Lair of Dreams

“I had to try. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any luck. Whatever dreams he’s having are out of my reach. Have you had any walks lately that seemed as if the person dreaming was ill somehow?”


“No. All my dreams have been beautiful. But I will pray for your friend, George Huang.” Wai-Mae gave Ling a shy sideways glance. “And you and I are becoming friends, too, aren’t we?”

Ling wasn’t sure that you could call someone you’d only met inside a dream a true friend. But Wai-Mae was on her way to New York, and for a moment, Ling imagined how fun it would be to parade past Lee Fan and Gracie with Wai-Mae, knowing that they shared an incredible secret all their own, something far beyond Gracie’s and Lee Fan’s limited comprehension.

“Yes,” Ling answered. “I suppose we are.”

Wai-Mae smiled. “I am so happy! What would you like to do now, friend?”

Ling took in the wide, sparkling streets of the village, the misty forest, and the purple mountains just beyond it all. It was all there waiting for her to explore, to claim, as if there were no limits. For just a little while, she wanted to be free.

“Let’s run,” she said.





On the path, Henry smelled gardenia and woodsmoke. He heard Gaspard barking, and that was enough to make him run the rest of the way. Splinters of summer-gold sunshine pierced the soft white flesh of the clouds above the bayou, shining down on Louis, who waved from the front porch, a fishing pole hoisted onto his shoulder, Gaspard at his feet.

“Henri!” He grinned. “Hurry up! Fish are bitin’!”

The old blue rowboat bobbed on the water. Another fishing pole leaned against the side, along with a battered metal pail knotted with a length of thick rope. Henry took a seat on one side, and Louis sat opposite him, paddling them down the river. When they came to a shady spot, he and Henry cast their lines and waited.

“Just like old times,” Henry said.

The rowboat rocked gently on the current as Henry told Louis about meeting Theta and their life at the Bennington and with the Ziegfeld Follies, the songs Henry was writing and trying to publish, the nightclubs and the parties.

“Maybe you got yourself a fancy New York fella now,” Louis said, keeping his eyes on the fishing pole.

There had been other boys, definitely. But none of them was Louis.

“Louis, I want to see you,” Henry said. “Come to New York. You’d love it! I’d take you to the Follies and up to Harlem to the jazz clubs. And Louis, there are places for fellows like us. Places where we can be together, where we can hold hands and dance and kiss without hiding. It isn’t like Louisiana.”

“Always did want to see the big city. It true they got alligators in the sewers?”

“No.” Henry laughed. “But the swells have got alligator bags at the parties.”

“Well, I surely would like to see that.”

Henry’s grin was short-lived. “But where should I send the train ticket? If my letters didn’t reach you at Celeste’s, then there’s no guarantee we can trust somebody to deliver it.”

Louis rubbed his chin, thinking. “Got a cousin—Johnny Babineaux—works over at the post office in Lafayette Square. You can send it care o’ him there.”

“I’ll buy the ticket tomorrow, first thing!” Tears welled up in Henry’s eyes. “I was afraid I’d never see you again.”

“Well, I guess you got to pick something else to be afraid of, then,” Louis said.

More than anything, Henry wanted to hold Louis. Two years was a very long time. He couldn’t stand another minute of separation. He reached for Louis’s hand, and this time, nothing stood between them. Louis’s fingers, which Henry hadn’t felt in far too long, were still wet and cold from the river. Fighting the ache in the back of his throat, Henry ran a finger across Louis’s cheeks and nose, resting it against his full lips.

“Kiss me, cher,” Louis whispered.

Henry leaned forward and kissed him. Louis’s lips were warm and soft. Henry had been telling himself, This is not real. It’s only a dream. But now he stopped telling himself that. It felt real enough. And if dreams could be like this, well, he wasn’t sure he wanted to wake up. Henry kissed Louis again, harder this time, and the sky lit up with a strange sort of lightning. The tops of the trees unraveled slightly; the sun flickered like a lamp with a short.

“What was that?” Henry said, breaking away.

“Don’t know. You’re the dream man,” Louis said. But then Louis was pulling Henry down into the bottom of the rowboat, where they lay in each other’s arms, lulled into contentment by the sun and the breeze and the gentle lapping of the river.

“I won’t ever leave you again, Louis,” Henry said.

When the dream walk neared its end, Henry could barely stand to wrench himself away from Louis. “I’ll be here every night until you’re in New York,” he promised.