Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet (16 page)

Mummies

Kitty wakes in a darkness so complete that she's unsure whether her eyes are open. She sits in the damp hull of the tugboat
Magpie
, crammed shoulder to shoulder with her fellow captives. Although it is too dark to see, she can feel their presence, hear their terrified breaths underneath the droning thunder of the boat's engine. Whispered voices and quiet crying, punctuated by phlegmy coughs.

P-Ray sleeps in Kitty's lap. The motion of the boat lulled him, despite their predicament. Kitty wishes she could sleep too—perhaps forget for a while that she's damp and cold and scared. She isn't sure how fast the boat is going or how far they've traveled. Far enough. Wherever this island is, there'll be no swimming back, that's for sure. There may be no coming back at all.

“Excuse me,” a voice calls out into the void. “When will we get there?”

“Shut up,” a gruff voice answers—presumably one of the sailors who met them at the pier and herded them down into the hold. “You'll get there when you get there. What, you in a hurry?”

Men's laughter. “Yeah, he's in a hurry,” says another voice. “He's got a date!”

The first man guffaws at this. “Date with an oven, maybe. Relax, buddy. Swinburne crematorium ain't going no place.”

The woman squeezed in against Kitty has a coughing fit and throws up on herself. Kitty's stomach flips over, and she shrinks away from the pool of vomit as best she can. But she's trapped in place, with P-Ray on her lap and captives all around. Kitty closes her eyes and tries to breathe through her mouth to avoid the smell.

The sick woman coughs more. “Thomas,” she whispers between coughs. “Thomas, please forgive me.” She lets out a little sigh, and her body relaxes completely, as though she fainted. But Kitty senses that a darker thing has claimed her. A moment ago, there had been a person sitting beside her; now, there isn't. Kitty imagines the woman's spirit floating away into the night. She hopes the spirit reaches heaven. She wonders if her mother is already there.

The dead woman's head lolls over onto Kitty's shoulder. Kitty gasps and pushes the head away. But as soon as Kitty lowers her hand, the head rolls back. Kitty's entire body tenses—every part of her begs to run. But the captives are packed into the hold like apples in a box. There is nowhere to go.

• • •

Kitty, P-Ray, and Enzo join the rest of the captives on the
Magpie
's tiny deck. Kitty tells the first sailor she sees that a woman next to her expired during the trip. Neither concerned nor especially surprised, he says, “I'll take care of it.”

Kitty shudders.
It.
Just more landfill he needs to dispose of.

Is that how Mum was treated?

From the deck, Kitty can see that Hoffman comprises long, two-story dormitories laid out in neat rows. They surround an expansive hospital building with a central hall and multiple corridors stretching out like spokes. A second island across the way, which Kitty assumes must be Swinburne, seems to have only one major building—a large, brick structure with a tall chimney spewing smoke. The crematorium.

Like the sun coming out after a storm, a buzz of anticipation surges in Kitty's chest, breaking through the terror that had nearly consumed her on the trip over. Is Mum here? Could this be it? She imagines her mother's expression—first shocked, then relieved, then proud, so proud of her girl, her rescuer.

At last, it is Kitty and Enzo's turn off the tug. They each take one of P-Ray's hands and guide him onto the dock, joining the crowd standing outside the hospital building. A flock of nurses exit the hospital to manage the newcomers. They wear white uniforms, white gloves, white hats. White gauze is wrapped around their faces, leaving only their eyes exposed—the nurses look like a swarm of hastily created mummies.

High-ceilinged and airy, the hospital lobby was designed as a monument to turn-of-the century respectability—immaculate white walls, expansive bay windows, and a marble floor polished to a high shine. A mural depicting the Greek physician Galen dominates one wall; victims of another, ancient plague suffer theatrically at the good doctor's feet, and he reaches down to them like an angel.

But the tranquillity of this public space is overwhelmed by the sheer amount of public crammed into it. Every inch of space on every bench is taken; folding chairs and wooden crates have been brought in, and those are occupied as well. If there is a logic to the proceedings, Kitty can't find it. The nurses encourage men to remain on one side of the room, women and children on the other, but the crowds are too big and the staff too small to actually enforce this rule. And yet for all the overcrowding, the lobby is strangely quiet. Hacking coughs and moans of pain echo across the room, but no one cries out, no one protests. Instead, they whisper to one another in a variety of languages, in tones irritated, fearful, weary. Children complain to their mothers and are shushed.

Eventually, gauze-masked doctors arrive to make their inspections, for which the patients are grateful, if only because at least this is something new, a break in the tedium. The doctors make determinations about where patients should be placed—those who are not too badly off will be ushered to beds in the dormitories, while those deemed beyond salvation will be put on a boat for Swinburne, the most final of destinations.

Kitty threads her way through the crowded lobby, peering into every face.
Are you her? Are you?
No one is.

Enzo joins the men on one side of the room, while Kitty finds a spot for herself and P-Ray to stand at one of the broad windows. It's dawn, and the sun peeks timidly over the horizon, a reluctant witness. If she squints, she thinks she can see Coney Island in the distance. The gleaming Beacon Tower at Dreamland, the spectacular Ferris wheel at Steeplechase, the spires of Luna Park. Hotels and roller coasters and the gigantic Iron Pier. A dream city, miles away.

P-Ray rubs his sleepy eyes and follows Kitty's stare out toward Coney. He nudges closer, as though he'd disappear into her skirts if he could. Then he looks up, and although he doesn't speak, his face is easy to read.
I want to go home.

• • •

For the third time, the doctor feels Kitty's throat with his fingers. He holds her wrist and feels for her pulse. He puts his hand on her forehead to gauge her temperature. He shakes his head. “Is this a joke?”

The doctor's voice is dampened by his gauze mask; Kitty thinks she must have misunderstood. She stands before him in a paper dressing gown, exposed and shivering, as close to naked as she has ever been in front of a man. Joking is the furthest thing from her mind. “I'm sorry?”

“I need a break.” He sighs and plunks down, exhausted, on his stool, the only place to sit in this stifling closet of an exam room. He reaches behind his head and loosens the mask, which falls off his face and onto his chest like a defeated cravat. “You are
not
sick; that much is clear.” He removes his gloves and tosses them on the floor. He offers Kitty a cigarette, but she declines, so he lights his own. “I'm not supposed to be here either, to tell you the truth. When the Cough—which is the plague, by the way, it's the damn plague… Don't words mean anything anymore? When this plague got out of control, the city doubled the staff here at Hoffman. I used to deliver babies at City Hospital. Now I do this. Whatever
this
is.”

The doctor takes a long drag on his cigarette and stares at the floor. Kitty isn't sure whether she is meant to fill the silence. She shifts uncomfortably on bare feet.

“We're moving hundreds and hundreds of patients through this facility. Some get better. Many don't. Nothing we do seems to make much difference either way. I asked a colleague of mine—an old friend from med school—to come out here and help. He was dead inside of seventy-two hours. So I've got
that
to answer for. Meanwhile, I get coughed on all day long and nothing. If we knew why… Is it biology? Diet? Is God a narcoleptic? Makes no difference, I suppose. The fact is, as busy as I am? As busy as all the Hoffman staff is? Another staff is busier.”

He looks Kitty directly in the eyes, and a chill goes through her.

“Swinburne,” she says quietly. “Swinburne is busier.”

He nods and stands up. “In any case, you clearly don't need a doctor. I'm sorry we seem to have wasted each other's time.”

“Please…” Kitty takes a deep breath. “You're right, I'm not sick. I'm looking for my mother, Jemma Hayward. I believe she has the Cal—the plague.” Whether due to the cigarette smoke in her face or the words in her throat, Kitty's eyes well up. “Please. Have you seen her? Jemma Hayward? She would have been brought here some time ago.”

“Don't know the name, sorry.” He sighs again, stubs out his cigarette. “Now that you're here, of course, you've been exposed—so here you'll stay for the time being. I'll have a nurse bring you fresh clothes, and we'll find you and your friends some beds. The boy can stay with you, assuming he's healthy, but the Italian will have to stay in the gentlemen's dormitory.” He moves to leave the tiny exam room.

“But might she be here?” Kitty asks desperately. “In one of the dormitories? Perhaps she survived. Perhaps she's one of the lucky ones?”

The doctor turns back and faces her. “Believe me when I say that the question of why some people survive while most don't is something that disturbs my sleep every single night. If Jemma Hayward were one of our mystery survivors, I would know of her. There is no Jemma Hayward on Hoffman.”

“But—”

“I'm very busy, Miss Hayward. You need to face facts and turn your eyes to Swinburne.”

He departs, leaving Kitty standing alone in her paper dressing gown, tears spilling down her face and onto the doctor's gloves abandoned at her feet.

Give My Regards…

“Zeph sent some lunch for you.” No answer. “Rosalind, please.”

“Leave me alone.” Rosalind's voice sounds strange. It's gone gray somehow.

“How long has it been since you've eaten?”

“Go away.”

“I know you're upset. But I want to—”

“Nobody cares what
you
want, Reynolds.”

“—talk to you, and I want you to listen. Please, just listen.” Silence. Spencer sighs and puts the tray on the floor. “You win. I'm leaving your food here. But there's something I have to say. So I'll…I'll say it to your door, I guess, and you can listen, or not.”

He takes a breath before continuing. Spencer has so little to offer, he wants to get it right.

“I'm sorry. It's my father's fault the Committee exists; it's Gibson's fault they took Enzo and P-Ray. I suppose you see it as my fault too, and I won't argue. And…I have no words. Which I suppose is fine, because words aren't what you want. But there's a Decoration Day party at the Oriental Hotel tonight. President Roosevelt will be there, and the governor. The mayor, the head of the public health department…
and my father
. I can talk to them, explain that there's been a mistake, that there are some folks on Hoffman we need to get back. They can fix this with the stroke of a pen, Rosalind, with one telephone call. And they'll all be at this party tonight. Hate me all you want, but the fact is, I'm the only person you know who can walk into—”

The door bursts open. “I'm going with you.”

Rosalind stands in his dressing gown, hair unkempt, eyes red and wild. To Spencer, the thought of turning this creature loose on New York's elite class—his people—is frankly terrifying. But Spencer knows he'd have a better chance at turning back a hurricane than keeping Rosalind from the Oriental Hotel.

Well, Roosevelt, let's see how rough a rider you truly are.

• • •

Zeph has finally swept up the last of the shattered glass and dead bugs. He climbs one of the cabinet ladders to inspect the damage. “Well…this exotic insect display is a goner. I'll have a look through the back room, see what else we got. Mary Surratt's noose, maybe…be patriotic for Decoration Day.”

Spencer appears and leans against one of the cabinets. He wears a musty, out-of-fashion tuxedo.

“Look at you, Mr. Big Man.”

“Rosalind has quite a costume collection. How do I look?”

“Like a maître d' at some joint where I don't wanna eat. That suit don't fit you even a little.”

Spencer holds an arm out straight, and the cuff of the jacket pulls halfway to his elbow. “I'll have you know this is how all the Parisians wear it.”

Zeph grins but then says, more seriously, “I hate this plan.”

“I know.”

“No, you don't. Before everything went crazy, I talked to this fella Joe. He's Black Flag. You know the Black Flag?”

“You mean anarchists?”

“I do mean. He said they'd killed the last president and Roosevelt was next. Tonight.”

“You think Roosevelt's people aren't ready for that? My father's been in politics my whole life. Sad to say, there's always some kook threatening to—”

“Maybe. Joe would qualify. But that fella who killed McKinley seemed like just another kook too. Look, far as I'm concerned, whatever the Black Flag does to your kind, y'all earned it. Nothing personal—that's just how I see it. But Rosalind's been through enough. I don't want him getting blown up. And—”

“You're absolutely right. How about
you
go upstairs and tell Rosalind he can't go?”

Zeph raises an eyebrow at Spencer, and Spencer raises one right back. “All right, brother,” Zeph says, shaking his head. “Guess it's gonna be how it's gonna be.”

“Yep.”

“Let me help out a little at least.” Zeph climbs down from the cabinet and heads for the back room. Spencer follows. Zeph goes straight to the cabinet marked “Robonocchio, the Automatic Boy!” He pounds on the side. “Hey, Chio, wake up. I need a favor.”

“What are you—”

Zeph puts up his hand. “Just wait. Listen, Chio, you remember Joe? He was at the last Race to Death? The anarchist? Spencer here might run into him tonight, and he needs to know what Joe looks like.”

Spencer laughs. “You don't really expect—”

“Shush, you.”

Chio's arm begins to move.

“This is the most ridiculous—”

Zeph looks at Spencer, genuinely confused. “How is it you've been making daily visits to Magruder's and ain't figured out that—oh, look.” There are already papers sitting in the slot at the bottom of Chio's cabinet. Zeph takes the papers, looks through them, and laughs. He hands them to Spencer. “Looks like Chio has a crush.”

“This is the silliest—oh.” The first is a portrait of Nazan sitting in a chair, reading. The second is Nazan smiling at P-Ray, gesturing as though she's telling him a story. The third is Nazan riding the Steeplechase. Spencer looks up at Zeph, speechless.

Zeph grins. “Told ya.”

Spencer peers at Chio's cabinet. “So the other day, when you implied that I didn't understand how this machine works…”

“'Cause you don't. But then, neither do I. Hell, the Doc built Robonocchio, and I ain't sure he completely understands either. You could maybe stop calling Chio a
machine
, though.”

Ding!
Another paper in the slot. Zeph grabs it and studies the image. “Yep. That's the son of a bitch right there.” He hands the portrait to Spencer. A scrappy little man with black eyes, a nasty scar along one cheek, and one sleeve pinned at the shoulder.

“One arm short, I see,” says Spencer.

“Blew it off making pipe bombs in Chicago.”

“Wow. He's for real, then…”

“Depends what you mean. Joe ain't smart enough to get out of the way of his own bomb. But the folks he's in with? They're for real, like the Cough.”

• • •

Hours later, the front entrance of the Oriental is in a state of high-society gridlock. The hotel is set at the end of a cul-de-sac, overlooking the ocean. A single narrow street runs alongside the enormous building, and it must be shared by both arriving and departing vehicles. The tiny road is so congested and the traffic pattern so confusing that no one can move either forward or back, and the air is thick with honking horns and whinnying horses. Some of New York's aristocracy arrived by horse and carriage, believing it makes them look traditional. Others arrived by automobile, believing it makes them look forward-thinking. To Rosalind and Spencer, who arrived by foot, all they look is ridiculous.

“Huh,” Spencer says. “These idiots are my people.”

Rosalind smiles a little. “Ready for your Black Flag tattoo?”

“Hardly. But speaking of that…see anybody familiar?”

“Joe?” Rosalind looks around. “No.”

“Keep an eye out.” Spencer takes Rosalind's hand and stares into his painted face. “Please listen to me. I understand how you feel about Enzo.”

“Why? Because you pitched a little woo at that Nazan girl? I guarantee that you
do not
understand Enzo and me.”

“All I'm saying is, if you make a scene, we won't—”

“Oh stop. I won't make a scene. I'm here so you don't get blasted on champagne and forget why you came in the first place.”

“You think I'd do that?”

“I think it's fair to say that the jury is out on what you will or will not do.”

“Thanks for your confidence.” He turns and scans the crowd but can't see anyone who resembles the ghastly little villain of Chio's portrait. “Well!” He offers Rosalind his elbow. “Here we go.”

• • •

Rosalind had spent much of the afternoon fretting that he and Spencer had no invitation to the event; he was convinced they'd be turned away as impostors. But just as Spencer promised, a few words with hotel security was all that was needed to get them into the Oriental's palatial ballroom. In fact, Spencer's presence caused the guard to stammer like a girl at the stage door of a Broadway theater. “Mr. Reynolds, what an honor!” And that was that.

He and Rosalind make their way through the crowded lobby, Spencer waving hello to the left and good evening to the right. The crowds part like he's Moses in an unfortunate tuxedo. Flutes of champagne appear in their hands as if by magic.

“Must be nice…” Rosalind murmurs.

The ballroom looks like the aftermath of a flag factory explosion. But despite the decor, the chamber quartet warbles Johannes Brahms, not George M. Cohan. Men with thick beards and vests straining against their bellies promenade around the room, displaying their wives, decked out in the latest gowns off the Champs-Élysée.

Rosalind grasps Spencer's arm a little tighter. “All these people…” he says breathily.

Spencer grins. “You aren't intimidated, are you, Rosalind?”

“
No
… Maybe.”

“You shouldn't be.” Spencer raises his glass. “You're worth a dozen Dozens, easily.”

Rosalind smiles. “That's very sweet. And perfectly true.”

President Roosevelt and the First Lady greet guests from within a protected circle of security guards, while New York's governor and mayor hold court amid similar, if less-protected, circles of admirers. There are other recognizable faces, but Spencer can't yet find his father.

“Look,” Spencer whispers. “You see that sour, pinched fellow over there? That's the newspaper man, William Randolph Hearst. And that's Henry Ford he's chatting with.”

Ros cranes his neck. “Hearst and Ford? They're friendly? I would have thought they were in different political parties.”

Spencer laughs. “It's all the same party—it's the Haves Party.”

“Why, Master Reynolds! I'm starting to think you have more in common with Joe than you let on.”

“No, I just grew up in the game, that's all.”

“Doesn't feel much like a game where I'm standing.”

Spencer frowns, his eyes serious. “You're right.” He gently lays his hand on Rosalind's gloved elbow. “You know, for too long, I've been—”

“Spencer Reynolds, you old dog!”

Spencer turns to see a round man with white hair peeking from underneath a tall top hat. “Judge O'Gorman, how are you, sir?” He thrusts out his hand, and O'Gorman pumps it.

“Very well, son, very well! And who is this charming flower?”

Rosalind extends his hand daintily. “Rosalind Rosebush, of the Block Island Rosebushes.”

Spencer shoots a look at his companion—
Rosebush?
—but he doesn't comment.

O'Gorman just laughs. “The Block Island Rosebushes, I never! Delighted. And, Spencer, it is delightful to see you. I wasn't sure I would. Apparently, your father isn't coming? That's what I heard anyway. Is he unwell? Or just unwilling to be bored to tears by one of these stuffy events?”

“Ah, he's…very busy.” Spencer looks at Rosalind meaningfully. “He sends his regrets.”

A waiter approaches with a tray of champagne flutes. “More champagne?”

“Always!” O'Gorman drains his glass and takes a full one, and Rosalind takes a deep breath and does the same. Spencer puts his half-full glass on the tray and stares at the floor.

“Young man,” O'Gorman says to the waiter, “I can't help but notice your arm.” One of the waiter's sleeves is pinned to his uniform.

Spencer looks up—the empty sleeve, the black eyes, the scar.
Shit.

The waiter nods at the judge solemnly. “Yes, sir. Battle of Manila Bay.”

“A veteran! Now you're serving drinks to useless old sods like myself? On Decoration Day, no less?”

“It's an honor to serve a great man like Roosevelt.”

O'Gorman pats the waiter on the back, gently so as not to spill the champagne. “No, lad. It is you who honor us.”

“Thank you, sir.” The waiter moves on.

Spencer glances at Rosalind. The waiter gave no sign of recognizing Rosalind decked out in full femme, but Rosalind nods subtly at Spencer.
Yes, that's him.

“Spencer,” O'Gorman says. “I understand congratulations are in order. Graduated from Princeton this year, is that right? I'm a Dartmouth man myself, so naturally—”

“Yes… I'm sorry. I just remembered I have to…uh…”

Rosalind's eyes follow the waiter. “You have things to do. Go on. I'm sure Judge O'Gorman can keep me entertained.”

“On with you, then. Don't embarrass your papa!” O'Gorman leers at Rosalind. “I am
dying
to hear all about those Block Island Rosebushes…”

Spencer jogs over to the waiter, who has approached another group of partygoers to exchange their empty glasses. “Pardon me.” He takes the waiter by his arm and steers him to an unoccupied spot by the ballroom's far wall. “Where is it?”

“I'm sorry, sir?”

“Don't play games, Joe. I'm a friend of Zeph's.”

Joe's expression changes from servile to something darker. “I'm here making a living, just like any—”

“Tell me where the bomb is!” Spencer yanks on Joe's one arm, and champagne flutes shatter on the floor. The guests within earshot subtly adjust their positions, the better to listen in.

Realizing he has an audience, Joe slathers on the innocence. “Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I don't understand.”

“You don't?” Spencer laughs. “Of course you don't. Because you've got nothing.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Joe says loudly. “Perhaps you've had a bit too much to—”

“Right.” Unlike Joe, Spencer doesn't care who might be listening. “You make me laugh. You strut down Surf Avenue like you're commander of the Black Flag army, but when the big moment arrives, all you can do is serve cocktails and sneer. You think you're going to get famous, like that other fellow? What's his name—Czolgosz? You think we'll learn to pronounce
your
ridiculous name too? You're a joke.”