Lair of Dreams

Memphis wondered if these nightmares were the toll that not using his gifts was taking on Isaiah—all that energy bottled up till it had to come out somewhere. Octavia might’ve believed that it was the Devil’s business, not the Lord’s, but it seemed to Memphis that if there was a God, it would be downright cruel of him to bestow people with certain talents and then expect them not to use those talents. People had to be who they were. And if that was true, why shouldn’t Memphis use his healing gift again? Why was he so afraid to explore his own power?

The truth was, Memphis had liked healing. He’d enjoyed the shine it had given him in Harlem, the way the women at church praised him as “God’s special angel” and made sure he had the best piece of cake at their after-services suppers. He had basked in the silent approval of the men, who nodded and patted his back and told him he was setting a fine example for other young men, and who welcomed him to say the blessing at their various lodge meetings. When the girls fought to sit near him during Bible study or batted their lashes and asked shyly if they could bring him a cup of water, he’d loved that, too. Sometimes, he’d stood in his bathroom and practiced that winning smile of his, saying to himself in the mirror with all the sincerity he could muster, “Why, thank you, sister. And may God bless you.”

It was only Octavia who’d made Memphis doubt, the way she stared at him through narrowed eyes when she would come to sew with his mother some evenings.

“You trying to draw Memphis’s face in your mind, sister?” his mother scolded. They were sitting on the front stoop under a summer night filled with stars while a block party took place, all their neighbors dancing and singing and laughing, the good times bathed in the hopeful, buttery light of the brownstones lining 145th Street.

“Just keeping an eye on him,” Octavia said.

“He’s my angel.” Memphis’s mother had smiled at him like he was the only boy in the world.

“Sometimes angels fall,” Octavia said meaningfully.

Memphis’s mother stopped smiling. “God made my boy special, Tavie. You questioning the Lord now?”

Octavia turned her head slowly toward her sister. “Was it God you made a bargain with, Viola? Or somebody else?”

His mother’s eyes went mean. “Maybe you need to make your own children so you can quit telling me about mine,” she had fired back, slamming the door on her way inside.

“Pride goeth before a fall,” Octavia had whispered as she kept her eyes on the impressionistic street carnival to hide the injury Viola’s comment had inflicted, a wound Memphis knew that even he couldn’t heal.

Memphis had been plenty proud. And his fall, when it came, was as spectacular as the Light Bringer’s. From Harlem Healer to numbers runner and bookie. He’d lost his mother, his father, his home, his healing powers, and his faith. And now that his healing power was coming back, for reasons he couldn’t begin to understand, he didn’t want to make the same mistakes.

“Well, well, well. Smells like somebody got himself a date,” Blind Bill Johnson called out from his perch on the couch in the parlor as Memphis entered.

“Evenin’, Mr. Johnson.”

Memphis wanted to like Blind Bill. The old man was a real help with Isaiah, offering to walk him home from school most days. But the way Bill sat on Octavia’s prized couch just now, like he owned it, gave Memphis pause. Looking at Bill, Memphis could almost see the outline of the powerful young man he must’ve been. Those stooped shoulders had once been broad and thickly muscled, and his veined hands were still plenty big enough to crush an orange to pulp. Bill was fifty-five, maybe even sixty if he was a day. But lately, he seemed stronger, more virile, and Memphis wondered if it was Octavia’s attention that gave him a younger man’s shine.

Octavia came into the room carrying a plate of meat loaf. She’d done up her hair even though Bill wouldn’t see it, and she smelled of Shalimar, which she usually only wore to church. She gave Memphis a pursed-lip appraisal. “Where you going dressed like that?”

Where you think you’re going dressed like that? Memphis wanted to say back.

“To the pictures with Alma,” he lied.

“Hmph. That Alma gets up to no good,” Octavia started, and Memphis sagged, bracing himself for the lecture to come.

“’Scuse me, Miss Octavia,” Bill Johnson interrupted. “Nobody in this world could raise these boys better’n you doin’. But, if you’ll pardon an old man’s opinion, a young man’s gotta be about a young man’s business. Gotta be a man in the world,” Bill said with just enough humility to settle Octavia. He smiled and bowed his head slightly. “I don’t mean no disrespect, ma’am. I know I’m not the boy’s kin.”