Lair of Dreams

Ling’s father continued sipping his coffee, but she could see from the set of his jaw that the illness’s name registered.

“But this sleeping sickness isn’t just here in Chinatown,” Mrs. Chan said, wiping her pink, freckled hands on her apron.

“All it takes is someone to say it started here and we’re to blame. I hear the city might even cancel our New Year’s celebrations,” Uncle Eddie said.

“Baba, would they really?” Ling asked. The Year of the Rabbit was only a few weeks away.

“Don’t worry. The Association will make certain the celebrations go on as planned,” Ling’s father said.

“Not if they don’t stop this sickness soon.” Uncle Eddie sighed. “Already business is down. Fewer tourists come every day.”

“It will be fine,” Mr. Chan said.

Uncle Eddie shook his head and turned to Ling. “Your father. Ever the optimist.”

“And what’s the matter with that?” Mrs. Chan tutted.

“If you believe it, it will be,” Mr. Chan said. “If you do not…”

“It will not,” Ling finished. She bit down as another spasm gripped her left leg.

“Ling! Are you all right?”

“Yes, Mama,” Ling managed to say.

“Perhaps you oughtn’t go to Mass this morning.”

“I’m fine,” Ling said. It wasn’t so much that she wanted to go to church as it was that she was desperate to get out of the house. If her mother thought the spasms weren’t improving, she’d make her stay in bed. Ling felt guilty enough that she wasn’t pulling her weight at the restaurant, and Sunday was the busiest day of the week at the Tea House.

Her mother sighed. “All right, my stubborn lass. I can’t fight you on everything. Put your coat on.”

Church bells sang a Sunday-morning city hymn as Ling and her parents strolled past the pushcart vendors, the greengrocers, and the fish sellers setting up for another day. The occasional automobile honked its way up the narrow street, threading around people dressed in their Sunday best and people dressed for work. As they walked, Ling’s mother nodded and smiled and chatted with neighbors who averted their eyes at the sight of Ling’s braces, as if she only existed from the waist up, as if they could catch the bad luck of her illness simply by looking. Ling would have to force a smile and feign interest in what was being said while thinking, If only I were asleep. If only I were dreaming. Everyone fell silent as they passed an apartment building where a yellow sign had been pasted across the front doors: CITY OF NEW YORK DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH. THESE PREMISES ARE UNDER STATE QUARANTINE REGULATIONS. SLEEPING SICKNESS: KEEP OUT.

The streets of Chinatown seemed charged, the scent of iron before the storm.

The doors to the quarantined building opened. Masked members of the Chinese Benevolent Association dragged infected bedding into a nearby alley, where other men waited with pails of water. They set the bedding alight. Everyone stopped to watch it burn. The wind blew soot into Ling’s eyes. She turned her head away from the flames and gritty air and, for a second, she saw George, chalk-pale, without a coat, standing just beyond the crowd on the edge of Columbus Park. Ling rubbed at her tearing eyes, and when she opened them again, there was no sign of George anywhere.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it?” Lee Fan had sidled up next to Ling. They watched as the men in masks doused the fire with the pails of water.

“Yes,” Ling said, trying not to cough at the acrid air.

Lee Fan smiled at Ling’s mother. “I’ll walk Ling to church, Mrs. Chan. She and I have so much to catch up on!”

Mrs. Chan smiled. “Well, that’s awfully nice of you, Lee Fan. You’ve a good soul.”

You are leaving me with the Devil! Ling wanted to shout after her mother.

Lee Fan waited until Ling’s mother had moved several paces ahead. She looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Did you speak to my grandmother?”

Lee Fan could call herself Lulu and dress like a flapper, but Ling knew that, deep inside, Lee Fan carried the same superstitions, the same fears about offending ancestors, as those around her. It was a thread of obligation sewn into the lining of all of them. It bound them tight.

Ling nodded, and Lee Fan’s face lit up. “Well, what did she say? Does she know what happened to my dress? Or did she have something even more important to tell me? Did she mention Tom Kee or a wedding date? Did she have any advice for me at all?”

“Yes” was all Ling said. She’d decided to make “Lulu” work for it.

“Well? What was it?” Lee Fan demanded.

Ling could’ve told her anything: Shave your head and live as a nun. Give me the blue dress. Every morning at dawn, you are to leave three shelled walnuts on a linen napkin for the squirrels of Columbus Park.