The Museum of Extraordinary Things (28 page)

The prayer was so ingrained, Eddie found himself murmuring the words in unison, though the liveryman seemed less a Jew than a heathen, a criminal with no allegiance, however he might call upon God.

“There you have it,” the carriage man told his confused companion when the prayer had been completed. “I’m one of your brethren.”

“I’ve left my faith,” Eddie was quick to inform him. “So we can hardly be brothers in any way, shape, or form.”

“You think so? I did the same as you, covered up who I was. We’re not so different. It was easier for a man like me to make my way without carrying the weight of our people. I suspect the same held true for you. I became whatever and whoever suited the times. I changed my name when need be, and who says that’s a crime? I’ve been Bill and Jack, and half a dozen other people. Joe Marvin, Joe Morris, William Murray—there’s an entire list of who I’ve been, and none of them have been too pleasing. But where do I go when there’s no one else to turn to? Adonai, our God.”

“If you think I’ll let you off easy because of this, you’re wrong. You’ll take me to her.”

The carriage man shook his head sadly. “You’ll likely regret it. I say this in all respect and as a brother.”

“Likely I will,” Eddie agreed. “But I’ll be in Brooklyn when I do.”

A frayed red cushion covered the seat of the carriage, to ease the pounding a person’s rear end took as the wooden wheels hit against the ruts in the roads. Eddie noticed the liveryman didn’t use a whip on the horse, yet the gelding trotted easily, as if he knew his master’s intended destination.

“You’re good with animals,” Eddie granted.

“I don’t need you to tell me so. I owned a pet shop on Broome Street when I was young. I was bird crazy. Still am. Honest creatures, aren’t they? Wild little things.”

The weather was warm and the sky had opened into a clear cerulean blue. The liveryman stopped the carriage on the flatlands, where there were still farms. Rows of cauliflower and beets grew for nearly a mile. The road was dusty, and it seemed no one was around. Eddie’s hackles were immediately raised as he speculated that some foul play was under way. It was possible that his companion would try to do him in on this empty stretch of highway; it might be that one of the liveryman’s old cohorts was nearby, ready with a club or a gun. Then Eddie realized their journey had been halted because they’d come to a well. The carriage man had already leapt down to retrieve a bucket from beneath the rear seat, which he filled so that his horse might drink. Eddie jumped down as well, in order to stretch his long legs.

“What do you want me to call you?” he asked, feeling more good-natured in this rural landscape. The air itself was intoxicating. “You said you’ve been known as Joe?”

“Go right ahead. I’ll answer to anything.”

By habit Eddie had grabbed his camera before leaving the stable, and he was now moved to capture the scene before him. The carriage man, called Joe for lack of anything better, held the water bucket so that the gelding could drink. His free arm was draped tenderly over the horse’s neck.

“All my other portraits were taken at the police precinct,” the fellow Joe said with a grin, showing off his gold-capped smile. “Make sure my beautiful teeth show.”

“Don’t think so highly of yourself. It’s the horse’s portrait I’m interested in.”

“I told you we were alike,” the liveryman insisted. When he finished his chore, he climbed back into the seat and lifted the reins. “We both trust beasts more than we do men.”

“If you mean would I rather stare at the horse’s ass than look at you,” Eddie remarked as he took his place beside his companion, “I can’t disagree.”

They both had a chuckle over that remark. Their defenses were down due to the utter beauty of the day. Terns wheeled across the sky and swirls of bees rumbled through clumps of tall grass.

“You thought I was about to murder you back there.” Joe looked pleased with himself. “Admit it.”

“It crossed my mind. Then I thought of your allegiance to God, and found relief.” Eddie’s edge of cynicism caused a smile to play at his lips. “You’d have to pay when you came before him.”

“I’m before him now,” the liveryman said solemnly. “I’ve come to understand I’m before him each and every minute.”

The marshland sprawled to the south in patches of gold and green. There was a slight haze as they crossed the wooden bridge that forded a watery fen and a rivulet known as Coney Island Creek. The original bridges over the creek had been constructed of wood, but the first roads were made of shells. Shells were still tossed down as seabirds dropped clams so they might smash open on the bridges and the roads. Several migrating ospreys nested in the branches of tall trees. Sun dashed onto Eddie’s face and made his eyes tear. The salt in the air stung their faces and refreshed their spirits. The light was paler here than in Manhattan, tempered by soft clouds. It was the sort of light Moses Levy would have delighted in, for while it obscured the larger horizon, it allowed the camera’s lens to pinpoint the smallest detail even as they entered the streets of Coney Island with their crowds of shoppers. All of Brooklyn seemed bathed in a glow. The gleam of the trolley tracks on Neptune Avenue, the carousels with their painted wooden lions and horses, all glinted with intense color. Even the market awnings shone with bright stripes of crimson and yellow and blue.

The liveryman stopped the carriage on Surf Avenue. The renovation at Dreamland was in its final stages. Huge piles of sandy earth had been dug up, then dumped in the street. Each time the breeze arose, sand whipped into little dirt devils that burst into the air.

“This is as far as I can take you. Otherwise he’ll know it’s me that brought you here.” Down the avenue the roof and gables of the Museum of Extraordinary Things could be spied. “I’d like to kill him, and don’t think I haven’t had the chance. But he’s got access to what I need, God forgive me, so I’ll go no farther.”

Eddie leapt down from the carriage, camera in hand. “Wait for me then. I’ll need a ride back.”

“What do you mean? I’ve done my part, haven’t I? Do you think I’m your lackey meant to do your bidding?”

“I thought you were my brother,” Eddie mocked.

“Half brother.”

“Stay put. And hope that I come back.”

The liveryman turned the carriage despite Eddie’s order, and let out a whistle that caused his horse to break into a trot. “Hope that for yourself,” he called over his shoulder. “Good luck making your own way back.”

THERE WAS
so much noise and commotion at Dreamland that it was a relief to turn onto the slate path that led to the museum. A wash of quiet settled over Eddie, and the air was cooler than it had been on the crowded avenue. The institution Eddie approached appeared to be more of a house than museum; it was still off-season, if only for a few days more, and the place was surprisingly run-down. At the end of the path, Eddie found the entryway door locked. The wooden signs that announced the spectacular marvels to be seen within had not yet been hung but were instead tossed upon the grass, the paint dewy and fading. Two lilac trees were lavishly in bloom, surrounded by a cloud of bees. By now Eddie had begun to hear voices. He followed the sound of conversation around the perimeter of the exhibition hall, finding himself on the outskirts of a large yard. There were new leaves on a towering pear tree. Eddie had to peer through the branches so that he might view the gathering on the porch. Another man might have been stunned by what he saw, but Eddie was delighted by the wonders he observed. For a moment he forgot why he had come and was content to simply gaze upon the miraculous forms that had appeared before him.

The museum began its season early, before Dreamland and Luna Park opened their gates. In this way they could hope to attract weekend visitors who might otherwise overlook such a small establishment in favor of the other parks. The billowing white sheets had already been removed from the cases of specimens, glass canisters and displays of bones had been dusted, and birdcages and fish tanks freshened. On this morning the living wonders had reported in to greet each other after a long winter, signing their names or, for those who hadn’t the skill of writing, making their marks with
X
es in a ledger book that charted the acts that would begin performing at the end of the week. Every year some alumnus went missing, and this season was no different. Gianni, for instance, an elderly man from Rome who ate fire and walked barefoot over a bed of hot coals, had simply disappeared. He had been ill at the end of last summer, coughing up bits of cinders and blood, and now people mourned his absence. Those who had returned embraced, gladdened to find they were not the only ones to survive another winter. Some had worked odd jobs, others had traveled with exhibitions or circuses in the South, still others merely waited for the season to begin again, like Malia, the Butterfly Girl, who bided her time in a boardinghouse where her mother took in mending to sustain their meager needs. This reunion was a day of celebration, especially as the Professor had been drinking late into the night and was still in bed. Eventually they would all have to meet with him and discuss their contracts, but for now it was far easier to enjoy themselves when his piercing glance was not evaluating everything that was said and done.

They were gathered around a table, drinking tea, delighting in Maureen’s apple fritters, excellent as always, even better than usual on this day, pastries concocted of sweetened dough that had been boiled in a vat on the huge coal-burning stove before being sprinkled with brown and white sugar.

Eddie stood just inside the garden, inflamed and astonished. There was Jeremiah, a sword swallower who made sure to coat his throat with a thick syrup made in the Indies before each performance and liked his tea especially hot. Two young brothers from the Bronx, the Durantes, ate from the same plate. The Butterfly Girl used her bare feet to partake of her breakfast as another might use her hands, and the Jungle Boy, whom people around the table called Horace, could not speak, yet made himself clear enough when he wished to have three cubes of sugar to his tea. There was a new wonder this season, a spritely man named William Reeves, who kept an alligator the size of a hunting dog on a chain. In Reeves’s act he removed the cap he wore, then held the beast’s jaws open to fit his head inside its gaping mouth, an orifice that was currently tied with string, to ensure the safety of those nearby should the beast mistake a thumb or forefinger for one of the chicken bits he was fed each night.

Eddie hoisted up his camera so that he might catch an image of this wondrous breakfast gathering. The garden itself seemed enchanted. Bands of light streamed over the table in shades of lemon and gold, and there was the scent of mint, and of damp earth, and of fragrant black currant tea. Malia threw back her head and laughed at a joke the Durantes told in tandem—the older brother always announced the punch line—and the new man, William Reeves, gazed at her joyfully, fully appreciating the Butterfly Girl’s beauty, while the sword swallower drank from his steaming cup of tea, his blade with its brass handle leaning against one bony knee. Though Eddie’s camera was so very quiet, the hollow click was enough to make the group on the porch freeze. Perhaps their senses were attuned in ways an average person’s were not. They turned en masse, wary, as though expecting to find a snake stretched along the length of a branch. They seemed startled to see such an ordinary individual there beside the pear tree, a tall young man with short-cropped hair and dark eyes, carelessly dressed in a blue jacket, light wool trousers, and laced boots.

As for Eddie, he approached humbly, knowing full well he was disturbing an intimate gathering. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping. I was passing by and it was such a perfect scene. I’m a photographer.”

Fearing his very presence would spook them, he held out his camera, evidence of his good intentions. Rather than shrink from him, the natural wonders were intrigued.

“I take portraits.” Eddie came closer, encouraged by their reactions. “And I’d be so happy to take any of yours.”

“Would you now?” the character named William Reeves replied with an edge of suspicion. “At what price?”