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  Miss Ellie Jane is saying introductions, herself and me the boy to fetch his bags. She gives me a little nudge wantin me to hold out my hand to shake his but I guess she don't know that rich white men don't shake the hands of Negro boys. She keeps nudgin and nudgin until finally I hold out my hand and what do you know? He shakes it. Shakes my hand right there on the train platform in front of everybody.

  I'm expectin a strong grip but his fingers never really wrap around mine. When he lets go I realize he wasn't shakin my hand at all. He was slippin me some money. He tells me he has two bags in the baggage car and a hired cab—Mr. Coleman's own automobile—waitin just outside the station and if I get a single scratch on the leather he will take it out of my own skin.

  I want to tell him that I'd like to see him try but then I look and see what he gave me.

  Five dollars. Five whole dollars in one bill. I never even seen one of them before, let alone held one in my hand, let alone know it was mine just for pickin up two leather bags and walkin them twenty feet from one railroad car to a hired cab. When I see that bill, all the hatefulness leaves me and all I can say is, Yessir. Anything else?

  And he says, Not now but stick close and I'll let you know.

  I don't know when I ever carried anything as heavy as them bags. When I'm done, I see Mr. Ned picking up a delivery and he motions me over to talk to him. I like talkin to Mr. Ned because it's not really like talkin at all—it's kind of a game where you have to read his face and his hands and the little sounds he makes and sort of put it all together. He taught me the whole alphabet and some other signs too.

  So he points over to the man on the platform with Miss Ellie Jane and asks me if I know who he is. I spell out d-e-n-n-i-s-o-n from Chicago and he asks me again do I know who he is and I say yes and start spellin again and he sort of grabs me by my shoulders and shakes me a little. If he could speak he'd be yellin DO YOU KNOW WHO HE IS and I got no choice but to shake my head no.

  Then Mr. Ned grins like he had the winnin bid to share a basket lunch with Miss Ellie Jane at the Sunday school picnic. He points to the boxes waitin to be loaded onto his wagon and asks if I can help.

  Now I have five dollars in my pocket and I'm not about to let that rich man down. But then Mr. Ned just points to his wagon and then off in the direction of town, wantin me to help unload at the feed store. He rubs his fingers together to let me know there's a little money in it for me—and somethin more that I can't figure until I get there.

  I been up to Mr. Ned's office once or twice before. He's the one got me writin my money in this ledger book so I wouldn't have to hand count it whenever I wanted to know what I have. Seem every time a person lets cash run through his fingers it's a temptation to hold out a few cents for ice cream or smokes and that's the type of thing that can keep a fellow from ever gettin to California. Got nearly thirty dollars already. Don't know when it's gonna be enough but I figure one of these days the Good Lord will let me know it's time to go.

  Anyway I guess I knew he has that wall covered with newspaper clippings but I never paid them much attention. Today though he stands and runs his fingers over them until he finds what he wants. Then he pulls one of the tacks out real careful and hands me the paper.

  Dennison Signs Record-Breaking

  Deal with Chicago Cubs

  I read it and look at Mr. Ned and ask, This the same guy?

  But he isn't payin no attention to me. He's diggin through a cigar box and hands me a card, one of those that comes in with Old Judge cigarettes. I never paid much mind to them but he had a whole box full. The one he shows me has a picture of that man from the train, only instead of the fancy suit he's wearing a baseball uniform, holding a bat like he's about to smack a ball right out of the card and into your face and on the back there's a bunch of nonsense. Mr. Ned let me keep it (he had about a dozen and he don't even smoke), and someday I'm going to ask him what all these letters and numbers mean.

  Donald “Duke” Dennison

  # 27 C

  DOB 08-15-77

  H 5-09

  W 170

  Hits-L

  Throws-R

  G 118

  BA 388

  I look up at Mr. Ned askin, What's he doing here?

  He shakes his head and shrugs and grins like someone just handed him a million dollars. Then he gets real serious, looks at me and says, Morris you need to go over to Ellie Jane's house and find out.

  (He has special hand signs for our names. Mine's the letter M kind of dragged across his face. Miss Ellie Jane's an E that he squiggles like a long lock of curly hair.)

  I point back at him. Why don't you go?

  He sort of laughs and walks to the other side of the room. He puts a hand to his ear and makes like he's listenin through the wall, then turns to me again and shrugs.

  Nothin, he says, and he says it right out loud in that funny voice he has and I have to laugh. He has a good point. There's not much I don't know about nearly everyone in this town. If Duke Dennison is here with a secret I don't figure it will take much to find out just what it is.

  So I smile and shake Mr. Ned's hand and just as I'm turnin to leave he calls me back. He fishes in his pocket and I almost wave it off, feelin like we was more like friends and that I shouldn't take no money from him. Then I see he has a silver dollar and you just don't turn down that kind of cash.

  I take it and say, Thank you Mr. Ned. Anything else?

  He leans down real close and touches one of those long fingers to my chest then back to his then back to mine then back to his.

  Keep this between us.

  I'm just down the steps of the feed store when I remember that Mr. Steve has two bits waiting for me if I tell him who was comin to meet Miss Ellie Jane. I figure a friend is a friend and a secret is a secret but a quarter is a quarter too. That two bits will be dropped down in my jar long before Mr. Steve realizes I'm just some ignorant Negro boy who isn't so good at rememberin names.

  DUKE

  The hired cab drove Duke Dennison and Miss Ellie Jane Voyant through town, down a street called Green Avenue, lined with impressive brick buildings and cobblestone walkways. People on the street turned and stared, like they'd never seen an automobile before.

  The woman wouldn't stop talking. She pointed out the post office, the general store, the barbershop, the ladies' clothier, the tailor, the church, and the other churches.

  No saloon. Just like Voyant told the doctor. Some kind of small town ordinance.

  Welcome to Picksville. Doctor's orders. For at least thirty days.

  She was straining to be heard above the engine's sound. Her hands were constant motion, flopping around like two freckled fish. The combination of that voice and those hands connected like the crack of a bat just behind Duke's left temple. When the cab turned a corner into a fashionable neighborhood and Miss Voyant made it clear she intended to identify the occupants of each house, he reached out and caught one little hand in mid-gesture and brought it to his lips.

  “Mr. Dennison,” Miss Voyant gasped, “please!”

  “I could say the same to you.” Duke ran her cleanly clipped fingernails across his moustache. He arched one eyebrow, gracing her with the look more than one woman had called a devil's snare. He puckered his lips and said, “Please.”

  Miss Voyant wrenched her hand away and tapped the cab driver on the shoulder. “Just three more houses down. On the left.

  Number seventy-two.” Then she folded her arms across her chest and sat up high in stony silence.

  Duke felt better already.

  The house wasn't terrible. It wasn't the Stratford, but Duke had slept in worse. For most of his life, if the truth were known.

  “You can see clear to the corner from the front porch,” Miss Voyant was saying, even as Duke paid the cab fare and tipped the driver. “We often spend summer evenings out here watching the children play.”

  “You have children?”

  This brought a snort of laughter from the cabbie, although
he quickly stifled it at Miss Voyant's disapproving glance.

  “Don't be ridiculous. I was referring to the children of the neighborhood. There's a dozen of them.”

  Duke's head began to throb again.

  The interior of the house left little doubt that it was inhabited by a widower and his spinster daughter. The furniture was high quality and well worn. Shelves lined the walls, each full of leather-bound books and fussy trinkets. Heavy drapes blocked out the afternoon sun. And the rug was patterned with roses and vines.

  Duke had spent many evenings in such homes, where the nubile woman from the pub transformed herself into a desperate bride-in-waiting. He rarely saw the same parlor twice.

  “The kitchen's right through there.” She indicated to the right. “I'm afraid we don't do much cooking. It's just my father and I here now. We serve breakfast promptly at seven and supper at six. For lunch, I'm afraid you're on your own.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing.”

  She gave him a look that oozed both distrust and dislike, and he wondered why he ever took that vow never to hate a woman.

  “Your room is upstairs.” She turned her back fully to him and ascended the steps.

  Duke picked up his bag and lingered at the foot of the stairs for a while, watching her. She climbed with firm purpose. He'd never seen a woman walk with less sway. He shook his head and climbed after her.

  The stairs opened to a generous landing overlooking the entry hall with a comfortable-looking chair and yet another set of book-filled shelves and a telephone. Just off to the left he noticed the porcelain sink and tiled floor of a bathroom. He smiled slyly to himself and silently dared Miss Voyant to point him to the toilet, which, of course, she didn't.

  “You're just around that corner.” She stepped back to let him move ahead of her. “It was my brother's room. I'm sure you'll find it quite roomy.”

  “Roomy enough for two is fine with me.” Duke brushed past her as he maneuvered around the corner.

  He didn't have to turn around to know she was giving him that look again. Her angry little footsteps told him enough.

  “Mr. Dennison,” she said, stopping short of following him into the room. “I know a little about your business here. That you're to rest and recover from a bout of nerves.”

  “That's all Voyant said?”

  “No. He said I'm to be patient with you and show you all the warm kindness that I would my own brother.”

  “A brother.”

  “Yes. So I would ask that you refrain from such inappropriate innuendo.”

  Duke winked. “I'll do my best.”

  He set his suitcase down and took in his surroundings. The room was large, big enough for a full bed, a chest of drawers, and a cedar armoire in one corner. He went over to the chest of drawers and emptied the contents of his pockets—a handful of coins, his money clip, his watch. Amused at her discomfort with such an intimate moment, he shot her his most engaging smile as he shrugged off his jacket, laid it across the foot of the bed, and reached for a cigar from his breast pocket.

  “We do not smoke in this house, Mr. Dennison.” Miss Voyant immediately became a bossy big sister.

  Duke had to laugh at her prissy authority. “I would hope not, Miss Voyant. Smoking is highly unattractive in a woman.”

  “And it is equally distasteful in a man. Your room has a balcony.” She gestured toward the French door next to the armoire. “You may step out there to smoke, or you may smoke on the front porch downstairs, but I will not have you smoke in my house.”

  “Is that how you treat a guest?”

  “You are not a guest, Mr. Dennison. I did not invite you here, and since we left the train station, your behavior has been nothing but brutish. You are here at the request of my brother, and be assured that I am going to write to him immediately to inform him of your shortcomings as a gentleman.”

  Duke repocketed his cigar and walked over to where she stood, her toe tapping furiously on the other side of the threshold.

  “Trust me, Miss Voyant,” he braced himself against the doorjamb, “your brother is quite aware of every one of my shortcomings.”

  With that, he shut the door right in her little freckled face.

  Miss Elijah Jane Voyant

  72 Parkway Lane

  Picksville, Missouri

  May 2

  My Dearest David,

  I must let you know, dear brother, that I have serious misgivings about our newly acquired houseguest. Mr. Dennison was highly improper in both conversation and gesture no less than eight times in just the few moments it took to transport him from the train station. I had intended to spend the afternoon getting acquainted with him, leaving the ticket window with notice that any emergency transactions could be settled at my home, but I felt that my very virtue was in grave danger were we to be alone in the house together for any length of time. In fact, my only measure of comfort regarding Mr. Dennison's presence is knowing that our dear father will be just down the hall with his gun.

  If you feel this man is truly in need of lodging, I will not question your judgment. I will comply with all the graciousness expected of a good Christian. However, by the vast amounts of money he so lavishly extended to both young Morris and our cabbie, I hardly think the man is in need of charity.

  Please put the troubled soul of your sister at ease and respond to this letter as quickly as possible.

  Your loving sister,

  Ellie Jane

  DUKE

  For the third time that morning, Duke heard the series of three sharp raps on his door and Miss Voyant's equally sharp voice on the other side.

  “Breakfast is at seven, Mr. Dennison. We'll not hold the meal for sluggish lagabeds. Keep an eye on the clock!”

  Seconds later he heard an exasperated sigh, followed by the distinct sound of her quick little steps disappearing down the hall, then down the stairs.

  The clock she referred to was a small, round ticking thing that had once sat on his bedside table. Now it was in the yard beneath his balcony.

  It had been a bad night.

  Not as bad as those first nights at the institute. Nothing like those endless hours of darkness, pacing the length of that small white room, his hands shaking so much he couldn't tie the drawstring of his pajama pants. He hadn't spent last night on his knees, vomiting into the chamber pot. Or curled in a quivering mass on the floor. He didn't wake anybody with his screaming at hundreds of crawling creatures only he could see.

  No, it had been a quiet night, but a long one—starting well before the sun even went down—as he lay silent in this new bed, listening to the precise little footsteps of Miss Ellie Jane Voyant going about her household duties. Then, later, the addition of heavier footsteps when her father the sheriff came home. He heard their conversation as it seeped through the walls, and he ignored the knocks and requests that he come downstairs for supper.

  But he couldn't ignore them forever.

  Duke crawled out from under the bedsheet and walked to the open window. The morning breeze blew against yesterday's sweat-soaked shirt, and he shivered. He pulled the shirt away from his body, then reached for the top button. The tremors were back—not strong, but back. So he yanked the thing over his head and tossed it in the wicker hamper in the corner. His pants followed, then his drawers.

  After wrapping himself in a heavy silk brocade robe, he grabbed a pair of silk pajamas and his shaving kit and stepped into his brown woolen slippers. One peek through the open door assured him that the hallway was clear, and he moved quickly to the bathroom across the hall.

  No time for a full bath, so he filled the sink basin with warm water and splashed his face. He drew his hands away to stare at his reflection. He hadn't spent much time outside these past three months. Made his face a pale canvas for the stiff dark bristles of his morning beard. The stubble grated against his fingers, but he didn't trust himself with a razor. He'd have to find a barber in town. Still,
he tapped a few drops of sweet-smelling lotion into his palm, rubbed his hands together, and brought them to his face and down his neck before indulging himself in one deep, satisfying whiff.

  The robe hung on the hook behind the door. He worked the bar of soap into a lather and scrubbed his chest, shoulders, and under his arms. Duke dried himself with a thick white towel and wrapped it around his waist. A few steps back allowed him to see his torso in the mirror, and he took a deep breath, expanding his chest. Skin still taut, muscles defined. He lifted his arms, curled his biceps, and smiled at the thought of the power they held.

  Or used to.

  Now each bore the small, red, crescent-shaped mark. Not quite a scar, but well on its way. The reminder of weeks' worth of injections. Every day—molten gold and other secret elements. Taken without question or struggle or subterfuge. All part of the Keeley Cure.

  He took off the towel, folded it carefully, and draped it over the bar before stepping into clean red silk pajama pants. His hands were still too shaky to make buttoning the matching shirt an easy task, so he simply fastened the top two and allowed the rest of the shirt to remain open underneath the silk robe that he knotted tightly at the waist.

  He dipped his toothbrush into a jar of dentifrice cream and ran it through his mouth, grinning broadly into the mirror. His teeth were large and strong, perfectly straight. Last year a line drive caught him in the face and he'd feared his front teeth were knocked loose. He kept his mouth shut for two solid weeks—eating nothing that wasn't liquid or mashed—until they were firmly lodged in place again. Now he rinsed his mouth and engaged in a series of wide-mouth chomps, examining them from all angles. Then, one big flashing grin.

  His hair tonic smelled of licorice and vanilla as he massaged a generous amount on his scalp, working from his temples, to his hairline, to the crown. Across the top and to the nape of his neck, working his way back to his temples. Once, twice, three times. Wider and deeper with each pass, just as the label recommended, before using a comb to make a part straight down the middle and urging two faint wings on either side. He took a small mirror from his shaving kit and closely examined the top of his head for any signs of recession.