Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet (13 page)

Spencer sips his drink to hide his embarrassment. “Sure, because of your leg…uh…situation. Yes, I can see how that might—”

“Not my leg situation, it's my
skin
situation. Your ballroom is whites only.”

Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it again. “That's…that's not our policy. Not…ah…officially.”

“Oh, not
officially
. Okay. Hows about next Saturday, I get together the prettiest group of Negroes I can find and we'll all go waltzing in your ballroom? Maybe we'll eat there too. Hey, how about we use the lavatories? How do ya reckon
that
will go?”

Spencer doesn't answer.

“Don't need some
official
policy, Reynolds. Everybody knows. So do you.”

They listen to the waltz in silence. Spencer lays his hands on the bar and stares down at them. They look soft. Pink and soft and useless. His hands have never known the
making of
, much less the
doing with
. What are they even for?

“It's wrong,” he says finally. “You're right. It's wrong. But I don't know what to do about it. I suppose…I pretend that I can't see the things that I know I can't fix.”

“Good thing you're rich and pretty, Reynolds, because you ain't all that smart, are ya?”

Looking up, Spencer is surprised to see Zeph smiling at him. For the first time since they met, he's smiling. Experimentally, Spencer smiles back.

“So.” Zeph pours himself a glass of his famous lobster whiskey. “Why's the Reynolds family so interested in Coney anyway? Daddy can't resist a clam shack or what?”

Spencer scoffs. “My
father
? No, Dreamland's just an investment to him. For my brother and me, though, some of our best memories are out here.”

“Your brother—the one who needs my cart?”

“Yes, exactly. We used to swim here all the time. Before he…you know. Before polio. Charlie would come tearing out of the bathhouse, turn cartwheels down the beach, and then—
bang!
—into the water. He'd be a fish for the rest of the day.”

“The Reynolds boys are swimmers, huh?”

“
He
was, not me! I was terrified.” He chuckles. “I liked Surf Avenue better. One time, my father let me bet a dime on one of those Find the Lady games. I can still see the fellow's fingers, making these cards dance on the box, you know? Then he looks at me and says pick, so I pick, and there she is! Red queen, looking right up at me.”

Zeph laughs. “Ha! You
won
Find the Lady. Now, that is a miracle.”

“
Allowed
to win, more like. After all, Senator Reynolds was standing right behind me! Fellow wasn't stupid. Still, I'll never forget that feeling when the card flipped over. You know, the life of a politician's son is a little…ah…limited, I guess? Circumscribed?” Zeph arches an eyebrow, and Spencer quickly says, “I'm not asking you to feel sorry for me. I'm just saying that's how it is. But when I saw that red queen, I felt… I don't know. Like maybe anything
could
happen to me after all.”

“Sure.” Zeph nods. “Finding this place here was like that for me. I was touring with this sideshow, and Steeplechase Park hired us for—”

A bloodcurdling scream comes from the icebox.

Zeph and Spencer stare at the receiver. Shouts, crashes, plates smashing. The orchestra gives up on Tchaikovsky. More screams. Then the howl of a wounded animal.

Spencer looks at Zeph. “What kind of trick is this?”

“No trick. I don't—”

“It's not funny, Zeph!”

“I swear, it's not… That's coming from the ballroom.”

“Nazan could be there.” Spencer goes pale. “She and Rosalind both. They were looking for Bernard. What if they're—”

“No, no. They could be anywhere on Surf Avenue by now. You don't know if—”

Another feminine scream. Men shouting, “Stop him!”

Spencer stands up. “I have to find her.”

“Now, think this through. Rosalind's plenty capable; he'll take care of her. And didn't you promise her you'd be here when they—”

“I won't just sit and listen to your magic box while she's out there, maybe frightened, injured, or maybe—no, I won't do it.” He runs out.

“Reynolds!”

• • •

“Maggie…” Bernard says, or wants to, but his voice strangles in his throat, and only a choking sound emerges. The black lumps are so bad, he can no longer speak.

How will I tell her? How will I say everything I have to say?

He needs paper, a piece of paper and something to write with, and then he can explain. It won't matter that he can't speak; he'll write—he'll compose a love letter to Maggie while she sits beside him. He'll write about how sorry he is to be sick but how joyful he is to see her. He'll tell her about all the thoughts he's had, all these daydreams, holding hands and sharing secrets and apple picking—
you know, Maggie, apple picking is something giants are extremely good at
—and she'll laugh at this and throw her head back, and her lovely hair will glimmer in the lights just so.

He turns to a woman nearby, reaches down, grabs her shoulders. “Please, ma'am, I need paper! It's very important! Do you have a piece of paper?”

That's what he tries to say. What comes out is “Aahhhgggghahhrrrrrrr…”

The woman shrieks, and her husband pushes Bernard away, sending the giant tumbling onto a table of champagne-sipping lords and ladies, and they leap up screaming as the table collapses and he crashes to the floor, glasses shattering and utensils flying. Somewhere, a woman shrieks and crashes into another table in a faint. Bernard stands up, and everywhere there is pointing and shouting and running. Even the band stops playing, and the entire ballroom focuses on the bleeding, rotting, retching giant as he sobs and tries to explain that he really just needs a goddamned piece of paper.

Suddenly, there are arms, policemen's arms, and they're all around—in front, behind, on him, under him, everywhere. With a roar, Bernard wrenches himself away, sending grown men flying like dolls. He stumbles forward on rotting feet, trying to get out, run, praying Maggie will understand why he had to leave. Maggie would never abide Bernard being treated this way, he knows it. “Maggie, where are you?” he cries out. “I love you. Where are you?” But a bleating “mahhhaarrrrrooooo” is all he can manage.

He stumbles into the night, struggling to put one foot in front of the other and one thought in front of the next.

The promenade. That's where she'll be. She's waiting there.

He runs on, ignoring the teenagers who point and stare, the God-fearing folk who turn hastily away, the young mothers who cover the eyes of their children. That's the life of a freak. It's nothing new.

He barrels through the gates, throwing himself down the wide boulevard. A fit of coughing lays siege to his whole body and forces him to stop. He covers his mouth as he coughs, but he can't stop the blood, can't force it back in. He just keeps coughing, and the blood keeps coming, and when he looks up, he sees the enormous winged demon of Hell Gate staring down pitilessly, and suddenly, he can't recall what he's doing at Dreamland in the first place.

Isn't Monday my day off?

He hears shouting and looks up to see policemen approaching, guns drawn.

Oh yes, that's what I was doing. I was running.

• • •

Just outside Dreamland's main entrance, a small crowd is handing over their money to a sharp-dressed man who makes playing cards dance across a green-felt box. Rosalind and Nazan pass by on their way to the ballroom.

Rosalind gestures at the box. “Here's a tip, darling—
that
is a trick. Rest assured.”

Nazan hears someone calling her name, and she turns. “Spencer!”

Out of breath, Spencer skirts through the gamblers and grasps Nazan's hands. “I'm so glad I found you both. Something terrible is happening at the—”

A sharp bang comes from inside Dreamland, followed by several more.

Nazan frowns. “Seems a bit early for fireworks, no?”

“No.” Rosalind goes pale. “Those aren't fireworks.”

To Whom Much Was Given…

Even the worst nights end.

News of Bernard's murder spread like a fever through the Unusual community. First Orloff gone in a blink, now one of their own gunned down in the street. Unusuals live their lives with a nagging sense that the Dozens are set against them somehow. But
feeling
that way is one thing. Seeing a friend carted away in a bag is another.

The next morning, they gather. The very tall and very small, the very fat and very thin, the bearded and the shorn and the webbed fingered and the rubber boned—they all drift toward Magruder's Tavern without knowing precisely why. Like birds heading south, they are drawn to the zone of safety their friend Zeph has built.
The tourists can have the beer gardens and ice cream parlors and faux Parisian cafés. Magruder's belongs to us.

From Rosalind's window, Kitty sees Unusuals drifting down the street in small groups. Holding hands, leaning on one another, heads low. It's oddly comforting. With her entire family dead or presumed so, being a castaway in the “people's playground” is a bit like being a widow at a wedding.
Now
, she thinks,
we can all be sad together.
She dresses quickly and goes downstairs to join her fellow mourners.

But when she walks in, she realizes there is no
we
—there is
she
, and there is
everybody else
.

In the tavern: painted faces, tattooed faces, faces with bones through the nose. And every face casts unwelcoming eyes at the blond British teenager. Their pain is their own, not to be shared with someone as perfect as she.

Who's that?

Some Dozen.

She's just a tourist.

What the devil is she doing here anyway?

Bernard ain't her people.

Just like a Dozen, thinking every damn place is hers.

Uncomfortably, Kitty makes her way over to Zeph. The bar is covered with platters of sandwiches and bagels and spreads of various hues. “Good morning, Zeph,” she says as brightly as she can. “Lovely buffet here…”

“Morning, Miss Kitty. Yeah, ordered in from Feltman's. Reynolds took Miss Nazan back to Manhattan, but before he left, he shoved a fistful of cash in my hand and told me to do right by Bernard's people. Which, I reckon, is us.” He shrugs. “Somebody dies, people gotta eat. Don't know why, but it's a fact.”

A willowy lady in a floor-length coat and peacock-feathered hat elbows her way in front of Kitty. “
Bonjour
, Monsieur Zeph.”

“Mornin', Vivi. How are ya? Can I introduce Miss Kitty Hayward? Kitty, this is Mademoiselle Vivi Leveque, leopard trainer extraordinaire. Miss Vivi, Miss Kitty here is from London. Y'all should talk. You both got that Europe thing going on.”

Kitty smiles, pleased to try out her French. “
Mademoiselle, je suis enchantée
—”

“
Non
.” Vivi has nothing to offer Kitty but her back. “Monsieur Zeph, we must speak. With all this illness, I am concerned for the welfare of my leopards. Did you know all the rats are dead?”

“Leopards don't eat rats, do they?”

Kitty moves away, yielding to Vivi's greater force.

In need of something to do, she studies the buffet like a scholar, reminding herself of that hard-earned lesson on the beach:
never skip breakfast.
But she's far too self-conscious to seriously consider eating.
What if I pick the wrong thing? Or too much of it? What do I do with those fishy bits, anyway?
There's no hope.

Spotting Rosalind in the corner, she moves toward him. But he's engaged in a serious conversation—argument?—with Enzo. So Kitty stops halfway and finds herself marooned in a glacial sea.

What do I do now?

Mum answers.
Make yourself useful!

She scans the room. People are fed, talking. Nothing needs cleaning. Nothing needs fetching, arranging, or picking up. Nothing needs doing here.

Katherine Emmeline Hayward! Something always needs doing somewhere.

That gives her an idea—an idea that, if nothing else, will get her away from all these angry stares. But she'll need Zeph's help. She takes a deep breath and reinserts herself beside Vivi. “
Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle.
I just need to ask Zeph something.”

Vivi turns to her, affronted. “Monsieur Zeph and I are speaking!”

“
Je suis désolée
… One moment, I promise. Zeph, could you tell me where—”

“
Pas maintenant
, little church mouse. We are speaking!”

Kitty raises up on tiptoe, the better to look Vivi in the eye. “
Avec tout mon respect, est-ce que tu peux fermer ta gueule pendant dix secondes?
”

“How dare you! I won't be spoken to this way! I am a lady!” But this time, it's Vivi who yields, turning on her heel and huffing away.

Zeph eyes Kitty mischievously. “I don't know French, but did you just tell my girl Vivi to scram?”

“Well,” she says, “my people didn't win the Battle of Agincourt so some overdressed
baguette
could push me around.”

He laughs. “Fair enough. So what's up, English?”

“Is there a hospital nearby?”

“Yep, Reception Hospital. Of course, it's more like a snobby first aid station than a real hospital. But,” he says, suddenly concerned, “why d'ya ask? You feeling okay?”

“Yes, I'm fine.”

He peers at her. “You sure? Your mom got sick, and we did all of us get kinda close to Maggie. You sure you ain't, you know…” He fake coughs dramatically.

“No, no, I'm perfectly all right. It's just…yesterday, the ambulance man said they were terribly busy. I'm wondering if I might be able to assist.”

“That's neighborly of you. Sure, it's on Sea Breeze Avenue, few blocks west of here. You want maybe somebody goes with you?”

“No, no, I don't want to put anyone out.”

“Come on, English, it ain't a problem. Let me—”

All Kitty can think of is getting out of that room, away from all those eyes. “
I'm fine.
Sea Breeze Avenue, west. Thank you. I'll be off.”

“Are you sure you don't—”

But she's gone.

• • •

Out on the street, however, Kitty's confidence ebbs. “West…which way is west?”

At random, she turns right. But after passing nothing but run-down tenements for several blocks, she convinces herself she's made a mistake. Her attempts to ask passersby for directions are met with dead-eyed stares. Soon, all the buildings begin to look alike, and she has a vision of herself losing track of Magruder's too—wandering for eternity in a maze of cold-water flats and bellicose Russian housewives.

She skulks back to the Cabinet. She's standing outside the door, trying to sort out how to brazenly walk back in and ask for directions a second time, when—rescue! The door opens, and Rosalind steps out, blinking back tears.

“Rosalind! I'm so happy to—oh dear. What's happened?”

He shakes his head violently. “Nothing. It's nothing. I don't want to talk about it. Don't ask me. What are you doing?”

“I was just on my way to the hospital. Thought I'd see if they need any assistance. Would you perhaps accompany me?”
Assuming you know where it is
, she thinks but doesn't say.

Rosalind frowns, then smiles. “Yes! Yes, I'll walk you there. No sense sitting around.”

They go down one block and then turn left. “Of course,” Kitty mutters. “That's west.”

“What?”

“Nothing. You look lovely, Rosalind.”

Naturally, Rosalind pulled out every possible stop in honor of Bernard—black top hat perched atop a flowing blond wig, tuxedo-style jacket in black brocade, and full skirt with a long, black train.

“I adore that skirt. Is it chiffon?”

“Mousseline de soie, actually, and thank you. I'm glad
someone
around here appreciates it.”

“Is that…is that what you and Enzo were discussing?”

“I said I don't want to talk about it. Afternoon, Morty!” Rosalind waves at a man walking along the other side of the street. He's on stilts.

“Afternoon, Rosalind,” he shouts down. “You're a pretty sight on a sad day.”

“You have excellent taste, darling. Everyone's at the tavern, and there's food waiting. We'll chat later.”

Morty waves appreciatively and continues on.

They walk awhile in silence.

“I'm rude, he says. Not feminine
enough
, he says. Insulting to Bernard, to ‘
play this game
,' as he puts it, this ‘
ragazza/ragazzo game
.' A game! How dare he?”

“Well, perhaps he—”

“‘Would you rather I wear my dark gray suit?' I asked him. ‘You won't even make eye contact with me dressed as a boy, and you know it.' And he says
I'm
rude.”

“I suppose—”

“In public, it's ‘Oh,
cara mia
.' But do you hear that? That little insult, tucked in with the romance language?
Car
a
mi
a. Feminine. Because we're supposed to pretend, you see, like we're children. We're supposed to pretend I'm just some Dozen girl. That's just in public, of course. In private, he can't get my gown off fast enough.”

Kitty flushes.

“Who is he kidding? Strutting around, Mr. Manly Fireworks Expert! Mr. Hypocrite. He only gets away with it because nobody can understand what he's saying half the time. If you get him talking about
opera
? Suddenly he's got more camp than Yellowstone!” Rosalind takes a deep breath and exhales. “It's over. I told him so. We're finished.”

“Surely you don't mean that?”

“What do
you
know, little girl?”

Kitty shakes her head. “Nothing. About this? Less than nothing.”

Rosalind softens. “I'm sorry, dove. It's been such a terrible day. I shouldn't take it out on—good Lord, look at that.”

They've arrived at Coney's hospital, such as it is—a narrow, two-story building with a mansard roof and a small front porch. A giant sign over the porch spans the entire front of the building, declaring RECEPTION HOSPITAL. But that bold claim aside, it doesn't look prepared to receive anything more serious than sunstroke and jellyfish stings.

The hospital's wide lawn is ringed by a wrought iron gate. A large tent has been set up, where patients are laid out on cots, folding tables, even steamer trunks. Doctors in long coats and nurses in pinafores float among the patients, doing what they can. But as their hands are empty and their manner unhurried, Kitty surmises it isn't very much. Men in business suits hover around the perimeter, the uncomfortable representatives of somebody powerful.

Rosalind eyes the scene nervously. “All right if I leave you to it? My people and doctors…it's not what you'd call a love story. I'll be at Magruder's if you need me.”

Kitty squeezes Rosalind's arm and smiles. “I'll be fine. Thank you for the company.” She opens the gate but turns back. “Maybe don't give up on Enzo just yet.”

Rosalind shakes his head. “I told you. I don't want to talk about it.”