Lair of Dreams

“You’ll be sorry when I’m famous,” Henry said. He waved to the still-giggling girls at the window and carried on.

Nothing could dampen his good mood, not even the long wait for the ticket agent at Grand Central Terminal. As he watched the hustle and bustle around him, Henry tried to imagine Louis’s expression as he stood for the first time beside the lighted ball of the Grand Central clock, surrounded by more people than he had ever seen on the riverboats. Louis was finally coming to New York. They could be together. That thought buoyed Henry further as he approached the ticket agent’s window.

“I need one ticket from New Orleans, Louisiana, to Grand Central Terminal, please,” Henry said.

“You want the New York and New Orleans Limited,” the ticket agent said.

“N’awlins Lim’ted, speed my baby down the track, my love won’t wait till he… she gets back,” Henry sang softly, making up the words on the spot.

“You want a ticket or a booking agent, kid?”

Henry handed over the collection of crumpled bills he’d taken from Theta’s coffee-can piano fund. She’d be pretty sore when she found out he’d dipped into it. But he’d promised Louis a ticket, and besides, Theta would want him to be happy. She’d understand. The piano fund could be rebuilt in a few months’ time, and all would be forgiven.

“You need a return ticket?” the agent asked.

Henry smiled. “Not if I’m lucky.”

At the post office, Henry packed the train ticket, his letter, and a photograph of him in his best suit standing arm in arm with Theta outside the New Amsterdam Theatre into an envelope. His stomach gave a small flip as the postal clerk stamped the words Par Avion on the front of the envelope, inking Henry’s hope into it. He couldn’t wait until tonight, when he could see Louis again and tell him the good news.

Still whistling “Rivière Rouge,” Henry headed home, happier than he’d been in ages. He had a few hours left before Theta’s press conference and the surprise the two of them had cooked up. But on his way through the Bennington lobby, Adelaide Proctor came toward him, calling his name somewhat urgently, and his stomach sank.

“Afternoon, Miss Proctor,” Henry said, pressing the elevator button. “Please do forgive me. I’m afraid I’m in an awful rush—”

“Oh, but Mr. DuBois, I’ve been having the most dreadful dreams about you.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it, Miss Proctor. But as you can see, I’m just fine.”

“No. No, I don’t believe you are, young man. Don’t you hear the crying? Oh, do be careful, Mr. DuBois!”

“Adelaide!” Miss Lillian called from the other side of the lobby. “We’ll be late!”

The elevator arrived and Henry leaped on, eager to make his escape. “Please don’t worry on my account, Miss Proctor. Good day to you!” he said, his thoughts already on his music and Louis and dreams that were all good.

“Addie!” Miss Lillian shouted again, impatient.

But Adelaide Proctor still stood in the lobby looking very afraid. And as the elevator gate closed, she called to Henry one last time: “Mr. DuBois: Anthony Orange Cross. Beware, beware, Paradise Square.”

A chill prickled along Henry’s neck as the elevator carried him up.





Henry got off the elevator with a feeling of unease. How did Adelaide Proctor know about Paradise Square and Anthony Orange Cross? He didn’t recall ever walking in her dreams or seeing her in one of his. When he had more time, he’d stop in and ask.

Henry stretched, feeling the tightness in his muscles. They ached a bit, like he’d been exercising all night. In a way, he supposed he had been. Hadn’t he and Louis gone fishing? But it was strange to feel it today in his body. In fact, he was exhausted. And no sooner had Henry sprawled into his favorite chair than his eyelids fluttered closed and he was fast asleep.

The dream started in his house back in New Orleans. Henry’s father sat at a long table. He wore the powdered wig of a Puritan judge.

“You will never see that boy again,” his father said.

Henry turned and ran through the cemetery, which was carpeted in morning glories. His mother’s porous saints moved their stone lips in unison: “They never should’ve done it.”

The morning glories climbed up Henry’s legs, the vines tightening around his muscles.

“Let me go!” Henry screamed.

All at once, he found himself in a squalid room filled with opium smoke where half-dressed men lay about with glassy-eyed prostitutes. Henry heard the jangling tinkle of an old music box. He followed the sound around the corner and saw the veiled woman sitting on a pallet, turning the crank and crying very softly. She was small and delicate and young, not much older than Henry was. He could feel her anguish, and he wished he could take her out of this terrible place. He drew closer.

“Miss,” Henry suggested, “why don’t you have a different dream? A happy dream?”