Henry stared at the phone booth’s wooden ceiling. Tears streamed down his face. You can stop your sniffling, Hal. Men don’t cry. That was what his father had always said. Well, Henry was a man, and he had a lot to cry about.
“Louis never showed up. I spent the piano-fund money and made you mad, and all for nothin’, Theta. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Ah, Hen,” Theta sighed. “Just come home.”
Henry wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You still my best girl?”
“You can’t get rid of me that easy. We’re family. Come home.”
“Okay. I will,” Henry said and hung up.
But first, there was something he needed to do.
Henry barreled down the streets of Lower Manhattan, past quarantine plasters and dark, closed businesses with signs in their windows reading THIS ESTABLISHMENT CLOSED BY ORDER OF NEW YORK CITY DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH. He was still drunk when he reached the quiet borders of Chinatown. The streets were nearly deserted, and eerie in their quiet. The Tea House was mostly empty, but Henry could see Ling inside. He waved to her and gestured to the alley, and a moment later, she joined him there.
“Imaginary science club member Henry DuBois the Fourth reporting for duty,” he slurred. He tried to salute, lost his balance, and banged into a garbage can. “Shhh,” Henry said, settling the top on it.
“Are you drunk?” Ling whispered.
“As usual, your powers of observation are acute, ma’moiselle.”
“What’s happened? Where’s Louis? I thought you were meeting his train.”
“Ah. Now we come to the heart of the matter. Or the lack of heart. One of us, it seems, lacks heart. He never showed. Ling, I need you to go in with me. I need answers.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Really? I think it’s a spiffing idea.”
“You’re drunk.”
“You’re observant. Say! Have you considered becoming a scientist?”
“And you’re a bad drunk. Henry, listen to me: The dream world isn’t safe.”
“I know. Ghosts. Monsters. Things in tunnels.” Henry slumped against the wall. “And that’s precisely my point: What if something happened to Louis last night? What? You’re making a funny face.”
Ling took a shaky breath. “I found out about O’Bannion and Lee. They died in 1875. They were murdered, Henry. By one of the girls they tricked. A girl who wore a veil and listened to a music box. I don’t think we should go back in, Henry. Not tonight.”
“One hour in the dream world. That’s all I’m asking. I can’t get to the bayou without you. It takes both of us. You know that.”
“You need sleep. Real sleep, Henry. We both do. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
Henry looked up at the cold, dead stars.
“I don’t believe in tomorrow much anymore,” he said.
When Henry returned to the Bennington, he found that Theta had left a note: “Meeting Memphis. Back soon. Welcome home, Piano Man.” A crisp five-dollar bill peeked up from the top of the piano-fund jar. A piece of masking tape had been affixed to the front. PIANO FUND—DO NOT TOUCH, it read.
Henry fumbled with the metronome. Vaguely, he was aware that he was drunk and angry and hurt, and that was a bad way to go into a dream walk. But he didn’t care. He needed to see Louis. He needed answers. And if Ling refused to go with him, he’d go it alone, see if he could get there on his own steam. The metronome’s steady tick worked its magic, and Henry was out in seconds, the heaviness of the alcohol pulling him more deeply under.
When he woke inside the dream world, he wasn’t on the streets of old New York. Instead, he stood on the platform of the train station, which glowed with an extra polish tonight. Everything appeared washed in a golden haze. Henry smiled. He’d done it. He didn’t even question how he’d done it.
“I’ve tumbled into Slumberlaaaand,” he sang as he stumbled toward the dark tunnel, impatient for the train.
Henry thought about the night before and all they’d seen there. He wavered at the tunnel’s threshold for another few seconds. But then all he could think about was Louis.
“Awww, to hell with it,” Henry said and stepped inside.