Lair of Dreams

I have never seen Margaret so angry before: “We are a democracy, sir, and Diviners are evidence of that democracy and of the proof that all men and women are created equal. For these gifts have been given in equal measure to people of all races and creeds, regardless of sex, whether rich or poor.”

The great debate escalated far beyond the polite decorum of a dinner table, and we adjourned before dessert so that a cordial spirit could be maintained. In the privacy of our offices, Rotke made her position quite clear—“I won’t be part of it. Not as a scientist. Not as a Jew. Not as an American.”

I agreed that their position was nonsense. Margaret was much more frank in her rebuke. I shan’t repeat her words here. We were resolute: We would thank the Founders Club for their time and interest and send them on their way. Through it all, Jake remained quiet. At last, he rose from his seat and crossed the floor. Even in this simple action, he demanded our attention.

“Don’t you see? We can take their money without telling them what we’re really doing. We’ll continue to conduct our own research on Diviners. Here and there, we’ll trot out a little something to keep the old men happy in their eugenics quest, parade a Diviner or two before them. Simple.”

“You’re wrong, Jake. They’ll come to own us in time,” Margaret insisted. “Mark my words.”

Jake shook his head and let out a peeved sigh, which did not settle well with Margaret, I can assure you. “Margaret, you’re too suspicious,” he insisted. “You don’t trust anyone.”

“If your people came to this country in chains, Mr. Marlowe, you might have the same mistrust,” Margaret responded evenly, but her eyes—hard, alight—told the true story of her emotions.

Next, Jake appealed to me, man-to-man. He threw an arm around my shoulders like a brother and squeezed. “William, surely you’re on board?”

“Well…” I began but said no more. It was cowardly, but my feelings on the matter are quite confusing. I don’t care for the Founders Club and their sham science of eugenics. But I don’t want to stop our research into those mysteries that lie beyond this world, either. It has become my whole world.

At last, Jake made his way to Rotke and put his hands on her shoulders. “Darling, we need their funding. What we receive from Washington isn’t enough, and I’ve used nearly all of my trust.”

“Even if you can see that money comes from a terrible place?” Rotke challenged.

“Just don’t look in that direction.”

Then Jake took Rotke’s face in his hands, the hands that will shape this new America through steel and the atom and whatever we uncover of the supernatural world.

“Trust me,” he said as he bent her face toward him so that he could kiss her gently on the forehead.

I heeded Jake’s advice and did not look in their direction anymore.

“I’ll smooth things over with the old coots. Stay and enjoy the fire,” Jake assured us. And with that, our brave son, our golden boy, sailed off with a bottle of his family’s best brandy and a fistful of cigars to secure our future. But I fear the damage is done with Margaret. She and Jake will never be friends after this.

As for Rotke, she and Jake are to be engaged, I hear. A better man would be happy for them. After all, Jake has been my closest friend for six years. But I am not a better man, and I am not happy.

This afternoon, Rotke came to me. I could see by her eyes that she had been crying. She asked me to walk with her for a spell. We strolled the woods beyond the manicured hedges of Hopeful Harbor. I begged Rotke to tell me what was troubling her. “It’s Jake,” she said, wiping away tears. “We quarreled. He doesn’t want me to tell anyone I’m Jewish. Not his family, certainly not those eugenics idiots. ‘Darling, no one even knows you’re Jewish,’ he told me. ‘They don’t have to know. You don’t look it.’”

I asked Rotke the question in my heart then. “Does being Jewish matter so much if you don’t believe in God?” For as you know, Cornelius, I’ve never understood this obsession with where we are from that we Americans seem to have. We are from here, are we not? Sometimes I find this clannishness, these ties to old homelands, ancient traditions, and familial bloodlines, to be nothing more than fear—the same fear that keeps us praying to an absent God. If anything, I hope that our research into the great unknown of Diviners and the supernatural world proves that we are all one, joined by the same spark of energy that owes nothing to countries or religion, good and evil, or any other man-made divisions. We create our history as we go.