Lair of Dreams

Page 118

“Call it a hunch,” Bill said, but he sounded angry. The bluesman cocked his head, angling it toward the sound of Memphis’s voice. “Heard a peculiar story this morning over to Floyd’s. You know that ol’ drunk, Noble Bishop?”
“I know him some,” Memphis said. His stomach had gone to butterflies.
“Never known him when he’s not stone-cold drunk or shaking like a old dog from the lack of it. But this morning, he showed up to Floyd’s sober as a deacon and asking could he work around the shop sweeping up. Said he had a visitation from an angel. A miracle.” Bill paused a moment to let his next words sink in. “A healing.”
“Is that so?” Memphis said, trying to keep his voice even.
“It is.” Bill’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Seem like a waste of a miracle, you ask me. What’s that old no-account drunk gonna do with a gift like that? He prob’ly be back in the gutter by next Tuesday,” Bill spat out. “The Lord sure works in mysterious ways.”
“That’s what they say,” Memphis said and smiled.
“That is, in fact, what they say,” Bill said, and did not smile.
When Memphis got home, there was a telegram waiting for him.
DEAR POET, SORRY FOR THE DISAPPEARING ACT. FEELING MUCH BETTER NOW. P.S. HOTSY TOTSY TONIGHT? YOURS, PRINCESS.
“Who sent you a telegram?” Isaiah asked, wide-eyed. “Somebody die?”
“Nope. Everybody and everything is very much alive,” Memphis said, feeling like there had been two miracles.
That night, Henry and Ling set their alarms for their longest dream walk yet—a full five hours. The next day, Henry woke to Theta sitting at the foot of his bed, glaring at him through a cigarette haze. Light seeped under the roller shades.
“What time is it?” Henry asked. His mouth was dry.
“Half past three. In the afternoon,” Theta said tersely. “You look like hell.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Knight.”
“I’m not kidding. How long before you can get up outta that bed?”
Henry’s muscles ached like he’d been moving furniture all night long. He ran his tongue across chapped lips. “I’m right as rain. Just got a little cold, that’s all.”
“No, you’re not okay.” Theta slapped down a piece of paper. It was an advertisement cut from the newspaper for a lecture by “Dr. Carl Jung, renowned psychoanalyst” at the New York Society for Ethical Culture. “This egghead fella, Jung—he knows all about dreams. Maybe he knows about dream walking. Maybe he could help you, Hen.”
“I’m fine.”
“I think we should go.”
“You go.”
“You could at least hear what he has to say—”
“I said I’m fine!” Henry snapped.
Theta flinched. “Don’t yell,” she whispered.
“Sorry. Sorry, darlin’,” Henry said, feeling guilty and angry at the same time. His teeth chattered and his stomach hurt. “Come sit next to me. It’s so cold.”
For a second, it looked like Theta might give in and lie down next to him with her head on his chest, like old times. Instead, she swiped back the newspaper advertisement and headed for the bedroom door without looking back. “I gotta bathe. Rehearsal’s in an hour. In case you care.”
At rehearsal, Henry was so exhausted he could barely concentrate.
“Henry! That was your cue!” Wally barked from the front row.
Henry looked up to see the dancers glaring at him.
“Sorry, folks,” Henry drawled, snapping back to the present. For a second, his eyes caught Theta’s. He saw the worry there just before it edged into anger. He tried to make her laugh with a silly face, but she wasn’t having it.
“If there’s anything I hate, it’s having my time wasted. Let’s get this show on the road,” she announced to no one in particular, though Henry understood the comment was meant for his ears.
Other stories appeared here and there: A couple of subway workers vanished underground. Their lanterns were found still glowing in the tunnel they’d been hollowing out for the extension of the IRT. A pocketbook belonging to a Miss Rose Brock mysteriously ended up on the tracks near the Fourteenth Street station. Despondent over a failed love affair, she’d gone to a speakeasy on the West Side with friends and disappeared. Suicide was feared. A token booth clerk was suspended on suspicion of drinking when he swore he saw a faintly glowing ghost down at the dark end of the tracks. One minute, the pale thing was crouched on its haunches, he claimed, and the next, it skittered up the walls and out of sight. Some riders reported seeing odd flickers of greenish light from subway train windows. Diggers working on the construction of the new Holland Tunnel refused to go below. Down in the depths, they’d heard the terrifying swarming sounds of some unnameable infestation. A Diviner had been called in to give his blessing; he insisted it was all clear, but the workers knew he’d been paid to say it, and now they would only go down in groups and wearing every one of their charms against bad luck. The vagrant population was down; all the unfortunates known to frequent subway platforms, sewers, and train tunnels for warmth in the winter had seemingly disappeared in a matter of days.