by Kirby Larson
Early on, Min had learned how to comfort little Audie during lonely nights. Min hesitated: Would this baby, huge as it was, also welcome such comforting? If Punk stepped on her, then farewell to one of Min’s remaining lives. Yet, she could not bear the creature’s melancholy any longer. She padded close, straw shifting and scratching under her paws, to rub her scent against the metal bars of Punk’s crate. After a few moments, the creature slowed its rocking. Made a snuffling noise. Min waited, not a muscle twitching. Then something stroked her back through the bars. It was Punk’s curious appendage, the one that hung from between his eyes. If it was Punk’s nose, it was the most ridiculous nose that Min had ever seen on an animal, but she kept that thought to herself. Hard enough for this baby to be alone; no need to rub salt in the wound by pointing out how homely he was. But then, truthfully, what animal compares to a cat?
“Moww-rr?” Min inquired, paw poised in midair.
Punk snuffled again. Puffs of warm air from his long appendage blew tracks in Min’s chocolate-striped fur. Min took this as permission and eased slowly between the bars, into the cage, a cage too small for Punk to do anything but stand. She pressed against Punk’s front leg and he stopped rocking altogether. Then he slowly eased his solid self into a lean against the metal bars. Min leapt to a spot at the back of Punk’s flat head, between ears as big as boat sails. Turning once, twice, three times, she settled herself, purring. Though Punk could not lie down, Min felt him relax.
Min licked at the leathery skin beneath her. It was dry. Punk needed water. Needed rest. Needed …
He said something.
Punk said something. And Min understood.
Thank you, he said. Thank you, friend.
It was all Audie could do to keep her mouth from hanging agape. She felt like a bread crumb being carried along by an army of industrious ants; never had she seen so many people in one place. And all moving with great purpose and determination around her. Her gaze ratcheted upward, taking in the whole of Pennsylvania Station, with its impossibly high walls soaring heavenward, their smooth travertine glowing with warmth. Sunshine flooded through semicircular windows high above, spotlighting the maps painted upon those walls. Audie felt as if she could be lifted completely off her feet by those magnetic sunbeams. In order to remain firmly attached to the ground, she pressed her palms to the cool marble of the Corinthian column by which Cypher had told them to wait. Coming back to her senses a bit, she studied the column. Was it Corinthian? Or Ionic? This was yet another subject for further study upon her return home. The library at Miss Maisie’s had a small but carefully curated selection of books on architecture.
“Bees and bonnets! Look at those headlines!” Audie released her hold on the stately support.
Bimmy clung to the pillar as if it were a life ring. “Don’t wander off,” she begged.
Made giddy by the din and aromas and commotion, Audie drifted over to a tidy newsstand steps away. There on the front page was a photograph of Harry Houdini. Magician Promises to Make Pachyderm Go Poof! the headline read. She tapped her ear. Was that a buzzing?
“Bimmy, come—” Audie reached out her arm to beckon her friend closer, quite unintentionally but forcefully smacking a complete stranger across the face.
“Ouch!” the victim bellowed, rubbing her cheek.
“I am so sorry!” Audie hastened to apologize to the girl, who wore a canvas bag over a striped dress that was rather lightweight for the crisp March day. “I was motioning to my friend. I didn’t see you there.”
“Assault and battery.” The girl glared at Audie with intense hazel eyes. “I’m gonna call the cops.”
“Oh, dear.” Audie was loath to begin her stay in New York on such a negative note. Perhaps there was a way to mitigate the situation. “What are you selling?” she inquired, indicating the canvas satchel that appeared to weigh more than the girl.
“You buying?” The hazel eyes squinted.
Audie wiggled her left big toe. She really hoped she wouldn’t have to part with her remaining gold coin. She decided to match the girl’s tone. “I can’t say till I know what you’re selling.” Audie tried a squint of her own. “And if it’s any good.”
“Pfft.” The girl waggled her left hand, reaching the right into her satchel. “Best sour dills in New York, is all.”
“I’ll take two.” Audie handed over a dime from the pocket money Cypher had given her.
The girl reached into her canvas bag and then stabbed two green spears in Audie’s direction. She froze like a deer in the wood when she caught sight of Cypher approaching. “Bone appetite!” she called. In a blink, the pickle vendor disappeared into the crowd.
“You were supposed to stay over there.” Cypher pointed. “And what is that?” He looked utterly disgusted.
“Sour pickle.” Audie held out the spear. “It’s really quite good. Would you like to try a bite?”
“No pickles,” he said. “And no more talking to strangers!” How many more times need he repeat this command? Cypher straightened, shoulders back, like any good soldier headed into battle. “Follow me and stay together.” He fearlessly led the girls through several grand halls, up sets of grand stairs, and finally through a pair of grand doors.
Outside on the sidewalk, Audie stopped, dumbfounded. Here she was, standing on the streets of New York! The Empire City! Who would have thought it?
“Are you all right?” Bimmy asked.
“Never better, chum!” Audie inhaled deeply of the automobile fumes, the horse dung, the frankfurter carts, the fishy aromas from the Hudson River. “Just smell all that life!” She turned in a complete circle, arms wide, opening herself to the wonders of Manhattan.
Bimmy took a tentative sniff. She tried to prevent it from happening, but the aromas took her instantly to her only other visit to this esteemed city. She and her parents had been performing as trapeze artists: the Flying Forenzas. Papa had allowed her to select their stage name. For a moment, Bimmy was back in the big top, knees crimped over a cold metal bar, swinging high above the crowds. “Zut!” Papa called, and Bimmy launched herself from the bar, somersaulting through nothingness, until his strong hand caught her up and flipped her over to Mama. Bimmy sniffed again. She did not smell fish or frankfurters or fumes. She smelled her parents.
Audie shook herself out of her big-city reverie to take a close look at her bosom friend. Was that a tear Bimmy was wiping from her eye? “Now, I must ask if you are all right,” Audie said.
“Of course.” Bimmy made a show of removing a freshly washed and pressed handkerchief from her coat pocket. “Just a bit of ash. City air is so dirty, after all.” Bimmy carefully folded the handkerchief and replaced it in her pocket. No reason to weep! Hadn’t Papa promised they would be reunited as soon as the run with the Sircus Swisse ended? Why, the five years would pass before she knew it.
Intuiting her younger friend’s thoughts, Audie took Bimmy’s hand. “I have a feeling this trip will do you real good.” She squeezed once, then let go.
Their temporary guardian began instructing a redcap regarding their bags. “Send them to the Evelyn Hotel,” Cypher said. “Seven East Twenty-Seventh Street,” he added.
The redcap nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Come along, girls.” Cypher carried his leather valise in one hand and the wicker picnic basket in the other. He was surprised at the latter’s heft, seeing as he and the girls had handily dispatched its contents during their trip. Cypher did not realize that inside said basket lingered a slightly stale piece of baghlava, three well-used linen napkins, and one chocolate-striped cat. Min would have been quite cross to know that Cypher found the basket heavy; she’d scarcely consumed enough on the train to keep a kitten alive. The cat pressed her nose to the crack between lid and basket frame, tracking the faint and fading scent of her new friend, Punk. She had promised to look him up in the city, and Min always kept her promises.
Cypher was now ushering the girls into a hansom cab, again announcing their destinati
on.
“You a magician, musician, or bug?” the cab driver inquired.
“Why do you ask?” Cypher’s tone turned ominous.
The cabbie shrank back. “Well, the Evelyn’s where the troupers usually stay, is all. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”
“We know you didn’t.” Audie felt compelled to soften Cypher’s remark. She was pleased that she knew what the driver meant by “bug,” a term used for an unusual vaudeville act, like paper tearer or sand dancer.
Cypher turned toward her and, instead of scolding, did the most surprising thing. He winked! Audie might’ve fallen down had she not already been seated in the cab.
“Actually, we are. Troupers, that is.” Cypher cleared his throat. “Jugglers. Family act.”
Audie’s ears perked up. So the entertainment on the train had a purpose, after all!
The cabbie raised his eyebrow but didn’t say a word about the unlikelihood of the trio he was transporting being blood kin. “What’s the name of your act?” he asked. “Maybe I’ll bring the missus to watch.”
“Uh,” Cypher coughed. “We are the, the—”
“The Pomegrantos!” Bimmy interjected. “It’s Spanish. That’s where we’re from. España.”
Audie looked at her friend in amazement. This skill—Audie wouldn’t call it lying exactly—was one she’d had no idea Bimmy possessed.
“Yes.” Cypher’s glance at Bimmy was almost appreciative. “The Pomegrantos.”
The driver clicked the reins and the horse pulled away from the curb. “What do you think of that, Dobbin?” The horse tossed its head, snorting. “I’ve hauled me a regular world atlas today. You folks from Spain, and those other folks we brung earlier, they was from Hungary.”
A thrill rushed up Audie’s spine. “A tiny woman and a very large man?”
The driver clucked his tongue at the horse. “Naw. Brothers, they was. Both ’bout my size.”
“Oh.” Of course it was too much to hope for another encounter with Madame Volta and Igor; though they had been in contact as of late, letters were not the same. Audie could not help feeling deflated.
“Magicians,” the cabbie elaborated. “That Houdini fella is attracting them like flies to a horse pile.”
Cypher cleared his throat.
“Beggin’ your pardon. I get a bit earthy at times.” The driver scratched vigorously under his cap. “Like bees to a hive, I meant to say.”
“The picture postcard you sent,” Audie murmured. “Houdini.”
Cypher put his finger to his lips, and Audie immediately took his meaning.
In a delayed reaction, Bimmy jerked her head toward Cypher. “Did he just say Houdini? Isn’t that like the picture—ouch!” She rubbed her side where Audie poked her. Audie then mimicked Cypher’s finger-to-mouth gesture.
“Picked up this other magician, too. My last run. The Great Oberon, he called himself.” The cabbie now inspected his right nostril with his left forefinger. “Too full of himself, if you ask me.”
“Oh, I worked a circus once in Iowa with Oberon. He was lovely,” Bimmy said. “Gave me a pet rabbit.”
“That doesn’t sound like someone who is full of himself,” Audie said. “He sounds kind.”
The cabbie clucked to the horse by way of answer.
“What happened to your rabbit?” Audie wondered aloud. Bimmy had arrived at Miss Maisie’s pet-free.
“Oh, I let Hoppy go in the woods near Cedar Rapids. Sometimes circus animals aren’t treated very nice.” A pained look flitted across Bimmy’s face. “I wanted him to have a happy, rabbity life.”
“What a good heart you have, Bim.” Audie snuggled close, both out of affection and out of a need for warmth. It was a raw day.
The horse clip-clopped south on Seventh, turning on Twenty-Seventh to follow the long avenues, until, after crossing Fifth Avenue, the cabbie called out, “Whoa, there, Dobbin.” They stopped mid-block, apparently arrived.
Cypher assisted the shivering girls down from the cab, then pulled out his wallet. “Hurry inside, to the lobby, where it’s warmer.” Audie was grateful for Cypher’s thoughtfulness but wondered in that moment if their pickle friend had anyone finding a warm spot for her.
Bimmy tugged her out of her reverie. “Onward, chum!”
The lobby of the Evelyn Hotel was nowhere near as majestic as Pennsylvania Station but exuded an energy and charm of its own. It bustled with performers of all shapes and sizes, from the smallest man Audie had ever seen to the largest woman. And was that a mermaid across the way? It was difficult to know where to look in this three-ring circus of a reception area. The walls themselves were pasted, floor to ceiling, with posters of vaudeville acts, major and minor.
“Oh, look, Bimmy.” Audie moved to inspect a particular poster. “There’s your friend, the Great Oberon.”
Bimmy perused the placard over Audie’s shoulder. “That’s him doing his best-known trick,” she said. “The Asrah Levitation.”
“You know him, do you?” the desk clerk commented, obviously listening in on the girls’ conversation. “I expect he’ll pop into the lobby here right quick.” The clerk nodded at the mantel clock nearby. “Mail’s just come.” He indicated a set of cubbyholes, some with keys in them, some with slips of paper, and some empty. “He must be expecting something important. He’s down here every fifteen minutes like clockwork.” He chuckled vigorously at his feeble joke.
“Is Mr. Houdini also a guest here?” Audie wondered if that was why Cypher had selected this hotel.
The clerk threw back his bald head and roared. “Houdini? If he leaves his home in Harlem, it’s to stay in the Ritz, not joints like this!”
Cypher strode up to the desk, his presence quickly quieting the laughter. He took a fountain pen from the desk and signed them all in.
“A message for you, sir,” the clerk said upon reading the register. He presented Cypher with an envelope. Audie tried to peek at it but Cypher too quickly slipped it into his vest pocket.
Audie was not well traveled, but she grasped that the Evelyn was nothing like the Ardmore, her accommodations in the nation’s capital. That hotel had required a chaperone for a young girl on her own. It would seem the Evelyn was not nearly so particular. And how could it be, what with so many theatrical children running around? Audie was fairly certain the impish boy in the corner was Eddie Foy, of the Seven Little Foys, whose poster hung directly above Cypher’s head.
The clerk handed over two keys. “I don’t have adjoining, but you can be dye-rectly across the hall from your … nieces.” He took the bills Cypher handed him and placed them in a drawer. “And no pets unless they’re cleared first. I’ve already got ten dogs, five monkeys, and a seal.” The clerk took a nip from a bottle tightly wrapped in a brown paper sack. “Enough to give a man an ulcer.” He smacked his lips.
“Upstairs, girls.” Cypher pointed to the elevator.
Audie hesitated. “But what about our things?”
“The bellman will bring them.” Cypher jingled the keys in his hand. “Do you prefer even or odd?”
Bimmy’s face clouded with confusion, but Audie brightly answered, “Odd.”
“Then it’s room 513 for you.” He handed her one key and pocketed the other. “I’ll be in 514.”
They stepped across to the elevator. The door slid open and a man in a rumpled brown suit dashed out, nearly bowling Audie over.
“Help, someone!” he cried. “I’ve been robbed!”
Violet skipped back from the mailbox. Mr. Scattergood, the postman, had let her feed Jewell a sugar cube. The horse’s lips had moved soft and velvety against Violet’s palm, a sensation that sent a jolt of such happiness through her that not even Divinity’s sudden appearance spoiled her mood.
“I’ll take those.” Divinity blocked Violet’s path.
The eldest triplet promptly handed over the packet of letters. She was still bruised from the nasty pinch Divinity had meted out for not passing the potatoes quickly enough. As she placed the
last of the mail in Divinity’s outstretched hand, Violet exclaimed, “Why, there’s a letter for you!”
Mail for the Waywards was not an unknown occurrence, but it was rare. It seemed that most parents lost interest in communicating with their daughters once they’d been placed in Miss Maisie’s care. In their young lives, Violet and her sisters had had three missives from their family, precious letters that they reread on their shared birthday. As far back as Violet could remember, she could not recall Divinity ever receiving mail.
Divinity squinted at Violet as if to measure whether or not she was playing a prank. She glanced down at the envelope in her hands. “Why, so it is!” She slipped it into her pinafore pocket, then hurried to deliver the remainder of the post to Miss Maisie. For once, she did not stop to accept a sweet from her headmistress, nor commiserate with Miss Maisie as she wondered aloud where her invitation to lunch with Mrs. So-and-So had got to. “The mail service these days,” muttered Miss Maisie.
“Yes, it is nice, isn’t it?” answered Divinity, before running off to her favorite spot, the sunporch window seat, next to the potted cacti. She could tell by both the return address and the penmanship that this letter was not from either of her parents. Her mother tended to add a little swirl to the “y” at the close of Divinity’s name, and her father’s hand was nearly illegible. This script appeared to be taken from a penmanship practice book, it was that neat and tidy.
Divinity ran her forefinger under the flap of the envelope, prying it open. Inside was nestled a sheaf of rich letterhead, soft as butter, covered with that same neat and tidy script. She pulled it out, pressing it smooth before reading.
The letter was short but rich with revelations.
“My, my.” Divinity rested letter in lap with trembling hands. She never knew she had a great-uncle named Woebegone Thompson. Nor that he had a farm in Upstate New York. Near Elmira.
She reread the carefully penned words several more times, trying to take them in. Last Will and Testament. Woebegone’s Way. Forty acres. All hers. Free and clear.