“Because it’s… unnatural, two men together. It’s a sin. Ask Father Thomas. He’ll tell you,” her mother said. “You mustn’t ever say that about your uncle again, Ling.”
Ling hadn’t cared if the story about Uncle Eddie was true or not; she’d been upset to think of her beloved uncle unhappy. After her mother’s explanation, though, the idea had taken root in her: This was wrong and sinful. It was an idea she’d never had to challenge until now. But Henry wasn’t wrong. He sometimes made jokes when he should be serious, but he was kind. She might not fully understand his life, or he hers, but she realized that in the dream world, they’d been telling each other truths all along. She liked Henry. She liked Louis, too. Ling had spoken to the dead plenty, and not one of them had ever said a word about love being a sin. Until the priests could satisfactorily prove their hypothesis, she would take the word of the dead over the priests’.
“Very well,” Ling said at last.
Henry’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s it? Just ‘very well.’”
Ling warmed her hands on the sides of her cup. “Yes.”
“You are a strange one, Ling Chan,” Henry said, shaking his head, the relief apparent on his face.
“I’ve never had a friend like your Louis. I’ve never really had friends.”
“Their loss,” Henry answered.
Ling turned on him. “Are you saying that just because you’ve been trained to be polite? Or do you mean it?” Ling put up a hand. “Don’t answer out of habit. Be truthful.”
“You really aren’t much for social niceties, are you?”
“Why should I lie? What good does that do?”
When she had lain in the hospital after the infection with her legs paralyzed, the nurses had smiled politely and told her not to worry. But she knew from their eyes there was reason to worry, and being told otherwise only made her fear greater. It was her uncle Eddie who had been honest with her.
“Will my legs get better, Uncle?” she’d asked him. “Will they be like before?”
“No, they will not,” he’d said, his face and voice resolute so that she wouldn’t have false hope. “This is how it is now. There is strength in acceptance, Ling. Your legs have been taken from you. But how you choose to live with that has not.”
“I prefer the truth,” Ling now said to Henry, a little less bitterly.
Henry hadn’t been trained in honesty, only avoidance. Back in New Orleans, he’d been raised with the sort of southern manners that meant never really saying what you thought. He’d learned to smile and nod and go along, to call something “interesting” instead of “hogwash.” To be a good southern gentleman meant prizing politeness and pleasantry above all else. Being honest was a strange sensation, like using a long-neglected muscle.
“I think being friends with you will be challenging,” he said at last.
“‘Will be challenging’?”
Henry shrugged. “I suppose you’re stuck with me now, Miss Chan. I apologize in advance.”
Ling’s smile was big and goofy.
Henry whistled. “That smile of yours is a real beauty.”
Ling shook her head, letting her hair cover her face. “It’s stupid.”
“Right. What I meant to say is, that stupid smile of yours is a real beauty.”
This time, Ling actually giggled.
“The creature laughs!” Henry said.
“I’m not such a killjoy!”
“Actually, you are. A bit. Hey! I’m giving that honesty you asked for a twirl. How do you like it?” Henry said.
“You’re awful.”
“Oh, you say the sweetest things. I think you’re awful, too, darlin’,” Henry said, and Ling couldn’t fight her grin.
“Thank you for saving me today,” she said.
“Thanks for saving me, too.”
The little jazz band in the corner picked up the beat. Boys led their partners onto the floor, moving them gracefully around and around. Ling watched the dancers wistfully, tapping her fingers softly against the table. Henry saw it all.
“Would you care to dance?”
Ling’s face clouded. “This isn’t the dream world.”