Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet (11 page)

Ye Who Are Cursed

A small spotlight snaps on. Dust mites tango along the beam of light that cuts across the dark tent, illuminating the tattooed body of the sideshow talker. He stands silent for a moment, allowing the audience to get an eyeful of the decimated castle splashed across him. His pet rat sits obediently on his shoulder and nuzzles his neck. Crumbly Pete's lips curl into a wide, alligator smile.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you know me. And I know you. I know you didn't trek all the way out here to Coney Island to see some overfed princess riding a tricycle in a tutu. You are a discerning audience, and you want the best. You want to see the
true
freaks, the ones that chill the heart of the Almighty himself. And that's what we're going to give you. Ladies and gentlemen, the Captivating Congress of Unusuals presents ‘Robert or Roberta?: Half Man, Half Woman, All Freak!'”

The audience applauds, and Rosalind enters in complete darkness. He sits sideways on a stool for a moment, letting the anticipation build. A man in the audience coughs.

Rosalind takes a handheld lighter, made for him by Timur, and lights a long sparkler, made for him by Enzo. The sparkler hisses, shooting tiny stars in every direction.

Seated sideways, only his male half is exposed to the audience. Rosalind pushes his voice into a lower register and slathers on a thick Southern accent. “My name is Robert Percy,” he intones. “I am the seventh son of Colonel Kintzing Percy, who was himself the seventh son of Ephraim Percy. Before I was born, my father served under Robert E. Lee in the War for Southern Independence. His finest moment came during the Spotsylvania campaign. When the battle was over, thirty thousand boys lay sprawled across those Virginia fields.” Rosalind arches his male brow. “Far more of
your
boys, of course, than ours.”

The sparkler slowly burns down, and the audience leans forward to study Rosalind's deviant profile. Another cough rings out, followed by a sharp “Shh!”

“When the war ended, my family, which then numbered six boys plus my mother, headed west to begin a new life in San Francisco.”

“Good riddance!” someone calls out.

Rosalind smiles—he has them right where he wants them. He glances quickly at the sparkler to gauge the timing of his spiel. “One day, my mother discovered that she was again with child. A surprise, given her age. She knew this was her last opportunity to obtain what she had always wanted…a daughter. She had already produced six children—all of them boys. Her body, it seemed, had been designed by God to produce ever more sons of the South. What was she to do? How could she ensure the birth of the daughter she desired so desperately? She searched everywhere for answers.”

The sparkler burns low, and the stage grows dimmer. Rosalind feels the audience's attention on him like a caress.

“In Chinatown, she purchased a lotion made from sea horse oil. You see, the sea horse male raises its young and is thus believed to contain mystical feminine properties. For months, my mother rubbed the sea horse oil on her expanding belly. And she waited.”

With a final hiss, the sparkler goes out. The audience holds its breath, waiting to see what monster emerged from the traitorous mother's womb. Rosalind lets them wonder.

The tense silence is broken by the coughing man, followed by a woman's voice: “Will you please stop that!”

“Sorry, ma'am, can't help it,” the cougher whispers.

“At the very least,” the woman snarls, “you might cover your mouth!”

Rosalind groans inwardly. All that effort expended on building tension for his big reveal, and it's being ruined by squabbling. Nothing to be done, of course—just keep going. He pivots on his stool to face the audience and whispers to the darkness. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is said that we must be careful what we wish for, because we may get it. But what is not said, what my mother learned, is that we must be careful what we wish for, because we may only get…
half
.”

He claps twice, and Pete turns on the spotlight. The crowd gasps at the full Rosalind—left side Southern belle, right side Southern gentleman. On the left, half an ample bosom slopes outward and then down to half an hourglass waist. On the right, half a male chest is barely contained by a too-tight tuxedo jacket. Rosalind wears half a fake mustache on one side of his face. On the other, theatrical women's makeup emphasizes his features, creating the illusion that the female half of his face is slightly larger than the male.

“It was the will of God that my mother raise seven sons,” he intones. “
This
is what happens when we deny God's will.”

Rosalind cools his feminine side with an elaborate lady's fan. He offers to entertain questions from the thunderstruck audience.

Leaning on the spotlight, Pete grins. Most of the Captivating Congress is merely strange or vulgar. Rosalind manages to be both strange
and
vulgar—also beautiful and somehow terrifying, all at once.

Milo the Goat Boy taps Pete on the shoulder. “Cops outside,” he whispers.

“Goddamn it. Really?” Pete sighs. “All right.” Pete sneaks behind the audience to a hidden area of the tent where the performers change and await their turns onstage. He pokes his head through the curtain.

Amelia the Fat Lady sits at the mirror, combing her hair.

“Hey,” Pete says. “We're gettin' raided.”

She groans, annoyed. As Coney Island becomes increasingly respectable, scandalous shows like the Captivating Congress are getting pushed out. But Pete has always been able to talk the right people—or, more likely, frighten them—into allowing the Congress to continue. “Pete,” Amelia complains, “I thought you worked out a deal with—”

“Apparently it's off.” Pete heads for the tent's main entrance, trying to remember if he has enough cash in the till to make this problem go away.

Lifting the tent's flap, he expects to see a few beat cops on the take. Instead, he's confronted with four men in nondescript tan uniforms with what look like potato sacks over their heads, goggles sewn into the front.

“Gotta interrupt your little show,” says their leader, his voice muffled from inside his hood.

Pete won't be intimidated by a few masked men. “Listen, I'm paid up with George Tilyou. If there's a problem, you gotta speak to—”

The man shakes his head. “This ain't that. We're from the Committee on Public Safety.”

“The hell is that, now?”

“Committee on Public Safety. You got a health problem.”

“Well, wait a few goddamn minutes for the show to be over.”

“Now.”

“Listen,” Pete growls, “we got rights. You can't just barrel in here and—”

The four men elbow Pete aside and enter the tent. The leader announces, “Ladies and gentlemen! We represent the Committee on Public Safety. We're looking for James Warren. He's on the passenger list of the SS
Arundale
. James Warren, stand up, please.”

The crowd murmurs, looking from Rosalind onstage to the men in the back.
Is this part of the show?

Rosalind squints into the darkness.
Committee on Public Safety? What is that?

The masked men circle the audience, which remains seated, unsure what to do. “James Warren? Where is James Warren?”

The coughing man stands up. “My name is James Warren. Is there some sort of—”

The men are on him, wrenching his arms behind his back and dragging him to the exit. “You're coming with us.”

Warren protests and struggles, but they are four and he is one, and out of the tent he goes, shouting all the way.

“What are you
doing
?” Rosalind shouts from the stage. “You can't do that! He's a customer. He has a right to… You in the audience, stop them! They can't do that!”

But the crowd is confused and reluctant, some still thinking this is part of the act, others unwilling to tangle with uniformed men with bags over their heads.
Whoever he is, he must have done something.

The men depart with their prey, and the audience turns its attention back to Rosalind. A man in the front row stands. “Uh, so, I have a question. Do you shave your—”

“Go screw yourself,” Rosalind snaps, fake accent gone. “Did you see what just happened? Were you here a moment ago? Or were you all asleep?”

The man shrugs. “I'm sure they had a reason.”

“I hope that's a comfort when your turn comes.” Rosalind spits on the floor and stalks offstage.

“What—that's it?” asks the man. “If that's it, I want my money back!”

Others in the crowd murmur agreement.

Crumbly Pete dashes up to Rosalind and grabs him. “Where do you think you're going? We got a full house!”

“You know what you can do with your full house.”

“Hey.” Pete's grip gets tighter. “Don't think you can—”

“You can't bully me, Pete. Let me go, or I'll knock you all the way down the Bowery.”

The two carnies stare each other down. Out in the audience, the calls for refunds grow louder. When Pete's eyes dart toward the empty stage, Rosalind wrenches himself away. “Go on, Pete. Your
marks
need some attention.” Rosalind strides out, leaving Pete and the angry Dozens to fend for themselves.

Outside, Rosalind scans the crowds milling around the Bowery. Garish yellow banners flutter in the summer breeze, each advertising a different Unusual on display—all of them, as the signs say, Live on the Inside. There's the
Robert or Roberta?
banner, of course. Another for
Milo the Goat Boy
, for
Amelia, Fattest Lady in the Known World
, for the
Last Living Dragon
. There's even a banner for the no-longer-live-anywhere Count Orloff, which, Rosalind notes with dismay, no one has had the respect to take down.

At the far end of the street, Rosalind finally spots the masked men, dragging James Warren to a waiting Black Maria. Horrified, Rosalind can only watch as the men toss him roughly into the back. The vehicle pulls into traffic and drives away.

“Satan's minion stands before you!”

Rosalind whirls around to see a dour undertaker of a man in a dark suit, pointing at him with a gray, bony hand. A flock of overdressed churchy types cower by the undertaker like frightened chickens around a rooster. They nod eagerly, sneering at Rosalind as they look him up and down.

“Here in Sodom by the Sea,” the undertaker man shouts, “the devil and his minions dwell! This plague is God's judgment upon us!” He turns his accusing finger to the banners, one by one. “Judgment upon the satyr, upon the gluttonous eaters of meat, and upon the dragon that is Satan himself! And
you
!” The undertaker man rounds on Rosalind again. “The degenerate she-male. It is
you
who have inspired God's most righteous wrath!”

Rosalind rolls his eyes. “Oh, do tell.”

“Depart from me, ye who are cursed!” The undertaker man is screaming now, his finger shaking and his gray skin turning purple. “Depart into the eternal fire crafted for the devil!”

“
For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat
,” Rosalind recites. “
I was a stranger, and you did not invite me in. I was sick, and you did not look after me.
”

The church ladies stare at Rosalind. Even the undertaker looks shocked.

“How do ya like that—I can quote Matthew too, you dried-up old witches,” Rosalind says. And then he raises a finger of his own, turns away, head high, and stomps back up the Bowery like he owns the pavement itself. But on the inside, nausea floods through him.

“Archie was right,” he mutters. “They'll come for us first.”

Tourist Season

On the street in front of Magruder's, Kitty and Zeph dump buckets of water onto the sidewalk. Maggie's blood turns a watery pink as it flows into the gutter. Spencer's longed-for ambulance eventually clip-clops up to the Cabinet, long past the point of usefulness.

“Busy day,” says the driver by way of apology. “It's madness out there. Horses are exhausted.”

Spencer grimaces. “What are automobiles
for
if not you boys?”

“Tell it to the mayor.” The driver shrugs. He takes Maggie's body anyway, checks a box marked
suicide
, and makes Zeph sign the form.

Rosalind returns from the sideshow, still in his double-sex costume, to find that he has walked out of one nightmare and into another. “What happened?” he asks, not certain he wants to know.

“That gal Maggie, the one with Bernard the other night? She was here.” Zeph sighs. “And now she's gone.” He hooks the handle of the bucket over his shoulder and heads inside for more water.

“She was ill,” Kitty explains. “And a bit mad, I think? And…at least she isn't suffering anymore.”

“Poor thing. What a terrible day. I saw a man arrested for coughing.”

Kitty turns her bucket upside down and watches as the water carries a bit more of Maggie away. “My mother had a cough too.”

“My dear…” Rosalind pats her shoulder. “You came to Magruder's looking for a safe place. I'm sorry it isn't working out that way.”

They go inside, where Zeph has climbed up to a small sink behind the bar, and Archie helps him refill his bucket. “Zeph, Archie,” Rosalind says, “we need to talk about what happened at my—who's this?”

“Afternoon, Rosalind,” Archie says. “The chap at the table is Spencer Reynolds. You recognize him from the society pages of course.”

“Charmed, Mr. Reynolds,” Rosalind says, offering his gloved hand.

Spencer nods uncertainly. He had started to stand when Rosalind first walked in, but then started to sit when he saw the male half. Now he hovers uncomfortably somewhere in between. Finally, he shrugs and shakes Rosalind's hand. “This is my friend, Miss Nazan Celik.”

Rosalind joins them at their table. “Miss Celik, pleasure to meet you.”

“Ahh…” Nazan's eyes go wide at Rosalind's costume, but she smiles. “Pleasure to meet you too.”

“You're just in time, Ros,” Archie says. “Archduke Reynolds here was just about to tell us what in the blazes is going on in this town. Not that we don't have a fair idea at this point.”

“I'll say it again, sir,” Spencer protests. “I have no idea what—”

“Please don't,” says Rosalind. “Some hooded thugs just pulled a customer out of my audience and drove off with him.”

Spencer looks down at his hands. “I see.”

Archie pulls out a chair and joins them at the table. “So, martial law it is, then. But why?”

“Spencer, do you know something about this?” Nazan asks.

“I'm not… It's not for public…” Spencer sighs. “Oh, to the devil with it. There's this…informal sort of…I don't know, consortium, I guess. Hotel owners, restauranteurs—”

“And daddies,” Archie adds.

Spencer rolls his eyes. “And
yes
, my father. They all look out for one another, you know. Common interests. Those men in the hoods were hired a couple of days ago. Apparently, they specialize in solving certain…ah, problems. So.” Spencer glances around the room, hoping everyone will let him leave it at that. But he gets only blank stares. “All right, fine. It's plague.”

“There's clearly a plague,” Archie says, irritated. “We've spent an hour washing it off the sidewalk! What we're—”

“No, you old fool. It's
the
plague.”

“But, Spencer,” Nazan says. “Plague as in…what, the Black Death?”

Kitty thinks of her mother and gasps. She leans on the bar as the floor seems to shift under her feet.

But Rosalind shakes his head. “That's absurd.”

“No, sir—uh, ma'am. It's true.”

Archie frowns. “You're telling us the
bubonic plague
is in Coney Island. You realize how ridiculous you—”

“Not bubonic,” Spencer says. “That's the bad news.”

At the bar, Zeph glances at Kitty, who is pale and getting paler. “Well,
not bubonic
sounds like good news?”

“No, it isn't. My father is in communication with the public health department. Apparently, the illness begins like bubonic plague, with these black lumps on the skin. They're called buboes. That's why it's called bubonic—”

“Yes, yes,” Archie interrupts impatiently. “We just saw that too clearly.”

“But it doesn't stay that way. This form spreads very quickly in the body. The doctors call it
pneumonic
plague, ‘of the lungs.' All it takes to spread is a cough.”

“A cough…” repeats Kitty very quietly.

“Correct. There were only a few cases the first day, but it multiplied by a factor of ten the very next day, and again the next.”

“I don't understand,” Rosalind says. “Plague is from the Middle Ages.”

“I'm afraid not. They had it in San Francisco just a few years ago. It's been in Honolulu, in Europe—Lisbon, I believe. Now—”

“Forget Europe,” Archie interrupts. “Let's address the real issue: Do I have it or not?”

Rosalind rolls his eyes in disgust. “Archie,
really
!”

“What? We
all
drank with that girl the other night. We had a front-row seat to her attempted murder-suicide. It's a reasonable question!”

“Archie, it's a terrible, selfish—” Rosalind stops. “Okay. Yes.” He looks at Spencer. “So?”

Spencer shrugs. “I'm not a physician. Did she cough on you?”

“Ah…” Rosalind looks around. No one is certain. “Not sure. I don't think so?”

“Then you're probably fine. Or”—he turns pointedly to Archie—“I'm wrong, and you'll be dead by Wednesday.”

Zeph sees Kitty start to wilt. He'd like to take her hand, but the gesture seems too forward.

“How does it travel?” Nazan asks. “Just by coughing?”

Spencer shakes his head. “The going theory is that plague is spread by rats.”

“Rats,” Zeph says. “Well now. Remember what Whitey told us about the street cleaning the other day?”

“But it may not be rats at all,” Spencer says. “There's another theory. Not proven, mind you. But it could be the fleas
on
the rats.”

“Fleas,” Zeph repeats. He and Rosalind exchange worried looks.
Uh-oh.

“So how did these little bastards get here?” Archie asks. “By ship? From Lisbon, I suppose?”

Kitty looks up. “It wasn't Lisbon, was it, Mr. Reynolds?”

Spencer turns to her, surprised. “No, it wasn't, as a matter of fact. The prime suspect is a ship from—”

“South Africa.”

“Oh, Kitty…” Rosalind goes to her. “Sweet girl…”

As he doesn't understand Rosalind's words, Spencer opts to ignore them. “The ship had been in Calcutta first. They think that's where the illness came from.”

“But, Spencer,” Nazan says, “don't they screen passengers for this sort of thing?”

“Only steerage. But there could have been rats in the hold, or there—”

Zeph interrupts him. “Wait, what was that, now?”

“Yeah, back up there, Viceroy,” Archie agrees. “What was that about steerage?”

Spencer gazes at them.
Do they really not know?
“Only steerage passengers receive intensive health screenings, obviously.” He glances around the room, and it's clear this information is far from obvious. “But surely… I mean… It's been that way since…I don't even know, really. That's how it's done.”

Nazan turns to Kitty. “Miss Hayward, when you arrived, were you given a medical screening?”

“Certainly not.”

“No one asked… I don't know… ‘Have you been exposed to yellow fever?' Or…”

Zeph jumps in. “‘Did you vacation in a leper colony?'”

“‘What's that seeping boil on your neck?'” Archie volunteers.

Kitty has had enough. “I don't see why you're all picking on me. It's not my fault no one asked!”

“Shh, pet,” Rosalind says. “No one's picking on you.”

But Nazan, Zeph, and Archie glance at each other with matching raised eyebrows. “What about you, missy?” Archie asks Nazan.

“I was born here,” she replies. “But when my father and uncles came over, the authorities practically took their organs out and washed them. Of course, that was
steerage
.” She turns to Spencer in amazement. “They don't screen rich people.”

“Why would they?” Zeph asks. “Rich folks don't get
plague
.” A lifetime of acid is packed into those five words.

Archie snorts. “The leisure class is in for quite a surprise.”

Kitty rears up in self-defense, but her voice is shaky. “That is
my mum
you're talking about! We didn't make your policy, you know! I wish they
had
screened her. Maybe I wouldn't be here listening to your rubbish now!”

“Pardon me, Miss Hayward,” Spencer says. “What does your mother have to do with—”

“The missing
mummy
,” Archie snarls. “The one we asked you for help with earlier. Which you refused, by the way!”

Spencer sits forward. “I've had about enough of your tone, sir. I'm trying to help—I'm helping you right now, in fact! I'm not supposed to be telling you any of this!”

“Spencer,” Nazan says soothingly. “We're just trying to understand. Why the secrecy? Shouldn't we tell everyone, so people can take precautions?”

Spencer takes a deep breath and exhales. “We can't. It's…it's complicated.”

But Archie laughs. “
Why the secrecy?
Why the strange disappearances? Why keep millions of New Yorkers in ignorance, at the risk of their lives? Hmm, I wonder.” He eyes Spencer coolly. “Do you care to explain reality to your friend here? Or shall I?”

Spencer just glares.

“I'll take that as a no. Miss, I can answer your questions with two words:
tourist season
.”

“No, it can't be that.” She turns to Spencer. “Surely, there must be more to it.”

But he deflates, rubbing his forehead with his hands.

“Oh, Spencer. No.”

“Oh, Spencer, yes,” Archie says. “We must keep those hotels filled, miss! Keep those dance halls crowded, keep that Shoot the Chute flying down the track. And if you develop a slight cough, if your complexion goes a bit lumpy? The men in masks will scoop you up and take you—say, where are they taking them all, anyway?”

Spencer shakes his head no. “I'm done helping you.”

“My poor
dauphin
. Look at your lady friend's face—she looks positively stricken. Something tells me you aren't done by a far sight.” He stands and goes to the bar. “Anyone else thirsty? What do you say, Zeph?”

“May as well. Oh, speaking of which…” Zeph dives into a cabinet beneath the bar and reemerges with an armful of lemons. He tosses one to everyone in the room except Spencer. “For you, Ros, and you, Miss Nazan…Miss Kitty…Archie…”

Archie catches his lemon. “What, are we making our own cocktails now?”

“No, sir,” Zeph laughs. “I'm your eternal bartender, I promise. Lemon juice makes a good flea repellent.”

“Really?” Nazan asks. “How'd you learn that?”

“You live with a flea circus, Miss Nazan, you figure that stuff out, quick as ya can. And even if it don't work, think how pretty we'll all smell. Use it carefully, though. I don't have many more. So cocktails, eh? First round's on the house. Reynolds?”

Spencer ignores him, reaching across the table for Nazan's hand. “Please understand, my father really does have the best of—”

“Don't speak to me.” She goes to the bar to sit beside Archie. “I'll join you.”

“Most excellent. Rosalind? Miss Kitty?”

Kitty wipes her eyes. “I'm going to go lie down for a bit.”

“All right, dove,” Rosalind says. “You go rest.”

Kitty leaves without a word.

“Poor lamb… And,
Archie
. How can you drink at a time like this?”

“Jesus, Ros, how can you
not
drink at a time like this?”

Rosalind sighs. “I see your point. One for me too, Zeph. Let's have a toast to the leisure class.”

Archie raises his whiskey. “Long may they cough.”

• • •

Upstairs, Kitty sits at Rosalind's dressing table and tries to collect herself. But when she looks down, a carved ivory hair clip of Rosalind's makes her cry anyway.

The biggest fight her parents ever had took place on the occasion of their twelfth wedding anniversary: Father presented Mother with an elaborate hair clip carved from ivory; Mother refused the gift due to her objections to big-game hunting; Father did not take the news especially well. Kitty and Nate had hidden themselves in an upstairs wardrobe, the better to listen in on the battle.

“I've accepted your views on abolition, Jemma!” their father ranted. “And on suffrage and child labor and immigrants and even, Lord help me, on teetotaling! But
elephants
, now? By God, that's enough!”

Things were rather chilly in the Hayward house for a time. But after a week of sleeping in the guest room, Father admitted defeat and returned the hair clip to the shop.

“Don't you two look so smug,” he muttered to his bemused children over dinner. “You watch. She'll be declaring herself vegetarian next, and then we'll all be made to suffer.”