Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet (21 page)

There's No Business…

How are you?

Such a common question with so little meaning. It's a question that doesn't even desire an answer.
How are you? Good afternoon. Nice weather we're having.
Words of ritual rather than significance.

But that's changed in Coney Island now.
How are you?
means
Are you dying? How is your family? Have they died? Will they die soon?

How are you?
A once-empty query, now crowded with intention.

Meanwhile, the once-crowded streets of Coney Island sit largely bereft. Zeph and Nazan walk along a Surf Avenue that looks like a stage set after the play is long over. The shrieking roller coasters have gone silent. The Ferris wheels are still, carriages swaying in the breeze like loose teeth in a mouth. Zeph's leather gloves make a gentle scraping sound as they brush the sand-covered streets. The sound would be pleasant if it didn't merely highlight the utter silence everywhere else.

From time to time, they pass an Unusual, or a waiter, or a cook. If Zeph knows them—being a bartender, he often does—they stop awhile and check in with one another.

How are you?

“See,” Zeph notes when he and Nazan continue on their way. “
She
don't have it.” Or “Did ya hear that—
his
people are all doing good. Not everybody gets it, Miss Nazan. Some people get it, but not everybody gets it.” He's not sure which one of them he's trying to reassure.

“No,” Nazan readily agrees. “Not everybody.”

“We're gonna be fine. It's all gonna be fine.”

But then a crumpled hot-dog wrapper skitters down the street like a tumbleweed, landing at Zeph's hip. And something about that dejected little wrapper nearly breaks Zeph's heart in two.

“Must be what it's like here in the winter,” Nazan offers.

“It's quiet in the winter, but this is…” He doesn't bother to finish the sentence. They walk together in silence for a while, listening to the calls of dejected seagulls.

“I still can't believe Spencer knew this was coming and didn't say anything.” Nazan shakes her head. “I should become a nun. Clearly, I have no instincts for suitors.”

“Well, now…” He looks up at her. She's smiling at her little joke—smiling despite the eerie misery all around. Her eyes crinkle, and her unruly curls dance in the breeze, and something goes
ping
in Zeph's chest. Fortunately, he knows exactly what he ought to say:
Yeah, Reynolds, that no-account, good-for-nothing, rich boy. You're best rid of him, Miss Nazan, and that's the truth.
As well as he knows his own name, Zeph knows that's precisely what he should say.

But instead, he says, “Spencer could have let the Committee arrest me. Could've let me take the fall for those dead fellas in the yard. Instead, he lied to keep me outta trouble, and now he's an accomplice in two murders.” Zeph sighs, disgusted with himself. “Reynolds ain't all bad.”

Nazan nods. “That's big of you to say, considering how he acted toward you when his friend Tilden was around.”

“I am a mighty big man, as you can surely see.”

They laugh. “He's just so confusing to me,” she says. “Do you remember, at the Cabinet that first day, when he saw the boxing kangaroo? And how delighted he was?
That's
the Spencer I met initially. That's the one I…” She blushes. “
You
know. But five minutes later, it's ‘my father this' and ‘my family that,' and his
friends
! My goodness, his friends are absolutely gruesome. Does he really think those nincompoops are going to be
my
friends too?” Nazan sighs. “I
am
fond of him. I just… I don't know.”

“No rush,” Zeph points out. “You got time to figure it out.”

The entrance to Luna Park is barred with a long, heavy chain, and a lone figure leans on the chain, smoking a cigarette. As they approach, Nazan sees that the man's face is tattooed with an illustration of a collapsing castle. With one hand, he pets a rat, its tiny head peeking out of his jacket pocket.

“Afternoon, Zeph,” he sneers. “Look at you—taking the air, enjoying the apocalypse.”

“Pete,” Zeph replies. He has to maneuver carefully so as not to put a hand down on one of Pete's many cigarette butts that litter the ground. “How are you?” Pete just shrugs. “What are you doing out here?”

“Nothing much. Just waiting on some friends.”

“
Friends?
Hope you have a lot of tobacco if you're gonna wait that long.”

“Ha. Now, look at this sweet thing you've got with you. Further evidence the Cough is the best thing ever happened to people like us. Think you'd ever land a piece like that a few weeks ago?” He tips his bowler at Nazan. “Welcome to the good days, baby.”

Nazan looks shocked, but Zeph just shakes his head. “Don't bother.”

“So,” Crumbly Pete says, “you two headed over to the doctor's?”

“Never mind where we're—”

But Nazan says, “There's a doctor in Coney seeing patients?”

Pete chuckles. “
Seeing
patients? Ain't exactly seeing 'em.”

“I don't under—”

“There's this building on Twelfth, all these people lined up? What you do is, you stand in this line, and when it's your turn, you shout up a description of whatever poor son of a bitch got himself sick. You know:
male, five foot eleven, one eighty
. And the doc lowers down medicine in this basket. You put every damn nickel you got in the basket, or some goons stomp the snot out of you. Good racket.” Pete takes a contemplative drag on his cigarette. “Thinkin' about getting into it myself.”

“Yeah.” Zeph snorts. “You're quite the humanitarian.” He nods to Nazan. “We should go. See ya, Pete.”

They continue down Surf Avenue as Pete calls after them. “They say this Cough turned the city upside down, Zeph! You know what that means? Means the last shall be first, my brother!” Pete kisses his rat on the nose. “Last shall be first.”

• • •

The eerie quiet on Surf Avenue weighs on Zeph. “It's strange,” he muses. “Usually I long for everyone to leave, because it's the only time I can go out.”

“Honestly?”

“Come on, look at me. You walk on your hands, you're gonna get stared at. People gonna talk—that's just how it is. I don't care what they say, but…well, gets to the point I don't feel like going out. Just ain't worth the trouble. But now—here I go down the street, easy as you please. And suddenly I'd give anything to have somebody shout ‘freak' at me.” He chuckles. “Some people are never happy, I guess.”

On their way to the Manhattan Beach Hotel, they pass bathhouses and tchotchke shops, boarded up and bereft. The silence develops a physical mass; Nazan can feel it on her shoulders like a heavy weight. To break it, she says, “Zeph, if you don't mind my asking, how did you lose your legs?”

“Oh, you know,” he says. “Left 'em in a bar.”

“Very careless!”

“Heh. No, it was… My people are down in Tennessee. After the war, my grandparents got…well, no forty acres, that's for damn sure. But they got themselves a little land to work, and that became our life down there. As for me, it's the old story. Boy fights tractor; boy loses.”

“A
tractor
? Mr. Zeph, I'm so sorry.”

He shrugs it off. “I spent a few months in bed, not doing much. Taught myself to read—that's something at least. Kept waiting to die, but after a while…just got bored, I guess. Finally, one day, I started trying to figure things out. How can I do that, how can I do this?”

“And what brought you up north?”

“Well, food's always scarce, of course, and feeding somebody who ain't contributing…that's tough on everybody. So one day, the circus comes to town, fella spots me up in the stands, climbing around on the bleachers like I learned. Next day, he shows up, sniffing around all sympathetic-like. Mama makes him a pot of tea, he takes his wallet out… Before you know it, I'm in show business.”

“So she just…” Nazan bites her lip. “I don't know what to say.”

“Aw, now. He paid enough to fix the tractor, so… And I saw the country. I've been to Syracuse, Columbus, Pittsburgh. Got all the way out to Cedar City one time. I've been a Wild Man of Borneo, a Caterpillar Man. I've been a Missing Link.” Nazan gazes at him, horrified. “Aww, it wasn't so bad…”

But she continues to stare, and he wilts under her big, brown, empathic eyes. “
Okay
, you got me. It was horrible. Traveling in some penny-ante sideshow, acting the fool while a bunch of hayseeds gawk and throw rocks. Lucky you, Miss Nazan, because now you know what all my nightmares look like—me, in a cage, with some inbred toddler laughing at me till he wets himself. But I'm all done with that now. I got my friends, I got the Cabinet to look after, and there's no point in—oh, look,” he says with relief. “We're here.”

The Hound

Kitty sits on the staircase to the sea, trying not to think about the double funeral she'll need to arrange for her mother and brother, but thinking about it regardless. Should it be a proper service in London? But how will she get there, and with what money would she organize such a thing? In New York, then? But what would be the point when no one knows them here?

Surely Mum would want to be laid to rest beside Father. Good luck, given that Kitty can't even find her body. What a useless girl she's turned out to be. What did Shakespeare say? How sharper than a serpent's tooth to have a child
lose your corpse
?

She hates that she's so practical. Making jokes, even when she has no one to tell them to. She should cry more, shouldn't she?
Keen
or something? Isn't that what a good daughter would do? She'd shed a few tears in front of the doctor, but they'd soon dried up. Now she can't stop her brain from making and remaking funeral arrangements.
What's wrong with me?

A few steps down, at the water's edge, P-Ray stands with his makeshift fishing pole—a stick with a long piece of string and a hook fashioned from a small piece of metal he'd found in the yard. He casts his line, over and over. Kitty hasn't bothered to tell him it's pointless. Even pointless fishing gives P-Ray so much happiness, and it's not as though the observation suite has much else to offer for entertainment.

But suddenly, a miracle. P-Ray hoots in delight and scuttles up the steps to show off his prize—a long, brown fish flops in his hands. “Look at you!” Kitty says. “That's brilliant! Well done, sweetie, well done indeed!” The boy squeals and jumps up and down with such enthusiasm that Kitty has to grab him so he doesn't tumble into the water.

“I am returned, signorina!” Enzo stands on the far side of the chain-link fence and begins to climb.

“I am glad, signore!” Kitty goes to the fence to greet him. For the past couple of days, Enzo has been sneaking out of the men's dormitory anytime no one is looking. Each visit, he brings a gift—a washcloth smuggled from the lavatory, a bag of cookies liberated from the kitchen. Tiny gestures, but exquisite kindnesses also. His visits keep Kitty from going completely mad with loneliness.

He drops down to her side of the fence and pulls a book from inside his coat. “For you.”

She grins and snatches her gift, the title,
A Study in Scarlet
, in lurid print on the cover. “Oh, lovely, Sherlock Holmes! This is the one where the cab driver did it.”

Enzo grimaces. “You already read…”

“Yes, but… Oh, Mr. Enzo, I'm sorry. It's a cracking good story. I don't mind, truly. I shouldn't have said anything.”

P-Ray squeals and runs to them, holding up the fish to show Enzo. “What is it you have?
Un pesce
?
È fantastico
! Aha, a mummichog, you catch.
Molto bene
! You see these blue spots? This means he is…ah…” Enzo looks to Kitty to help him find the term. “He is…how you say, ah, looking for girlfriend?”

Kitty grins. “Spawning.”

“
Sì
,
sì
. Spawning. So we must let go.” P-Ray whinnies his disappointment, but Enzo eases the hook out of the fish's mouth and hands it to the boy. “Now, we no stop
amore
.”

P-Ray returns sadly to the stairs. He pets the mummichog and whispers a mournful good-bye, while Kitty and Enzo confer by the fence.

“How goes the boy?”

“Fine. Bored. And hungry—the food they bring us is rather dire. I found a hairpin in my macaroni earlier.”

Enzo nods. “Is no better in the big house, believe me. And? How is the young lady?”

“Me? I'm all right.” Unconvinced, Enzo arches the eyebrow on the unscarred side of his face, and Kitty smiles. “Better for your visits, sir. Any progress with the boat?”

He groans. “Ach, these men, they work in the offices. I have to show which end of the hammer to use.”

“Lucky they have you, then!”

Enzo looks out at the bay and shudders. He confesses, “I, ah…I no like the water so well.”

Kitty frowns. “You don't swim?”

Enzo shakes his head.

“There's nothing to it! I'll teach you sometime.”

He eyes her skeptically. “A
lady
swimmer?”

She gasps in mock horror. “How dare you, sir! This lady swims brilliantly!” She grins at him, and Enzo grins back. “In any case, you aren't alone—loads of sailors can't swim a stroke. If we sink in New York Bay, a few swimming lessons probably won't save you, anyhow.”

“Is comforting,
grazie
. But we have nothing to…
come si dice
, control the boat. These tides…this is no lake,
sì
? We cannot just, ah”—he makes a flowing motion with his hand—“float along.”

“Well, a sail, I suppose? You could steal some bedsheets?”

“Signorina, none of us know the sailing. Tides like this? We no careful, we end up in Cuba!”

“The food has to be better, right? Look, I don't know terribly much about it, but Nate used to sail. Perhaps I could—oh, pardon me. P-Ray! Do be careful. You're far too close to the water, and it's rather slippery! Apologies, Mr. Enzo. So, as I was saying, I could try to help with the sailing, perhaps?”

Enzo shrugs. “Is nice offer, but our problems, they are bigger.”

“How can they possibly be so?”

“You see, these men… They say when boat is finished, they take me. They take you. But they no take the boy.”

Kitty frowns. “Why ever not?”

He strokes his own cheek by way of answer. “Too dark. They no want.”

“What! But that's horrible!”

“
Sì
,
sì
. So, I think, okay, I no help them. But boat is only option. I no know what else.” He shakes his head sadly. “Miss Kitty, I no know what to do.”

“I know precisely what to do! You finish that boat, Enzo. You solve the navigation problem, you sail off with them—and once you're far enough from shore, you clop their fat heads with an oar and toss them in the sea!”

Enzo laughs, shocked. “Miss Kitty! You no serious!”

“I'm utterly serious, Enzo. To leave a young boy like that, because of his race? It's unacceptable!” She stamps her foot in frustration. “Bastards!”

“You…” Enzo shakes his head. “You are…something I no know the English for.”

“Well, I shan't have it.”

“Okay, okay.” He sighs. “I must get back, before they see I not there. I return soon.” He calls to P-Ray. “
Addio, ragazzino
!” He climbs the fence and heads toward the hospital buildings.

“Mr. Enzo,” Kitty calls after him. “See if you can find
The Hound of the Baskervilles
for me. A lot of mayhem in that one—quite suits my mood.”

He shakes his head and laughs. “She is the troublemaker, this one.”

Kitty returns to the staircase, where P-Ray stands, watching sadly as his mummichog swims away to freedom. She puts her arm around his shoulder. “Don't fret, sweetie. We'll swim off too. Together. I promise.”

P-Ray looks up at her and nods. Then he coughs.

“Oh, sweetie.” Kitty kneels down and wraps him in her arms. “No. Please, no.”

Kitty ushers the boy back into the cabin as he coughs again.