Dreamer by Charles Johnson Read Free Book Online

gentle tapping like a lover’s signal. Thinking this was Amy, hoping it was so, I let my lids blink open, and saw that Smith had never closed his eyes. He was staring at us—like a fugitive peering at a comfortable bourgeois family through their window as they eat dinner, oblivious to his presence—and onhis face was that unsettling smile as he critically scrutinized King, then Amy, who gripped his hand tightly (heaven knows what she was thinking). And then, tilting his head, tapping my foot again, he winked.
    I felt my face stretch. I squeezed shut my eyes, but his afterimage burned in the space behind my lids long after the prayer was done.
    King turned to Smith and said, “Could you step outside?”
    After Smith left, the minister rubbed his forehead. “I swear to God, I don’t know how to help this man, but I feel we should do something for him. What he proposes … it’s just too dangerous!”
    â€œSir,” I said, “it sounds like he’s already a target. You might say his resemblance to you has marked him.”
    â€œYes, yes.” He kneaded his lower lip. “Amy, when your grandmother was here, did Mama Pearl say she grew up downstate?”
    â€œYes,” said Amy. “Her old house is there. It’s empty. No one is living there now.”
    â€œCould he stay there?”
    â€œI guess so.”
    â€œI’d like you and Matthew to stay with him, at least until the disturbance is over and we’re finished here in Chicago. I want you to work with him. Get him back on his feet. Help him understand what the Movement’s about—and have him sign the Commitment Blank.”
    â€œWhat about you?” Amy asked. “Won’t you need us here?”
    â€œI think we’ll be all right. We’ll find somebody to replace you.” He stepped toward the kitchen door. Turning, he added, “I’ll see that you’re both compensated for this, of course,” and then he started toward the bedroom and stopped. “One other thing.”
    â€œYes, sir?”
    â€œYou keep that man away from my wife, you hear?”
    I assured him we would not let Smith, who was still waiting outside, anywhere near his family. I walked down the hallway, opened the front door, and found our visitor sitting on the top step, smoking. Keeping a few feet between us, I said, “Chaym, it’s okay. Doc’s going to find something for you to do.” Cautiously, I smiled. “He thinks you might be able to help.”
    â€œYeah, and maybe I can do something special for you too. You interest me, Bishop. You’ve got promise.”
    â€œFor what?”
    The only answer Smith gave was his mocking, mordant grin.
    I swallowed with difficulty. When I spoke, my voice splintered, and he seemed to enjoy that. “I’ll call you tomorrow with more details. Is that all right? I really do hope he gives you a job.”
    â€œA job?” Now Smith was descending the first few steps into the shadows, his profile lighted in such a way that I could see only fragments of his face, like pieces of an unfinished puzzle, or a mask. “I don’t want just a job, Bishop. Uh-uh. I want a li’l of what the good doctor in there has got in such great abundance.”
    â€œWhat is that?”
    Now I could see his face not at all, though I heard his shoes striking the lower stair treads, and from below, on the lightless levels where he stood, like a voice rising up beneath the ground, I thought I heard him say,
Immortality
.

2
    Hours after his visitor left, he tried again to rest, knowing he should, not for himself but for the others who depended upon him being at his best. Lying awake, tossing and turning, he looked back on his life and saw only a gauntlet of work, ever more difficult exercises in giving. In the corner a dented fan clacked as its blades turned. He’d kicked his bedcovers onto the floor and sprawled on his back in