“I might be one of ’em soon,” Theta said on a yawn.
“Look at that,” Henry said, gazing up at the golden moon bleeding its pale light into the inky spread of sky over the Washington Square arch. They tipped their heads back to take in the full beauty of it.
“Pretty,” Evie said.
“You said it,” Theta agreed.
“Oh, god,” Mabel whined. She turned toward the gutter and threw up.
GRIEF LIKE FEATHERS
Memphis sat in the graveyard, near a headstone that read EZEKIEL TIMOTHY. BORN 1821. DIED FREE 1892. He took his lantern from its hiding place, and beside its yellow glow, he set to work on a new poem. She wears her grief like a coat of feathers too heavy for flight. He crossed out heavy, wrote weighted instead, then decided that was downright pretentious and put heavy back in. Out on the Hudson, a boat skimmed the surface, trailing streamers of light. Memphis watched it for a while, gathering inspiration, but he was tired, and at last he rested his head on his arms and fell asleep.
In the familiar dream, Memphis stood at a crossroads. The land was flat and golden brown. On the road ahead, the dust kicked up into a brumous wall that turned the day dark. There were a farmhouse and a barn and a tree. A windmill turned wildly with the billowing dust. The crow called from the field and beat its frantic wings just ahead of the tall, spindly man bending the wheat into ash with his every step.
Memphis jolted awake. The candle in his lantern had burned out. It was very dark. He put the lantern back in its secret tree hold, gathered his things, and walked past the house on the hill. Don’t look; keep walking past, Memphis thought as he reached the gate. Now, why had he thought that? Why were his arms breaking out into goose pimples? Superstition. Dumb, backward superstition. He wasn’t having it, and as if to challenge himself, to separate himself from a long line of fearful ancestors, he purposely walked through the gate and stood on the cracked, weed-choked path that led to the ruined mansion. He willed himself to walk, drawing closer and closer to the scarred front doors. Maybe he’d even go inside, put this foolishness to rest once and for all. He was nearly there. Only five more steps. Four. Three…
The doors swung open, releasing a sound Memphis could only describe as a hellish groan. Memphis fell back, scrambled to his feet, and set off running at full speed, not slowing until he reached the bright lights of Harlem.
It was the wind; that was all, Memphis reasoned as he crept into Octavia’s house. He’d allowed himself to be spooked by a gust of wind. He shook his head at his softness, then stifled a yelp as he came upon Isaiah standing in the doorway to their room. “Lord almighty, Ice Man!” he whispered. “You almost gave me a heart attack. What’re you doing out of bed? You need a glass of water?”
Isaiah stared straight ahead. “Anoint thy flesh and prepare ye the walls of your houses. The Lord will brook no weakness in his chosen.”
“Ice Man?”
“And the sixth offering shall be an offering of obedience.”
A chill skipped up Memphis’s arms and neck. He didn’t recognize what Isaiah was saying. It was almost like he was receiving those words. Memphis wasn’t sure what to do. If he went to Octavia, she’d drag Isaiah and Memphis down to church and keep them there all day and night praying.
Sister Walker. Maybe Sister Walker would know. He’d ask her about it tomorrow. Memphis took Isaiah’s hand and led him back to bed. The boy was still staring into the distance.
“The time is now. They are coming,” Isaiah said, drifting back into dreams, his last word barely a whisper: “Diviners.” And then he was asleep.
A RIND OF MOONLIGHT
Several blocks and a thousand years from the city’s ritzy nightclubs and theaters, a rind of moon sweated in the sky, but its glow did not reach the gloom of the tenements along Tenth Avenue, where Tommy Duffy and his friends welcomed the feel of the cool night air as they swaggered through Hell’s Kitchen. They called themselves the Street Kings, for they were rulers of the rubble piles and the railyards. Makers of mischief. Sultans of the goddamned West Side.
“… I heard dere’s a cellar ’round here where dey take snitches,” one of the boys crowed. “I heard ’a floors is covered wit teeth ’at you can pry da gold right outta and sell it over to da pawnbroker on Eighth and Forty.”
“You’re as full of it as yer old man.”
“You take back what you said about my da.”
“Yeah, the only thing his old man’s full of is Owney’s whiskey!”
The two boys fell on each other with fists and curses, more out of habit than a sense of honor, until Paddy Holleran broke them apart.
“Save it,” he ordered. “We might need our knuckles for what we’re doin’ tonight.”
Paddy was fourteen and already running some small rackets for Owney Madden’s gang, so the boys followed him without question, shouting “Street Kings!” and toppling garbage cans and throwing rocks at windows. No one could touch them. This was what it meant to be in a gang. Without your boys, you were nothing. A chump. A nobody.
When they reached the empty yards along the Hudson where the warehouses stood sentry, Paddy shushed them. “Gotta be looking out. Dey got a guard dog, a big German shepherd with teeth a foot long dat keeps watch. He’ll eat your face off.”
“What’s the plan, Paddy?” Tommy asked. He was only twelve and looked up to the older boy.
“See dat warehouse at the end? I heard Luciano’s men got their whiskey from Canada hidden in there. Got a distillery in dere, too. We steal some whiskey, bust up the still, I bet Owney’d be chuffed. Bet we’d look good to him. We’ll let dem Italian bastards know we Irish was here first.”
“Didn’t Columbus discover America?” Tommy said. He’d learned that in school, before he’d quit in fifth grade.