“Isaiah,” Sister Walker called. “You been having any interesting dreams lately?” She gave Memphis a surreptitious wink.
“Yes, ma’am! I dreamed I caught a frog. It was the biggest frog you ever seen, and it let me ride on its back—just me and nobody else!”
Sister Walker gave Memphis a look as if to say, You see? Nothing to worry about. “Well, it’s a shame that frog isn’t here to give you a ride home. Oh, don’t forget your book, now.”
She handed Isaiah the book and gave his narrow shoulders a gentle squeeze. Isaiah took her hands in his and looked up at her in worry. “You should be careful with that chair, Sister.”
“What chair is that?”
“The kitchen chair.”
“Isaiah, let’s go.” Memphis yanked on his brother’s sleeve.
“All right, then. I’ll be careful. You go on home now, before you get us into trouble with your auntie.”
Sister Walker waved in farewell as she watched the boys walking away, arguing about silly things the way brothers do. Memphis was hiding something from her; she could sense it. The old Margaret would’ve been able to find out what it was without too much trouble. But that was the past, and she was concerned with the future. When she’d come to Harlem six months ago, hunting for Memphis Campbell, she’d thought he was that future. Funny how things worked out. But now she had Isaiah. And if she was right about what lay ahead, she needed to prepare him for what was coming.
Much later, she went to retrieve a dish she needed from the tall cabinet, pulling the kitchen chair over so that she could reach it. As she stood reaching, the leg gave way and she crashed to the kitchen floor, banging her shoulder and knee. She was fine—just shaky and sore—but the chair was ruined. And with a chill, she remembered Isaiah’s words to her: You should be careful with that chair, Sister.
THE GOOD CITIZEN
The Pillar of Fire Church was situated on eighty bucolic acres of former farmland in Zarephath, New Jersey. Evangelist Alma Bridwell White had established a community there along the Millstone River, far from what she saw as the corrupting influence of the world. Her followers had all they needed—communal living, a college, and a church. Outsiders were discouraged.
Sam drove up a long dirt driveway bordered by neat, fat rows of firs, which gave way to a cluster of white two-story buildings on a pretty, parklike campus. Men and women in modest clothing walked about, greeting one another with pleasant smiles.
“They don’t look much like killers,” Evie remarked.
“They never do,” Sam muttered.
They were met at the administration building by a Mr. Adkins, a beefy, balding man with a square jaw and a very firm handshake. “The Pillar of Fire Church welcomes you.” Jericho and Evie introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and Sam was Mr. Smith, Jericho’s cousin who had graciously offered to drive them in his car.
“What a fine family,” Mr. Adkins said. “Just our sort of people.”
He led them briefly around the grounds and took them through the church with its enormous pipe organ. Back in the administration building, they passed through a dining hall, where several ladies in identical blue skirts and white blouses sat at a long table assembling pamphlets. They smiled and waved as if it were a church supper and Evie, Sam, and Jericho were their invited guests, and Evie couldn’t help imagining those same welcoming faces illuminated by the flames of a burning cross in the night. A bead of sweat trickled down her back under her dress.
Mr. Adkins ushered them into a small, spare office. A simple cross-stitched panel hung on the wall: ETERNAL VIGILANCE IS THE PRICE OF FREEDOM. Evie perched on the very edge of an offered chair. Jericho sat beside her. Sam stood behind them, his hands in his pockets, his eyes searching.
“What may the Pillar of Fire Church do for you today, Mr. and Mrs. Jones?”
“Mr. Jones and I are so very impressed with your godly way of life. We’re thinking of moving away from Manhattan, what with those terrible murders going on.” Evie shuddered for effect. “We just don’t feel safe, do we, Mr. Jones?”
“I… uh…”
Evie patted his hand. “We don’t. Don’t you think it’s simply awful, Mr. Adkins?”
“Indeed I do. But I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s this foreign element coming in, you know—it’s polluting our white race and way of life. The Jewish anarchists. The Bolsheviks. The Italians and Irish Catholics. The Negroes, with their music and dancing. They don’t hold to our same moral code. They don’t share our American values. We believe in one hundred percent Americanism.”
“Which tribe?” Sam said under his breath.
Evie faked a coughing fit. She made it sound as if she were losing a lung. “Mr. Adkins, could I have a glass of water, please?” Evie coughed again for effect.
“Certainly. I’ll, uh, I’ll have to go to the kitchen for it. I won’t be but a minute. Please make yourselves at home.”
As soon as he was gone, Evie leaped up. “That’s just what I intend to do. You fellas search this room. I’m snooping around.”
Jericho shook his head. “That isn’t a good idea, Evie. What if he comes back?”
“Tell him I went to the lavatory,” Evie said with a roll of her eyes. “Men are pos-i-tute-ly paralyzed by the mention of females in lavatories.”