One last bit of light flared like a dying firefly, and then the tunnel was still. Wai-Mae tugged gently on Ling’s sleeve, drawing her away. “Come, Little Warrior. Let the ghosts rest.”
Once they were back on the path through the forest, Wai-Mae’s earlier fear seemed to have gone, and she was her usual garrulous self. But Ling was preoccupied.
“Wai-Mae…” Ling started. “Have you heard any talk on the ship about the sleeping sickness in Chinatown?”
Wai-Mae frowned. “No. Is it serious?”
Ling nodded. “People go to sleep and they can’t wake up. They’re dying from it.” Ling took a deep breath. “My friend George Huang is sick from it. His sister let me take his track medal in the hope that I could find him in the dream world tonight.”
“Do you think that’s wise if he’s sick?”
“I had to try. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any luck. Whatever dreams he’s having are out of my reach. Have you had any walks lately that seemed as if the person dreaming was ill somehow?”
“No. All my dreams have been beautiful. But I will pray for your friend, George Huang.” Wai-Mae gave Ling a shy sideways glance. “And you and I are becoming friends, too, aren’t we?”
Ling wasn’t sure that you could call someone you’d only met inside a dream a true friend. But Wai-Mae was on her way to New York, and for a moment, Ling imagined how fun it would be to parade past Lee Fan and Gracie with Wai-Mae, knowing that they shared an incredible secret all their own, something far beyond Gracie’s and Lee Fan’s limited comprehension.
“Yes,” Ling answered. “I suppose we are.”
Wai-Mae smiled. “I am so happy! What would you like to do now, friend?”
Ling took in the wide, sparkling streets of the village, the misty forest, and the purple mountains just beyond it all. It was all there waiting for her to explore, to claim, as if there were no limits. For just a little while, she wanted to be free.
“Let’s run,” she said.
On the path, Henry smelled gardenia and woodsmoke. He heard Gaspard barking, and that was enough to make him run the rest of the way. Splinters of summer-gold sunshine pierced the soft white flesh of the clouds above the bayou, shining down on Louis, who waved from the front porch, a fishing pole hoisted onto his shoulder, Gaspard at his feet.
“Henri!” He grinned. “Hurry up! Fish are bitin’!”
The old blue rowboat bobbed on the water. Another fishing pole leaned against the side, along with a battered metal pail knotted with a length of thick rope. Henry took a seat on one side, and Louis sat opposite him, paddling them down the river. When they came to a shady spot, he and Henry cast their lines and waited.
“Just like old times,” Henry said.
The rowboat rocked gently on the current as Henry told Louis about meeting Theta and their life at the Bennington and with the Ziegfeld Follies, the songs Henry was writing and trying to publish, the nightclubs and the parties.
“Maybe you got yourself a fancy New York fella now,” Louis said, keeping his eyes on the fishing pole.
There had been other boys, definitely. But none of them was Louis.
“Louis, I want to see you,” Henry said. “Come to New York. You’d love it! I’d take you to the Follies and up to Harlem to the jazz clubs. And Louis, there are places for fellows like us. Places where we can be together, where we can hold hands and dance and kiss without hiding. It isn’t like Louisiana.”
“Always did want to see the big city. It true they got alligators in the sewers?”
“No.” Henry laughed. “But the swells have got alligator bags at the parties.”
“Well, I surely would like to see that.”
Henry’s grin was short-lived. “But where should I send the train ticket? If my letters didn’t reach you at Celeste’s, then there’s no guarantee we can trust somebody to deliver it.”
Louis rubbed his chin, thinking. “Got a cousin—Johnny Babineaux—works over at the post office in Lafayette Square. You can send it care o’ him there.”
“I’ll buy the ticket tomorrow, first thing!” Tears welled up in Henry’s eyes. “I was afraid I’d never see you again.”
“Well, I guess you got to pick something else to be afraid of, then,” Louis said.
More than anything, Henry wanted to hold Louis. Two years was a very long time. He couldn’t stand another minute of separation. He reached for Louis’s hand, and this time, nothing stood between them. Louis’s fingers, which Henry hadn’t felt in far too long, were still wet and cold from the river. Fighting the ache in the back of his throat, Henry ran a finger across Louis’s cheeks and nose, resting it against his full lips.
“Kiss me, cher,” Louis whispered.
Henry leaned forward and kissed him. Louis’s lips were warm and soft. Henry had been telling himself, This is not real. It’s only a dream. But now he stopped telling himself that. It felt real enough. And if dreams could be like this, well, he wasn’t sure he wanted to wake up. Henry kissed Louis again, harder this time, and the sky lit up with a strange sort of lightning. The tops of the trees unraveled slightly; the sun flickered like a lamp with a short.
“What was that?” Henry said, breaking away.
“Don’t know. You’re the dream man,” Louis said. But then Louis was pulling Henry down into the bottom of the rowboat, where they lay in each other’s arms, lulled into contentment by the sun and the breeze and the gentle lapping of the river.
“I won’t ever leave you again, Louis,” Henry said.
When the dream walk neared its end, Henry could barely stand to wrench himself away from Louis. “I’ll be here every night until you’re in New York,” he promised.
Gaspard barked happily and trotted up to Henry, his tail wagging like a flyswatter, and poked his wet nose into Henry’s hand. Henry rubbed at the dog’s floppy ears, enjoying the familiar softness of them. Gaspard’s slobbery tongue slicked Henry’s cheek.
“Everybody wants to kiss you,” Louis said, laughing, and Henry’s throat tightened again. It was just like Louis to dream of his dog.
Gaspard tore away, sniffing ahead of them on the path. The hound tensed near a climbing wall of flowering morning glories, growling and barking at the purplish buds.
“Gaspard! C’mon, boy! Come away from there,” Louis said sharply.
“What’s the matter?” Henry asked.
“I don’t want him in those flowers. Don’t like ’em.”
Henry thought perhaps Louis was joking, but one look at his face said he wasn’t.
“They’re just flowers,” Henry said.
“Gaspard, c’mon, boy!” Louis whistled, and the dog came running. Louis dropped down and nuzzled his face into the dog’s fur. “Good boy.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Henry asked.
Louis replaced his frown with a smile. “Fine as morning. Kiss me once for luck, cher. And twice for love. And three times means we’ll meet again.”
Henry kissed him till he lost count.
In her bed, Ling groaned with pain and exhaustion. Her eyes fluttered open long enough for her to feel the terrible ache deep in her bones. She slid her hand under her pillow, her fingers just touching the cold edge of George’s track medal as she fell into a deep sleep.
Ling stood in Columbus Park. Clouds roiled overhead in anticipation of some storm.
A heartbeat thrummed in her ears, insistent as a drum.
Every post and tree she saw had the same sign: MISSING. MISSING. MISSING.
George Huang pulsed in the gloom, a ghostly heartbeat. His pale skin was fissured like broken pottery glued back together, and red blisters shone on his neck. When he lifted his threadbare hand, his bones showed through like an X-ray. George spread his arms, and the scene shifted back and forth, as if they were cards being pushed and pulled quickly through a stereoscope. One minute, it was the familiar pathways, trees, and pavilion of the park; the next, the park was gone, and in its place were ominous tenements, shacks with rotting shutte
rs, and filthy streets piled with garbage.
The dream changed. Now Ling found herself in City Hall Park. George floated just above a metal grate beside a drinking fountain. He pointed to a row of buildings behind her. Ling turned back to George, and he fell like rain through the bars of the grate. She crawled onto the grate to look for him and it gave way, plunging her down and down into the darkness.
She was inside the train station. The old sign was there—BEACH PNEUMATIC TRANSIT COMPANY—but rot raced along the walls, the decay taking over, devouring the dream’s beauty. Light trembled against the velvety dark of the tunnel like a handful of firecrackers tossed up on Chinese New Year, and in those brief flashes, Ling saw pale blots of form. Eyes. Ravenous mouths. Sharp teeth. There was an ominous insectlike chorus, growing louder.
George’s glow was unsteady now, as if he were a Christmas light winking out. He moved his lips as if trying to speak. It seemed to require a tremendous effort. Each time he tried, more sores appeared on his body. Behind him, the dark crackled and crawled with faulty radiance, and the filthy hole filled with animalistic shrieks and growls and broken ends of words, a great roaring wave of terrifying sound curling up into an obliterating crest.
Ling’s legs shook with terror. She could not move. In a strobe of light, the veiled woman appeared, her dress dripping with blood as she walked. She was coming up behind George, and Ling wanted to warn him about the things in the dark and the woman, but she could only choke on her fear. George Huang stood his ground even as the sores multiplied, spreading across his chest and up his neck, burning his skin down to the bone in spots. He fought the pain.
And just before the crawling, hungry wave reached him, George choked out his words at last: “Ling Chan—Wake. Up.”
Ling woke in her bed. Desperately, she swallowed down air. On the other side of her window, the winter moon was full and bright. The only sound she heard now was her pulse thumping wildly in her head. She was safe. She was fine. It had just been a bad dream.
Only when Ling settled back against the pillow did she realize that she clutched George’s prized track medal.
The crowded bus was standing room only as it lurched down Fifth Avenue across steaming manhole covers, dodging New Yorkers bundled up against the stiff winter wind, but Henry was jolly. He gripped the hand loop and whistled “Rivière Rouge” to the amusement of two young girls giggling in the seats below him, and to the annoyance of the driver, who barked that he could either whistle or walk, his choice.
“I can hum it, if you’d prefer,” Henry answered merrily.
“Out!” the driver said, stopping the bus ten blocks shy of Henry’s destination.
“You’ll be sorry when I’m famous,” Henry said. He waved to the still-giggling girls at the window and carried on.
Nothing could dampen his good mood, not even the long wait for the ticket agent at Grand Central Terminal. As he watched the hustle and bustle around him, Henry tried to imagine Louis’s expression as he stood for the first time beside the lighted ball of the Grand Central clock, surrounded by more people than he had ever seen on the riverboats. Louis was finally coming to New York. They could be together. That thought buoyed Henry further as he approached the ticket agent’s window.
“I need one ticket from New Orleans, Louisiana, to Grand Central Terminal, please,” Henry said.
“You want the New York and New Orleans Limited,” the ticket agent said.
“N’awlins Lim’ted, speed my baby down the track, my love won’t wait till he… she gets back,” Henry sang softly, making up the words on the spot.
“You want a ticket or a booking agent, kid?”
Henry handed over the collection of crumpled bills he’d taken from Theta’s coffee-can piano fund. She’d be pretty sore when she found out he’d dipped into it. But he’d promised Louis a ticket, and besides, Theta would want him to be happy. She’d understand. The piano fund could be rebuilt in a few months’ time, and all would be forgiven.
“You need a return ticket?” the agent asked.
Henry smiled. “Not if I’m lucky.”
At the post office, Henry packed the train ticket, his letter, and a photograph of him in his best suit standing arm in arm with Theta outside the New Amsterdam Theatre into an envelope. His stomach gave a small flip as the postal clerk stamped the words Par Avion on the front of the envelope, inking Henry’s hope into it. He couldn’t wait until tonight, when he could see Louis again and tell him the good news.
Still whistling “Rivière Rouge,” Henry headed home, happier than he’d been in ages. He had a few hours left before Theta’s press conference and the surprise the two of them had cooked up. But on his way through the Bennington lobby, Adelaide Proctor came toward him, calling his name somewhat urgently, and his stomach sank.
“Afternoon, Miss Proctor,” Henry said, pressing the elevator button. “Please do forgive me. I’m afraid I’m in an awful rush—”
“Oh, but Mr. DuBois, I’ve been having the most dreadful dreams about you.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it, Miss Proctor. But as you can see, I’m just fine.”
“No. No, I don’t believe you are, young man. Don’t you hear the crying? Oh, do be careful, Mr. DuBois!”
“Adelaide!” Miss Lillian called from the other side of the lobby. “We’ll be late!”
The elevator arrived and Henry leaped on, eager to make his escape. “Please don’t worry on my account, Miss Proctor. Good day to you!” he said, his thoughts already on his music and Louis and dreams that were all good.
“Addie!” Miss Lillian shouted again, impatient.
But Adelaide Proctor still stood in the lobby looking very afraid. And as the elevator gate closed, she called to Henry one last time: “Mr. DuBois: Anthony Orange Cross. Beware, beware, Paradise Square.”
A chill prickled along Henry’s neck as the elevator carried him up.
Henry got off the elevator with a feeling of unease. How did Adelaide Proctor know about Paradise Square and Anthony Orange Cross? He didn’t recall ever walking in her dreams or seeing her in one of his. When he had more time, he’d stop in and ask.
Henry stretched, feeling the tightness in his muscles. They ached a bit, like he’d been exercising all night. In a way, he supposed he had been. Hadn’t he and Louis gone fishing? But it was strange to feel it today in his body. In fact, he was exhausted. And no sooner had Henry sprawled into his favorite chair than his eyelids fluttered closed and he was fast asleep.
The dream started in his house back in New Orleans. Henry’s father sat at a long table. He wore the powdered wig of a Puritan judge.
“You will never see that boy again,” his father said.
Henry turned and ran through the cemetery, which was carpeted in morning glories. His mother’s porous saints moved their stone lips in unison: “They never should’ve done it.”
The morning glories climbed up Henry’s legs, the vines tightening around his muscles.
“Let me go!” Henry screamed.
All at once, he found himself in a squalid room filled with opium smoke where half-dressed men lay about with glassy-eyed prostitutes. Henry heard the jangling tinkle of an old music box. He followed the sound around the corner and saw the veiled woman sitting on a pallet, turning the crank and crying very softly. She was small and delicate and young, not much older than Henry was. He could feel her anguish, and he wished he could take her out of this terrible place. He drew closer.
“Miss,” Henry suggested, “why don’t you have a different dream? A happy dream?”
The woman stopped crying. Through the netting, her eyes were dark and hard.
“All my dreams are dead,” she growled. “You killed them!” Serpent-quick, she plunged a dagger into Henry’s chest.
Henry woke with a start, breathing heavily, one hand over his heart.
“I’m okay. Everything’s jake,” he said, letting out a long exhale. He glanced at his watch, saw that it was nearly three, and yelped.
/> “Applesauce!” Henry hissed, reaching for his music and his coat, pulling up his suspenders as he went. “Theta’s gonna murder me.”
Theta was standing in the wings pacing when Henry blew into the theater so fast he nearly toppled over.
“Sorry, sorry!” he said, kissing her cheek.
Theta’s dark eyes flashed. “Cutting it a little close, weren’t ya, Hen?”
“But I made it,” Henry said. “You look like a million bucks.”
“Yeah, but do I look like Russian nobility?”
“I’d buy it.”
“Only if I can sell it.”
“You’ll be the berries, Theta. You always are.”
Theta parted the curtain, looking out at the assorted members of the press and the photographer setting up his camera in the aisle, and spied Herbert Allen glad-handing the reporters. His voice drifted up and backstage: “Yes, I’ve written a swell new song for Miss Knight to sing today.…”
Henry peeked over Theta’s shoulder and scowled. “That talentless bastard. Shouldn’t he be off having another bad suit made?”
“He’s not gonna be too happy about what we’re doing.”
“Huh. Suddenly I’m filled with pep!” Henry joked, but Theta still looked nervous. He held her hand. “Don’t worry. We’re on our way.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Come on. Now, let us to go and razzle-dazzle ze press-ski.”
Theta’s eyebrows shot up. “Good thing you’re not trying to pass yourself off as Russian royalty.”
“As we say in my country, I am wounded.”
Theta squeezed Henry’s hands for luck. “Here goes nothin’.”
The reporters quieted as Theta swept onto the stage looking every bit the star in a borrowed chinchilla coat, a long strand of knotted pearls swaying against her green silk dress as she sauntered toward the footlights.
“Holy mackerel,” one of the men muttered, captivated.
Florenz Ziegfeld beamed. “Gentlemen, may I present the Ziegfeld Follies’ newest star, Miss Theta Knight!” Mr. Ziegfeld said, taking Theta’s hand and helping her down the steps and into a front-row seat.