Wai-Mae smiled at Ling. “I am so grateful that I have you.”
Ling looked into Wai-Mae’s endless brown eyes, and she felt the dream stirring inside her, shifting her molecules, rearranging her atoms, transforming her into something new and beautiful. It made her dizzy.
“What is it, sister?” Wai-Mae asked.
“Nothing,” Ling said, catching her breath. “Nothing.”
“Soon I will be in New York,” Wai-Mae said, a smile lighting up her face. “We will go to your uncle’s opera, or perhaps even Booth’s Theatre. And on Sundays, we can promenade like fine ladies in our very best bonnets. Oh, such fun we’ll have, Ling!”
“No one wears a bonnet,” Ling said, trying not to giggle.
“My village is very small,” Wai-Mae said, embarrassed. “You will show me what’s fashionable.”
“If I’m showing you what’s fashionable, you’re in trouble,” Ling said, feeling chastened for teasing Wai-Mae.
“We will be like sisters,” Wai-Mae said.
“Yes,” Ling murmured. But what she wanted to say as the pearl-white flowers shook down from the low branch of a blooming dogwood tree was No. We will be friends. True friends. Best friends.
“Come, dear Ling,” Wai-Mae said, jumping up and offering her hand.
And they passed the hours dancing under skies so shimmery blue it hurt to look up.
In the city of six million dreams, Evie and Sam were the dreamiest. New York couldn’t get enough of the newest gossip sensation. Everywhere they went, they were mobbed: Sitting ringside at the fights. Posed beside a millionaire’s champion horse at a Long Island stable. Dining in the elegant Cascades Room of the Biltmore Hotel beside an orderly row of potted cherry trees. Watching Bye, Bye, Bonnie at the Ritz Theatre. Stepping out of Texas Guinan’s infamous 300 Club with confetti in their hair or skating on the frozen pond in Central Park. Fans clustered outside the radio station and the Winthrop Hotel and even the museum hoping for a glimpse of New York’s latest golden couple. Nightclubs vied for their patronage. Gifts small and large arrived by messenger in boxes thick with tissue paper—“A token of our ‘divine’ affection!”—and inside would be a brooch or cuff links and a promise of the establishment’s best table on any night Sam ’n’ Evie would care to grace them with their presence and, oh, perhaps the Sweetheart Seer would be kind enough to mention their establishment fondly on the radio or in the papers?
Letters poured in by the thousands. The Daily News posted a picture of the adorable sweethearts in Mr. Phillips’s majestic office, buried up to their necks in fan mail. Radio Star listed Evie’s “Tips for Savvy Shebas,” which included “Never leave the house without rouging your knees” and “Keep your enemies close, and your flask closer.” Thanks to the two of them, WGI was fast becoming the number one radio station in the nation. A line stretched around the block from WGI to get in to Evie’s show.
She loved every minute of it.
“And don’t forget, darlings,” she reminded listeners. “Sam and I will be hosting the opening-night party for the Diviners exhibit at the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult next week. If you buy a raffle ticket, you can win a free object reading performed by yours truly.”
On the West Side of Manhattan lay a congested strip of real estate called Radio Row where an enterprising sort could purchase radio parts of all kinds, from the commonplace to the hard-to-find. What Sam sought now was very hard to find, indeed. It was all he thought about as he walked up Cortlandt Street, past stores blaring music and competing sidewalk salesmen trying to entice passersby with the siren’s call of the newest, most expensive models: “Brand-new crystal set!” “Westinghouse—it’s all electric!” “Radiola means quality!” “Trust Cunningham tubes—they’re insured!” “Sound so clear you could go next door and not miss a note through the wall!”
Sam stepped inside a dark showroom, past the boring suburban mom-and-pops admiring the showroom wares, carefully avoiding eye contact with overeager salesmen readying their smooth pitches. He kept his head down on his way to the sales counter, hoping he wouldn’t be recognized. At the counter, a mustachioed man with slicked-back hair finished writing up a sales slip and smiled at Sam. “Could I interest you in a new radio today, sir? We’ve the newest models in stock—six-, eight-, and ten-tube circuits.”
“What I really need is a Buffalo tube. But so far, I haven’t had much luck finding it. I understand Mr. Arnold carries them?” Sam said, sliding over a folded note attached to a five-dollar bill he’d lifted from a wallet on the way over.
The man’s smile vanished. “Mr. Arnold, you say?”
“Yes. Ben Arnold. That’s the fella.”
“Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?” The man disappeared behind a heavy drape at the back of the store. A few minutes later, he returned. “It seems that we don’t have that part right now, sir. It has been ordered.” The man returned Sam’s note minus the five dollars. “This is your receipt of purchase. But I’m afraid this is the last time Mr. Arnold can order this part for you, sir. Your particular model is very… popular at present. A bit too popular, if you take my meaning.”
Sam grimaced. Sam ’n’ Evie. The spotlight from their cooked-up romance was throwing a little too much glare on Sam’s private life.
“Pal, I hear you like a crystal set,” Sam said.
Out on the street, he opened the note. A key had been taped to the inside. There was no accompanying information. A salesman waved Sam over. “Could I interest you in a Zenith six-tube model with superior musical tone? It’s fully electric!”
“Thanks, pal. So am I,” Sam shouted. He shoved the note and key in his pocket, walking away from the cacophony of Radio Row toward the rumble of the Ninth Avenue El.
Down the street, the men in the brown sedan watched it all.
Every day, the newspapers carried bold warnings about the sleeping sickness.
New York’s health commissioner encouraged citizens to wash their hands frequently, to clean homes daily, and to avoid large crowds, especially open-air markets, protests, and workers’ rallies. Citizens needed to keep clear of buildings plastered with yellow quarantine posters. For the time being, they advised people not to travel to Chinatown or “foreign neighborhoods.” Some parents petitioned to have Chinese students barred from the classroom. Letters to the editor blamed the scourge on immigrants, jazz, loose morals, the flouting of Prohibition, bobbed hair, the automobile, and anarchists. Lawmakers argued about whether to add yet another brick in the ever-rising legislative wall of the Chinese Exclusion Act. They called for a return to traditional American morals and old-time religion. On the radio, Sarah Snow exhorted her followers to turn away from jazz babies and give themselves over to Jesus. Afterward, an announcer assured listeners that “Pears soap is the one to keep your family safe and healthy and free from exotic disease.”
In Chinatown, a large rock painted with a message—CHINESE GO HOME!—shattered the front window of Chong & Sons, Jewelers. An arsonist’s fire gutted the Wing Sing restaurant overnight; Mr. Wing stood in the softly falling wisps of soot-flecked snow, his sober face backlit by the orange glow as he watched everything he’d built burn to the ground. Police broke up social club meetings and even a banquet celebrating the birth of Yuen Hong’s first son. The mayor refused to allow the Chinese New Year celebrations to go on out of fears for public health. In protest, the Chinese Benevolent Association organized a march down Centre Street to City Hall, where the protestors were ordered to disperse or face arrest and possible deportation. The streets smelled of pork and winter, ash from the burnings and incense from the prayers offered to ancestors they hoped would look favorably upon them in this hour. On every street, red plaques appeared outside buildings to guide the dead back home. Talcum powder dusted the thresholds; entrances were watched for signs of ghosts.