by Libba Bray
“But those aren’t mine!” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Memphis realized how stupid they were, how futile his protestations. The word of two white cops against a Negro numbers runner? It was a fixed fight.
“Call Papa Charles,” Memphis said. “He’ll give you whatever you need.”
“We don’t work for Papa Charles,” one cop sneered, and Memphis knew the cop was dirty for Dutch Schultz. “You’re going downtown, friend.”
The policemen tugged him roughly toward a waiting car that had pulled up alongside the curb. Behind him, Memphis could see the tall points of the Bennington floating behind a scrim of passing clouds, like a mirage.
A GOODLY HERITAGE
It was nearly four o’clock and the day’s shadows stretched long over the curved backs of the Catskills as Uncle Will took the turnoff from the main road, just beyond the weather-beaten sign for Brethren. The road wound its way toward the valley, past a small farm whose barn bore a white hex sign on its side. The leaves had slipped into autumnal reds, golds, and oranges. Down below, the small town rolled out like a postcard photo, all gabled roofs, gas street lamps, and church steeples. There was a quaintness to the town, as if it had been stopped in time around the turn of the century. It was the sort of place about which politicians liked to wax nostalgic and hold up as a symbol of all that was American, everything the country was in danger of losing.
Then they’d driven north. The roads were muddy and now they were considerably later than they’d meant to be. They checked into a motel on the edge of town. It was a rustic, cabinlike place with a large lot for cars and wagons. Uncle Will rang the bell. The proprietor, a man with a handlebar mustache but a more modern cut of jacket, greeted them. Will signed the register as Mr. John Smith and family, from Albany, and secured two rooms—one for Evie alone and one for him to share with Jericho.
“Come for the county fair?” the innkeeper asked.
“Why, yes. We hear it’s the finest in New York,” Will answered with a tight smile. “My son and daughter can’t wait to attend.”
Evie flashed Will a look of surprise. Still smiling, he gave her a small head shake of warning: Play along.
“Oh, it is at that,” the innkeeper said proudly. “I recommend the First Methodist Church’s peach jam. Now that’s something special.”
“Evangeline does love peach jam, don’t you, dear?”
“Can’t get enough of it,” Evie answered.
Will took the keys and hurried them to their rooms.
“Why do we have to stay here?” Evie asked in dismay as she took in the dark, cedar-lined room with its lumpy bed. She’d seen a perfectly lovely old inn when they’d driven into town. This one didn’t even have a telephone.
“We’ll attract less interest,” Will said. He spread out a crude map on the chipped desk. “Now. According to this, the old camp is up the mountain, about here. John Hobbes’s grave should be in the woods somewhere beyond the old meetinghouse. There’s only one road leading up there—if one can call it a road. It’ll probably be rough going, especially if the weather turns nasty. And unfortunately, we’ll need to go close to dark….”
“According to the Farmers’ Almanac, the sun sets at six twenty-five,” Jericho said.
“Then we’ll need to meet back here by quarter to six at the latest.”
“Back here? Where are we going?”
“Where are you going,” Will corrected. “You and Jericho will attend the fair.”
“Oh, Unc. I thought you were only being polite!”
“It will be good. Make us seem like friendly tourists. Throw anyone off the scent of our true purpose.”
Evie had a particular memory of attending the Ohio State Fair and getting sick from the smell of farm animals and eating too much cotton candy. State fairs were a far cry from Manhattan nightclubs; she and Jericho would probably die of boredom before they even got to the old Brethren site. But she could tell from Will’s tone that he was resolute about this.
Evie’s sigh was long. “Okay, Unc. I’ll go eat peach jam with the yokels. But you owe me.”
Will drove Evie and Jericho to the fair before heading to the town hall to see if he could gather additional supplies for their expedition. Evie and Jericho bought their tickets and pushed into the fairgrounds with the rest of the crowd. Several long white tents had been set up, giving the whole fair the feel of some medieval encampment. An Araby of imagined delights awaited them inside: Flimsy wooden vegetable stands were stacked deep and high with fat pumpkins. Hand-painted signs promised THE BEST APPLE PIE IN THE COUNTY and SCHROBSDORFF’S LYE SOAP—NO FINER CLEANING AGENT! as well as sweet pickles, plum preserves, caramel corn in newspaper cones, and lace doilies stitched so fine you could scarcely tell they’d been stitched at all. A jovial din filled the marketplace: “Ferber’s Horse Equipment—right this way!” “A game of checkers, only one penny!” “Come to the automobile display and see the motorcars of the future!”
They passed through the long, wide livestock pavilion, where pens teemed with animals groomed to perfection while sober-faced farmers stood nearby, arms crossed, nervously awaiting the verdict of the men judging their worthiness.
They emerged from the pavilion to find that an old-fashioned brass band occupied a center bandstand. The band played “Abide with Me” while gray-haired couples sat in slatted chairs, singing along to the old hymn. Children in their Sunday best ran through smiling and wonder-eyed, their pinwheels spinning madly in the breeze. Despite her earlier grumblings, Evie was enchanted. For a brief moment, she could forget that they had come for a terrible purpose. They stood in line for the hayrides, laughing as the cart’s wheels bumped over the rutted field, and then laughing again as they shook the itchy hay from their hair and clothes like dogs shaking off water. At a small wooden counter, they drizzled honey on slabs of fresh bread drenched in melted butter and gobbled it down. Evie laughed as a big drop of honey slid off the side of Jericho’s bread and he tried to catch it with his tongue.
“You missed a spot,” she said. Without thinking, she wiped her thumb over his mouth. His lips parted slightly, as if he meant to take her thumb in his mouth. He backed away, substituting his hand for hers.
“Thank you, Evie.”
“You’re welcome,” Evie said shyly. Jericho was looking at her in a way she couldn’t name. “Oh, look! Let’s ride the Ferris wheel,” Evie begged, walking quickly toward it.
They bought their tickets for a penny apiece and settled into the metal chair. It swung just slightly as they lifted, and Evie yelped and grabbed Jericho’s arm. He responded by taking her hand in his, and as the ride lifted them higher into the air, Evie’s stomach fluttered, both from the height and from the nearness of him.
“Look over there! You can see the inn if you try,” Evie said, extricating her hand to point. It was impolite to point, but it was even more impolite to hold the hand of the boy your best friend was goofy for, even if he was only being gentlemanly.
“Where?” Jericho leaned over her slightly to see, and Evie’s body thrummed again.
“Oh. I… I don’t believe you can see it anymore.” She settled back against the seat with her hands firmly on the bar.
Exiting the Ferris wheel, they found that it had turned chillier. Wispy clouds drifted in the hazy sky above the red-gold hills.
“Cold?” Jericho asked.
“A little,” Evie said. Her teeth chattered. She nodded to a clapboard pavilion off to the side. “That looks warm.”
A sign above the door proclaimed FITTER FAMILIES FOR FUTURE FIRESIDES. A fair-haired boy barreled out of the door and down the steps, proudly showing off a bronze medal on a ribbon. “I won!”
“Attaboy! What did you win?” Evie asked, and he let her see the medal’s inscription. “ ‘Yea, I have a goodly heritage,’ ” Evie read. “Well. Good for you, then, I suppose.”
Inside, the building had been set up with long tables and curtained-off areas labeled EXAMINATION. Families sat in chair
s, waiting their turn, while nurses in starched aprons and stiff white hats moved about, writing down information and escorting them one at a time behind the examination curtains. Fathers filled out surveys and answered questions while mothers bounced fussy babies on their knees and encouraged their children to sit up straight, all in the hope of coming away with one of those bronze medals the boy outside had been so proud of. There was hot cocoa, and Jericho went to get them some while Evie waited.
At a nearby table, a tall, thin, gray-haired man asked a young couple questions. “Has anyone in your family ever had heart trouble? Infantile paralysis? Scoliosis? Rickets?” They shook their heads, and the gray-haired man smiled. “Fine, fine. How about a history of nervous trouble? Have you or any of your family members ever demonstrated any unusual abilities? For instance, if I were to hold a card in my hand, might you have a… well, let’s call it a sense of what that card was? Would you like to be tested for such an ability?”
Evie was only half listening. She was drawn to the far wall, where a large board was suspended. The board, which sported small, flashing lightbulbs, had been divided down the middle. The left side, where an arrow pointed to a fast-flashing light, read EVERY FORTY-EIGHT SECONDS, A PERSON IS BORN IN THE UNITED STATES WHO WILL BE A BURDEN ON SOCIETY. AMERICA NEEDS LESS OF THESE, AND MORE OF THESE….
An arrow on the right side pointed to a lightbulb that rarely flashed. The text read EVERY SEVEN AND A HALF MINUTES, A HIGH-GRADE PERSON IS BORN IN THE UNITED STATES, WHO WILL HAVE THE ABILITY TO WORK AND BE FIT FOR LEADERSHIP. ONLY FOUR PERCENT OF ALL AMERICANS FALL WITHIN THIS CLASS. LEARN ABOUT HEREDITY. YOU CAN HELP TO CORRECT THESE CONDITIONS.—THE HUMAN BETTERMENT FOUNDATION: MAKING AMERICA STRONG THROUGH THE SCIENCE OF EUGENICS.
Jericho returned with their cocoa. He frowned at the board. A smiling nurse holding a clipboard approached them. “Did you want to be tested?”
“For what?” Evie asked.
“We don’t need a medal,” Jericho said curtly.
“Do you know about eugenics?” the nurse asked, as if she hadn’t heard him. “It’s a wonderful scientific movement designed to help America achieve her full potential. It is the self-direction of human evolution.
“Why, every farmer knows that the key to having the best possible livestock is in the breeding,” the nurse explained, as if she were imparting a Sunday-school lesson to children. “If you breed inferior animals, you’ll have inferior stock. You must maintain the superiority of the bloodlines to have truly superior stock. It’s the same with people. How costly is it for America when defective people are born? There are the unfortunates. The degenerates. The unfit, insane, crippled, and feeble-minded. The repeat criminals found in the lower classes. The defects particular to certain of the races. Many of the agitators causing such unrest in our society are an example of the inferior element who are leading to a mongrelization of our American culture. Purity is the cornerstone of our great civilization. Eugenics proposes corrections for what is sick in our society.”
“Let’s go,” Jericho urged in Evie’s ear, but the nurse was still talking.
“Imagine an America in which both our physical and social ills have been bred out of us. There would be no disease. No war. No poverty or crime. There would be peace, as people of superior, like minds could reason out their differences. A true democracy! All men are not created equal, but they could be. Mankind was meant to reach ever forward, ever upward, ever onward! Corrections,” the smiling nurse said again. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like to be tested? It won’t take but a few moments of your time, and we have some lovely cookies.”
“We’re not interested,” Jericho said crisply and stormed outside.
“Jericho! Jericho, slow down, please,” Evie huffed. She had followed him out of the Fitter Families building. He walked briskly, and she was having difficulty keeping up. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Jericho said, though it was clearly anything but nothing. She’d never seen him so angry. He was always so cool, so calm. “That isn’t science. It’s bigotry. And… and I don’t like experiments.” He took a deep breath, as if he were forcing himself to calm down. “It’s time to go back. We’re already late.”
They came out on the far end of the fairgrounds and walked toward the jitney that waited to take people back into town. Just beyond the fence, roughly half a dozen men stood on a small, makeshift platform. They wore coveralls, plain black jackets, and black hats. Evie stopped short.
“Look, it’s Jacob Call.”
Holding his holy book aloft, Brother Jacob Call thundered at the crowd. “Pastor Algoode spoke the truth and the way. Don’t you see what’s happening in this country? Sin has taken root in our homes. Greed and envy rot the foundation. We’ve lost our way. Repent, sinners, for the end is near! Hear the word of the Lord God as it was revealed to his prophet, the Right Reverend Algoode, amen!”
“The Brethren,” Evie whispered.
“And the Lord spake with the tongue of a thousand serpents, saying, ‘Anoint thy flesh and prepare ye the very walls of your houses, for the end will come.’ The Lord your God has sent the Beast to rise!”
“The Beast will rise,” the men echoed. One of the men shook, and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. He spoke in tongues as his body twitched.
“Solomon’s Comet cometh! The Dragon of Old will rise, and only the faithful will be saved to fight God’s holy war while the sinners perish!”
Evie and Jericho would have to pass before them to get to the jitney.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Don’t worry. I’m with you,” Jericho said, positioning himself between her and the men. Evie felt their gaze on her. Automatically, she crossed her coat over her body. She wished she weren’t wearing her patterned stockings and lipstick even as she felt angry that the zealots’ contempt made her feel this way. A boy of no more than fourteen or so watched her intently, wearing an expression that wavered between lust and hatred.
“The sin of the world was woman’s sin,” the boy shouted. His voice hadn’t even changed yet; he was younger than she’d thought.
“Just keep walking,” Jericho whispered, taking Evie’s hand in his.
Evie tried to keep her eyes forward, but she could hear the boy saying something, a word that caught her attention. It was not a nice word. She glanced in his direction. His face was twisted with hate.
“Harlot,” the boy hissed. His arm went back, as if for a pitch, and Evie was completely shocked when the mud hit. She gasped as it splayed across the front of her coat.
“Harlot!” the boy yelled again.
People were staring at her—at her, as if she’d done something wrong. She wanted to scream at them. She wanted to punch the boy as hard as she could. She also wanted to cry.
“Harlot,” Jacob Call shouted, and the men joined him, a chorus now. “Harlot!”
Jericho clutched Evie’s hand tighter and walked her quickly toward the fairground gates. But she could hear them calling after her.
Harlot, harlot, harlot, harlot!
CROSS MY HEART AND HOPE TO DIE
Memphis was late. He’d told Isaiah that he’d pick him up from Sister Walker’s house at five o’clock, but it was coming up on six, and Isaiah was hungry. Aunt Octavia served dinner promptly at six fifteen. If they weren’t washed up and sitting at the table by then, they went to bed hungry. Isaiah was already mad that Sister Walker wouldn’t let him read the cards. All they’d done that afternoon was sums and computation, and he was pretty sore about it. He did not intend to spend the night tossing and turning on an empty stomach just because of Memphis. Isaiah knew Sister wouldn’t let him leave without an adult, so he waited until she went to the kitchen for her tea, then called loudly, “I think I see him now, Sister!” and bolted for the door before she could catch up with him. He’d never walked home from Sister’s house by himself before. It was exciting, like he had a secret world to explore. He wished it weren’t getting dark, though. He didn’t like
the dark. His path took him past the funeral home, and he thought of his mama, lying in her coffin in her white Sunday dress, and of Gabe, too, and that made him sad and a little frightened. Now he had to walk past Trinity Cemetery at night. Everybody knew that was when the dead walked. His stomach growled, and he thought about Octavia denying him dinner.
Isaiah held his breath—you were always supposed to hold your breath walking past a graveyard; everybody knew that, too—as he ran through the first fallen leaves of autumn past the high stone-and-iron walls. He hoped his lungs would hold out. It was hard to run and hold his breath at the same time. By the time he reached the end, he was dizzy. He bumped headlong into Blind Bill Johnson and yelped.
“You scared me!”
Bill smiled. “Isaiah Campbell! Didya think I was a ghost?”
“Uh-huh. I don’t like walking past the graveyard, but if I don’t make it home in time, my aunt Octavia won’t give me supper.”
“Guess we better hurry, then. Come on, I know a shortcut.” Bill’s cane tap-tap-tapped down the sidewalk. They stopped at the corner. “Say, do you like magic tricks?”
“I guess so.”
“You guess so? What sort of answer is that?” Bill said, pretending to be put out. “You in for a treat. I been practicing my magic act. Wanna see?”
“Sure,” Isaiah said. He bounced a ball, catching it neatly each time.
“Behold! In this hand lies a rose.” Bill opened his right hand to show the boy, then closed it again. “Alakazam!” He opened his hand. “Whaddaya see?”
Isaiah squinted at the slightly squished rose. “Nothing happened.”
“Nothing?”
“Nope.”
“Lemme try this again. O great spirits of the land, gimme a frog in my right hand!” Blind Bill opened his hand again. The rose was still a rose.
Isaiah laughed. “Still ain’t no frog,” he said.
“Confound it!” Blind Bill said. “I read me a book on magic and everything. I guess I just don’t have the touch.”
