“One, four, four,” the boy said. “One, four, four,” he repeated, louder.
That couldn’t be right. One, four, four was the number Isaiah had given him the last time, and it had done very nicely for Bill. But odds weren’t good that it would be a winner again so soon. “You sure you seeing that right, little man? Look close—”
“One, four, four! One, four, four! Ghosts on the road! Gonna come for us. Ghosts on the road. Ghosts on the road, Ghosts on the road…”
God Almighty, his skin burned! The boy had a grip on him but good. Bill couldn’t break it. “I-sai-ah…” he grunted, biting down on his back teeth.
“The snake and the tree and the ghosts on the road. The man, the man, the man in the hat is coming.…”
Isaiah’s body started to twitch and jerk. Another few seconds and it’d be too much. With a yelp, Bill broke the grip, catching the boy in his arms as he fell.
“Easy now, easy now,” Bill said, though Isaiah was beyond hearing. He put a hand on the boy’s chest. The rise and fall of his breathing was a relief, and a moment later, Isaiah’s voice called out, a little sleepy, “Mr. Johnson?”
“I’m right here, little man. Your Uncle Bill’s here. You all right?”
“Mm-hmm. Did I have another fit?” the boy asked, and Bill could hear the fear in his voice as he came around.
“Nah. Weren’t no fit. Just… when you see that other world, it’s like you go to sleep for a bit. That’s all. Just a little sleep. No harm in it. How you feel now?”
“Fine. A little tired, though.”
“But you ’member what I told you now, ’bout this being our secret?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you ain’t gonna tell nobody that we practicing till you can show ’em all how good you got?”
“No, sir!” The boy sounded light, happy, like a horse that had finally gotten to run wild.
“Not even your brother.”
A slight pause. “He’s never around, anyway.”
“Don’t you worry—I’m here now, son. Right by your side.”
The boy took his hand as they exited the mausoleum. Bill hugged him close and patted his shoulder just so.
“What say we go get us some ice cream down to Mr. Reggie’s, then?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Now. Tell me: Who’s somethin’ special?”
“I am,” Isaiah said quietly.
“You sure about that, now? Don’t sound so sure,” Bill teased, and this time the boy came back with a resounding “I am! I am!” that startled the birds into squawking flight.
“Lead the way, son.”
One, four, four. Bill would play the number again, see if it came up lucky a second time.
“Mr. Johnson?” Isaiah asked as they left the graveyard, hand in hand, walking toward the center of Harlem against a bracing, biting wind.
“Yes, little man?”
“Who is Guillaume?”
On the bus ride to the Seward Park Library, Ling’s thoughts were on the previous night’s dream walk. She pressed her fingers to the bus windows, feeling the cold glass and thinking of how those same fingers had transformed the dreamscape, shifting its atoms toward something new and full of energy. It had made her aware of the universe she carried inside, of the ways in which she was both wave and particle, always in flux, always changing. It had all been magical, except for that strange moment with the tunnel and Wai-Mae’s warning. Surely, there had to be a scientific explanation for the bursts of light and sound coming from that tunnel, some energy source worth exploring? No ghosts Ling had ever spoken to behaved in that manner.
Mrs. Belpre, the librarian, smiled at Ling when she arrived at the library, asking how Ling had liked the books and recommending others. Ling asked if she knew anything about a matchmaking outfit called O’Bannion and Lee, but Mrs. Belpre shook her head.
“And how is your friend George?” she asked in hushed tones.
“The same,” Ling said.
“I hope he wakes up soon,” Mrs. Belpre said, patting Ling’s hand.
Ling vaguely recalled bits of last night’s dream she’d had about George. Dreams were symbols. Puzzle pieces. For the life of her, she couldn’t quite put this one together yet. There had been something about George in the train station.
The train station. That was curious.
When Ling dream walked, she could read words quite clearly. In actual dreaming, though, she never really could. The words blurred or her mind drifted elsewhere. But last night—yes, she remembered now!—she had been able to read perfectly: BEACH PNEUMATIC TRANSIT COMPANY. On impulse, Ling made her way to the card catalog, flipping through until she came to an entry that excited her. There it was on the card, in black and white: Beach Pneumatic Transit Company.
