Lair of Dreams

“For some Americans.”

“Mr. Woodhouse, that may not be a cold you have. You may be allergic to the notion of hard work and success.”

The crowd responded with a round of laughter, applause, and shouts of “Hear, hear!” With the sun streaming down on him like a William Blake painting, Jake Marlowe strode through the pressing masses, shaking hands with the people now calling his name like a wish.

“Hold on!” Henry yelled to Ling as Marlowe moved closer to them. Henry waved wildly. “Mr. Marlowe! Mr. Marlowe! Please, sir!” he shouted. “This is one of your biggest admirers, Miss Ling Chan! She’s a scientist, like you!”

“Henry!” Ling whispered, embarrassed.

“Is that so?” Mr. Marlowe said.

Ling’s heart beat quickly as the spectators cleared the way and Jake Marlowe came closer. Unlike other people, his gaze didn’t go automatically to her braces and crutches. He looked her straight in the eyes as he bowed.

“Well, then. I am pleased to meet you, Miss Chan. Will you be coming to the fair, then?” Marlowe asked.

“I… I hope so. Sir.”

Marlowe laughed. “You don’t sound too sure about it. Here. Let me make it easier.” He reached into his pocket and wrote something on a sheet of paper, then handed it to her.

“Excuse me, can we get a picture for the papers?” T. S. Woodhouse asked and gestured to the news photographer in the clearing.

“Hold it!” the photographer shouted from behind the curtain of his camera. The flash erupted with a puff of gray smoke, immortalizing Henry, Ling, and her hero in silver gelatin. “Thank you.”

“See you in the spring, Miss Chan,” Mr. Marlowe said and moved on.

“What’s it say? What’s it say?” Henry asked, angling for a better look at the paper in Ling’s hands.

“‘IOU Miss Ling Chan—two free tickets to the Future of America Exhibition,’” Ling read. At the bottom was Marlowe’s signature. She now had Jake Marlowe’s autograph.

Ling looked ready to faint or vomit. “I talked to Jake Marlowe,” she said, incredulous. “This is his signature.”

“Well, it was nothing, really,” Henry said. “No, please! No more gratitude! Your happiness is thanks enough.”

“Thank you, Henry,” Ling said.

“Shucks. ’Tweren’t nothing.”

Ling beamed, holding the piece of paper like a sacred object. “Jake Marlowe touched this!” she said, and it was as close to a squeal as she’d ever come.

“Why, Miss Chan,” Henry drawled. “I believe you are pos-i-tute-ly smitten.”

T. S. Woodhouse turned and squeezed his way through the throngs of smiling, optimistic people happy to have something to be happy about.

On the way across the muddy field, he was surprised to see Dr. Fitzgerald’s assistant, Jericho Jones. He vaguely remembered hearing some scuttlebutt that Will Fitzgerald and the inventor had been friends at one point, past tense. If he’d sent Jericho to mend fences, Marlowe’s comments about Diviners surely wouldn’t do anything to help.

At the edge of the park, white-capped nurses in starched uniforms passed out flyers to the people coming to hear Jake Marlowe paint a bright future for them. “Examinations today in the Fitter Family tent,” they called. “Free of charge.” A Negro couple walked in, but no one handed them a flyer. In fact, the nurse pretended not to see them at all, passing one to the white family behind them instead.

Woodhouse sneezed into his handkerchief again.

“Gesundheit,” said a pretty nurse.

Woodhouse smiled at her. “Gee, thanks. I feel cured already.”

“Here. Have one.” The nurse handed him a pamphlet:

Could you be an exceptional American? Do you exhibit unusual gifts? Have you ever had unexplained dreams of the future or the past? Have you or anyone in your family had a visitation from spirits from beyond? The Eugenics Society administers tests to likely candidates free of charge.

There was an address at the bottom.

Woodhouse knew he was anything but exceptional, unless there was a test for cleverness. Or survival.

“I’ll pass this along to any likely candidates,” he said, tipping his hat. He passed through the Fitter Family tent, smiling at a couple of siblings squawking over who got to go first until they saw the nurse holding the syringe, and then they fell quiet. He peeked through the crack of a curtain at a table where a pretty nurse asked a woman and her teenage daughter a series of questions. “… I see. And have you ever seen in your dreams an otherworldly being, a tall man in a stovepipe hat, perhaps accompanied by a host of crows?”