Lair of Dreams

“Now, now, our Evie isn’t afraid of some little old sleeping sickness,” Mr. Phillips said, waving the thought away, as he did anything that didn’t affect him directly. “It’s mostly confined to downtown, isn’t it? It’s a matter of proper hygiene. Those people don’t come to WGI, I can guarantee you.”

“Of course, Mr. Phillips. I’m sure it’s all perfectly fine. Still, I suppose you never know what you’re in for when someone hands you their secrets,” Sarah Snow said. Her smile followed two seconds too late.

“These fellas want a picture of us in the studio, Evie,” Mr. Phillips said, then escorted Evie and the reporters toward WGI’s bank of shining elevators. As the elevator doors closed on the grand marble lobby and the crowd of admirers on the other side of the glass doors, Evie saw that Sarah Snow was still standing in the clock’s deep shadows, watching her intently.

It reminded Evie for all the world of a cat watching a mouse.

But then she was on the radio, her voice reaching out to people everywhere. The applause was for her. Afterward, fans lined up around the block to have her sign their autograph books. And Sarah Snow was forgotten.

Evie decided to walk the ten blocks back home to the Winthrop so she could enjoy the admiring looks of people on the street.

“A penny for one who served, Miss?”

A filthy, unshaven man in a wheelchair shook his cup at her. Evie recognized him as the veteran she’d given money to during her first week in New York.

“The time is now. The time is now,” he murmured. His anguished eyes searched for something beyond sight.

Evie was angry that this poor man, ruined by war, had been abandoned to a hard life on the streets. If Sarah Snow were here now, Evie would ask her to explain why her God allowed war and poverty and cruelty to happen so often. Sometimes, Evie wished she had an object of God’s to read so that she could begin to understand.

“Help,” the veteran croaked. “Please.”

Evie had three dollars to her name; Prohibition gin wasn’t cheap. To hell with it, she thought. She was the Sweetheart Seer; she’d get somebody to buy her a drink.

“Here you are, sir,” she said and stuffed all three dollars into the soldier’s can. Quick as loose mercury, the man grabbed her wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong.

“I hear them screaming,” the man whispered urgently through gritted teeth. Spit foamed at the corners of his cracked lips.

“Let go!” Evie cried.

“The eye. Follow the eye,” he pleaded.

“Let me go! Please!”

Evie stumbled back and the man banged his head softly against the brick, keening, “Stop, please. Stop screaming. Stop screaming.…”

“How come you lied to Sister Walker the other day about where you’re from?” Isaiah asked Blind Bill as they walked back from the barbershop toward home. Octavia had to stay late at the school, and Bill had offered to take the boy to Floyd’s for a trim so he’d look nice for church on Sunday.

“That woman don’t need to know my business,” Bill said. “It don’t pay to tell folks too much about yourself. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to tell me about your time with Sister Walker. What she make you do?”

“She didn’t make me do anything.”

“No, no. I know ain’t nobody can make little man do what he don’t want to do,” Bill said, giving a tight smile. “She do the cards with you, though, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many you get right?”

“The last time, I got all of ’em right!” Isaiah crowed.

Bill whistled. “That a fact?”

“Mm-hmm. I was good at it,” Isaiah said. “Corner here, Mr. Johnson. Watch out.”

“Thank you, son. But you know I ain’t Mr. Johnson. You call me Uncle Bill.”

“Yes, sir, Uncle Bill,” the boy said, and he sounded pleased.

“Seems to me that’s a mighty powerful gift you got there. Nothing bad about it,” Bill said as Isaiah led him around the corner. Bill could’ve navigated it himself, but he let the boy do it since it made him feel important.

“That’s what I said!” Isaiah blurted.

“Well, now, it wouldn’t do for me to tell you to go against your aunt. But you know how women do.”

“Yes, I surely do,” Isaiah said on a sigh. The sound of the little man’s voice, going on like he knew about women, made Bill want to laugh. He reached out and ran his hand over the top of Isaiah’s head like a pleased father.