Lair of Dreams
“Oh, dear me,” Evie said, coming out of her light trance.
“What is it? What do you see?” Mrs. Rutherford fretted.
“I don’t know if I should say, Mrs. Rutherford,” Evie said, drawing out the tension for the radio audience.
“Please, Miss O’Neill, if there’s something I should know…”
“Well…” Evie’s tone was grave. “You do know that the objects never lie.”
An anticipatory murmur spread through the studio audience. I’ve got them! Evie thought. She lowered her head as if she were a doctor delivering grim news. “Your husband and his secretary are in cahoots, all right.…” Head still bowed, Evie waited, counting off silently—two, three—and then she looked up, grinning triumphantly. “To plan your birthday party!”
The audience responded with relieved laughter and thunderous applause.
“Thank you! Oh, thank you, Miss O’Neill!”
The announcer stepped up to his microphone again as Mrs. Rutherford was escorted back to her seat. “Let’s give a warm round of applause to the brave Mrs. Rutherford.”
When the noise died down, Evie welcomed her second guest. When she’d finished with him, telling him where to find a cache of old war bonds his grandfather had hidden in the house, Evie waited for the Seer Singers to croon the Pears soap jingle, then stepped again to the microphone, the studio lights blazing in her eyes. Even though the home audience couldn’t see her, she knew from her daily elocution lessons that a smile could be communicated through the wires, so she kept hers bright.
“Ladies and gentlemen, when I finish my radio show, I love nothing more than to relax with a nice hot bath. But when I bathe, I’m not alone.”
“Oh, no! I have company in my tub.”
“Dear me, Mr. Forman! It’s Pears soap, of course! Pears keeps a girl’s complexion smooth and lovely even when the winter winds are howling like a jazz band. Why, it’s so pure, even I can’t see anything in it!”
“That’s pure, indeed! Choose Pears—the modern choice for you and your loved ones. Now, Miss O’Neill, before we say good night, can you tell the fine members of our listening audience what you see?”
“I’d be happy to.” Evie let her voice take on a faraway tone. “Yes… I can see into the future and I see”—she let the silence hang for a count of three—“that it’s going to be a swell evening here on WGI, so don’t dream of touching that dial! This is Evie O’Neill, America’s Sweetheart Seer, saying thank you and good night, and may all your secrets be happy ones!”
As Evie passed down the long Art Deco hallway of the radio station, people called out their congratulations: “Swell show, Evie!” “Gee, that was terrific!” “You’re the berries, kid!”
Evie drank up their praise like a champagne cocktail. She stopped for a second in the foyer of a large, wood-paneled office with gleaming black-and-gold marble floors. A secretary waved to her from behind a desk.
“Great show, Evie.”
There were only two rules she followed on her show: One, she never went in too deep. That was what kept the headaches manageable. And two, no bad news. Evie only told the object holder what he or she wanted to hear. People wanted entertainment, yes, but mostly they wanted hope: Tell me he still loves me. Tell me I’m not a failure. Tell me I did right by my dead mother, whom I never visited, even when she called my name at the end. Tell me it’ll be okay.
“Loved the way you played with the money clip,” the secretary continued. “I sure was nervous for that Mrs. Rutherford.”
Evie strained to see into the office just beyond the secretary, but the burnished gold doors were shut. “Did… did Mr. Phillips like it?”
The secretary smiled sympathetically. “Gee, honey, you know how the Big Cheese is: He only shows up for the biggest names. Oh!” she said, catching herself. “Gee, I didn’t mean it like that, Evie. Your show’s very popular.”
Just not popular enough to get the full attention of WGI’s owner. Evie tried not to dwell on that fact as she grabbed her new raccoon coat and gray wool cloche from the coat-check girl and headed out front, where a small but enthusiastic crowd waited in the January drizzle. When Evie opened the door, they surged forward, their umbrellas like fat black petals of the same straining flower.