by H. P. Wood
“Huh,” he’d mused. “Hungry ghost.”
He’d followed the trail of crumbs to Daisy and Maisy’s cabinet. One of the museum’s oldest exhibits, the conjoined skeletons held pride of place in the center of Magruder’s maze. And there, curled up like a cat at the girls’ bony feet, was a sleeping little boy, no more than five or six years old.
Rather than startle him awake, Zeph had created his own trail—but of cookies this time—that led from Daisy and Maisy to Zeph’s stool at the front entrance. Eventually, the child woke up and followed the treats to find Zeph waiting. Instead of fearing Zeph’s long braids and absent legs, the boy just smiled. Perhaps he was lonely too. Maybe he liked the fact that he and Zeph were roughly the same height. It could have been the cookies.
As the day wore on, Zeph shared everything he could think of—curiosities from the Cabinet and leftovers from the icebox and that one coin trick he’d learned. But no matter what he tried, Zeph couldn’t get a single sound out of the boy. Not one word, not a giggle, nothing. Amazing, Zeph thought. Actual ghosts make more noise than this kid.
Until, that is, he pulled out a dusty, miniature circus that was once used by performing fleas. The boy’s face lit up like he was seeing his first snowfall. “Pire!” he shouted suddenly. “Pire!”
“And what in heck does that mean?”
“Pire!” the boy said again. Then he laughed, and the sound of the boy’s laugh was the first music the Cabinet had heard since who knew when.
“Okay, little man.” Zeph smiled. “P-Ray it is.”
• • •
As an angry-orange dawn streaks the sky, Zeph slips into the tavern. He hasn’t been downstairs since the Committee took P-Ray the other night. He hasn’t been avoiding the tavern, exactly—he’s just busy. Very busy these days. But this morning, he has a mind to check the supplies in the pantry and the cash in the register. Something tells him Magruder’s won’t see more of either for some time.
The tavern is deserted, the aroma of better days hanging in the air. Drinks left half-finished when the Committee arrived sit on the bar collecting flies. Chairs overturned during hasty exits are scattered about. Somebody left a coat. A hairpin. Even a shoe. Zeph sees a napkin on the floor with “OCean-29” written in lipstick—just a couple of digits short of a full telephone number. “Aww,” he says. “So close.”
He can see the precise spot where Rosalind went to war to get P-Ray back. Sequins and sparkly bits ripped off his dress now lie on the floor, twinkling in the morning sun. Looking up at the door, Zeph can almost see Enzo, shouting and fighting, struggling against the four Committeemen it took to drag him out. Two years ago, a ghost in the Cabinet had turned out to be a real boy. Now, the ghost is all that’s left.
Okay, yeah. He’s been avoiding the tavern.
Zeph goes to the icebox and plugs in wires, looking for company. There’s no music to listen to at this hour—at least, not what most people would call music. In the early mornings, instead of waltzes and ragtime, the receiver picks up the sounds of janitors and mops. The chatter of cooks and waiters as they drag themselves to work. Of busboys and clinking plates as tables are laid out for the new day. And at the whorehouse, muttered gossip of the ladies as they shrug off the night before. The symphony of the service class.
Zeph plugs in channel one, hoping to hear the tuneless whistling of Monty the electrician, who prides himself on always being the first to report to work at Henderson’s Vaudeville Theater. But the receiver picks up only silence. No Monty. No anybody.
Zeph moves on: channel two, channel three. Stillness. A little static here and there. Silence.
Channel four, five. Nothing.
Channel six, the whorehouse. A woman weeps, her heart in pieces. “Please, Jesus,” she begs. “Please don’t take my little boy. Take me, please. I had my life already. Take me instead. Please don’t take my—”
Zeph yanks the cord from channel six. Impulsively, he yanks out another cord, and another. And then every cord he can, as fast as he can. A few seconds of fury, and the entire panel is disassembled in pieces on the floor.
He looks at the mess he’s made. At the mess the Committee left behind. Zeph closes his eyes, leaning his head against the cool wood of his silent box of sound.
“Jesus, if you ain’t too busy, please look after my little man.”
Chapter 27
What Now?
Dear Diary: My mother died of the plague.
The hobby of diary keeping, such the rage among her friends in London, never held much appeal for Kitty. But now, sitting on a metal-frame bed in the Hoffman Island ladies’ and children’s dormitory, Kitty wishes she’d kept a diary after all. She has no one else to talk to.
Dear Diary: My mother died of the plague. Horrible men made her disappear before I could even say good-bye.
Kitty was a difficult daughter but a dutiful one, and she would have done anything to help her mother. She would have stayed by her mother’s side until the end. But the end of whom—her mother, or them both?
Dear Diary: My mother died of the plague. Horrible men made her disappear before I could even say good-bye. In doing so, they might have saved my life.
The truth. The truth shall set you free? Kitty isn’t so sure.
The ladies’ and children’s dormitory, floor two, room C, consists of two long rows of beds separated by a narrow aisle. Light streams through the large windows lining the outside wall. Uniformed nurses patrol the perfectly spaced beds with brisk efficiency. Everything about the space suggests competence, organization, modernity. The beds are crisply made: white sheets, white blankets. With white patients to match. Hoffman’s dormitories are strictly segregated by race, and P-Ray’s less-than-alabaster skin tone raised eyebrows among their fellow patients.
But if the ladies of the ladies’ and children’s dormitory are troubled by P-Ray, the children are not. Within minutes, P-Ray has joined a group of children in a complex chasing game only those under age twelve can understand. P-Ray’s muteness, so disturbing to adults, is a nonissue among children. He can chase, he can be chased; he fits right in, running and laughing like any other kid. The ability to find joy in a plague quarantine fills Kitty with wonder—and a little envy.
Nate would have joined them, she realizes. Crowned himself king of the ten-year-olds. With all her worry over Mum, Kitty hasn’t had time to miss Nate properly. The pent-up grief swells in her and threatens to swallow her whole. An older lady mistakes Kitty’s tears for worry about their confinement, and she comes to sit beside her.
“Our husbands are building a boat.”
“Sorry, a what?”
“A boat, so we can escape this wretched place. My husband and her husband,” she says, indicating another woman. “The men take walks outside, they say for fresh air. But it’s not air they’re after; it’s materials. To build a boat, to take us home.”
“Home,” Kitty says, and despite herself, she starts to cry again. Whatever the men are building, it will never be big enough to take Kitty home.
Kitty’s tears inspire an outpouring of sympathy from the women. They circle around, offering her handkerchiefs and cookies stashed away in their handbags. This much maternal attention only makes Kitty feel worse. She’s relieved when the screaming starts.
The women shift their concern from the weepy British teenager to the source of the screaming on the far side of the dormitory. “That’s Edna!” one lady gasps, and the women move toward their friend, skirts rustling like a fretful wind.
Kitty looks around for P-Ray; it’s been a while since she’s seen him race by. She searches along the rows of beds. “P-Ray?”
Suddenly, the once-friendly lady with cookies in her purse barges up and grabs Kitty roughly by the elbow. “You!” Her bony fingers press into Kitty’s arm. “You and your little darkie have some nerve! We should toss you both into the tide!”
“Oh no.” Kitty sighs. “What now?”
Chapter 28
Captain Courageous
Spencer sees a still-weepy Rosalind safely home to Magruder’s. A gentleman, he waits outside, staring up at the building until a light goes on in the bedroom window to show him Rosalind is safe. Then he races back to Surf Avenue, begging for a taxi to take him back to his family’s brownstone off Prospect Park. Back to Charlie.
In the cab, all Spencer can think about is the frame. The Bradford frame, they called it, as though tacking on a friendly surname somehow rendered it less of a torture device. It was just pipes soldered together and attached to a hard, unforgiving board, with a collection of rough canvas ties to hold its patient captive, arms and legs immobilized. For months on end, the Bradford frame was Charlie’s home, his bed, his substitute spine.
Spencer remembers the day they attached Charlie to the frame, how his little brother raged and wept. Spencer wept along with him, begging the doctor, “No, please, this is terrible. Please don’t do this, it’s too unfair.”
The doctor said, “Don’t worry. This is how we help him. This is how he gets better.”
It sure didn’t look like help. And Charlie didn’t get better.
Spencer stayed with his brother every day that summer, ignoring their mother’s entreaties to get some fresh air—just a few minutes—please, Spencer, for me. Instead, he’d sat beside that nasty Bradford frame, day after day. Together, the brothers made plans for the future—where they would go, what they would do, who they would become. They whispered criticisms of their father. We won’t turn out like him… Let’s promise we won’t… And they read. The Bradford frame made the act of holding a book impossible, so Spencer read to Charlie, every single day for hours. Stephen Crane and Bram Stoker and H. G. Wells…and Rudyard Kipling. Him in particular. Spencer read Kipling aloud until his voice cracked and his throat went dry.
Charlie’s gentle brilliance survived the polio, but his body withered. For three years, he only left his bedroom on special occasions like Christmas, and then only because their mother asked so sweetly. But then influenza came to the brownstone and took Mother with it. For the past two years, Charlie hasn’t left his room at all.
Now the Cough lurks around every corner. Is it waiting for Charlie? After all he’s been through, what defense can Charlie possibly have left?
Spencer knows the answer. Me.
• • •
Spencer creeps through the dim brownstone, making his way to Charlie’s room. “Charlie…” he whispers, easing open the bedroom door. “Chaz, wake up. We need to talk.”
Inside, Spencer navigates around multiple piles of books spilling from the bookshelves along each wall. Books beside the bed, under the bed, and stacked at the foot. As he picks his way across the floor, Spencer thinks—not for the first time—that if an earthquake hits Brooklyn, his brother will perish happily in an avalanche of printed pages.
“Charlie! Wake up. It’s important!” Spencer grabs his brother’s blanket and yanks it back.
Books. Just more books, carefully arranged into the general shape of his brother. Spencer frowns. Either Charlie finally found a genie willing to turn his broken body into literature, or…
He stalks off to find their father.
• • •
At an hour poised between far too late and far too early, the lights in William Reynolds’s study burn on. Approaching the closed door, Spencer feels a familiar flutter of nerves—he has felt it every time he’s passed this door for as long as he can remember. But this night, he ignores their warnings. This night, there will be no more fear, no more deference. He takes a deep breath and turns the knob. This night, he’ll stand up to the old man and finally say—
“Gibson?”
Spencer’s old school chum, Gibson Tilden Jr., sits at Father’s massive black walnut desk. He looks startled and slightly guilty behind his waxed mustache. He papers over his guilt with accusation. “Spencer! Where in hell have you been?”
“Where’s my father? What’s he done with Charlie?”
“I asked you first.”
“Yeah, and you’re going to answer first. Where are they?”
“Really, there’s no need for—”
Spencer takes a threatening step forward, and Gibson flinches, his arm nearly knocking over a glass of whiskey beside him on the desk. “Newport! They’ve gone to your mansion in Newport.”
“That’s a damn lie.”
“Why on earth would—”
“His books are still here! Charlie never goes to Newport without his books.”
“Yes,” Gibson admits, “he was none too happy about it. But your father said there was neither time to pack books nor room to carry them, and that was that.”
“But those books are the only thing he cares about; they’re all he—”
“You know, if you’re so particular about the care and feeding of your brother, perhaps you might stop by from time to time? As it is, I’ve been left with all the paperwork, the time sheets for the security guards, the bills for Dreamland food stalls, and those”—he gestures at the overstuffed leather satchel on a chair opposite the desk—“weekend receipts to deposit when the bank opens in the morning.”
“Yeah.” Spencer nods at the half-finished glass of whiskey. “Your suffering absolutely radiates.”
“The point is, I could use some help around here.”
Spencer turns his back to Gibson and sits on the edge of the desk, the sadness of this very long day settling on his shoulders all at once. “I don’t understand. Why leave in such a hurry?”
“Hmm, couldn’t be the epidemic, could it? Maybe if you spent a little more time at home, you might—”
“Shu-u-u-t up, you bloviating fool.”
“A fool, am I? This fool was just put in charge of Dreamland.”
Spencer whirls around. “What did you say?”
Gibson tilts his head in mock confusion. “Wait, you want me to talk now? I’m sorry. It’s hard to keep up with—”
“That park is mine. My father doesn’t even care about Dreamland, not really. He wanted to call it the Hippodrome, for Chrissake! I’m the one who loves it. I’m the one who—”
“Given your absence, your father had to make a decision.” Leaning back in the old leather chair, Gibson takes a satisfied sip of his whiskey. “I’m sure he regrets it terribly.”
Spencer stares at this clown he once called friend, sitting at Father’s desk, swilling Father’s liquor, lecturing him about how to behave. He opens his mouth to let his anger flow out…but then closes it. Going ten rounds of “Dreamland is mine!” “No, Dreamland is mine!” with this jackass would be a waste of Spencer’s waning energy. No point in arguing.
A far better plan: he’ll go to Newport and work it out with Father directly. Sure, the old man will be angry—You let the family down; You disappeared in a time of crisis; etc., etc.—but he’ll get over it.
Won’t he?
Of course he will. Father and son will sort it all out over a few rounds of golf. Eighteen holes, and it’ll be like this scoundrel Gibson never existed.
Spencer goes to the sideboard to pour himself a drink, because why not? This is still his house, no matter what Gibson tells himself. He knocks the satchel of Dreamland cash off the chair and sits. He leans back and puts his feet on the desk, making a point of taking up as much space in the room as possible.
The two sit in silence for a time, lost in thought. Two boys finding themselves abruptly transformed into men.
After a while, Spencer sighs. “At least now I know why you did it.”
“Did what?”
“Turned in that little boy, with the fleas. I’ve been trying to figure it out—why you’d bother. Now I know.”
Gibson shrugs. “Fleas are a health hazard. I had a responsibility to—”
Gibson smiles, raising his glass in return. “You know, if you’d been thoughtful enough to have a sister, I could have just married her. But since Charlie isn’t my type, I had to improvise. Of course, I didn’t expect you’d make it so easy, wandering off in a moment of crisis like you did.”
“No matter,” Spencer says. “If a man’s meant to rise, he’ll rise one way or the other.” He holds back a smile, thinking, And if he’s not meant to rise, even a plague won’t save him. Spencer swishes the whiskey around in his glass and downs it in one swallow. “After all, what’s it matter if you kick a few orphans on the way up?”
Gibson’s smile vanishes. “Tell me, old friend: Did that tender heart of yours come with the trust fund, or did you purchase it separately?”
“You can go straight to hell.” Spencer stands, and Gibson defensively leaps up too. “This isn’t over.”
“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”
Spencer bends down and picks up the satchel of Dreamland money. “I’ll tell you what. Let me take care of this bank deposit for you.”
“Now, now. Given your mood, I should probably handle that personally.”
“You just said you needed help. Let me help. Unless,” he says with a hard smile, “you’d prefer that I go back to Newport and explain to Father how you were strangely insistent on handling all the cash. How I offered to help but you just had to hold the money yourself. Father wouldn’t find that odd. Would he?”
“He’ll never believe you.”
“I’m still the son, Tilden. Prodigal though I may be.”
Gibson grimaces. “All right, fine. The deposit slip is filled out. It’s in the front pocket of the satchel. And I do have a copy, so I will know whether it all gets—”
“Don’t be a fool. You think a Reynolds needs to steal?” He wags his finger. “Low-class remarks like that will give your game away every time.” Spencer slings the satchel over one shoulder and heads for the door.