Lair of Dreams
“Ling!” Her mother’s voice again.
“Coming, Mama!”
She squinted at her reflection until she was nothing but a blue blur.
In the dining room, the radio played a Sunday-morning program of hymns while her mother poured tea into delicate china cups. Ling took her silent place at the table beside her father and examined the spread before her: fried eggs, bacon, noodles with pork fat, shrimp dumplings, porridge, and toast. The eggs, she knew, would be slightly slimy—her father was the real cook, not her mother—and the porridge was out of the question, so she settled for the toast.
“That isn’t all you mean to eat,” her mother said with a tsk.
Her father maneuvered a dumpling onto Ling’s plate. Ling scowled at it.
“You’ve got to keep your strength up, my girl,” her mother said.
“Your mother is right,” her father agreed automatically.
Ling turned toward her great-uncle. He was the eldest; his opinion mattered most.
“If she wants to eat, she’ll eat,” he said, smiling at her, and Ling could’ve hugged him.
If she’d been the hugging sort.
“At least have some tea.” Ling’s mother placed the steaming cup down at Ling’s plate. She poured tea for Ling’s father, too, and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Mr. Chan smiled up at his wife. Twenty years ago, when both of them had newly emigrated—her father from China and her mother from Ireland—her parents had met at a church social. They’d married six months later, and sometimes they still looked at each other like shy, smitten kids at their first dance. Ling found it hideously embarrassing, so she angled her head away from them and toward the newspaper tucked against her father’s plate. An article bore the headline JAKE MARLOWE ANNOUNCES FUTURE OF AMERICA EXHIBITION.
“It might be easier to read this way,” her father said. He smiled as he handed the newspaper to her.
“Thank you, Baba.”
“Read while you eat,” her mother pleaded. “Or we’ll be late for Mass.”
Ling nibbled a corner of her toast as she skimmed the article:
Jake Marlowe to break ground in Queens, New York, for his Future of America Exhibition. Celebrating “The Brave New Age of the Exceptional American,” the fair will highlight America’s best and brightest, showcasing achievements and advances in the sciences, agriculture, mathematics, eugenics, robotics, aviation, and medicine.
Ling knew it was a long shot. Life in the restaurant was all-consuming. For her parents to drive her out to Queens for the groundbreaking ceremony would be precious time away.
“Could I, Baba?”
“We’ll see what we can do.”
Ling gave a half smile. Another, smaller headline caught her attention, and the smile was replaced by a frown.
MYSTERIOUS SLEEPING SICKNESS BAFFLES HEALTH OFFICIALS
The sleeping sickness that has bedeviled the residents of Chinatown is now the scourge of other New York City neighborhoods. Four new cases have been reported on the Lower East Side, and one case has been documented as far north as Fourteenth Street. Health officials who remember all too well the devastation of the Spanish Influenza Pandemic in 1918 assure the public that they are investigating with rigor and will ensure the safety of all New Yorkers.
“I heard there’s a new case on Mulberry, an Italian girl. And possibly another on Hester Street,” Uncle Eddie said. “You know they’re calling it the Chinese Sleeping Sickness.”
Ling’s father continued sipping his coffee, but she could see from the set of his jaw that the illness’s name registered.
“But this sleeping sickness isn’t just here in Chinatown,” Mrs. Chan said, wiping her pink, freckled hands on her apron.
“All it takes is someone to say it started here and we’re to blame. I hear the city might even cancel our New Year’s celebrations,” Uncle Eddie said.
“Baba, would they really?” Ling asked. The Year of the Rabbit was only a few weeks away.
“Don’t worry. The Association will make certain the celebrations go on as planned,” Ling’s father said.
“Not if they don’t stop this sickness soon.” Uncle Eddie sighed. “Already business is down. Fewer tourists come every day.”
“It will be fine,” Mr. Chan said.
Uncle Eddie shook his head and turned to Ling. “Your father. Ever the optimist.”
“And what’s the matter with that?” Mrs. Chan tutted.