connection came faster this time, the current of it traveling up Memphis’s arms. Under the warm yellow sun, the hands of ancestor spirits welcomed him. But no sooner had Memphis joined to Mrs. Carrington than he sensed that something was wrong. Every time the healing began to take hold, it was quickly undone. Something was fighting him.