Lair of Dreams

The land of Flushing, Queens, was flat and favorable, with nothing to stand in the way of grasping aspiration. Already, steam shovels hovered on the edge of the proposed fairgrounds, ready to clear the way for Jake Marlowe’s vision of tomorrow. In the center of the field stood a makeshift wooden platform, which held the mayor and the city council, who eagerly awaited Jake Marlowe’s arrival. A huge crowd had turned out to watch their hero break ground on what would become the Future of America Exhibition of 1927. They stood holding small American flags on sticks under a sky so brilliantly blue it seemed wet with paint.

“Is he here yet?” Ling asked as she strained to see around the tall people in front of her.

“Would you like to get closer?” Henry asked.

“Yes, please,” Ling said.

“Mr. and Mrs. Chan,” Henry asked politely, “may I escort Ling closer to the stage?”

“Why, that would be lovely, Henry,” Mrs. Chan said, beaming.

As Henry parted the crowd for Ling, she looked back at her parents. Her father smiled, and her mother waved her flag. “I think my mother is already planning our wedding.”

“Well, if it gets you out of the house more often, I’ll try to look besotted. Prepare yourself, woman!” He stared, moony-eyed, at Ling, then flared his nostrils like a matinee idol in the throes of passion.

Ling curled her lip in disgust. “You look like you have gas.”

“It’s my secret love glance. I call it ‘From the Very Bowels of Love.’”

“Henry?”

“Yes, mein Liebchen?”

“Take me to Jake Marlowe.”

“That cad! I’ll see him on the field at dawn!” Henry made a gun of his thumb and index finger, pointing it skyward as if ready to shoot.

“Hurry up. I don’t want to miss this,” Ling said.

Henry let his hand drop. “Very well. I suppose I’ll let him live. This way, m’lady.”

“Did you speak to the crazy woman?”

“Not yet. I was afraid if I went this morning, I’d be stuck there through the afternoon as a special guest at a kitty-cat birthday party or an ancient mummification tutorial and miss this,” Henry said, just as he and Ling made it to the front. He grinned. “And I knew you wouldn’t have wanted to miss this.”

Mayor Jimmy Walker stepped to the microphone, his voice booming out in a long preamble that ended with the heart-quickening words, “A man who needs no introduction, Mr.… Jake… Marlowe!”

The crowd responded with cheers and a waving of flags. The air fluttered with red, white, and blue. With the sun shining behind him, Jake Marlowe stepped onto the platform, removed his hat, ran a swift hand across his slick black hair, and raised the hat to the assembled, a hero’s gesture. Applause erupted. The crowd loved the very idea of him.

“Isn’t this the berries?” Henry asked Ling, but her shining eyes said it all.

The microphone squawked with Marlowe’s first word. He put a hand to his chest in apology and humility, and the crowd laughed and loved this, too. And then his words echoed across the promised land of Queens, as if cast toward the future. “Ladies and gentlemen… men… en… I am pleased to announce… ounce… ounce… a marvelous step forward for American… can… greatness. A celebration of our heritage… age… age… and our great prospects for prosperity… perity… and progress… gress. The Marlowe Industries Future… ture… of America… ca… ca Exhibition and Fair… fair… fair!”

The winter sun gathered what small warmth there was in her cold light and tithed it to Jake Marlowe’s shining, smiling face. Fresh cheering erupted as Jake Marlowe exited the stage and made his way to a clearing, where he peeled off his coat, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and posed with a shovel atop a weedy mound. “Gentlemen, we are like Prometheus, creating a legacy from the clay of the earth.”

His shovel bit into the soft, wet ground and the flashbulbs popped, immortalizing the moment. Balloons were released; they floated up to the sky as if claiming it. The band took up a rousing rendition of “The Stars and Stripes Forever” while Jake Marlowe strode through the crowd, shaking hands and tousling the hair of children as the reporters tried to keep up, their shoes sinking into the grasping mud of Queens.

“Will the fair really open in only three months?” a reporter asked.

“You may bank on it.”

“But that’s awfully fast, Mr. Marlowe. Even for you.”

Marlowe grinned as he offered a peppermint to a ringleted, blue-eyed child nestled in her father’s arms. “Can’t be done. My three favorite words—to disprove. We have a thousand Marlowe Industries employees, models of modern efficiency, working to make certain that it does. The American business model is the best model.”

“Only a man as rich and ambitious as you would break ground in the dead of winter.”