Lair of Dreams

Isaiah let go. “That ain’t the end of the story!” He sounded angry. And scared. Like somebody had told him the monsters under the bed were real. “Tell me the real end!”

Why shouldn’t the child know the way of things? Still—killing a man was one thing. Killing hope in somebody so young was another. Once upon a time, Bill knew this. Once upon a time, he’d had the same hope. He had believed in goodness. If he wanted to believe in goodness now, all he had to do was walk the boy home to his aunt and a warm supper.

“Okay. But first, you tell me something. What do you remember ’bout the time when Memphis was a healer?”

“I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

“It’s just us. Man talk. Nobody needs to know.”

“He fixed my broken arm,” Isaiah said.

“How’s that?”

“I fell outta the tree after church and Memphis put his hands on me and then I had a dream that we were in a bright, peaceful place and I could hear drums. When I woke up, Reverend Brown and Mama and everybody was crowded around and my arm wasn’t broken no—any—more.”

Bill tipped his face toward the sky, letting the weary winter sun warm his cheeks. He remembered the way sunlight looked peeking through clouds after a rain. He’d like to see that again.

“The prince broke the curse. He married the princess and took her away, back to his homeland. He freed his people, and they lived happily ever after. The end,” Bill said. “Ain’t that how fairy tales go?”

“I suppose so,” Isaiah said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “Mr. Johnson?”

“Whatcha want? Got no more stories for you.”

“You all right?”

“’Course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Your eyes are all wet,” Isaiah said.

“No, they ain’t, neither,” Bill whispered. He could taste the salt. “Come here, little man.” Bill held out his trembling hand, and the boy, trusting as a lamb, came right to him, and Bill swallowed hard as he laced his big fingers with Isaiah’s small ones and pulled the child close, hating himself all the while.

Later, after he’d carried the boy home and put him on the bed, after Dr. Wilson had been sent for and come and Octavia’s prayer circle had gathered in the parlor to pray for the boy, Bill sat on Octavia’s couch sipping coffee, letting people tap his shoulder and praise him for saving the boy again, thanking Jesus that Bill had been there when Isaiah had suffered another of his fits, or who knows what might have happened?

Bill listened to their whispers—“Look at that, crying for him just like Isaiah was his own son”; “That sure warms the heart on a cold day.” Around him, these people were dim shades in a perpetually gray world.

His hand shook on his cup. He had no stomach for the coffee.

“I just hope the little fella’s all right,” Bill said, and even he wasn’t sure if it was a lie.

Later, he perched at the end of Isaiah’s bed and listened and waited for the older Campbell boy to come home and heal his brother. And once he did, Bill could siphon away some of that healing energy for himself. If Memphis wouldn’t heal Bill’s sight directly, well, he’d get it however he could.

“Mr. Johnson?”

Blind Bill startled at the sound of Isaiah’s voice. “Little man? That you?”

“How come I’m in bed? ’S not the nighttime.”

“You had yourself a fit,” Bill said, moving toward the boy, hands at the ready.

“Isaiah? Is he awake?” Octavia burst into the room and Bill pulled back, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Isaiah? Oh, thank you, Jesus.”

“I’m all right. Why’s ever’body making a fuss?” Isaiah said sleepily.

“I’ll let you be,” Bill said. With his cane, he tapped his way down the hall and out the front door, where he heard a robin singing. Bill snatched the bird up, and in a moment, its song was stilled.

Theta knocked firmly on Evie’s door in the Winthrop Hotel. “Open up, Evil. I know you’re in there. I’ll just keep knocking until—”

The door swung open to reveal a very rumpled Evie, a velvet sleep mask pushed up on top of her tangled curls. She regarded Theta with a look bordering on murder. “What’s the big idea, waking a girl before it’s decent, Theta?”

Theta pushed past Evie. She eyed the empty bottles and glasses littering the filthy room. “Big night?”

“The biggest.” Evie yawned, falling back onto the bed. “Before the party proper, we had a little merry here in my room. I met this maaarvelous burlesque queen from Poughkeepsie, some darling stockbrokers, and a very entertaining fellow who could bounce a quarter off the end of the dresser and have it land in a glass of gin on the nightstand and… aaaah! Are you trying to kill me, Theta?”