Maybe he wasn’t so powerless after all.
Henry ducked inside. He hadn’t been hungry before, but it smelled delicious, so he took a seat and ordered a noodle dish, and while he waited, he looked around for any hint of the girl with the green eyes.
“Best chow mein in town,” an older man at the next table said in an Eastern European accent. He nodded to the police out on the streets. “The sleeping sickness.”
“Oh, yes,” Henry said, barely listening. A trio of girls walked past the front windows of the Tea House, but none of them was his mysterious dream walker.
“On my street, Ludlow, there is right now a girl of only twenty, she has been asleep for two days,” the old man continued. “Her mother can’t wake her up. Her father can’t wake her up. Even the rabbi can’t wake her up. How do they take ill? Is it in the food or the water? In the air? No one knows.”
From somewhere in the restaurant, Henry heard a familiar voice. And then he spied her sitting at a table in the back, partially obscured by a screen.
“Do excuse me,” Henry said, walking to the back. He came around the screen and stood beside the girl’s table, his shadow falling across her open book. “So you do exist.”
The girl looked up at him. Her eyes were a hazel-green, greener in the light. Though she was a slight girl, there was something of the boxer’s quality to her, Henry thought; this was someone ready to show knuckles at a moment’s notice. Her mouth opened in an O of surprise, and then, just as quickly, she caught herself.
“I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else,” she said with pointed politeness.
“I don’t believe I have. I’ve seen you in my dreams.”
The girl gave him only a disdainful upward glance. “Corny.”
“I did see you in my dreams last night. Didn’t I? I’ve never—”
“Shhh!” she whispered, craning her neck to see if anyone was listening. “Sit down. If anyone asks, I know you from school. Do you understand?”
Henry nodded and lowered his voice. “You’ll have to forgive my astonishment. It’s just that I’ve never met another dream walker before. Have you?”
“No.”
“There must be others, though. Don’t you think? What with all these Diviners coming out of the woodwork now. Oh. Forgive my manners. I’m Henry DuBois the Fourth. Pleased to meet you, Miss…?”
“Ling Chan.”
“Charmed, Miss Chan.”
“I’m not particularly charming,” Ling said, without smiling.
“Well, I make it a point never to argue with a lady.”
The waiter arrived with Henry’s noodle dish and Ling turned suddenly chatty. “As I was saying, the most exciting thing about Mr. Marlowe’s exhibition is the science pavilion. I hear they’ll have a model of the atom on display.…”
As the waiter set Henry’s dish down, he gave Ling a curious look. “A friend of yours, Ling?”
“Yes, Lucky,” Ling said, without missing a beat. “We were in science club together in school. He’s just come to talk about Jake Marlowe’s Future of America Exhibition.”
“Our Ling is very smart,” Lucky said. “As smart as any of the boys.”
“The smartest,” Henry said, playing along.
“I’d better go. Things are very busy without George,” Lucky said before walking away, and Henry saw the girl’s face fall.
“Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” she snapped.
It clearly wasn’t, but Henry had been raised not to pry. “Science club?” he said instead, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose now is a bad time to tell you that I nearly blew up my chemistry lab back at boarding school. It’s an amusing story—”
“Why are you here? I assume it’s not for the egg rolls.”
Henry’s easy charm faded, and his smile with it. “I’m looking for someone I lost.”
“Lost how? How do you lose a person? Why don’t you look in the telephone directory?”
“He doesn’t even have a telephone,” Henry said. To make Ling understand, he’d have to tell her about the letter, his father, running away from home. He would have to explain what Louis meant to him. But he couldn’t do that. Not with a stranger. And she was a stranger. Just because they’d shared a dream walk didn’t make them friends. “I thought if I could find his dream, I could ask him where he was, or let him know where to find me somehow. Have you ever been able to do that? Locate someone?”
“Only with the dead.”
Henry’s fork stopped on the way to his mouth. “You see the dead?”
“In dreams I do. Sometimes someone needs to speak to a departed relative. If I take something of theirs, sometimes I can find them.”
“How long have you been able to do this?”
“It started a year ago.”
“Almost three years ago for me,” Henry said. “But it’s gotten stronger in the past few months.”
“The same for me,” Ling said.
“I learned to set an alarm clock to wake me. I found that if I go longer than an hour, I get ill. You?”
Ling shrugged. “I can go longer,” she said, and Henry detected a note of pride in it. Ling Chan didn’t like to be second, it seemed. “You still haven’t said why you’re here.”
Henry toyed with the noodles on his plate. “Last night, for the first time, I finally came close to finding my friend Louis while we were standing outside that old building. Right after I grabbed hold of your arm, I heard his fiddle. It was Louis’s favorite song, played the way he always played it.” Henry leaned forward. “I want to go back in tonight and see if it works again. I want us to try to meet in the dream world.”
Ling scoffed. “You know how dreams work. They’re slippery. We can’t control them—we’re only observers. Passengers.”
“We always have been, but what if we can change that?” Henry said. “Are you at least willing to try? You just said you can locate people. Maybe if I gave you something of mine, you’d be able to find me in the dream world. If that works, we could try to go back to that place where I heard Louis’s fiddle.”
“And maybe I can become Queen of Romania,” Ling said. “There’s no promise that we’ll find each other or that we’ll be able to return to the same dream. It’s like a river, constantly moving and changing.”
“Please,” Henry pleaded. “Won’t you help me?”
Ling looked at Henry for an uncomfortable length of time. She didn’t want to become involved with this dream walker. But she had to admit she was curious. There had been something interesting about their combined energy last night. What if they could do more together? “All right. It’ll cost you. I charge for my services.”
“Very well. What’s your price?”
“Ten dollars,” Ling blurted.
Without a word, Henry removed a crisp ten from his wallet and put it on the table. Ling tried not to let her surprise show. This dream walker was the first person not to haggle over the price. But it wasn’t her job to tell him that. Whoever this lost friend of his was, he must be very important.
“I’ll need something of yours,” she said, pocketing his money quickly. “To find you in the dream.”
Henry passed Ling his hat. “Will this do?”
Ling nodded. “What time tonight?”
“It’ll have to be late. I play for the Rooftop Revue above the Follies at midnight.”
Ling had seen the advertisements for the Rooftop Revue in the newspaper. The girls didn’t wear much.
“I’m hoping to get my songs some attention,” Henry said sheepishly. “I’m a composer, you see.”
“Do I know any of your songs?” Ling asked.
“‘You’re My Turtle Dove, Coo-E-Coo’? ‘September Moon’?”
Ling shook her head. “Never heard of them.”
Henry felt vaguely insulted. “It’s a tough business.”
“Maybe it isn’t the business. Maybe your songs aren’t that good.”
Henry left money for the bill a
s he rose from the table. “I should be home by three,” he said coolly. “Do we have a deal?”
“Three o’clock is fine.”
“I suppose we’re in business, then.” He stuck out his hand for a shake.
Ling didn’t take his hand. She looked him straight in the eyes. “It’s very brave of you to come down here. Most people are afraid of catching the sleeping sickness.”
“I’m not most people,” he said, his hand still out.
Ling gave it a quick shake. This time, there was no spark.
“I’ll see you in my dreams, Ling Chan.”
“I hope your songs aren’t as corny as your jokes,” she answered.
Henry headed back into the cold city thinking that Ling Chan was possibly the bluntest person he had ever met. But she was going to help him find Louis. It was the first hopeful break he’d had. That hope buoyed Henry’s mood as he passed down Chinatown’s narrow, winding streets. Above his head, laundry danced from lines stretched between tenement windows like pennants decorating Yankee Stadium, where, come spring, Babe Ruth hoped to swing his way into the record books. He reached the wide sidewalks and winter-stripped trees of Columbus Park, where a man ranted from the steps of the park’s steeple-roofed pavilion.
“The Chinaman comes in with Chinese habits—his gambling and his Tong Wars and the opium pipe. He’s a secretive sort of fellow. He can’t ever be an American. And now he’s given us his sickness. I say we should keep America safe for Americans. Send him back to China. Send him back on the next ship.”
“Bigot,” Henry muttered, and moved on. As he walked through the park, he felt a sudden chill for no reason he could name—a strange feeling of dread.
“You all right, son?” a man in a tweed suit asked. He looked like a judge or a minister.
“Yeah. I mean, yes. Fine, thanks,” Henry answered, but the chill remained.
“Here. Have one of these,” the man said, shoving a leaflet into Henry’s hands: KEEP AMERICA WHITE AND YOU KEEP AMERICA SAFE. THE KNIGHTS OF THE KU KLUX KLAN NEED YOU!
Henry tossed the leaflet in the rubbish can without reading it and wiped his hands on his coat.
On the platform of the City Hall subway station, Henry waited for the train, trying to shake off the odd dread that had come over him in Columbus Park. He thought about all the things he wanted to say to Louis when he saw him again. A young man stumbled down the steps. His suit was rumpled, and he smelled of booze. He muttered to himself as if answering private voices, drawing concerned glances from the other people waiting.
“Where’s the damned train?” the man swore. “I need the train!”
“It’ll be here soon,” a businessman chided. “Settle down, there.”
People moved back, keeping a safe distance from the young man as he stalked the platform. “It was so beautiful there. I need to go back. I can’t find it. I can’t find it!”
Henry flicked a glance down the tunnel and was relieved to see the distant train light moving closer. The troubled man swayed dangerously close to the platform’s edge.
“Watch out!” Henry darted forward and yanked him back just as the train screeched into the station.
The young man slumped to the ground, mewling into his hands. “I just want to sleep. I have to get back there! I have to!”
The crowd opened up to allow the police in. One of the officers hoisted the haunted-looking man to his feet. “Come on, pal. We’ll get you a nice bed, and you can sleep this one off.”
“Dream with me,” the man half cried.
He was still muttering the phrase as the police carried him out.
Evie and her best friend, Mabel Rose, sat in the Bennington’s Victorian dining room under the faulty, winking chandelier, drinking cups of hot cocoa to chase away the winter chill. It had been two months since Evie had set foot in her former residence, but Mabel had insisted, and she was surprisingly adept at wearing a girl down. Now that Evie was here, she couldn’t help noticing how drab and shabby the place was, especially compared to the modern hotels where she’d been renting rooms. For a moment, she thought she saw Jericho, and her heart skipped a beat. But it wasn’t him, and Evie was both relieved and disappointed.
Mabel patted the Gimbels box tied up with blue ribbon. “I can’t believe you bought me a dress. It was too expensive,” Mabel fretted. “Striking workers could eat for a week on what it cost.”
Evie sighed. “Oh, Pie Face, really. Will this be a tragic screed on the dangers of capitalism? Because I must tell you, capitalism makes some darling dresses! Besides, it’s my money, not yours.”
“It is darling,” Mabel said.
“Just like you,” Evie said, peeping over Mabel’s shoulder in the direction of the Bennington’s revolving front door.
“What are you looking for? You’ve been doing that since we left Gimbels.”
“I was, um, just making sure Uncle Will wasn’t around,” Evie lied. “I don’t want to run into him. You understand.”
Mabel nodded. She broke into a grin. “Gee, this has been swell, hasn’t it? The two of us together, just like old times?”
They’d enjoyed a perfect day of ice-skating in Central Park, followed by the shopping trip to Gimbels, where Mabel had burst into giggles as Evie played elevator operator, crying out, “Fourth floor: Hair bonnets and enema bags! Ladies, Gimbels has you covered from top to bottom!” But it all felt so brief and fragile. Mabel missed Evie terribly—they hadn’t seen each other in ages—and Mabel worried that Evie’s new, exciting friends would eclipse and ultimately replace her. Mabel didn’t drink, and frankly, she’d found the one party she’d attended with Evie to be dull and meaningless, populated by shallow people who didn’t think much about the rest of the world.
But it didn’t stop her from wanting to be included.
“Say! I’ve got a terrific idea. Why don’t you stay over tonight?” Mabel said. “I’m sure my mother won’t mind.”
Evie raised an eyebrow. “Your mother thinks I’m the Devil.”
“She doesn’t! Much. Oh, forget about my mother. We could dance to Paul Whiteman records, play Pegity, and eat coffee cake till our stomachs hurt.”
“Sorry, Pie Face, but I can’t. There’s a party at the Whoopee Club. I promised to pop out of the cake at midnight.”
“Oh. I see,” Mabel said, deflated. There was always a party these days.
“Really. I am sorry.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“El-o-cution les-sons,” Evie said, drawing out the words in exaggerated fashion. “And Radio Star is coming to WGI to take my picture. Well, everybody’s picture, but I’m in it, too.”
“Sounds… glamorous.” Mabel hoped she didn’t sound as pathetic and envious as she felt. “I wish I were more glamorous instead of… me.”
Evie put her fist on the table. “Nonsense! I won’t hear a bad word spoken about Miss Mabel Rose. She’s a fine girl. The finest.”
Mabel rolled her eyes. “Hip, hip, hooray!”
“You are special. You are the only Mabel Rose in existence,” Evie insisted.
“I suppose that’s why men fall at my feet daily. It’s my fine qualities that draw them in,” Mabel lamented. “If I weren’t so ordinary, maybe Operation Jericho wouldn’t seem hopeless.”
Evie stirred her cocoa intently and hoped that Mabel couldn’t see the blush blooming in her cheeks. “Maybe Jericho was carrying a torch for another girl,” she said carefully. “Some old flame. And he had to be rid of the ghost of her before he could start courting you.”
Mabel perked up. “Do you really think so?”
Evie managed a smile. “I’d bet my new stockings that’s it. Do you know what? I don’t think you should wait around for Jericho. You should be bold! Show up at the museum and offer assistance. Tell him you’ve had a message from the spirit world that the two of you are supposed to catalog ghosty things and then go dancing.”
“Evie!” Mabel giggled.
“Or you could make him jealous.” Evie
waggled her eyebrows. “What about that other fellow who gave you his card… Arthur Somebody-or-Other?”
“Arthur Brown,” Mabel confirmed. “I haven’t seen him since October. Besides, my parents don’t like him.”
“Why not? Did he vote for Coolidge or something?”
Mabel giggled. “No! Arthur’s too radical for them.”
Evie put a hand to her forehead. “Stop the presses! Someone is too radical for your parents?”
“They say he’s not a union organizer; he’s an anarchist. Apparently, he got into some trouble at a rally for the appeal of Sacco and Vanzetti, where those explosions took place? My father said Arthur had to leave town ahead of the feds.”
“Golly! A real, live anarchist on one hand, and a boy who spends all his time inside a ghost museum on the other. You sure know how to pick ’em, Mabesie.”
The girls broke into fresh laughter. Mabel wiped her eyes. Inside, she felt warm and right with the world. Courageous. It was funny how one afternoon with a best friend could set a girl right. “Gee, I’ve missed you, Evie. Please, let’s do this again soon?”
“Will do, Pie Face,” Evie said, giving Mabel’s fingers a squeeze before getting up. “I hate to break up a party, but I’d better get a wiggle on. I’ve got a date with a cake. But before I go, you must model your new dress for me!”
“Now?”
“No. Next Fourth of July. Of course right now! I insist!”
“All right. Let’s go upstairs.”
Evie shook her head. “Nothing doing. I want the full treatment-ski. Go upstairs and put the glad rags on. Then”—Evie lowered her voice to a husky purr—“I want you to emerge from the elevator and drape yourself against the wall like Clara Bow!”
Mabel could feel her ordinariness creeping back. “I am not Clara Bow,” she said.
“For Pete’s sake, Mabesie! Embrace a little mystery, will you? I’ll wait here. Just don’t take all day! And put on some lipstick!” Evie called as she shoved Mabel toward the elevator.
“I will return a new woman!” Mabel declared, pointing her finger skyward as the elevator operator slid the gate into place.