THE HOTSY TOTSY

It had been a thudding bore of a day; rain had kept Evie inside at the museum, where she amused herself by rearranging the books on one shelf according to a taxonomy only she understood. When she thought she’d lose her mind listening to the rain and plodding through the boredom, she was cheered by the thought that—if she survived the afternoon—she’d enjoy what promised to be an exciting evening out with her friends. Now the evening had come at last. Evie had bathed, perfumed herself, and gone through every ensemble in her closet before settling on a silver bugle-bead dress that shimmered over her body like rain. She wore a long string of pearls wrapped twice around her neck. On her feet were a pair of gray satin Mary Janes with curved black heels and saucer-shaped rhinestone buckles. She painted her lips deep red, ringed her eyes in black, and topped it all off with a black velvet coat with a fur collar. She slipped twenty dollars of her dwindling reserves into a mesh tile purse, spritzed herself with a blast from her atomizer, and breezed into the parlor. Jericho sat at the kitchen table, painting miniatures for a battle-scene model. Uncle Will sat at his messy desk by the bay windows, surrounded by piles of paper and books.

Hearing Evie, he raised his head for a second, studied her, and went back to his work. “You’re rather done up.”

Evie pulled on her opera-length, fingerless lace gloves. “I’m going dancing with Theta and Henry at the most darling nightclub.”

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” Will said.

Evie stopped mid-glove. “But Unc, Theta’s expecting me. If I don’t go, it will pos-i-tute-ly be an insult. She’ll never ask me to do anything again!”

“If you haven’t heard the news, there’s a brutal murderer roaming the streets of Manhattan.”

“But Unc—”

“I’m sorry, Evie. It simply isn’t safe. There’ll be another time. I’m sure Athena will understand.”

“It’s Theta. And no, she won’t.” Evie could feel the tears threatening. She’d spent ages dolling up her eyes, and she blinked hard to keep them from smearing. “Please, Unc.”

“I’m sorry, but my decision is final.” Will bowed his head over his book, final judgment, case dismissed.

On the radio, the announcer extolled the merits of the Parker Dental System, “Because your dental health is too important to leave to chance.”

Jericho cleared his throat. “We could play cards if you like. Or listen to the radio. There’s a new show coming on at nine.”

“Swell,” Evie said bitterly, storming back to her room. She slammed the door and threw herself on the bed. Her new faux-pearl headpiece shifted down over her brows and she had to push it back up. Why of all nights had Will chosen this one to act just like, well, like a parent? They couldn’t live in fear behind the walls of the Bennington, never venturing farther than the museum. Evie lay on her back, staring out her window at the world beyond the fire escape.

The fire escape.

Evie sat straight up. She blotted at her eyes with her fingers and pulled on her gloves again. She opened her door a crack. “I’m retiring for the evening,” she announced. Very carefully, she pushed open her window and stepped out onto the fire escape. If there was one truth Evie had learned in her short life, it was that forgiveness was easier to seek than permission. She didn’t plan to ask for either one.

Several floors below, Mabel screamed as Evie came in through her bedroom window, saying, “Pipe down. It’s only me.”

“I thought you might be the Pentacle Killer, come to slit my throat.”

“You and Unc. Sorry to disappoint you.” Evie smoothed her dress into place.

“Mabel darling, what’s the matter?” Mrs. Rose called from the other side of the door.

“Nothing, Mother! I thought I saw a spider, but I was mistaken,” Mabel yelled. “I thought I was meeting you upstairs,” she whispered to Evie.

“Change of plans. Unc’s forbidden me from going out. I swear, he’s behaving just like a parent!” Evie scrutinized Mabel’s plain white organza dress. “Gee whiz, did you lose your sheep, Pie Face?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You need lipstick.”

“I do not need lipstick.”

Evie shrugged. “Suit yourself, Mabesie. I can’t fight two battles tonight.”

Evie and Mabel tiptoed toward the door. The Roses were hosting another of their political meetings—something about the appeal of Sacco and Vanzetti, the anarchists. Mrs. Rose called to them. “Hello, Evangeline.”

“Hello, Mrs. Rose.”

“It’s very nice of your uncle to take you girls to a poetry reading. It’s important to tend to your education rather than fritter away time in bourgeois, immoral pastimes such as dancing in nightclubs.”

Evie slid her eyes in Mabel’s direction. She fought hard to keep the smile from her lips.

“We have to go, Mother. Wouldn’t want to be late for the reading,” Mabel said and dragged Evie away.

“Guess I’m not the only one on the lam tonight,” Evie said as they ran for the elevator.

Mabel grinned. “Guess you’re not.”

“And then I said to him, ‘The pleasure was all yours.’ I said it just like that, too. I had the last word,” Evie said, recounting Sam Lloyd’s first visit to the museum.

“Sure ya did.” Theta laughed. “You shouldn’t let that Sam fella get under your skin.”

“Did I say he was under my skin?”

“No. I can see you’ve really let it go, Evil,” Theta said, and Henry smirked.

The four of them had taken a taxi to Harlem, which Theta had been nice enough to pay for, and they were making their way to a nightclub called the Hotsy Totsy, which was supposed to be the latest thing.

“It’s over. Finished. The bum’s rush to him,” Evie said, brushing away the wind for effect.

“Good, because we’re here. And I’m pretty sure the password isn’t Sam or Lloyd.”

Henry knocked a quick rhythm—bum-da-BUM-bum—and a moment later, a door cracked open. A man in a white dinner jacket and bow tie smiled. “Evenin’, folks. This is a private residence.”

“We’re pals of the Sultan of Siam,” Henry said.

“What is the sultan’s favorite flower?”

“Edelweiss sure is nice.”

A moment later, the door opened wide. “Right this way.”

The tuxedo-clad man led them through a bustling kitchen hot with steam and down a spiral staircase to an underground tunnel. “Connects to the next building,” Henry whispered to Evie and Mabel. “That way, if there’s a raid in the club, most of the booze is safe somewhere in this building.”

The tuxedoed man opened another door and ushered them into a room decorated like a sultan’s palace. Enormous ferns spilled over the golden rims of giant pots. Panels of champagne-colored silk draped the ceiling, and the walls had been painted a deep crimson. White damask cloths covered tables topped by small amber lanterns. On the stage, the orchestra played a jazzy number that had the flappers shimmying on the dance floor while the men shouted, “Go, go, GO!” and “Get hot!” Well-heeled patrons, cocktails in hand, hopped from table to table, waving down the cigarette girls who made their rounds offering Lucky Strikes, Camels, Chesterfields, and Old Golds from enameled trays. A huge sign promised a special Solomon’s Comet–watching party, and Evie tried not to think about the comet’s more sinister meaning for a madman.

“This is the cat’s meow,” Evie said, taking it all in. This was what she had been waiting for. Clubs like this didn’t exist anywhere outside Manhattan. “And the orchestra is the berries.”

Henry nodded. “They’re the best. I heard ’em play at the Cotton Club once. But I don’t like to go there because they’ve got a color line.” Seeing Evie’s confusion, Henry explained. “Down at the Cotton Club, the orchestra could perform for the white folks just fine. But they couldn’t sit at the tables out front and order a drink or mingle. Papa Charles King runs this joint. He serves everybody.”

In the corner, a white woman sat talking with a black man. It never would’ve happened in Ohio, and Evie wondered what her parents would have to say about it. Nothing complimentary, she was pretty sure.

Theta elbowed Henry. “There’s Jimmy D’Angelo. Go sweet-talk him into letting you sit in.”

Henry excused himself and sauntered toward a table near the stage area where a man in a top hat and monocle sat smoking a cigar, a bright green parrot perched on his tuxedoed shoulder.

“Henry’s a big talent, but Flo—Mr. Ziegfeld—doesn’t see it,” Theta said. “Henry’s sold a few songs to Tin Pan Alley—enough to keep him in socks, and not much more. They’re okay ditties, but his good songs nobody gets. Poor kiddo.”

“I’d love to hear them,” Mabel said.

“I hope you’ll get to. Kid just needs his lucky break is all.” Theta held her wrap on one shoulder. “Showtime, dolls. Give the place a look like you’re too good for the dump. Just follow me.”

Theta sauntered past the tables, not deigning to look at anyone. Heads turned as Theta, Evie, and Mabel followed the host through the crowded tables. They were Shebas in their flapper finery, and they drew appreciative gazes. A few people recognized Theta from the Follies.

“Must be the duck’s quack to be famous,” Evie said.

Theta shrugged. “They think they know me, but they don’t.”

The host seated them at a table in a corner and handed them menus printed on heavy cream-colored paper. Mabel’s eyes widened. “I can’t believe these prices!”

“Believe it,” Theta said. “Make sure you like whatever you order, ’cause you’ll be nursing it all night long.”

“My mother would cast a kitten over the excess,” Mabel said guiltily.

“Your mother isn’t here.”

“Thank heavens for that,” Evie muttered.

A waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne and a silver bucket of ice. “Sorry, pal. We didn’t order bubbly,” Theta said.

“For the ladies. From an appreciative gentleman,” the waiter said.

“Which one?” Evie said, craning her neck.

“Mr. Samson at table fifteen,” the waiter said, indicating delicately with a nod.

“Oh, brother,” Theta said.

“What is it?” Evie couldn’t see too well in the dark.

“See that fella across the way? Don’t be obvious about it.”

The girls peeked over the tops of their menus. Four tables over sat a heavyset man with a very full mustache and the smug air of Wall Street success. “The one who looks like a walrus without a zoo?” Evie asked.

“The same. He’s one of those chumps who wants to feel like he’s young and exciting. Probably got a wife and three brats up in Bedford and thinks we’ll show him a good time. Oh, he’s looking at us. Smile, girls.”

Evie flashed her teeth, and the older man raised his glass. The girls raised theirs in reply. The man blew a kiss and motioned for them to join him.

“What now?” Evie asked through still-smiling teeth.

“Now it’s really showtime.” Theta knocked back her champagne and let loose an enormous belch that drew disgusted stares from people nearby. “Nothing like a good glass of giggle water to help a girl’s insides!” Theta said loudly and patted her stomach.

Across the floor, the older man’s glass hung in midair. He looked quickly away.

“He’s scandalized!” Evie said on a giggle.

“Now he can go home to his wife in Bedford and we can enjoy his grape juice in peace.”

“How’d you get so smart?”

“Hard knocks,” Theta said. She and Evie toasted and sipped the man’s champagne.

Mabel signaled for a waiter. “Could I have a Sloe Gin Fizz, without the gin?”

“What’s the point of that, Miss?” the waiter said.

“Tomorrow morning,” Mabel said.

“If you say so, Miss.”

“How’s Henry making out?” Theta asked, craning her head. Several tables away, Henry lounged in a chair wearing an expression of beautiful, bored elegance as he listened to the man with the parrot.

“He’s not really your brother, is he?” Evie said.

Theta smirked. “Now you’ve done it. People will talk.”

Theta was so deadpan that it took Evie a second to realize she was kidding.

“How did you meet?”

“On the street. I was starving, and he gave me part of his sandwich. He’s a real pal.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t the two of you…?”

Theta narrowed her eyes and blew out a thin stream of smoke. It felt to Evie as if she were weighing her answer. “We just didn’t go for each other. He may not be my real brother, but he feels like one to me. I’d do anything for him.”

Henry sauntered toward them and Theta scooted over to make room.

“What did I miss?” he asked. “Say, where did the champagne come from?”

“Lonely walrus,” Evie explained and giggled. She was already feeling a little tipsy, more from excitement and optimism than from the champagne. She liked Theta and Henry. They were so sophisticated—not like anybody she’d known back home. She hoped they liked her, too.

“You’re just in time. We’re about to make a toast,” Theta said.

Henry raised his glass. “To what?”

“To us. To the future,” Theta said.

“To the future,” Henry, Evie, and Mabel echoed.

The orchestra segued into a hot, sensual number, and Evie leaned her head against Theta’s shoulder. “Don’t you feel like anything could happen tonight?”

“It’s Manhattan. Anything can happen at any time.”

“But what if you met the man of your dreams tonight?”

Theta blew out another plume of cigarette smoke. “Not interested. Love’s messy, kiddo. Let those other girls get moony-eyed and goofy. Me? I got plans.”

“What plans?” Mabel asked. A waiter had brought pâte on toast, which she ate with delight.

“Pictures. That’s the future. I hear they’re gonna start making talking pictures.”

Evie laughed. “Talking pictures? How awful!”

“ ’S gonna be swell. When my contract’s up, I’m heading to California with Henry. Right, Henry?”

“Anything you say, beautiful.”

“I hear they have lemon trees, and you can pick ’em right off and make fresh lemonade. We’ll get a house with a lemon tree in the backyard. Maybe even have a dog. I always wanted a dog.”

Evie wanted to laugh, but Theta seemed so serious, and even a little sad, so she just choked back her drink instead. “Sounds ducky.” She clinked glasses with Theta. “To lemon trees and dogs!”

“Lemon trees and dogs,” Theta and Henry said, laughing.

“Lemon trees and dogs,” Mabel slurred, her mouth full.

Evie leaned forward, resting her chin on her upturned palm. “What about you, Henry?”

“Me? I’m going to write songs for the pictures. Real songs. Not that gooey bushwa Flo Ziegfeld likes,” Henry drawled.

“To real songs!” Evie toasted. “Mabesie?”

“I’m going to help the poor. But first, I’m going to eat every bit of this.” Mabel swooned. “Heavenly.”

Theta cocked her head. “What about you, Evil?”

Evie turned her glass around slowly on the table. What could she say? I’m going to stop having nightmares about my dead brother. I’m going to let the past stop haunting me like a vengeful ghost. I’m going to find my place in the world and show everyone what I’m made of. She’d felt it from the moment she stepped off the train at Penn Station, a sense that she belonged here, that Manhattan was her true home. “This probably sounds silly….”

Henry let out a loud, dramatic laugh, then shrugged. “I just wanted to get it out of the way, darling.”

Evie grinned. Oh, she liked them both so much! “Ever since I got here, I’ve had the craziest feeling of destiny—that whatever is supposed to happen, whoever it is I’m going to be, is waiting just around the next corner. I want to be ready for it. I want to meet it headlong.” Evie raised her glass. “To whatever’s around the next corner.”

“I sure hope it’s not a car bearing down,” Mabel joked.

“To the good stuff just out of sight,” Theta echoed.

“To Evie’s destiny,” Henry said and touched his glass to theirs in a satisfying chime.

Evie paused, her glass in midair. “I don’t believe it. Of all the gall!”

“What’s eating you?” Theta asked.

Evie slammed her glass down, sloshing champagne onto the tablecloth. “Theta, take my purse. It’s got twenty bucks in it. You might need it to bail me out.”

“For the last time, what is it?”

“Sam Lloyd,” Evie hissed. She marched over to where he stood, leaning against a marble column, talking up a blond with a red Cupid’s bow mouth.

“Excuse me, Miss.” Evie sandwiched herself between them.

“Hey!” the girl objected, but Evie stood firm.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“What am I doing here? I come here all the time. What are you doing here?”

“Who’s she—your mother?” the blonde said in a voice so high it could break glass.

Evie turned. “I’m from the health department. You’ve heard of Typhoid Mary? This fella’s got enough typhoid to start his own colony.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Holy smokes!”

“You said it. Just to be safe, you might want to burn those glad rags you’ve got on. In fact, you might wanna burn them on principle.”

“Huh?”

Evie raised an eyebrow at Sam. “Why, Sam, she’s charming.” Evie turned back to the blonde, leaned in close and whispered, “You see that fella with the mustache over there?” Evie pointed to the walrus man. “He’s so rich he could buy Wool and Worth’s and still have enough left over for a steak dinner. Why don’t you go get him to buy you a drink?”

“You on the level?”

“And how. He’s a real Big Cheese. Trust me.”

The girl smiled. “Say, thanks for the tip, honey.”

“We Janes have to stick together.”

The girl looked worried. “You gonna be okay with his… typhoid?”

“It’s okay,” Evie said, glaring at Sam. “I’m immune to what he’s got.”

Sam watched the alluring blond wiggle her way toward the walrus man and shook his head. “Anybody ever tell you your timing is lousy, sister?”

“Where did you get that dinner jacket? It looks expensive.”

Sam grinned. “Back of a chair.”

“You stole it?”

“Let’s just say I borrowed it for the duration of my stay.”

“I oughta tell Uncle Will.”

“Be my guest. Of course, then you’ve gotta explain what you were doing here at a speakeasy in Harlem at eleven thirty in the PM.”

Evie opened her mouth to give Sam an earful just as the tuxedo-clad emcee stepped to the microphone. His white shirt was so stiff it looked bulletproof. “And now the Hotsy Totsy presents the Famous Hotsy Totsy Girls dancing that forbidden dance, the Black Bottom!”

The orchestra launched into the jazzy, uptempo dance tune. With a loud whoop, the young and beautiful chorines strutted their way across the stage. They swayed their hips and stamped out a hard, quick rhythm with their silver shoes. With each shimmy, the bugle beads on their scandalously revealing costumes swung and shook. It was the sort of display Evie knew her mother would have found appalling—an example of the moral decay of the young generation. It was sexual and dangerous and thrilling, and Evie wanted more of it.

The piano player called out to the girls, and they shuffled forward, hips first. They crooked their fingers and everyone raced onto the dance floor below the stage, caught up in the dance and the night.

Theta sat at the table, alone, behind an inscrutable cloud of cigarette smoke, watching. Henry had started up a conversation with a handsome waiter named Billy, and she wondered if he’d be coming home tonight. She watched the spoiled debutantes getting their kicks by coming uptown to hear jazz in forbidden clubs, just to make their mothers fret. She watched the bartenders filling glasses but keeping their eyes on the doors. She watched the lonely hearts mooning over the fellas who, oblivious, mooned over other dolls. She watched a fight break out between a couple who were now sitting in miserable silence. She watched the cigarette girls smiling at each table, extolling the health benefits of Lucky Strikes or Chesterfields, whichever company paid them a little more. She watched the girls dance onstage and wondered how old they’d been when they started. Had they been dragged from town to town on the circuit from the age of four? Had they lain awake on fleabag motel floors, then made the rounds of booking agents the next morning, half-dead from exhaustion? Had any of them made a daring escape from a small town in the middle of the night? Had they changed their names and their looks, becoming someone completely new, someone who couldn’t be found? Did any of them have a power so frightening it had to be kept locked down tight?

A good-looking fella with a fraternity pin on his lapel stepped in front of Theta’s table, blocking her view. “Mind if I join you?”

Theta stubbed out her cigarette. “Sorry, pal. I was just leaving.” She grabbed her wrap and Evie’s purse and went in search of the ladies’ lounge.

Memphis had finished his rounds for the night. On his way through the Hotsy Totsy’s kitchen, he pocketed a few cookies for Isaiah, then set off to check out the action in the club. A drunk girl whose curls drooped from dancing called to him as he passed: “Oh, boy—get my coat, will ya?” She dropped a quarter in his hand.

“Do I look like I work for you? Get your own damn coat.” Memphis tossed the quarter back, and it fell at her feet.

“Well, I never…”

“And you never will,” Memphis grumbled. Off the hallway was a sitting room with club chairs and Persian rugs where couples went to neck or smoke. Memphis walked past a petting couple and settled into his favorite chair to read.

“Do you mind?” the man called.

“A little. But I’ll be just fine,” Memphis shot back, along with his widest smile. He opened his book. The man swore under his breath and called him a name Memphis didn’t like. Memphis stayed put, and after a moment, the couple left. Alone in the room, Memphis lost himself to the pleasure of the book.

“Let’s dance,” Sam said.

“With you?” Evie scoffed. “Just so you know, I left my money with Theta for safekeeping.”

“Come on, doll, I’ll be as good as a Boy Scout.” He laced his fingers through hers. “Feel that rhythm, kid. Doesn’t it work on you?”

Evie looked in the direction of the dance floor. A crowd of flappers, lost to the booze and the beat, were tearing it up. Evie wanted to be in the thick of it. To let herself go under the lights.

“One dance,” Evie said and dragged him toward the gyrating crowd. Sam pulled Evie into a waltz. His hand was warm at the small of her back.

“What are you doing?” she said as they twirled softly in place.

“Going against the grain,” Sam answered.

“Maybe I like going with the grain.”

“You? I don’t see it.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Evie yelled close to his ear. It was hard to hear over the orchestra and the dancers.

“We could work on that,” Sam said, pulling her into a twirl. He was a good dancer. Graceful and quick-footed, he knew how to lead without being overbearing. On the dance floor, at least, they were swell together.

“You smell good enough to eat,” Sam said so close to her ear that it made the skin along her jaw buzz.

“Just like the Big Bad Wolf,” Evie murmured.

“Say, about that ghost business—does your uncle believe in that, or is he just making a buck?”

“How should I know?” Evie asked. She didn’t want to think about Will just now. “Why? Do you believe it?”

Sam forced a smile. “Man’s gotta believe in something.”

He twirled Evie around and around under the lights.

Mabel had gone to the restroom and returned to an empty table. A minute later, she’d been corralled into dancing with a fella named Scotty who had managed to step on both of her feet three times and who insisted on calling her by the wrong name. Now she sat at the table vacated by the others listening to him prattle on about stocks and bonds and finding the right sort of girl to take home to Mother. She guessed the right sort of girl was not the daughter of a Jewish socialist and a society girl turned rabble-rouser.

“You’re a swell listener, May Belle,” Scotty said. His tongue was thick from Scotch.

“Mabel,” she corrected. She squinted in the club’s atmospheric glow and allowed herself to pretend this boring idiot was Jericho. Out on the floor, Evie danced with Sam—and after swearing to deck him.

“Why, you’re just like…”

“A sister,” Mabel finished for him.

“Exactly so!”

“Swell.” She sighed. The Scotty fellow continued rambling, making Mabel feel smaller and plainer. Her dress was all wrong; she looked like she was auditioning for a Christmas pageant somewhere. She was tired of being overlooked or compared to someone’s sister or passed off as a sweet, harmless girl, the sort nobody minded but nobody sought out, either. How had she allowed herself to be talked into this misery? It was different for Evie. Evie was born to play the role of carefree flapper. Mabel wasn’t. In nightclubs or at dances, she was out of her element. Just once, she’d like to be the exciting one, the girl somebody wanted.

“Isn’t that right, May Belle?” the idiot said, finishing some painful thought about fishing or motorcars, no doubt. He clapped her on the arm a little hard.

“That’s it,” Mabel said, getting up. She tossed her napkin on the table. “No. That is not right. I don’t know what you just said, but whatever it was, I’m pretty certain it was pure hokum. I don’t want to dance. I don’t want to hear about your plans for a summer house. I am not your sister. And if I were your sister, I’d have to tell people you’d been adopted as an act of charity. Please, don’t get up.”

“I wasn’t,” Scotty said.

Mabel marched up to Evie and tapped her on the shoulder. “Evie, I want to go home.”

“Oh, Mabel, no. Why, we’re just getting started!”

“You’re just getting started. I am finished.”

Evie stepped to the side with Mabel. “What’s wrong, Pie Face?”

“Nobody wants to dance with me.”

“I’ll get Sam to dance with you.”

“I don’t want you to make someone dance with me. You know perfectly well what I mean. It might be different if Jericho were here.”

“I tried to get him to come, Pie Face, honestly I did. But he’s pos-i-tute-ly allergic to having a good time. Why don’t you order another Orange Juice Jazz Baby?”

“They’re five dollars!”

“Come on, Mabesie. Live a little. It won’t kill you. Oh, they’re playing my favorite song!” Evie dashed out onto the dance floor before Mabel could stop her. It probably wasn’t her favorite song; she just needed an excuse to get away and avoid Mabel. Sometimes Evie could be so selfish.

Mabel saw the drunken Scotty lurching toward her with a sloppy “Heyyy, Maybeline, honey,” and ran and hid behind an enormous potted fern, plotting all the ways she was going to kill Evie when this evening was finally over.

Theta walked the corridors of the club, dragging her fur wrap behind her. Some people recognized her with a “Hey, aren’t you…?” To which Theta would say, “Sorry. You must have me confused with another party.”

Behind her, a man called out “Betty!” and Theta turned quickly, her heart beating fast. But he was calling to a redhead, who yelled back, “Hold your horses! I need the little girls’ room.”

Theta had had enough. She didn’t want to go home, but she didn’t want to stay, either. She wasn’t sure what she wanted except something new, something that made her feel anchored to her life. She felt like she could float away at any moment. Sure, she had Henry, wonderful Henry. He was like a brother to her. It was Henry who had saved her life when she’d first come to the city, desperate and starving. And it was Henry who’d saved her life a second time. They’d always be together. But lately, she’d felt a hunger for more. It had the shape of destiny about it, this feeling, though she couldn’t begin to put a name on it.

A crowd of revelers caromed down the hall, and Theta ducked into the first room she saw. It appeared empty, but as she came around the side of a green wingback chair, she saw that it was occupied by a handsome young man with a book of poems. He was so absorbed in his reading that he didn’t even notice her.

“Must be some book,” she said, startling him.

Memphis looked up to see a striking girl with jet-black hair smoking a cigarette and watching him.

“Walt Whitman.”

“Mmm,” Theta said.

“I’m a poet myself,” Memphis said. He held up his small leather journal. Theta took it and flipped through the pages, opening to a series of numbers written in the back. She raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look like poetry to me. More like a bookie’s tab.”

Quickly, Memphis grabbed the book back. He gave her the full-dazzle smile that worked on chorus girls and jumpy gangsters. “I’m just holding that for a friend.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“My name’s Memphis. Memphis Campbell. And you are?”

“Just a girl in a nightclub.” Theta blew out a stream of smoke.

“You shouldn’t smoke those. Sister says they’re poison.”

“Your sister’s a barrel of laughs.”

Memphis laughed. “She’s not my sister. We call her sister. Sister Walker. And she could rival a pickle for pucker.” That got a smirk from Theta. It was all the encouragement Memphis needed. “You French? Got a French look to you. Maybe even a little Creole.”

Theta shrugged and tapped the end of her cigarette into a tall silver ashtray. “I look like everybody.”

“Well, I’m gonna call you Creole Princess.”

“You can call me whatever you like. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

“I’m still gonna keep calling.”

“You’re persistent, Memphis Campbell, I’ll give you that. What are you doing here besides reading library books?”

“Oh, you know. A little of this, little of that.”

Theta arched one thin brow. “Sounds like trouble.”

Memphis spread his arms in a gesture of innocence. “Me? I’m the farthest thing from trouble you’ll ever know.”

“Mmm,” Theta said, walking around the room.

“Why aren’t you upstairs in the club?”

Theta shrugged. “I was bored.”

“Bored! That’s a first. Don’t you know the Hotsy Totsy is supposed to be the swankiest club in town?”

Theta shrugged again. “I’ve been to a lot of clubs.”

“That a fact?”

“Yep.” She dragged on her cigarette. “Poet, huh? Why don’t you read me something?”

“Whatever you say, Creole Princess.” Memphis opened the book and read while Theta once again flipped casually through his journal. He had a nice voice, one well suited to poetry. “ ‘I sing the body electric/The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them/They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them/And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul….’ That’s Mr. Walt Whitman. One of our finest poets.”

Theta had turned another page. Now she stared at the radiant eye-and-lightning bolt symbol somebody had doodled in the corner of the page. Her heart beat faster. “Did you draw this?” She tried to keep her voice even.

“That? Oh, just something I saw in a dream.”

“In… a dream?” Theta repeated. She felt hot and dizzy. “What is it? What do you know about it?”

“Nothing. Like I said, just something I saw in a dream.”

The drawing seemed to have upset the girl for some reason. Memphis wanted to ask her why, but he also didn’t want to scare her off. “Here, let me show you around the club.” He reached for his notebook, but Theta held on to it. She looked right at him, but she didn’t seem angry; she seemed astonished, maybe even a little scared.

“I’ve seen that same symbol in my own dreams,” she said.

Memphis didn’t know where to start. “Do you know what it is or where it comes from? Have you seen it somewhere before?”

Theta shook her head. “Only in my dreams.”

“When did it start?”

“I don’t know. About six months ago? You?”

“ ’Round about then.”

“How often do you dream it?” she asked.

“Twice a week, maybe more. Used to be only here and there, but lately, it’s happening more often.”

Theta nodded. “I’m having it more often, too.”

She dreamed of the same symbol. Memphis dealt with odds every day, and he knew the odds on this were staggering. It had to mean something, didn’t it? “Tell me exactly what you dream.”

Theta sank into a chair. She was shaking. “It’s always the same. I’m somewhere a long way from New York. I don’t know where. No place I know. I’m standing on a road, and the sky’s lousy with storm clouds—”

Memphis could feel his heart thundering in his chest. “Is there a farmhouse? An old white farmhouse with a porch?”

Theta’s eyes widened. “Yes,” she whispered. “And wheat fields, or corn. Some kind of fields. And in the distance there’s this tree—”

“With no leaves on it. Just a big old gnarled tree, with limbs as thick as a giant’s arms.”

Goose bumps rose on Theta’s back and neck. “And something’s coming on the road….”

“Just behind a wall of dust,” Memphis finished for her.

Theta nodded. She felt cold all over. What was happening? “The worst part is the feeling,” she said softly. “Like something terrible is coming. Something I don’t want to see.”

“Something you’ll be called to do something about,” Memphis said.

“What does it mean?”

A loud crash came from above, followed by screams and the sounds of police whistles being blown. Frantic footsteps thudded across the ceiling. Memphis ran to the door and poked his head out, only to see a full squad of policeman barging their way into the kitchen.

Theta’s eyes widened. “Holy smokes! It’s a raid.”

“Can’t be,” Memphis said, throwing his knapsack over his shoulder. He still held the book in his hand. “Papa Charles has the cops in his pocket.”

“That pocket’s got a hole, Poet.” The terror of the shared dream was replaced by the real fear of being arrested. “How do I get out of here? I can’t afford to get pinched.”

“This way!” Memphis offered his hand. “I know this place like my own skin. I’ll get you out of here. Trust me.”

Theta grabbed his hand and they set off running down the narrow hall.

Mabel gasped as the doors to the club were broken down and two lines of police stormed the club. One grabbed her by the wrist. She tugged, but his grip was strong.

“Right this way, Miss. I’ve got a car waiting,” the officer said, smiling.

“My mother will kill me,” Mabel wailed as he dragged her away from the chaos unfolding behind her.

Theta and Memphis ran. Behind them, the police stormed the place, breaking open walls, knocking chairs over. Two flappers and their beaus screamed and stumbled drunkenly into the wall of cops. A clearly intoxicated man whose face was covered in lipstick pulled out a gun and fired off shots indiscriminately. One of his bullets passed through the book of poetry in Memphis’s hand. Memphis stuck his finger through the hole. “That was a library book,” he said, gasping.

“Poet, we’ve gotta scram!”

Memphis ran with Theta around a corner, where he pulled her into a telephone booth. She looked up through heavy lashes into Memphis’s handsome face. She’d seen plenty of handsome fellas before, but none who wrote poetry and shared the same strange nightmare. Deep down, Theta felt stirrings she’d guarded against since Roy and Kansas and what had happened there.

“You pull me in here to hide or to neck, Poet?” Theta joked, trying to catch her breath.

“Trust me,” Memphis said. He turned the crank on the telephone three times and gave a hard push on the back wall, which opened onto a secret passageway.

Upstairs in the club, it was chaos as the police stormed the doors. The bartenders moved quickly. They flipped the bar over, sending about two dozen bottles of good hooch down a chute to their untimely end, then pulled a lever on the bar itself, emptying the bottles and glasses there down another chute and wiping the evidence away with rags. Patrons screamed and climbed over tables, knocking one another over in their panic to get out. Some of the flappers continued dancing, thrilled to be arrested and make the papers. “You sure you gents don’t need a drink?” the club manager quipped as the cops walked him toward the door. In the midst of the hysteria, Henry walked calmly to the piano, took a seat, and began to play.

“Don’t look at me, officer. I’m just the piano player,” he said, but the man in blue cuffed him anyway.

In the melee, Sam and Evie were separated. Evie dodged and wove her way toward an exit just as a fresh wave of cops barged in. She doubled back, passing the dim blond from earlier, who was pouring her heart out to the cop arresting her: “These chumps are all the same—one minute they’re trying to get you into the struggle buggy, the next, they’re giving you their typhoid.”

Trapped, Evie dove under a table and hid beneath its white cloth, watching. She reached up just high enough to grab an open bottle of champagne and pull it down with her. It seemed a shame to let good hooch go to waste, and if she was going down, she was going in style. After a few minutes, she peeked out and saw Sam gliding easily out the door, untouched. Or rather, she thought she saw him. He moved so quickly she couldn’t be sure. She only knew she was angry again. She bolted after him, calling his name, but a second wave of policemen rounded the corner. Evie ran back into the club room, keeping low. She spied a dumbwaiter hidden behind the bar and made a break for it, wriggling herself in. Her long necklace caught on the hook, scattering pearls all over the floor, which tripped an officer heading her way. There was no time to mourn the jewels, so she slammed the door shut and hoisted herself toward freedom.

“Didn’t I tell you to trust me?” Memphis said. He and Theta stood in the dank wine cellar beneath the club. A lone worker’s bulb over the door cast dim light across the dirt floor and the barrels stored in the deep room.

“What is this place?”

“It’s where they store the hooch when it comes in from Canada,” Memphis explained. “Come on. Be careful—the steps are tricky.”

“Where to now?”

Memphis stood for a moment, trying to get his bearings. He didn’t spend a lot of time down here, and he wasn’t certain of the room. He only knew there had to be a door somewhere. Up the steps, the doorknob jangled. There were shouts.

“Cops,” Theta whispered.

“Hold on, hold on,” Memphis whispered back. “Let’s see if they go away.”

It was quiet for a spell; all they heard was their own breathing. Then a loud thwack broke the silence, and Theta yelped as a policeman’s ax splintered a slit in the cellar’s big wooden door.

“Tell me you know a way out of here!” Theta said.

“This way!” Memphis said, and hoped he was right. They threaded through barrels of liquor. Behind them, the door gave way, and someone shot into the air, shouting, “Stop right there!”

“Should we…?” Theta panted.

“Not on your life, Princess,” Memphis said, pulling her on.

Footsteps echoed in the cavernous space. The cops had made it in and were gaining on them. Memphis had paid off some of these men for Papa Charles; most would look the other way and let him go. But a few were quick with their clubs, and finding a black man with a white woman in a cellar full of booze didn’t bode well for Memphis’s case. The shouts of “Stop! Stop!” came again, this time punctuated by gunfire. Where was the way out?

Against the far wall, Memphis saw the silhouette of stairs. He followed them up and saw the outline of a door. It had to lead to a fire escape.

“This way,” Memphis gasped out as he half dragged Theta up the rickety staircase.

“There they are!” a cop yelled from below.

Memphis tried the knob but it was stuck. He threw himself against the door, once, twice, and it finally swung open on rusted hinges. He pushed Theta out onto the fire escape. Down below, two officers stood smoking cigarettes. “Go up!” he whispered.

Theta nodded and started the climb up to the roof. A rotting cafe chair rested against the railing. Memphis lodged it under the doorknob, and while the cops banged against the door, he climbed after Theta. The harsh glare of a neon sign advertising Lucky Strike cigarettes turned the roof into a white haze. They ran to the edge of the roof, stepping over the half wall to the next roof, and then the next, climbing at last down another fire escape into an alley. Memphis jumped first, then helped Theta, enjoying for that brief second the feel of her against his chest. The two of them ran out and joined the nighthawks still walking the city streets.

The dumbwaiter had reached the top. Grunting, Evie pushed against the door with her fists, then her feet, but it was hopelessly stuck.

“Hello?” she whispered. “Hello? Anybody there?”

A moment later, the door opened. A man’s hand appeared and Evie took it gratefully, slowly unbending her arms and legs and stepping out of the cramped box, still holding fast to the champagne bottle.

“Oh, swell! Thank you, baby!”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” the policeman said, slapping handcuffs on her. “You’re also under arrest.”

Sam slipped easily through the crowd and back through the corridor into the building next door. Whenever a policeman looked his way, Sam would think that same thought—Don’t see me—and before the cop could figure out what had happened, Sam would have moved on, leaving him to shake his head and chase after someone else. He hoped Evie had managed to escape. He had to hand it to her, she had moxie. He liked girls with moxie. They were trouble. And Sam liked trouble even more than moxie.

“Did we lose them?” Theta panted. Her legs shook and the white fur of her coat was grimed with dirt.

“I think so.” Memphis held up the pulp of the book and sighed. “Mrs. Andrews is gonna kill me.”

“At least you’ll have something to write about,” Theta said and laughed. It was a solid bray of a laugh, completely at odds with her jaded demeanor. The cool she’d shown him earlier was gone. Their narrow escape had made them giddy, and they stood on the corner of Seventh Avenue laughing at their good fortune like a couple of kids on Christmas morning. Theta tilted her head back and caught the breeze. In that moment, she was so beautiful that Memphis wished they could keep running.

“You jake, Poet? You look like someone slipped you a mickey,” Theta said.

Memphis forced a smile and spread his arms wide. “Me? I don’t wear worry.”

“Let’s go sneak a peek.”

They crept down the block and crossed the street to where they had a good lookout for the action at the club. Sirens wailed on the street and police wagons lined the block in a long line. The men in blue pulled patrons from the club while the neighborhood looked on. The press had arrived, and the flashlamps popped; they could smell the burning magnesium in the night air.

“Papa Charles isn’t gonna like this,” Memphis said. “He pays the cops enough not to raid his clubs. I hope your friends got out all right.”

“Me, too,” Theta said. She still held Evie’s handbag. “I suppose I’d better blow home and see if they did.”

Memphis felt his heart sink. He didn’t want the evening to end. “I could take you for a cup of coffee first, if you like. I know I could sure use one.”

Theta smiled. It was a sweet smile, almost shy. “Thanks, Poet. But I should get my beauty sleep.”

Memphis started to say something clever—“Why? You’re already the best-looking girl in town”—but didn’t. It would seem like charm, and he didn’t want to charm this girl. He wanted to know her. But the magic of their escape couldn’t extend everywhere.

“Maybe I’ll see you in my dreams tonight,” he said instead. “On that road.”

Theta’s smile faltered just a bit. “I suppose I’d feel less scared if you were there.”

The cops patted the doors of one of the wagons and sent it on its way. The streets were clogged with people now. Theta stuck out her hand. “Thanks for the daring escape, Poet.”

Memphis shook Theta’s hand, marveling at the softness of it. “Anytime, Creole Princess.”

Theta ran toward the subway. At the corner, she turned to see Memphis still watching her. He wasn’t watching her the way that audiences or the occasional fan on the street did. It didn’t make her feel odd or imagined; on the contrary, she had never felt more real. “Hey, Poet!” she called back to him. “It’s Theta!”

“Pardon?” he shouted.

“My name. It’s Theta—”

The crowd thickened between them just as someone pulled Memphis into a choke hold from behind. He whipped around, ready for a fight. Laughing, Gabe put his hands up in surrender, backing away. “Easy, brother. Just me. Can you believe they raided the club? Somebody’s putting the squeeze on Papa Charles. I’d gone out back for a smoke or I’d be in one of those wagons, too. Hey, Memphis—you even listening to me?”

Memphis had turned away from Gabe and was craning his head, searching for some sign of Theta, but she was already gone. How would he find her again? Beside him, Gabe was talking a mile a minute, but Memphis wasn’t listening. Something had shifted in the cosmos. His future seemed to have thinned to a point of destiny, and it had a name: Theta.

When Memphis let himself into Octavia’s apartment, he found Isaiah standing at the foot of the bed in a pale wash of bluish moonlight. The boy stared into the gloom of the bedroom, his head shaking slightly.

“Hey, Ice Man. Whatcha doin’ up?” The boy didn’t answer. “Isaiah? You all right?”

Isaiah’s eyes rolled back until only the whites were visible. His eyelids fluttered wildly.

“The seventh offering is vengeance. Turn the heretics from the Temple of Solomon. And their sins shall be purified by blood and fire.”

“Isaiah?” Memphis whispered. Hearing these strange words coming out of his brother’s mouth made him cold with fear.

“Anoint thy flesh and prepare ye the walls of your houses to receive him.” Isaiah’s thin body jerked with small spasms.

Memphis gripped his arms. Should he run for Octavia? The doctor? He didn’t know. “Isaiah, what are you talking about?” he whispered urgently.

“They’re coming. The time is now.”

“Isaiah, wake up now. You’re having a nightmare. Wake up, I say!”

Isaiah went limp and calm in Memphis’s hands. His eyelids closed as if he might drift back to sleep. Suddenly, he stiffened. His eyes snapped wide open. He stared at Memphis as his small body shook. His words were a choked whisper: “Oh, my son, my son. What have you done?”

Isaiah swayed, but Memphis caught him in time and put his little brother into his bed, where he resumed sleeping as if nothing had happened.

Memphis sat shivering on his own bed. Unable to rest, he watched the rise and fall of his brother’s chest for some time, until early dawn filled the room with a weak, milky light. How could Isaiah have known? No one knew except Memphis. It was what he’d seen when he was under the healing trance in those last moments with their mother on her deathbed. As he’d walked in that other place, a misty land between waking and death, he’d seen her spirit, mournful and afraid, her hands reaching out toward him just before she was swallowed by some vast dark, her last words both a benediction and a warning:

Oh, my son, my son. What have you done?

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 721