Lair of Dreams
“You’d make an awful lawyer. Absolutely terrible.”
Henry grinned. “Thank you for your confidence in me.”
“Terrible,” Ling said again.
“Yes, we’ve covered that sufficiently, I believe. Anyway, when he decided to send me to military school, I packed my suitcase and left. I suppose you think I’m an ungrateful son.”
“No,” Ling said, considering Henry’s reasons. “But I could never leave my parents.”
Henry tried to imagine the sort of filial duty Ling felt. If anything, he saw his parents as a burden to be endured. When people talked about “family” as something special, a place where you belonged, a dull anger nipped at Henry, a feeling that he’d been cheated of this basic comfort. Instead, Henry had made his own family with Theta, with his friends in the speakeasies and backstage at the Follies. He imagined that one day he’d hear that his parents were gone and feel only a vague sense of loss. How could you mourn something you’d never really had?
“Well,” Henry said wistfully, “it must be nice to be so loved.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Ling said, letting the subject drop. To her surprise, she found that she liked talking with Henry, especially about dreams. Sure, he told too many jokes for her taste. But he was easy and loose, like a gentle stream that carried her along.
For a moment, she considered telling Henry about her plan to look for George tonight. But she decided it was best to keep quiet; that was her mission, not his.
Henry nodded. “I know just what you mean. When I’m here, if someone is having a bad dream, with a word, I can help them have a better dream. I can do something. In the waking world, I can’t even get my songs published!”
“Are you sure you’re working hard enough?”
Henry raised both eyebrows. “You are quite possibly the rudest person I have ever met. And I work in show business, so that’s saying something.”
“Fine. I’ll be the judge. Play me a song,” Ling said.
“Heaven help me,” Henry said on a sigh. He played one of his numbers for Ling, a fun little ditty that quite a few of the chorines liked dancing to after hours.
“Well? Did you like it?” he asked.
“Ouch,” Henry said.
“It just so happens they’re gonna put a song of mine in the Follies.”
“Then why do you care what I think?” Ling asked.
“Because…” Henry started. It wasn’t really about Ling. There was something about the song that didn’t feel right to him, but he couldn’t tell what it was anymore. He’d been trying for so long to make other people happy with his music that he’d lost his internal compass.
“Here’s one for you. Just wrote it,” Henry said. He broke into a big ragtime number. “I’ve got a yeaahn to walk with Miss Chan—”
“Awful.”
“Again and agaaain, round the gleaahnn, at half past teaahn—”
“Corny and awful.”
“See you theaahn! If you’ve a keaahn! Dear! Miss! Chaaaannnnnn!”
“I told you that song was bad,” Ling said, her heart beating wildly.
But then the train’s lamp glowed in the tunnel. It lit up the station as the train came to a stop. The doors opened, and Henry and Ling raced inside.
Wai-Mae was waiting for them in the forest. Seeing Ling, she broke into a grin. “You’ve come back! I knew you would!”
“Wai-Mae, this is Henry, the other dream walker I told you about,” Ling said, nodding to Henry. “Henry, this is Wai-Mae.”
Henry bowed courteously. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Wai-Mae.”
“He is very handsome, Ling. He would make a nice husband,” Wai-Mae said in a whisper that was not a whisper at all. Ling’s face went hot.
Henry cleared his throat and said, with a formal bow, “Well, if you ladies will kindly excuse me, I’m off to meet a friend. I wish you sweet dreams.” He turned and walked down the path until he disappeared into the fog.