A paper slipped to the floor and Sam bent to pick it up. It was an aged envelope, slit across the top and emptied of its contents. Rotke’s name and a return address were on the back. He flipped over the envelope and stared, dumbfounded, at the addressee:
Miriam Lubovitch
122 Hester Street
New York, New York
“Sam?” Jericho was calling to him, but Sam could barely register it. “Did you get swallowed up?”
“Yeah. Big ghost came and got me. Forward all my mail to the spirit world,” Sam said hollowly.
The letter was postmarked September 1914. Sam tore through the book’s pages for the envelope’s missing contents but found nothing. He took everything out of the crate, but the letter wasn’t in there, either. Sam examined the envelope again. Across the front, someone had scrawled Return to Sender. He didn’t recognize the handwriting. It wasn’t his mother’s. Who had written it? Whoever it was, Sam needed to find him.
It was time for Evie to make good on her end of their deal.
Jericho appeared on the second-floor landing. “Sam!”
“What?”
“I’ve been calling you. Did you find something?”
“Nah, just a bunch of dusty books,” Sam lied, surreptitiously tucking the envelope into his trousers pocket.
“Well, unless they’re haunted, they’re not going to help with the exhibit. What’s the matter? You look funny.”
“Oh. It’s, ah, it’s just that I should probably go clean myself up,” Sam said. His heart was pounding. “I hate to leave you like this, Freddy, but I got a date on the radio.”
“Right. Guess you’d better go, then,” Jericho said coolly.
“Listen, Freddy, I could come back a little later—”
“No need. I’ve got it. As usual,” Jericho said, disappearing into the stacks. “And don’t call me Freddy.”
Ling grimaced against the blustery wind as she made her way to the opera house carrying a knapsack with a basket of dumplings for Uncle Eddie. Steam rose from the slatted bamboo top, and she welcomed both the warmth and the delicious smell of fried pork.
The bustling streets of Chinatown were much quieter than usual—the fear of the sleeping sickness kept most people away. Business in the restaurants and shops was down. The hardworking men and women who came in droves for chop suey on their lunch hours were now heading to Automats and diners far from Doyers, Pell, Mott, and Mulberry Streets. Even the bane of the neighborhood—the white tour guides who brought in buses of “slumming” tourists to hear their lurid, deeply embellished tales of Chinatown’s bloody Tong Wars, opium dens, and “slave girls”—were noticeably absent.
The health department had been out testing the water and food; dirt from the streets; dung from the horses, insects, and rodents—anything they thought might give clues as to where the sickness was coming from and how it was transmitted. Ling had even made a special trip to the library to read up on sleeping sicknesses, hoping to find something helpful. She now knew more than she’d wanted to know about parasites, tsetse flies, and encephalitis. None matched what was happening in Chinatown and on the Lower East Side. There were no presenting symptoms, no fevers, aches, or cough.
People simply went to sleep and did not wake up.
The mayor threatened to shut down Chinese New Year festivities, which were only three weeks away. The Chinese Benevolent Association had gone so far as to hire a reporter to take pictures of the “Chinatown Cleaning Crews”: men in masks and gloves scrubbing down the sidewalks and kitchens, dropping off linens at the various laundries—anything to keep New Yorkers’ fears from escalating into panic and keep the Year of the Rabbit celebration on course.
The tourists weren’t the only ones who were worried. Neighbors who’d always been close suddenly became cautious around one another. Before classes at the Chinese school, the teachers made all the students wash their hands, and nurses checked their eyes, mouths, and skin for any hint of infection. The churches and temples were full. The old men and women went by daily to burn incense, make offerings, and ask for their ancestors’ blessing. Charms against bad luck had been positioned near windows and doors to ward off evil spirits. A rumor went around—no one knew how it started—that one of the diggers who’d fallen victim to the sleeping sickness had mentioned something about their crew discovering bones in an old subway station, and that he was anxious about having disturbed them.
“Ghosts,” the old men whispered in back rooms and over cups of tea.
“Ghosts.” The women nodded in the greenmarkets or sitting on benches in Columbus Park.
But Ling’s mind wasn’t on ghosts or sickness just now. Last night, she’d witnessed an incredible transformation. Think of something you want, Wai-Mae had said, as if Ling’s emotional state was the necessary force that made the shoes manifest. Was an energy field created by all the thoughts and desires floating through dreams, and, if so, was it more concentrated in that particular part of the dreamscape? Did a person’s longing or fear or greed, when applied, bend and shape the universe of the dream somehow? And could you do more than transmute one object into another?
Could you will something into existence through your emotions?
Should you?
At the opera house, Uncle Eddie sat on the edge of the stage, putting the finishing touches on a costume.
“That smells good,” he called, seeing Ling. “Come. Share with me.”
He took the knapsack off Ling’s back, opened up the bamboo basket, and offered Ling a dumpling. She bit down, enjoying the squirt of spicy, soupy juice in her mouth as she looked over the traditional headdress for the Dao Ma Dan, the female warrior role. Elaborate beadwork took up the front, and long brown-and-white-striped pheasant feathers curved around each side like whisper-light horns, and Ling admired its beauty. Onstage sat a grouping of red chairs whose various placements, Ling knew, could indicate a seemingly endless variety of meanings, from a bed to a mountain to a mausoleum. Everything about the opera was steeped in symbolism and tradition. From outside in the street came the sound of girls singing jazz slang from a song that was popular on the radio—just some kids stealing a light moment among the dreariness.
“Ah. Modern youth,” her uncle said. “They listen to jazz records and stay out half the night. No one cares about the opera anymore. Why aren’t you out there with them, terrorizing the streets of Chinatown?”
Ling fingered another sticky dumpling from the basket. “I have more important things to do.”
“Eating dumplings with an old man. Very important.”
“I might have a new friend,” Ling said, and she hoped it didn’t sound quite as defensive as it felt. “A, um, a pen pal. She’s coming over from China to be married.”
Uncle Eddie raised an eyebrow. “That’s very difficult.”
“She says it’s all been arranged,” Ling said, putting the dumpling in her mouth.
“Well. It’s good, then, that you can help her to become familiar. When I first came to this country, I knew nothing. And I didn’t speak a word of English.”
He opened his wallet and retrieved a worn photograph of himself as a young man of eighteen, his expression very serious, his long hair braided in the traditional queue.
“Have I ever shown you this picture?” he asked.
Out of respect, Ling shook her head, though her uncle had shown her his picture more than once.
“Well,” Uncle Eddie continued, “that’s me when I was just about your age. I only planned to be here for two years to make money for my family in China. But then they passed more and more laws. If I left the country, I couldn’t come back again. So I stayed. With so few Chinese coming over, it was very hard to run the opera. I worked for my cousin at his restaurant for many years.” Her uncle put the picture back in his wallet. “I never saw my mother and father again.”
Ling’s stomach tightened at the thought of losing her parents. Her mother and father might be overly protective, but they were hers, and
she couldn’t imagine being without them. Beside her uncle’s picture was his resident permit, which all Chinese were required to carry. To be caught without it could mean prison time or deportation. Ling had been born right there in Chinatown. She was considered a citizen. But under the Chinese Exclusion Act, her father never would be. As for her Irish mother, the moment she married an “Asian alien,” she’d given up her chance to become an American citizen. Ling lived with the worry that some small mistake could cost them everything, that she could be torn from them as her uncle had been from his own parents.
“She’ll be interrogated when she arrives,” her uncle said, reaching for another dumpling. “At Angel Island, I was asked nearly six hundred questions.”
“Six… hundred?”
“Oh, yes. Day in, day out, they tried to break me: Who lives in the fourth house on your street in your village? Do you know how to work a clothing press? Are you a laborer? Do you smoke opium? And the medical examinations.” He wiped his fingers and shook his head in disgust.
“Why all those questions, Uncle?”
“They hoped to prove that I was only a paper son, who bought his way in with false papers. They wanted to find a reason to keep me out. But…” Her uncle’s smile was triumphant and a little rebellious. “Here I am.”
Ling fished another dumpling from the basket and breathed in the musty, cozy smell of the old opera house. Most theater was performed at the Bowery Theatre these days, but for the New Year, they were using the old opera house on Doyers Street. Her uncle had been cleaning and pulling things up from the basement for weeks now. Flats of scenery from shadow-puppet shows were leaned up against racks of costumes and rows of masks. “What opera will you do for the New Year?”
“The Royal Consort of the Emperor Finds Eternal Happiness in Paradise.”
“I don’t know that one.”
“It hasn’t been performed here in, oh, fifty years or so. It’s a love story. And a ghost story, too.”
“All your favorites,” Ling said, smiling. In his day, Uncle Eddie had been one of the most celebrated Dan of his generation, nearly as good at playing the female roles as the world-famous Mei Lanfang.
“Yes, all my favorites. With luck, we’ll see it performed. Luck and an end to this sickness. How is your friend George?”
“The same,” Ling said, pushing away the dumplings. Earlier, she’d lit a candle for George at the Church of the Transfiguration, and offered prayers at the temple, too, covering all the bases.
“He’s young,” her uncle said. “The doctors will find what’s causing this sickness very soon. And then they’ll find a cure. I’m sure of it.”
Ling nodded, grateful for her uncle’s reassurance. “Uncle,” Ling said, “could the sleeping sickness make it hard for my friend—my pen pal—to come to New York?”
“It could, indeed. I hope that she has friends or relatives in high places to help ease her way. Matchmakers, you say?”
“Yes. O’Bannion and Lee.”
“I’m not familiar with that firm. If you’re looking for a Lee, you can always ask at the Golden Pearl,” Uncle Eddie said. Anyone with the surname Lee could have mail from China sent there for collection, Ling knew. It functioned as a family name–specific post office as well as a store. “Chang Lee would surely know. He’s been here longer than I have.” Uncle Eddie shook his head. “A girl has to be careful: Some of those matchmakers are not reputable. The girls come thinking they’ll marry, and end up as servants instead. Or worse.”
“Her uncle arranged everything,” Ling said, but now she was worried. What if this O’Bannion and Lee wasn’t a reputable firm after all?
“Well. I’m sure it’s fine. What is not fine is the state of this opera house,” Uncle Eddie said, gesturing to the messy theater. “The Year of the Rabbit will be here soon, and I’m hopeful there will still be a reason to celebrate. I’d best get to work. Thank you for the dumplings.”
“You’re welcome, Uncle,” Ling said, gathering the basket and its top back into her knapsack and reaching for her crutches.
“Ling,” her uncle called as she opened the door onto the blustery day once more. “Have the dead told you anything about this sickness?”
Immediately, Ling remembered Mrs. Lin’s odd warning in her dream: It isn’t safe. She’d thought the warning had been about Henry. But could it have been about the sickness, somehow? Had Mrs. Lin known what was causing it—a water source, or meat from diseased farm animals? That was the trouble with dreams; they could have all sorts of meanings.
“No, Uncle,” Ling answered.
Uncle Eddie gave a decisive nod. “Well. I suppose if they had something to say, they would tell you first.”
“I suppose so,” Ling said, but she wasn’t comforted by his words. What if the dead were waiting for Ling to act? She could at least try to find some answers on her walks.
On her way back to the restaurant, Ling stopped into the Golden Pearl on Mott Street, where she found Mr. Lee’s grandson, Charlie, at the counter, stocking various teas and herbs in the small drawers of a large wooden cabinet.
“I’m sorry, Ling, but my grandfather is in Boston visiting my cousins. He’ll be gone for two weeks,” Charlie said. “Come back then.”
Ling thanked him, then checked the Chinese newspaper for the shipping news. The Lady Liberty hadn’t docked in San Francisco yet. There was still time to find out about O’Bannion and Lee and make sure that Wai-Mae was safe.
Instead of continuing straight back to the Tea House, Ling took a detour up Mott and down Mulberry, looking for any sign of O’Bannion and Lee. The streets were an odd mix of fear and optimism: Hopeful businessmen went ahead and hung decorations; paper lanterns and red banners with bold calligraphy stretched across Doyers Street from balcony to balcony. But she also saw white-capped nurses and somber-faced health officials marching briskly down sidewalks, knocking on doors. The yellow quarantine sign marred the facade of George Huang’s building like a wound.
“Please get well soon, George,” Ling whispered.
The door opened suddenly, and two public health nurses bustled out, their words muffled behind the barrier of their surgical masks. They went silent as they looked at Ling and her leg braces and then hurried on their way, picking up their conversation where they’d left off. Ling ducked inside, moving as fast as she could to the dark back of the tenement and George’s apartment.
George’s sister, Minnie, opened the door. “Ling,” she whispered, peering behind Ling. “How did you get in?”
“The nurses just left. No one was watching.”
“Come in,” Minnie said, ushering Ling inside.
“How is George?”
“The same.” Minnie lowered her eyes.
“Can I see him?”
Minnie showed Ling to George’s room and Ling sucked in a breath. He was very pale except for the strange red burn marks creeping up his neck. Ling had never seen George so still. But no—he wasn’t completely still after all. Beneath the thin skin of his lids, his eyes moved rapidly. George wasn’t just sleeping; he was dreaming.
“Minnie,” Ling said, buoyed by fresh hope, “could I borrow something of George’s?”
Minnie’s pained face brightened. “Do you think you could find George in dreams?”
“I can try,” Ling said.
“They’ve burned most of his things, in case that’s how the sickness spreads.”
Ling hadn’t thought about that, and it gave her pause. What if dream walking with an object belonging to the sick could make her sick as well? But this was George. She couldn’t succumb to fear.
“Wait here.” Minnie disappeared into the apartment and then returned a moment later, breathless and secretive.
“Here. I saved this,” she whispered, lifting the edges of the handkerchief she carried. Inside was George’s prized track medal. He’d been so happy when he’d won it, his parents so proud, and even the announcer telling him he “ran pretty well for a Chinaman” hadn’t dimmed
his pride completely.
Through the open door of George’s room, Ling could hear George’s mother weeping softly.
Ling tucked the track medal into her pocket.
“You should go. The doctor will be back soon,” Minnie warned. “Please find him, Ling. Please find my brother and tell him to come back to us.”
By the time Ling returned to the Tea House, her mother was frantic. “Where’ve you been?”
“My legs hurt. I couldn’t walk very fast in the cold,” Ling lied, taking some pleasure in the way the lie diffused her mother’s anger so quickly.
“I was worried about you. Things are getting worse here,” her mother said, looking out the restaurant’s front windows at the police and public health officials moving through the dirty patches of snow, knocking on doors. “There’s all sorts of people who’ve been requesting your services. They want you to speak to their dead relatives about this sleeping sickness business, to know what they should do. But I told them you’re not doing a bit of that until we know more about how this sickness is spread. You’re still getting your strength back.”
“I’m fine, Mama,” Ling said, George’s track medal heavy in her pocket.
Mrs. Chan placed her hands at her hips. “I’m your mother. I’ll decide if you’re fit enough. Oh!” She broke into a smile. “I almost forgot. You just missed your friend from the science club. The freckled one. Henry.”
“Henry was here?”
“Yes. He left you a note.” Her mother searched under a stack of receipts. “Is he Irish? Looks Irish. Ah. Here it is.”
Mrs. Chan handed over Henry’s folded note, which Ling had no doubt her mother had already read. She hoped that he hadn’t said anything too revealing. Taped to the letter was a ten-dollar bill.