“Your father must have been grateful that you found her.”
Henry scowled. “My father has never used my name and grateful in the same sentence.” He glanced at Ling, ready with another quip. She was looking at him. Really looking. It made him uncomfortable. “I’ve grown a second head inside this dream, haven’t I? Be honest. I can take it.”
“Your family has its own cemetery? You must be loaded,” Ling said.
Henry laughed. “Oh, yes, darlin’. We are, indeed, loaded.” He played a jazzy riff. “We’ve got a family crypt! Inscribed with nonsense Latin! Generations of the DuBois bourgeoisie lined up as a feast for the worms!”
Ling allowed a smile, then went serious again. “Generations. Your family’s been here a long time. My parents struggled to get here. I’ve never even met my grandparents. How did you find the courage to leave home?”
Henry had thought himself a coward for running away. It was strange to hear Ling call it courage. “My father was angry with me over my friendship with Louis.”
“Why?”
“He thought it was…” Henry searched for the right word. “Unhealthy.” He could sense Ling preparing a follow-up question that he wasn’t prepared to answer just yet, so he rushed on. “And he didn’t approve of my music. He forbade me to follow my passion. The old man wanted me to become a lawyer. Can you imagine me as a lawyer?”
“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.
“You asked me if I was afraid the first time I walked in a dream. But what I’m most afraid of is not being able to do it,” Ling said quietly. “Here, I’m completely free. I can be myself. I can do anything.”
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.
Ling shrugged. “It’s all right. Sounds like every other song.”
“Ouch,” Henry said.
“You asked.”
“It just so happens they’re gonna put a song of mine in the Follies.”