Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet (4 page)

Because when he looks down at his book, there is W. E. B. Du Bois, speaking Zeph's heart in black and white.

I sit with Shakespeare, and he winces not. Across the color line, I move arm in arm with Balzac and Dumas… Is this the life you grudge us, O knightly America?

Zeph frowns.
Brother, Shakespeare never got a look at me.

• • •

Among the cabinets, a shaft of daylight cuts through the shadows—someone has pulled aside the velvet curtain and stepped inside. Nazan hears very light footsteps, like the approach of a timid cat. She turns a corner around one of the cabinets and sees that a small boy, nine or ten at the oldest, has entered the museum. Startled, he looks up at Nazan and freezes in place. The newsboy cap on his head makes him look very young, but the eyes peering out from underneath look very old indeed.

“Hello there,” Nazan says gently. She smiles, hoping not to startle him further.

The boy just stares.

“Are you visiting? Or do you work here?”

He still doesn't move. Or blink.

Nazan's frozen smile starts to feel a little awkward. “Can I…help you?”

Slowly, the boy approaches a cabinet. Inside is a small, stripy circus tent. But the boy pays no attention to the little big top. Instead, he opens a drawer underneath and pulls out a pickle jar. From his back pocket, he removes a dirty handkerchief, which he puts on top of the jar. He slides his hand underneath the cloth, unscrews the lid, and sticks his hand into the jar. Then he looks up at Nazan.

“Do you… Are you trying to show me something?” The boy doesn't respond, so Nazan approaches, the way one might approach a stray animal. “What have you got there?” Inside the pickle jar are a dozen or so fleas, bouncing around inside the jar and biting the boy's hand. He lets them. “Are these…pets?”

Spencer appears around the corner. “Hey, I just found the neatest thing…”

The boy jumps at the sound of Spencer's voice. He gives his hand a quick shake, shuts the jar, shoves it back in the cabinet, and slams the drawer. He takes off at a run and disappears.

Spencer looks at Nazan and grins awkwardly. “Did I say something?”

She shrugs. “I don't think it was you. He seems very shy.”

Spencer inspects the cabinet. “Toy circus? What's it for?”

“Not sure. He was feeding some—oh, of course. Fleas. It's a flea circus.”

“Oh, very clever.”

“Mr. Reynolds…” Nazan takes a step closer to him and lowers her voice. “I hope this isn't inappropriate of me. But Mr. Tilden was terribly rude to the young man out front.”

“Miss Celik, the young man was rude to Gibson first. He threw a piggy at him,” Spencer says, and Nazan chuckles. “Now, don't laugh—an inch or two different, and he would have hit Gibson square in the face.”

“What a shame
that
would have been.”

Spencer grins. “Shh, you. He's lurking around here somewhere.”

She whispers. “Really, though. Very rude.”

“Gib's not so bad,” Spencer whispers back. But Nazan lowers her face slightly and looks up at Spencer from beneath skeptical eyebrows. “Look, his father, Gibson Tilden Sr., taught at my prep school. That's where we met—Master Tilden failed me in geometry.”

“But you went to Princeton, didn't you? No offense, but how does somebody who can't do basic geometry get into Princeton?”

Spencer laughs. “My father bought the school a new library, and you wouldn't believe how fast I got good at geometry. Anyway, Gibson's just a teacher's kid, but he has, you know…
aspirations
. My father wants me to take him under my wing, as they say.”

“I don't care for him.”

“Oh, don't you? All right then, Miss Celik. I promise that next time, it will be just the two of us. What do you say to that?”

“
Next
time, Mr. Reynolds?”

Spencer swallows a smile and rocks back and forth on his fine leather shoes. “Well, let's see what the rest of the afternoon holds.”

• • •

In her quest to find a place to stand within Magruder's where her eyes aren't assailed by morbidity, Chastity thinks she has found a haven. One unloved cabinet in a dimly lit corner is home to a collection of glass bottles filled with colorful liquids. A blown-glass wine bottle in the shape of a fish is filled with lovely blue water. A painted perfume bottle with pink water. A pickling jar with cheerful yellow liquid and an index finger…
a finger
? Chastity squeaks and backs away, only to bump into another cabinet. She turns and finds herself nose to nose with a human head the size of a grapefruit. She screams.

Gibson comes running first, with Spencer at his heels. Nazan arrives more slowly, having had enough of Chastity's helpless girl routine. She peers into the cabinet. “It's a shrunken head. From the Amazon, or so the tag claims.” She turns to Chastity. “So it's a head. What's the problem? Did it wink at you or something?”

“No! What? No, it…it's just…”

She is interrupted by a whirring sound—a small, grumpy engine being roused from its slumber. The whirring is followed by the sound of grinding wheels, as though they're being pursued by a set of wheelchair-bound grandmothers. The sounds are strange enough to distract them all from Chastity's distress. They stare at the corridor of cabinets as some mechanical monster wheezes its way closer. Around the corner of the wall of cabinets comes Zeph, seated atop a tall, three-wheeled metal cart. He gazes distastefully at the stunned group.

“Did I hear screaming? Y'all didn't break nothin', did ya?”

Mr. Deschamps

Kitty's stomach growls again. Angrier this time than the last—the half a hot dog yesterday somehow made the hunger worse, not better. Or perhaps it's the encounter with Crumbly Pete that's making her stomach churn. Her mind keeps returning to his green eye, peering out the tattooed castle window. Kitty looks around the park uncomfortably. Did he follow her to the park? Is that eye watching her still?

As her hunger pains are joined by a vague dizziness, Kitty knows she has to do…
something
. But without so much as a penny, she can't think what that something might be. The very act of thinking is becoming difficult.

A seagull limps along by the waterline, dragging its wings in the wet sand and making an odd coughing sound. Kitty stares at the sick gull and tries to force her mind into focus.
What do I do, what do I do…whatever do I do now?

“Good morning, miss!” says a jolly voice. “Would it trouble you if I rested a moment on your bench?”

Kitty turns to see an older gentleman smiling at her. He wears a knee-length, cream-colored frock coat, twenty years out of style at minimum, but clean and well cared for. There is a white carnation in the buttonhole of his coat, and he has a brightly colored scarf wrapped several times around his neck and tucked into his vest—a cravat, Kitty believes it's called. A few white curls peek out from under his narrow-brimmed straw hat. His face is deeply lined and tanned, as though he spends every day piloting a yacht somewhere. He seems jovial and serene, but Kitty notices something deliberate in his approach, as though he's already weighed and measured her, already tallied precisely how much she's worth.

The man gestures at the bench. “Do y'all mind?” He has a fine heirloom of a Southern accent, and he's not afraid to use it.

“Ah, no…no,” she says. “Of course not. It's a public bench, after all.”

He chuckles and settles himself beside her. “Not for long, I don't suppose. Not if the capitalists get their way. I don't know if you've noticed, but all the beach access is private now—
owned
, or so they claim, by the bathhouses and hotels. Pah! As though one can own a beach!” He brushes his lap with dainty hands and crosses one leg over the other. “Before you know it, the Manhattan Beach Hotel will pressure the moon for a more convenient timing of the tides!” He turns to face Kitty directly. “I'm sorry, I must sound like one of those anarchists. I'm not, I assure you. I'm just a passionate beachgoer. Archibald Deschamps, at your service.”

When he puts out his hand, Kitty is startled to see the letters
SS
branded into his palm. She stares at the brand for a moment, then looks up, embarrassed. “My name is Kitty,” she offers by way of apology. “Kitty Hayward.”

“Miss Hayward. Delighted to make your acquaintance. From your accent, I gather you are of English extraction, yes?”

She nods.

“Ah, merry old England,” he says nostalgically. “Never been there. I hear it's lovely, just lovely.”

She shrugs.

“And how long is your intended sojourn on our fair Coney Island? Not really an island, by the way.”

“I'm—it's not?”

“Not for long. Coney Island Creek separates us from the town of Gravesend and the rest of Brooklyn. Barely more than a stream. Rumor has it there are plans to dredge the creek and make it passable by ship, but don't you believe it. That will never happen. Look at all the—I'm sorry, have you visited Manhattan yet?”

Kitty shrugs again, remembering her ill-fated trip into the city days earlier. “Briefly.”

“That's the best way to visit. But the next time you do—and you will; it's inevitable—look around. Look at all the building they're doing. All the constructing and moving and reshaping. Rabid bands of capitalists, bending the tiny isle of Manhattan to their will. It's a lot of dirt to move around, Miss Hayward. And when they're done? Where will they put the leftovers? Coney Island Creek, of course. You mark my words. Before long, nothing at all will separate us from the swindlers in Brooklyn. Oh, there I go again. Rambling away. But what can I tell you? I'm passionate about my beach.”

He reaches into his coat and removes a small, wooden pipe. He puts the pipe in his mouth and fumbles around in his pocket for a box of matches. “In any case, Miss Hayward… Ah, here we go…” He lights his pipe and puffs on it contemplatively. “In any case, it does occur to me that you, yourself, are rather passionate about this beach.”

“I'm sorry? What do you mean?”

“My dear, I promenade this end of Surf Avenue with some regularity. It is, if you like, my very own ground for stomping. And I couldn't help but notice you were here on this bench yesterday and the day before. And, dare I say, even the day before that?”

Kitty looks away. It never occurred to her anyone would notice. She can't decide whether attracting Mr. Deschamps's attention is a blessing or a curse. Her stomach growls again.

“Three days, then? I agree this is a most delightful bench and a most felicitous view, but still I wonder…why has a charming, young English lady such as yourself taken up residence here? If I might ask.”

Kitty turns to him. She can see that he is studying her closely, perhaps too closely. His tone is friendly, but his eyes hold something else.

“Well, I…I'm not sure…”

“It's perfectly all right, Miss Hayward. Please, don't hesitate to share. Don't you worry: Archie Croydon is here now. He'll help get you sorted out.”

“I'm sorry. Didn't you say your name was Deschamps?”

“Did I?” he asks mildly. “Hmm. Let's just stick with Archie. So tell me, Miss Hayward, what demon ties you to this pew? Surely Mummy and Daddy must be terribly fretful by now.”

She shrugs. “My father died years ago and…well, my mother isn't in a position to be concerned about much of anything at the moment.”

“Ah,” Archie says. “I see.”

“With apologies, I am quite sure you don't.” Kitty sighs and looks at the tide coming in. The little birds continue their frenzied flapping and diving. “What kind of birds are those?”

“Hmm…diving terns? I think? I'm not much for ornithology.”

“Terns. I like them.”

Archie smiles. “Odd little beasts, aren't they? Doesn't make a lick of sense, fishing that way. Too much energy expended. I'd like to see Mr. Darwin explain terns, eh?” Archie takes another puff on his pipe. “So. We have before us a damsel in distress. Daddy has passed to the other side, and Mummy is…otherwise occupied. Whatever can Archie do to aid the poor damsel?”

Kitty studies the strange old man.
Does he really want to help me? Or will he drag me beneath those waves?
Then she pictures Crumbly Pete, remembers his firm grip on her wrist and his whiskey breath on her face.

“I'm hungry,” she says finally. “Terribly hungry. And thirsty. And a bit wet. I haven't any money, or clothes, or…anything.” She gestures with her hands, palms up. “I haven't anything.”

“My dear child! And here I thought you were going to confront me with something difficult! Miss Hayward, these so-called problems are no problems at all!”

“They're rather substantial problems to me!”

“Nonsense. Let me buy you a meal. How about Feltman's, down the way? Caterers to the millions, or so they claim. Seven different kitchens serving up the most appalling things—frankfurters and bratwurst and such—but in one of those kitchens, the good one? I'm led to understand the entire staff is
French
. They put foie gras in the dinner rolls.”

The kitchen staff could be a tribe of Hottentots for all Kitty cares. A meal? She tries to hide her delight at the prospect of any rolls whatsoever, foie gras or no.

“But I couldn't. I've no way to repay you.”

“I won't hear it! If it is lunch Miss Hayward requires, it is lunch she shall have.” Archie removes the carnation from his coat and hands it to her flirtatiously. “I just need a tiny favor first.”

Kitty takes the flower but frowns. “Sorry? A what?”

Portrait of a Lady

Zeph's cart is powered by a strange double-boiler contraptionwith a mass of tubes and wires connecting to the wheels and to the underside of the carriage. He is kept steady on the cart by a fence of brass bars encircling his torso. Sitting on the bars at about belly height is a brass lever, which he pushes forward to go and pulls back to reverse.

Spencer points at the cart in amazement. “What is that thing?”

“So you're all good?” Zeph asks, ignoring him. “All right.” He pulls back on the lever; the cart sighs and begins his retreat.

“No, no, wait,” Spencer says. He kneels down and studies the rolling cart. “How do you power this thing?”

“Naphtha.”

Gibson grimaces. “What the h—what precisely is
naphtha
?”

“Kinda like tar. Your basic boiling oil sort of situation. Light it up and…vroom.”

Spencer looks up from his crouched position. “Isn't naphtha flammable, though?”

Zeph smiles. “I don't smoke. Let's put it that way.”

Spencer stands up. “What's your name?”

“Zeph Andrews.”

“Mr. Andrews, did you build this chariot of yours?”

“Nah, this here is the Doc's doing.”

“Doc… You mean Dr. Theophilus Magruder?”

Zeph laughs. “No, never met any Theophilus Magruder. Pretty sure there ain't one. Doc's name is Timur.”

Spencer reaches into his jacket pocket and removes a calling card. “Whatever his name is, I want you to make sure he gets this, okay? I have a business proposition for him. I want you to make sure he calls me.”

Zeph shrugs and takes the card. “Yeah, whatever you say.”

Nazan is surprised by Spencer's enthusiasm for Zeph's cart, but she has more pressing interests. “Mr. Andrews, how does one shrink a head?”

“Ah, fascinating question.” He powers over to the cabinet beside her. “The interesting thing about shrunken heads? The hardest step is the first. Gotta remove the bones of the skull without damaging the skin. You smack the head around to break the bones, then…”

“Mr. Tilden,” Chastity says, “I'm about ready for some fresh air. Would you join me?”

“…exit's around the back,” Zeph says. “Oh, for an extra nickel, you can see the Fiji mermaid. One hundred percent authentic. Interested?”

Chastity wrinkles her nose. “I'll pass, thank you.” She takes Gibson's arm and sweeps out of the room.

“Y'all have a nice afternoon, now,” Zeph calls.

“Right,” Spencer says. “Miss Celik, we should get going too, if we want to make our—say, what's this?” On the wall is a poster of a kangaroo in boxing gloves; beside the poster sits a machine with a viewfinder in the center.

“For a nickel, you can watch a kangaroo knock the stuffing out of a grown man.”

“No, really?”

“Sure. Go see for yourself.”

While Spencer reaches in his pocket for a coin, Zeph turns to Nazan. “So once you got them bones removed, you fill up the head with hot sand. Real hot, right? The sand boils the water in the skin and”—Zeph makes a sucking sound—“shrunken head.”

Nazan frowns. “But doesn't the sand fall out the mouth?”

“Yeah! I forgot that part. You gotta sew up the mouth. The eyes, the nose. Look close. You see the stitching? You sew it up tight, and it shrinks down.”

At the kinetoscope, Spencer guffaws. “Miss Celik, you have to see this! You look into this viewer, the pictures flip by, the kangaroo bounces around for a while, and then pow! He takes this fellow down! Knocks him flat! Come see!”

“No, I'm fine. You go ahead.”

“All right, your loss.” He retrieves another nickel and drops it into the coin slot.

“You know, Miss Celik—” Zeph says.

“Please. I'm Nazan.”

He grins. “Miss Nazan. Seems you appreciate the finer things. Could I show you something special? It's around back.”

“Yes, I'd like that. Mr. Reynolds, if it's all right, Mr. Andrews is going to—”

“Good Lord, look at that kangaroo go!”

Nazan smiles at Zeph. “Please, lead the way.”

“Sure,” he says, smiling back. “But only if you call me Zeph.”

She follows Zeph's cart around one corner, and another, and another, to a small storeroom. The space is dominated by a large platform that looks like a bed with a painted headboard. Nazan assumes this must be the something special she'd been promised, but Zeph directs her to the opposite corner. “Miss Nazan, you stand right there. See that X on the floor?”

Nazan stands in front of yet another cabinet, but instead of a collection of artifacts, this one houses the life-sized torso and head of a boy made entirely of clockwork. He has a delicate porcelain face and wears a suit and tie. His skeleton hands are made of brass, and the right one holds a pen. An artist's sketchpad sits in front of him. An elaborately painted sign above the cabinet reads
Robonocchio, the Automatic Boy!

Zeph bangs on the cabinet. “Okay, Chio, we got ourselves a customer!” Zeph fumbles about at the back of the cabinet, and a small light comes on at the top, illuminating the sketchpad. “You do a nice job, now,” Zeph says to the machine. He moves back and grins at Nazan. “Watch this.”

Slowly, the hand holding the pen begins to move. The automatic boy tilts his head slowly down toward the pad, up at Nazan, back down again. The pen moves faster.

“What's this?” Spencer has tired of the kangaroo and followed them into the storeroom.

“Shh, now,” Zeph says. “Wait.”

The mechanical boy looks up at Nazan and then back at the paper, again and again. He abruptly stops. The sketchpad tilts, and a piece of paper slides off the pad and drops down, appearing in a slot at the bottom of the cabinet, which goes
ding
.

“Voilà,” Zeph says. He yanks the paper out of the machine and presents it to Nazan. “There you go. Portrait of a lady.”

Nazan takes the paper—a rough pen sketch of a girl with long, dark hair. She stares at it and then at Zeph. “Oh my! That's incredible! That's… Mr. Reynolds, look! Mr. Andrews, how did you do that?”

Zeph shrugs. “Me? I didn't do a thing. That's Chio, doing what Chio does.”

“Well, Chio is amazing.”

Spencer grins knowingly. “Punch cards, am I right?”

“Sorry?” Zeph asks.

“Punch cards. Normally they're used for accounting—nothing so theatrical as this. But still.”

Nazan frowns and yanks the portrait back.

“It's… I'm sorry. But what you do is, you take a set of cards and punch holes in them. Maybe one set of holes tells the machine to move the arm a little bit to the left. The next card tells the machine to move a little bit to the right. Next card, a little to the left, and so on. It would take a fair number of cards, I admit. But if you had enough…you'd have a picture.”

“Whatever you say,” Zeph replies. He looks at Nazan. “Sure does resemble you, though.”

“That's rubbish,” Spencer says. “Gaslight like this? A monkey could draw Queen Victoria and claim it looked like Nazan. How would we even tell? Please, don't misunderstand. It's a great little machine. I just—”

Nazan turns to Zeph. “Is any of this true? Is it just a pile of cards?”

Zeph tilts his head. “Far be it from me to tell a white boy he don't know what he's talking about.”

Ignoring him, Spencer moves to the side of the cabinet to study the clockwork from behind. “Where do you wind it?” he asks.

“Don't.” Zeph shrugs.

“It's electric? I don't see a cord anywhere.”

“No cord.”

“What's the power source?”

“There ain't one.”

Spencer scoffs. “What are you talking about? Of course there's a power source. There's always a—”

“You see that glass chamber in there? That's a barometer. It registers changes in air pressure, which condense or expand the springs in the clockwork. I been here more than four years, and Chio never stopped, not one day.”

Nazan smiles appreciatively, but Spencer rolls his eyes. “A perpetual motion machine violates the laws of thermodynamics.” He winks at Nazan. “Bad at geometry, but not so bad at science. But, Mr. Andrews, I do wonder why you don't have a clever machine like this on more prominent display.”

“Well,” Zeph says wryly, “it's a bit surly of you to keep referring to Chio as a
machine
. And I don't show him to just anybody, because it ain't polite to put friends on display.”

Spencer laughs. “You consider this contraption a
friend
, do you? Now, isn't that—” An annoyed-sounding cuckoo clock suddenly bleats the hour. Spencer turns to see the carved figure of a woodsman appear from a door in the center of the clock; the woodsman chases a young maiden with his ax and disappears as the cuckoo chirps five o'clock. Spencer checks his pocket watch: it's twenty minutes to one. He glances at Zeph. “Not even close.”

Zeph shrugs. “What can I say? We got a lot of clocks at Magruder's. They do what they want, like the rest of us.”

“Your
clocks
do what they… Oh good Lord. Miss Celik, it's late. If we don't leave now, we'll lose our table at the Palmetto.”

She smiles at Zeph. “However it works, it's wonderful. Tell Chio I said thank you.”

“Tell him yourself, Miss Nazan. He's right here.”

“Thank you, Chio,” she says self-consciously.

Spencer rolls his eyes. “Next she'll be thanking the streetcar for taking us uptown.” He gently takes her elbow. “Come along, Miss Celik.”

“Mr. Zeph,” she says. “The Fiji mermaid! May we see it?”

“Nah, don't bother,” Zeph replies. “I'd have to charge you extra, and it's a lousy gaff.”

“A what?”

He laughs. “Sorry. Carnies got our own talk. A gaff is something fake, rigged up to fool folks like you. Like our mermaid—just an ol' monkey head glued onto a dead fish.” He looks at Spencer. “I suppose a fellow like you wants to save his money. Gotta look after them nickels, am I right?”

Spencer nods. “Make sure your Doc calls me. I mean it.”

As the back door shuts behind them, Zeph laughs bitterly. “
Make sure your Doc calls me.
Fella thinks everybody in the world got their own phone.” He hollers at the door. “This ain't no Waldorf, son!”

• • •

Nazan and Spencer blink as their eyes adjust to the bright sunshine. They join Gibson and Chastity, and Spencer delights them with his impression of a boxing kangaroo.

Nazan looks at the portrait again, now able to truly see it. It's a young woman with long hair, but she has to admit, it could be nearly any woman. She sighs. It's a portrait of a lady, all right—any lady.

She begins to fold the paper and put it away when something catches her eye. Just a speck, probably a stray ink spot. Right above the left eyebrow.

A mole.

Spencer touches her elbow. “Let's get going, yes?”

“But wait,” Nazan says. “Look at the—”

“Come along, Miss Celik. We'll admire your
portrait
another time.”

Nazan looks up at Magruder's shabby building. “Yes,” she says resolutely. “Another time for sure.”

• • •

Back at his post, Zeph tries to return his mind to Du Bois, but he can't concentrate. Did he really tell Miss Nazan that their Fiji mermaid is a fake? It's one thing to explain how shrunken heads are made—that only increases interest. But warning
against
paying to see a gaff?

He sighs, yanking off his gloves in defeat. “I gotta stop talking to pretty girls.”