The Museum of Extraordinary Things (38 page)

“Let’s walk on,” the other maid said, troubled by the turn in the conversation. “Talk is cheap and it makes you seem so.”

But Agnes clearly wished to tell the story of her mistress, and she went on. “It was all for Miss Juliet’s political work and the demonstrations. She’d been arrested again. When I told her what they meant to do, she said they’d never lock her up. She ran away, God bless her.”

“That’s enough,” her companion told her. “It’s nobody’s business, and it’ll be our jobs if they know you’ve talked about her. Don’t say any more!”

“Oh, hush up yourself,” Agnes said. “They don’t give a damn about us, and Miss Juliet always did.”

Sarah was chalk white. I realized that she was truly frightened, for she looked over her shoulder, anxious that they might be spied by a member of the Block family. “I won’t be party to this,” she declared. She turned and left us there in the park.

“Don’t worry about her. Sarah won’t say anything,” Agnes assured me. “She’s afraid of her own shadow.”

We sat on a bench. It was a warm night and the park was crowded. The people here were different from the throngs downtown. We were far enough uptown for the social classes to be separated. And yet, against the wishes of the creators of this great green place that was meant to remain pristine, it was changing. The meadows had been turned into playing fields by groups of young men from downtown who traveled here to play stickball on hot nights.

As Agnes and I sat together, the dogs were very quiet, though clearly happy to see me. They sat at my feet as if they were my own.

“Would you think of taking them?” Agnes asked. “No one gives a damn about them either, and, forgive me for saying so, Miss Block hated them.”

The dogs gazed at me beseechingly. They looked like fools in their clipped haircuts. I wanted nothing less than these silly beasts.

“They’re Jasper and Antoinette,” Agnes went on. “Poor things. They’re ignored in the house, and I suspect that in time they’ll be ill treated. If you have anything like a heart, you’ll take them.”

To placate her I said that at some point I might consider it; perhaps I would take them away once my own life was more settled. I most likely did not mean this, but I had reason to strike a bargain, for I needed something in return: to see Harry. I asked Agnes if she would let me into the town house, and to my surprise she agreed most readily.

“For Miss Juliet’s sake,” she told me. “Since you were her friend and she was mine.”

Agnes was a young, cheerful girl from Ireland, and she resented the way the household help were treated; the saving grace of working for the family had been Miss Block, who regarded the maid as she might have a younger sister. We walked back together and went round the rear of the building. It was paved with cobblestones, and there was a large metal case for the milkman to deposit cream and cheese in the mornings. Agnes unlocked the door that allowed me into the house. She would wait for me on the corner of Sixty-third Street with the poodles until my business was done so she would not be thought to be associated with me in any way. I went through the empty kitchen—larger by ten times than the room my father and I had lived in—and found my way along the corridors, tiled with dark marble that was veined with pink and gold. There was a small sitting room, decorated for ladies, in tones of green and rose.

I continued on to the main hallway, which was shaped like a teardrop, and stood beneath the Tiffany chandelier, steadying myself. Agnes had informed me that the elder Mr. Block was ill and rarely left his bed. Mrs. Block had gone out to a party. Mr. Harry Block would likely be found in the study, for he’d slipped into a state of melancholy ever since his sister had run away. That was where I found him, practicing his chess game with an imaginary partner. I came into the study and closed the sliding walnut doors behind me. Block raised his eyes, and there was a flicker of fear. Perhaps he thought he was about to be robbed, as he had been all those years ago.

“Did Frank Herbert play chess with you?” I asked. “Because he’ll be unavailable to do so for the next twenty years.”

My enemy recognized me and nodded, as if we were old friends.

“Herbert was too much of an imbecile to understand the intricacies of chess. It was Juliet who played a good match.”

I sat down in one of the green velvet chairs. “And yet you were willing to send her off to a hospital for her political views.”

Block glared at me, confused as to how I would gain access to such information. “I would never have brought any harm to my sister if that’s what you’re insinuating. She was placing herself in danger by her choice of companions and activities. She would have soon found herself in jail. I wished to protect her.”

“Now she’s run away from your protection. For her sake I hope she’s found some freedom in doing so.”

“What business is my family to you?”

I was not the man to explain to him how deeply all of the workers had been influenced by the families that had employed them. Nearly every aspect of our daily lives had been affected by people who never knew our names. I picked up one of the chess pieces. It was the queen. “I never had time for games,” I said. “Never learned chess. I was working from the moment I was able.”

“You played the thief quite well.”

“And it seems you played the murderer.”

Block flushed with anger. “That had nothing to do with me. I didn’t tell Herbert to kill her. I never would have. I simply said to scare her off. He didn’t know when enough was enough and took it upon himself.”

“I think the Workmen’s Circle will take it upon themselves to watch you carefully. If you have business dealings that are questionable, if you cover up practices that place workers in danger, it’s likely they’ll know. I think you’ll find yourself spending a good deal of time in court from now on. Good thing you’re an attorney.”

I reached into my waistcoat pocket for the watch. I had not realized the weight of it until that moment. My future had nothing to do with the time it told, nor did it define who I’d been in the past. I placed it on the game table.

“Do you think you returning my own property to me makes you an honest man?” Block asked.

“I think it makes me a man. I’m not sure you can say the same.”

Before I left my old enemy, I took a last look at the watch I had carried for so long. It had never seemed like mine. Whether I was honest or not, I was free from its burden. I went out of the town house and met Agnes on the corner. We walked together speaking of Juliet, who was at that very moment on her way to California. We took the dogs into the park. Mr. Block kept them locked up in the kitchen; because he’d bought them for Juliet he despised them now. I let them off their leashes for once. As it turned out, broken or not, it appeared I had a heart.

M
AY 1911

THE STABLE
was empty, although several of the liveryman’s pigeons managed to find their way in through gaps in the wooden siding to take shelter for the night. Eddie had taken to spending time in this gloomy place with both Mitts and North, breathing in the scent of hay, remembering how he had come here as a boy and slept beside the horses. After one tiff, when Mitts approached the wolf in an overly friendly fashion, the two got on well enough, if ignoring one another meant there was an uneasy peace. Eddie’s hand was still wrapped, but the pain had eased. He supposed the bones were mending. His heart, however, was not in a similar condition, precisely the problem with having such an organ, for it caused pangs of desire and regret, reminding an individual that he was indeed human, prone to human sorrows and desires.

Eddie had reverted to his old insomniac’s habits, avoiding sleep for as long as possible, existing on a diet of coffee and gin. When he did close his eyes, whether dozing in a chair or resting his head against the stable wall, Coralie came to him in his dreams. She was in the river, in his bed, out of reach and leaving him in a fevered and dejected state. He’d memorized several lines from the note she’d written him.
I do not love you and cannot pretend to. I am promised to a man in France, a family friend, and it is to him I now go. Please do not follow me. Forget me if you can.

He wished to do exactly that, but had discovered it wasn’t possible. He’d taken to drinking with serious intent, not for pleasure but for sheer inebriation. He missed the presence of the liveryman, and now held a deeper understanding of why a person might turn to opium, as he, himself, had embraced gin, for it was gin alone that allowed him a deep, black brand of sleep. Eddie tried not to dwell on the fact that he would soon be homeless. In a matter of days, the stable would be rented out to a tenant who had put in an offer to let the entire building. The new renter was an ironmonger who wished to set up a furnace in the alleyway and use Moses Levy’s studio for storage. Eddie was to vacate by the first of June. It was already the end of May, and deciding where to go next loomed as an impossible task, for it was difficult enough to find loft space possessing good light, all the more challenging given his financial situation and the presence of two large canines, one of which was indistinguishable in form and temperament from a wolf. When Eddie was drinking heavily enough, he had half a mind to move onto Beck’s property and build himself a shack. There he would take the hermit’s place, equally embittered and alone, avoiding humankind, but close to the river, comforted by that proximity. Then he thought better of the notion, for what the old man had predicted would surely come true before very long. The woods would disappear, replaced by concrete and bricks. There would be no room for wild creatures, just as there’d be no room for men who wished to escape the concerns of city life.

Eddie soon unwrapped his hand from its splint. It had healed well enough in his opinion; he didn’t need a doctor to tell him so. He was mulling over where he might go, perhaps to Queens County or even out to the potato farms of Long Island, when Beck’s wolf-dog began to growl, the hair rising along his back. Mitts also fixed his gaze on the back door that opened into the alley. Eddie grabbed a pitchfork from a stall and told the ever-friendly Mitts to stay, while North accompanied him. A light rain was falling when he opened the door and stepped onto the pavement that led to the dirt alleyway. There was the stench of outhouses and of rotting garbage. North’s growl deepened as they walked along, and although Eddie spied nothing beyond the dark, the wolf-dog suddenly lunged forward. A man’s deep resonant voice rang out. “Hold him back, please! I beg you!”

Eddie grabbed North, pulling him off his quarry. The night was dark, starry, but in this narrow alleyway there was only a small slice of sky to be seen. As summer approached, a dense heat collected between buildings so that every inch was a tinderbox. Perhaps it was that heat, or perhaps it was the tension of a possible confrontation, that caused Eddie to break into a sweat. By now, his eyes had adjusted well enough to spy the hazy figure of a man. The stranger’s head was bowed as he examined a rip North’s sharp teeth had torn in the fine woolen cape he wore. “Please understand, I’m here for your benefit,” the man said without gazing up. “I don’t wish to frighten you.”

Eddie laughed. He had the pitchfork as his weapon and the hermit’s fierce companion beside him. “And how would you do that?”

The fellow stepped forward and North lunged again. Eddie kept his grip on the wolf-dog’s collar and held fast, all the while mesmerized by what he saw. Before him was a man entirely covered by hair, growing down his face so that his features were difficult to discern. He had a feral, wild countenance, yet he wore a well-tailored suit under his fine woolen cape.

“I’m a man, though you might think otherwise,” the stranger announced, obviously accustomed to a puzzled, often hostile response to his presence.

Eddie was bewildered. He gazed at the individual in the alleyway with unabashed curiosity. Though functioning through the haze of drink, he was still a photographer to the core, and he cursed himself for not having his camera at the ready so that he might record this visitation. “The world is more varied and wondrous than most men understand,” Eddie said to his visitor. “No one is what he seems.”

“I’d agree with that. And in that same vein, I’d say that beast is no dog.” The stranger eyed North cautiously. “Dogs usually prefer me to ordinary men.” Dogs, it was true, often had an uncanny sense of what a person was made of, while wild creatures did not take the time to discern such distinctions, for it was equally true that men mattered little in their world. Yet, it seemed that North recognized the stranger as an equal of a sort, for after he had assumed the stance of the dominant of the two, he seemed more accepting of the hairy man. The stranger appeared relieved. “We may need a wolf where we’re going.”

Eddie laughed at the notion. “Sir, it’s late in the evening and I plan on going nowhere.”

The stranger, however, seemed convinced otherwise. He had a rented carriage waiting on Tenth Avenue. He introduced himself as Raymond Morris, a resident of Brooklyn and a concerned friend of Coralie’s.

Upon hearing his beloved’s name, Eddie felt instantly sobered. “You’d best not include me in Miss Sardie’s concerns. She wrote me a note plainly stating she never wished to see me again.”

“Sir, you are mistaken. Coralie has not the ability to compose a note. She was never taught to write.”

Eddie was startled to hear this, for Coralie had spoken of her love of reading. “Say what you will, but I received her note,” he protested. Indeed he had the sheet of paper in the drawer of his bedside table, though he’d thought a hundred times of burning it.

“You received what the Professor wished you to have. The museum is closed and every employee has been let go. He has her trapped, for that is the only way he can keep her. The best course of action is for you to come with me, as I would never get a foot in that house. We may do well to let the wolf lead the way.”

Mr. Morris slipped on his hood, then gestured for Eddie to follow. Like a dreamer who asks not for reason, needing only a single mission to move him forward in his dream, Eddie accompanied his new companion to the street. North, for his part, was wary, but willing to follow the stranger.

The driver of the waiting hansom seemed a nervous man. He had on a cap and a formal suit, for he worked full-time for a wealthy patron, and took odd jobs in his off hours. He’d known Mr. Morris for some time and had become used to his appearance, but he didn’t care for the way the horse startled when it picked up North’s scent. “You didn’t say nothing about a wolf, Ray,” he said to Mr. Morris.

Mr. Morris handed over an extra ten dollars, an enormous amount considering the streetcar crosstown was a dime, but one had to take into account the distance to Coney Island, the secrecy of their journey, and the wolflike creature now leaping into the rear of the carriage. In his haste, Eddie had left the stable door ajar, and Mitts, who could never tolerate being left behind, managed to push his way out. The pit bull galumphed his way to the waiting carriage and made a beeline for the driver, cheerfully ingratiating himself, licking the driver’s hand and wagging his stump of a tail. Perhaps it was this genial, merry behavior that allowed them to gain their transit to Brooklyn that night, for the driver said he’d had a dog like Mitts in his youth and he firmly announced there was no finer or braver companion.

It was late when they reached their destination, after one in the morning. The sky was a bowl of stars in Kings County. The streets of Coney Island were deserted, but as the carriage passed by Dreamland they could see brilliant banks of lights and a boisterous crush of carpenters and workmen. A fiendish amount of last-minute construction was at hand, with hundreds of employees and day workers doing their best to finish before morning, when the park would open its gates for the season, with thousands arriving by excursion steamboat and ferry and railroad. In only hours, the first customers would be invited into the new and improved playground that had cost a true fortune to refashion. Great care had been taken to assure it would outshine all other entertainments, not simply on Coney Island but in the world.

Dreamland was illuminated by thousands of lightbulbs; the scene was so bright Eddie needed to blink to see within the gates as they passed by. He could spy the outlines of the grand entertainment Hell Gate, with its leering forty-foot-tall demons holding court at the entranceway to the ride’s covered tunnel. Every light in the park had been turned on for the workers, but the strain was too much. All at once, as their carriage approached, there was a short circuit, with many of the bulbs shattering from the burst of energy that surged before everything went black. Mr. Morris’s driver whistled for his horse to increase his pace, for he feared the creature would be spooked by the rising sound of the roars of lions and tigers pacing their cages, all startled and invigorated by the sudden dark.

Inside Hell Gate a team of workers who were mending fissures in the tunnel with hot, sticky tar that would shore up any leaks were suddenly engulfed in utter blackness. In the confusion that followed, with men panicking and rushing to escape the falling glass shards of the bulbs, a pail of burning hot tar was kicked over. It flowed much like lava, the black goo sparking with crimson flashes of heat.

“It seems we have good fortune on our side,” Mr. Morris murmured as they passed the chaos in the park. “The dark is good for deeds such as ours.”

Whereas Surf Avenue had only moments ago seemed as vivid as a theater’s stage, there abruptly fell a cover of pitch. If a kidnapping of sorts was what they would attempt, then fate was indeed favoring their actions. The carriage halted on the corner, where the driver was paid another exorbitant fee and told to wait with Mitts, until their return.

The two men drew near the museum, one cloaked, the other still shaking off the haze of his heavy drinking. The wolf followed at their heels. Eddie half-imagined he was still inside a dream. Men did things such as this in dreams: approached a dark house filled with treasure, sank into a sea of true love, traveled with wolves and wonders on a warm night. The air smelled acrid from the tar across the road, and there was a tinge of sulfur to it as well, for inside the tunnel at the Hell Gate a flame had broken out. The workmen quickly scattered away, due to the rising smoke. A rush of air followed them through the tunnel, flinging sparks in every direction, as if the stars themselves had been replaced by embers.

Once in the garden, Eddie and Raymond Morris took shelter beneath the pear tree. There Mr. Morris revealed he had a key to the kitchen door in his possession. “A friend was kind enough to give this to me. She was to meet us here, but perhaps she’s been held up by the ruckus on the street.” He looked over his shoulder, worried, scanning the empty garden. At last he turned back to Eddie. “We have little choice but to go forward without her.”

“Did your friend say where we might find Coralie?” Eddie assumed Morris referred to the red-haired woman he had photographed in the garden, for there was a softening in Mr. Morris’s tone when he spoke of her.

“The cellar. A room you surely remember.”

Eddie nodded. “I remember more than I’d like to.” He still had nightmares of that room and of the box that contained the cold form of Hannah Weiss.

Eddie brought forth the two small keys he kept as a talisman. He hadn’t known why he’d hung on to them, but perhaps it was due to a remnant of the abilities Hochman insisted he possessed. His thoughts were tangled in the puzzle of where fate had led him, to this house on this night. Through the din inside his head, a very real siren sounded. It was two minutes before two in the morning. The usual stillness of the hour had been broken by fire alarms at Dreamland. Sparks from the spilled tar had traveled with astounding speed. Canvas and fabric caught first, then the papier-mâché statues and rides went up, and finally there was a terrible leap of flame to wooden structures and rooftops. Already the firehouse at West Eighth Street, a hundred yards away, and the station at Fifteenth, near Surf Avenue, had sent out horse-drawn carriages, as well as their new hook and ladder trucks. The police had been called in, and scores of men in uniform advanced toward the New Iron Pier, some still pulling on their boots and buttoning their coats as they ran toward the disaster.