A group of bright young things marched arm in arm down the street, laughing and carefree, and Ling was reminded of a dream walk she’d taken a few months ago. In it, she’d suddenly found herself face-to-face with a blond flapper. The girl was clearly asleep, but she also seemed aware of Ling, and Ling had felt both drawn to and afraid of this girl, as if they were long-lost relatives having a chance meeting.
“You shouldn’t be here! Wake up!” Ling had yelled. And then, suddenly, Ling had tumbled down through dream space until she came to rest in a forest where ghostly soldiers shimmered in the spaces between the trees. On their sleeves, they wore a strange symbol: a golden sun of an eye shedding a jagged lightning-bolt tear. Ling often spoke to the dead in dreams, but these men weren’t like any dead she had known.
“What do you want?” she’d asked them, afraid.
“Help us,” they said, and then the sky exploded with light.
Since then, Ling had dreamed of that symbol a few times. She didn’t know what it meant. But she now knew who the blond girl was. Everyone in New York did: the Sweetheart Seer.
Feeling a mixture of envy and resentment, she watched the laughing partygoers walk away, then let herself into her building. Ling stole into her room and deposited Lee Fan’s two dollars into the cigar-box college fund she kept hidden in a drawer under her slips. The two dollars joined the one hundred twenty-five she’d already collected.
In the parlor, Ling’s uncle Eddie was asleep in his favorite chair. One of his Chinese opera records had come to the end on the phonograph. Ling lifted the needle and covered her uncle with a blanket. Her mother was still at a church quilting bee, and her father would be another hour at the restaurant. This meant Ling finally had control of the radio. Soon, the comforting hum of the Philco warming up chased away Ling’s unease. An announcer’s voice burbled through the speakers, growing louder.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of our listening audience. It’s precisely nine o’clock and time for the Pears Soap Hour featuring that fabulous Flapper of Fate, the Sweetheart Seer—Miss Evie O’Neill.…”
“… Miss Evie O’Neill!”
The announcer, a tall man with a thin mustache, lowered his script. Behind the glass of the control booth, an engineer pointed to a quartet of male singers back in the studio, who crooned into their microphone:
“She’s the apple of the Big Apple’s eye.
She’s finer—Diviner—and we know why.
She’s the Sweetheart Seer of W… G… I!”
“Yes, gifted with talents from beyond,” the announcer purred over the soft hum of the quartet. “A Diviner, she calls herself, like those soothsayers of old, but a modern girl, through and through. Who knew that such gifts lived in the heart of Manhattan—and in the heavenly form of a pretty pixie of a girl?”
“Oh, Evie, won’t you tell us true?
What would fate have us do?
Whether watch or hat or band,
You hold our secrets in your hand.
Revealing mysteries pulled from the sky!
You’re the Sweetheart Seer of W… G… I!”
The orchestra rested. Script in hand, Evie stepped up to her microphone and chirped into it: “Hello, everyone. This is Evie O’Neill, the Sweetheart Seer, ready to gaze into the great beyond and tell you your deepest secrets. So I certainly hope you’ve got something pos-i-tute-ly scandalous for me tonight!”
“Why, Miss O’Neill!” the announcer sputtered.
The audience chuckled, covering the sound of Evie and Mr. Forman turning the pages of their scripts.
“Oh, now, don’t you cast a kitten, Mr. Forman,” Evie reassured him in her upbeat tone. “For if anything can clear away the dirt of scandal, it’s Pears soap. Why, no soap on earth is finer for cleaning up a mess than Pears!”
“On that we can agree, Miss O’Neill. If you value your complexion, Pears soap is the only soap you will ever need. It’s—”
“Gee, are you going to talk all night, Mr. Forman? Or can I do a little divining for these fine folks?” Evie teased.
The audience chuckled again, right on cue.
“Very well, Miss O’Neill. Let’s take our first guest, shall we? Mrs. Charles Rutherford, I believe you have something you wish to share?”
“Yes, I do!” Mrs. Rutherford rose from her seat, smoothing her dress on her way to Evie, though there was no one to see it beyond those in the small room. “I’ve brought this money clip.”
“Welcome, Mrs. Rutherford. Thank you for coming on the Pears Soap Hour with the Sweetheart Seer—Pears, the soap of purity. Now, Mrs. Rutherford, tell Miss O’Neill nothing of your object. She will divine your secrets using her talents from beyond the veil.”
“So if there’s anything you haven’t told Mr. Rutherford, you might want to let him know now,” Evie joked. It was a little naughty, but naughty kept people listening.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Rutherford tittered.
“And to whom does that money clip belong?” Evie asked.
Mrs. Rutherford blushed. “This… well, it… it’s my husband’s.”
Evie didn’t have to be a Diviner to know that. Married women almost always wanted to know about their husbands and whether they were stepping out.
“Now, Mrs. Rutherford, one doll to another: What’s the story?”
“Well, you see, Charles has been so very busy lately, at the office every night with only his secretary for company, and I, I worry that…”
Evie nodded sympathetically. “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Rutherford. We’ll soon get to the bottom of this. If you would place the object in the center of my right palm, please. Thank you.” With a magician’s flair, Evie placed her left hand on top of her right and pressed down, allowing the money clip to yield its secrets to her.
“Oh, dear me,” Evie said, coming out of her light trance.
“What is it? What do you see?” Mrs. Rutherford fretted.
“I don’t know if I should say, Mrs. Rutherford,” Evie said, drawing out the tension for the radio audience.
“Please, Miss O’Neill, if there’s something I should know…”
“Well…” Evie’s tone was grave. “You do know that the objects never lie.”
An anticipatory murmur spread through the studio audience. I’ve got them! Evie thought. She lowered her head as if she were a doctor delivering grim news. “Your husband and his secretary are in cahoots, all right.…” Head still bowed, Evie waited, counting off silently—two, three—and then she looked up, grinning triumphantly. “To plan your birthday party!”
The audience responded with relieved laughter and thunderous applause.
“Now it won’t be a surprise any longer, I’m afraid,” Evie said. “You’ll have to act like a Dumb Dora about it. And that goes for all of you folks listening in, too!”
“Thank you! Oh, thank you, Miss O’Neill!”
The announcer stepped up to his microphone again as Mrs. Rutherford was escorted back to her seat. “Let’s give a warm round of applause to the brave Mrs. Rutherford.”