Lair of Dreams

He paid the bill, tipped a dime, and stepped out into the brisk air with his partner. Dusk hung gnarled garlands of winter clouds over the rolling hills.

“Telephoned Mr. Hamilton. He’ll confer with the Oracle,” Mr. Jefferson announced. He worked at his teeth with a toothpick.

“Nifty. Let’s tend to that other business.”

They drove the sedan to a less friendly part of town, down into a ravine where the long fingers of neon barely reached. The driver opened the trunk and hauled out the hog-tied girl, forcing her to her knees in the dirt. He removed her hood, and she took in shaky gulps of air, blinking at the unfamiliar surroundings. Her face was snot-and tear-streaked.

“Wh-where are we?” she asked.

Mr. Adams leaned against the back of the sedan. “We’re going to ask you again: Have you ever spoken to a creature of immense power, a gray-faced man in a stovepipe hat?”

The girl shook her head. Fresh tears slid down both cheeks. “P-please, Mister. I was just playing at that card-reading business. I’m not a Diviner. I d-don’t know n-nothin’ about that.” She sniffled, unable to wipe her nose, and the snot ran free. “I just wanted somebody to pay attention to me.”

Mr. Adams smiled. “And here we are. Attentive.”

The girl started to sob. Sobs were an annoyance.

“You’re absolutely certain you’re telling us the truth now?”

The girl nodded violently.

Mr. Adams let out a long, weary sigh. “Pity.”

In the blinking white light of the roadside arrow—THIS WAY TO PARADISE!—the Shadow Man was rendered nearly gray, a shadow’s shadow, as he pulled on his leather gloves. He opened his case and selected a length of wire.

“What are you doing?” the girl asked. Fear had taken her tears from her.

Mr. Adams wrapped the ends of the wire around his gloved hands, pulling it taut. “Defending democracy.”

Later, the Shadow Men stood in a field under an empty night sky pierced by the false hope of winking light, the delayed SOS of dying stars. Mr. Adams finished taking a piss. He zipped up and wiped his hands on the girl’s scarf, then set it alight, watching as the flames crawled up the length of fabric like a flock of orange birds swirling toward the sky. His face was mottled by smoke. The burning scarf grew too hot to hold, and he dropped it in the dirt.

“That’s done, then,” Mr. Adams said. “What’s next?”

Mr. Jefferson folded back the newspaper to the small article circled in black. Another Diviner in another nameless town.

Mr. Adams opened the passenger door. “And miles to go before we sleep.”

The long road cut through night-hushed land, over hills and down into rain-swollen valleys, past moldering scarecrows and graveyards and telephone poles with timber arms outstretched like Toltec gods. It wound around sleeping towns, the silent factory whistles and the quiet school bells. It pressed against the straining borders of the prairies and showed up in the dreams of the nation’s people as a symbol; the pursuit of happiness needs endless thoroughfares. On the edges, the ghosts peeked through spaces between the trees, remembering, attracted to the restless yearning of the people, to the pull of a country built on dreams.

The driver sang a tune about a girl named Mamie who loved her way to hell, loved the Devil and loved him well. The passenger read the day’s newspaper, licking his finger to turn the pages. The story was about another teacher fined and jailed for teaching evolution. A lawyer had mounted a defense. Some people protested at the courthouse with Bible scripture painted on signs.

“Do you think it’s true?” Mr. Jefferson said, breaking the silence.

“What’s that?”

“That we came down from the trees? Just a bunch of apes in suits.”

“Makes as much sense as the other theory,” Mr. Adams said.

Mr. Jefferson chuckled quietly and took up his song again. Far off, a dark mass of clouds roiled on the horizon. The road purred beneath the sedan’s wheels as they turned their unceasing revolutions.





All morning, Ling had been able to think of nothing but last night’s unsettling dream walk and what she and Henry had discovered inside the tunnel. The burn still hurt. As soon as she had a moment at the restaurant, she’d telephoned Henry, catching him on his way out the door.

“I’m just on my way to Grand Central to meet Louis’s train now,” he said. “I promise to bring him straight to the Tea House. We can talk about it then,” he promised and hung up.

At lunch, Charlie Lee stopped by the Tea House to let Ling know that his grandfather had returned from Boston, and as soon as she’d finished cleaning the tables, Ling took advantage of the afternoon lull to visit Chang Lee at the Golden Pearl, bringing him an offering of oranges for the coming New Year. Chang Lee was nearly eighty, but his mind was as sharp as ever, and Ling held out hope that he might know something helpful to put her own mind at ease about Wai-Mae.