Lair of Dreams

The man hurried his steps. She burst through the doors and out into the madness of the street. Cold rain fell in fat drops that stuck to her eyelashes. Bob Bateman was halfway down the street. Evie chased after him and grabbed hold of his arm.

“Where did you get that comb?” she demanded through clenched teeth.

“Look, I already told you—”

“You’re lying. You’re lying, you’re lying!” She was crying now. Big hiccuping gulps. Making a scene right there on Broadway, with everyone looking on. But she was beyond caring. She only wanted the truth. “How did you know my brother?”

“What?”

“My brother, James! He was on that train. The vision—I saw him!”

Bob Bateman’s face showed panic. He gave the street a quick glance and leaned in close to Evie, lowering his voice. “Listen, sweetheart, it’s not even my comb.”

“What?”

“It’s not mine, okay?”

“B-but you s-said—”

“They paid me to say that. It’s not even my comb,” he said again.

“Who? Who paid you?”

“I don’t know. Some fellas in dark suits… Adams! His partner called him Mr. Adams.”

“Why would they do that?”

“How should I know?”

“Take me to them.”

“You’re crazy,” the man said. Evie latched on to his arm with both hands. “Let go!”

“Not until you take me to them.” Evie dug her nails into the man’s arm to keep him there.

“Ow! I said let go!” The man stepped down on Evie’s instep. She howled more in shock and anger than in real pain, and he yanked his arm free. A crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle.

“Crazy,” Bob Bateman groused to everyone watching. “She’s crazy! Those Diviners are all crazy!” he yelled and ran off.

By the time the wet, bedraggled Evie returned to the radio station, the Pears Soap Hour had ended. She hid behind the thick, fanned leaves of a potted plant, watching a group of men smoking in the lobby, and listened to Mr. Forman’s voice piped through the loudspeakers as he explained to the audience sitting by their radios that “Miss O’Neill has taken ill, overcome by the spirits from beyond.”

“Overcome by spirits, all right,” one of the smoking men quipped.

Mr. Forman reminded listeners that Sarah Snow’s Mission Hour was coming up next. The Wireless Wonders Orchestra played the Sweetheart Singers on, and they sang an inoffensive tune to make housewives happy.

Evie waited in the ladies’ lounge until her audience had cleared out and a new one came in. Sarah Snow’s soothing voice reverberated in the Art Deco fortress of WGI.

“Evie, there you are.” It was Helen, Mr. Phillips’s secretary. She looked a bit stricken, like someone delivering a bad telegram. “Honey, Mr. Phillips wants to see you.”

“Oh. Pos-i-tute-ly,” Evie said without fizz. “Let me just freshen up.”

Helen patted her arm. “I’ll let him know.”

In the mirror, Evie dabbed at her face and hair with a towel. She wiped away the spidery mascara beneath her eyes and put on a fresh coat of red lipstick. She trudged down the forever hallway, her heels clacking across the gleaming marble floors. She reached Mr. Phillips’s office and kept walking, all the way to the back door. Then she broke into a run.





ANNOUNCER

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of our listening audience. This is Reginald Lockhart, coming to you from the WGI studios in New York City. Wherever you are, the Black Hills of South Dakota or the rugged plains of the Heartland, whether you are a weary worker building the great towering monoliths of our cities or a businessman who has built an empire… all can find comfort and salvation through Miss Sarah Snow, God’s messenger on the wireless.


(Organ music plays out. Smiling grandly, Sarah Snow, in a dress and cape, a spray of white orchids pinned to her left shoulder, steps to the microphone and opens her arms wide, as if to embrace her audience.)


SARAH SNOW

Thank you, Mr. Lockhart. Welcome, brothers and sisters! Now, I know that it has been a rather unsettling evening. But there is nothing that the power of prayer cannot soothe.

I know you will join me in praying for Miss O’Neill. Worry not—for the Lord is with thee. Brothers and sisters, as you know, there is no greater country than ours. “America, America, God shed his grace on thee / And crowned thy good with Brotherhood, from sea to shining sea.…”

Yes, from sea to shining sea, we are an example to nations. The bright torch of liberty in a dark and troubled world. God has tasked us to be the gatekeepers, and each and every one of us is a steward of Americanism.


(A lone man shouts “Amen.” This is followed by ripples of embarrassed laughter at the man’s impulsive exclamation. Sarah Snow smiles good-naturedly.)


SARAH SNOW

Oh, hallelujah, amen! That’s right, brother—don’t be shy about showing that the Holy Spirit moves in you. Don’t hide your light under a bushel! Rejoice and sing! Hallelujah!

(Silence.)


SARAH SNOW

I said, “Hallelujah!”

(Isolated calls of “Hallelujah!” ring out.)