He released her, and she fell limply against the bridge of the chair. “You belong to me. I decide what happens to you.”
He turned his back and walked around his desk, leaving her shaking.
“Don’t you worry,” Archie said. “The Dreamland will reopen soon. You’ll get your chance on the big stage. Then you’ll be back at Miss Hattie’s by Valentine’s Day.” He smiled, the sadness returning to his eyes. “You’re too much of a crowd-pleaser, Honoree. Too much of a showgirl. I could never give you up for too long.”
He wiped his Chaplin mustache with a finger. “Go on, now, girlie. Skedaddle. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 20
SAWYER
Monday, June 22, 2015
Five o’clock in the morning, I lie in bed, blinking at the laser-bright light coming from the nightstand and the stream of pings coming from my phone. Without looking, I know the text messages blowing up my cell are from my father. It’s midday in Paris, but the man is oblivious to time zones.
He’s lost any polite concern over waking me. Although, I have not slept in over a year—and likely neither has he, but still.
Another ping.
Should I give the old man a break and reply to his text? If I don’t respond, he’ll be on the next flight from Paris to Chicago—or flapping his arms and proving, once and for all, that man can fly.
Sitting upright, I switch on the lamp on the nightstand, pick up my cell, and read the messages.
Dad: You awake? How was your flight? How’s California?
Me: I’m not in California. I’m in Chicago for a few days, doing some research for the film.
Dad: I know several curators at the Chicago History Museum who could help you.
Me: I’m cross-referencing some facts on Micheaux and Armstrong in the 1920s. Final-pass stuff. I don’t need help.
Should I tell him about Honoree? Or the crate in Maggie’s attic? He might already know about it, but he and Maggie were never close, not even when my mother was alive.
Me: I am interviewing a 110-year-old-woman who knew Micheaux. Can you believe it?
I wait for the dots—but see nothing.
Me: She’s the last of a kind. No one else is around who remembers the 1920s—at least no one I know. And she’s lucid—has all her wits about her.
The dots. Then finally . . .
Dad: Can you trust what she’s telling you? Doesn’t sound like someone I’d want to stake my thesis on.
“Not your thesis, Dad,” I say aloud, but I don’t type those words.
Dad: I hope she doesn’t disappoint you. I would hate for you to spend the summer being led down a primrose path.
What in the hell is a primrose path?
Me: I know what I’m doing.
Dots.
Dad: Have you been in touch with your adviser? If the elderly woman doesn’t pan out, let me know, and I’ll put you in touch with some professional researchers.
Dig. Dig. Dig. Why can’t he ease up? What’s his deal? Drilling me about this, that, or the other. Back off.
“You back off,” I say, staring at the screen of my cell.
