Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet

by H. P. Wood

  Ducking his head and praying not to be recognized, Spencer yanks open the unmarked front door and bounds down the stairs to the tavern. Rosalind is there, sitting alone at a table, trying and failing to concentrate on the novel he’s reading: The Way of All Flesh.

  “Good afternoon. How are you feeling today?”

  “Hello, Spencer.” Rosalind sighs. “I’m the same. Very much the same.”

  But Spencer can see he has perked up at least slightly—the wig, gown, and makeup have returned at least. “You look lovely. So, where’s Zeph gotten to?”

  “No idea. I went to lie down, and when I came back, he and Nazan were gone.”

  “What? Miss Nazan is here? But why? How did she get across? Is she all right?”

  “Ah, yes, she’s your lady friend, isn’t she? Archie helped sneak her across, and now she’s off somewhere with Zeph.” Reflecting on the many bashful smiles exchanged over the dishes, Rosalind arches an eyebrow. “It may be quite interesting when they return.”

  Spencer frowns. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Oh, you will. So, I don’t suppose you were able to speak to your father on our behalf?”

  “Rosalind, I’m sorry.” He sits down, placing the satchel on the floor. “He’s gone.”

  “Who is?”

  “My father. He packed up my brother and took him to our summer place in Newport.”

  “Should have predicted that, I guess. And then,” Rosalind says theatrically, “across the land cameth the time of the Great Abandoning, when all the rich shall bugger off to their summer homes… I suppose you’ll be joining them?”

  Spencer runs a hand through his hair. “No. I probably should—Charlie needs me. But I don’t think he wants me there. After all, I did more or less purchase Magruder’s.” He looks pointedly at Rosalind. “And I’ve made some promises. Which I no longer know how to keep, it’s true. But no. I’m staying.”

  Rosalind suppresses a smile. “What about your father’s business interests? Won’t he want his right-hand man by his side?”

  “Coney Island is a Reynolds business interest. And as far as my father’s right hand goes, Gib Tilden can have the right hand and the rest of him too. I’m coming around to the notion that Gibson and my father might deserve each other.” He leans back in his chair. “Nah. What in the hell would I do in Newport anyway?”

  “Well, well. Good of you to join us in the real world.”

  “Actually, speaking of which…” He nudges the satchel with his shoe. “Could you help me stow this away someplace safe?”

  Rosalind frowns and stares down at the overstuffed bag. “Is it a head in there?”

  “What? No, certainly not. Goodness. It’s just…insurance.”

  Rosalind eyes Spencer. “I suppose I can find a safe place for it in the back room.”

  “Not somewhere obvious, now. Not somewhere anyone would just happen into it.”

  “Somewhere in the back, I just said.”

  “Thank you.”

  They sit quietly, listening to Archie’s muffled sales pitch continuing on outside. “Quite a business the old thief’s got going out there,” Rosalind notes.

  “Yes, I saw the crowd on my way in. What is he up to, anyway?”

  “Getting rich quick, he hopes. Patent medicine for the Calcutta Cough.”

  “You’re joking. What’s in it? No rat poison, I hope.”

  “Rosewater, quinine, something else I forget now, and—here’s the kicker—Zeph’s homebrewed whiskey. He better sell it all. If he not only stole the whiskey, but wasted it too? Zeph will pitch a fit.”

  “Doesn’t sound like selling it will be a problem,” Spencer says. “Selling out is what’s going to be dicey.”

  “That’s Archie. Could sell ice to Eskimos. Isn’t that the expression?”

  Spencer nods. “But this is more like selling ice in the Sahara.”

  Archie’s voice gets louder, seeping through the window. “Which of you will be first to purchase Doctor Theophilus Magruder’s Elixir Salutis?”

  A cloud passes over Spencer’s face. “He’s using the Magruder name? This phony medicine, it says Magruder’s on the front?”

  Rosalind shrugs. “What difference does that make?”

  “What happens when those lummoxes go home, give the children a few doses of Magruder’s elixir, and their babies all die anyway? Who will they blame?”

  “Oh no. There’s enough people wanting to torch this place as it is.”

  Spencer stands. “This ends now.”

  Out on the sidewalk, Archie can’t collect cash fast enough. When he sees Spencer, his shark smile goes even wider. “Mr. Reynolds! Look, everyone, it’s none other than Spencer Reynolds, one of the finest princes of this fair city! Young Master Reynolds, sir! I can only assume you’ve come for your family’s portion of elixir?”

  “I’ve come to shut your damned mouth.”

  Archie laughs uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, young sir?” He turns so his prey can’t see the daggers he’s shooting at Spencer with his eyes. “I’m sure you can’t mean it.”

  “Give the money back, Archie.”

  “Ah, what?”

  “You heard me, old man. Every dime.”

  “Hey!” screeches the woman. “What’s all this about?”

  Spencer pulls Archie down from the apple box and holds him roughly by the shoulders. “Sorry, folks. You see, this is…” He looks at Archie, a bit disgusted by what he has to say next. “This is my grandfather.”

  Archie gasps, appalled. “I most certainly am not—”

  “My grandmother passed away from the Cough, and I’m afraid the old man has gone a bit…soft. Mentally. He’s not himself.”

  “This is nonsense!” Archie wriggles but can’t break Spencer’s grip.

  “It’s the grief, you see. I’m very sorry he got your hopes up. If it’s medicine you need, I beg you, please, go see a doctor. A real doctor. And I promise, if you all line up patiently, I’ll make sure you’re repaid.” Spencer digs his fingers into Archie’s shoulder. “Now, say you’re sorry, Granddad.”

  “Fuck you,” Archie spits.

  Spencer shrugs at the shocked crowd. “I told you he was crazy.”

  Chapter 33

  There’s No Business…

  How are you?

  Such a common question with so little meaning. It’s a question that doesn’t even desire an answer. How are you? Good afternoon. Nice weather we’re having. Words of ritual rather than significance.

  But that’s changed in Coney Island now. How are you? means Are you dying? How is your family? Have they died? Will they die soon?

  How are you? A once-empty query, now crowded with intention.

  Meanwhile, the once-crowded streets of Coney Island sit largely bereft. Zeph and Nazan walk along a Surf Avenue that looks like a stage set after the play is long over. The shrieking roller coasters have gone silent. The Ferris wheels are still, carriages swaying in the breeze like loose teeth in a mouth. Zeph’s leather gloves make a gentle scraping sound as they brush the sand-covered streets. The sound would be pleasant if it didn’t merely highlight the utter silence everywhere else.

  From time to time, they pass an Unusual, or a waiter, or a cook. If Zeph knows them—being a bartender, he often does—they stop awhile and check in with one another.

  How are you?

  “See,” Zeph notes when he and Nazan continue on their way. “She don’t have it.” Or “Did ya hear that—his people are all doing good. Not everybody gets it, Miss Nazan. Some people get it, but not everybody gets it.” He’s not sure which one of them he’s trying to reassure.

  “No,” Nazan readily agrees. “Not everybody.”

  “We’re gonna be fine. It’s all gonna be fine.”

  But then a crumpled hot-dog wrapper skitters down
the street like a tumbleweed, landing at Zeph’s hip. And something about that dejected little wrapper nearly breaks Zeph’s heart in two.

  “Must be what it’s like here in the winter,” Nazan offers.

  “It’s quiet in the winter, but this is…” He doesn’t bother to finish the sentence. They walk together in silence for a while, listening to the calls of dejected seagulls.

  “I still can’t believe Spencer knew this was coming and didn’t say anything.” Nazan shakes her head. “I should become a nun. Clearly, I have no instincts for suitors.”

  “Well, now…” He looks up at her. She’s smiling at her little joke—smiling despite the eerie misery all around. Her eyes crinkle, and her unruly curls dance in the breeze, and something goes ping in Zeph’s chest. Fortunately, he knows exactly what he ought to say: Yeah, Reynolds, that no-account, good-for-nothing, rich boy. You’re best rid of him, Miss Nazan, and that’s the truth. As well as he knows his own name, Zeph knows that’s precisely what he should say.

  But instead, he says, “Spencer could have let the Committee arrest me. Could’ve let me take the fall for those dead fellas in the yard. Instead, he lied to keep me outta trouble, and now he’s an accomplice in two murders.” Zeph sighs, disgusted with himself. “Reynolds ain’t all bad.”

  Nazan nods. “That’s big of you to say, considering how he acted toward you when his friend Tilden was around.”

  “I am a mighty big man, as you can surely see.”

  They laugh. “He’s just so confusing to me,” she says. “Do you remember, at the Cabinet that first day, when he saw the boxing kangaroo? And how delighted he was? That’s the Spencer I met initially. That’s the one I…” She blushes. “You know. But five minutes later, it’s ‘my father this’ and ‘my family that,’ and his friends! My goodness, his friends are absolutely gruesome. Does he really think those nincompoops are going to be my friends too?” Nazan sighs. “I am fond of him. I just… I don’t know.”

  “No rush,” Zeph points out. “You got time to figure it out.”

  The entrance to Luna Park is barred with a long, heavy chain, and a lone figure leans on the chain, smoking a cigarette. As they approach, Nazan sees that the man’s face is tattooed with an illustration of a collapsing castle. With one hand, he pets a rat, its tiny head peeking out of his jacket pocket.

  “Afternoon, Zeph,” he sneers. “Look at you—taking the air, enjoying the apocalypse.”

  “Pete,” Zeph replies. He has to maneuver carefully so as not to put a hand down on one of Pete’s many cigarette butts that litter the ground. “How are you?” Pete just shrugs. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Nothing much. Just waiting on some friends.”

  “Friends? Hope you have a lot of tobacco if you’re gonna wait that long.”

  “Ha. Now, look at this sweet thing you’ve got with you. Further evidence the Cough is the best thing ever happened to people like us. Think you’d ever land a piece like that a few weeks ago?” He tips his bowler at Nazan. “Welcome to the good days, baby.”

  Nazan looks shocked, but Zeph just shakes his head. “Don’t bother.”

  “So,” Crumbly Pete says, “you two headed over to the doctor’s?”

  “Never mind where we’re—”

  But Nazan says, “There’s a doctor in Coney seeing patients?”

  Pete chuckles. “Seeing patients? Ain’t exactly seeing ’em.”

  “I don’t under—”

  “There’s this building on Twelfth, all these people lined up? What you do is, you stand in this line, and when it’s your turn, you shout up a description of whatever poor son of a bitch got himself sick. You know: male, five foot eleven, one eighty. And the doc lowers down medicine in this basket. You put every damn nickel you got in the basket, or some goons stomp the snot out of you. Good racket.” Pete takes a contemplative drag on his cigarette. “Thinkin’ about getting into it myself.”

  “Yeah.” Zeph snorts. “You’re quite the humanitarian.” He nods to Nazan. “We should go. See ya, Pete.”

  They continue down Surf Avenue as Pete calls after them. “They say this Cough turned the city upside down, Zeph! You know what that means? Means the last shall be first, my brother!” Pete kisses his rat on the nose. “Last shall be first.”

  • • •

  The eerie quiet on Surf Avenue weighs on Zeph. “It’s strange,” he muses. “Usually I long for everyone to leave, because it’s the only time I can go out.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Come on, look at me. You walk on your hands, you’re gonna get stared at. People gonna talk—that’s just how it is. I don’t care what they say, but…well, gets to the point I don’t feel like going out. Just ain’t worth the trouble. But now—here I go down the street, easy as you please. And suddenly I’d give anything to have somebody shout ‘freak’ at me.” He chuckles. “Some people are never happy, I guess.”

  On their way to the Manhattan Beach Hotel, they pass bathhouses and tchotchke shops, boarded up and bereft. The silence develops a physical mass; Nazan can feel it on her shoulders like a heavy weight. To break it, she says, “Zeph, if you don’t mind my asking, how did you lose your legs?”

  “Oh, you know,” he says. “Left ’em in a bar.”

  “Very careless!”

  “Heh. No, it was… My people are down in Tennessee. After the war, my grandparents got…well, no forty acres, that’s for damn sure. But they got themselves a little land to work, and that became our life down there. As for me, it’s the old story. Boy fights tractor; boy loses.”

  “A tractor? Mr. Zeph, I’m so sorry.”

  He shrugs it off. “I spent a few months in bed, not doing much. Taught myself to read—that’s something at least. Kept waiting to die, but after a while…just got bored, I guess. Finally, one day, I started trying to figure things out. How can I do that, how can I do this?”

  “And what brought you up north?”

  “Well, food’s always scarce, of course, and feeding somebody who ain’t contributing…that’s tough on everybody. So one day, the circus comes to town, fella spots me up in the stands, climbing around on the bleachers like I learned. Next day, he shows up, sniffing around all sympathetic-like. Mama makes him a pot of tea, he takes his wallet out… Before you know it, I’m in show business.”

  “So she just…” Nazan bites her lip. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Aw, now. He paid enough to fix the tractor, so… And I saw the country. I’ve been to Syracuse, Columbus, Pittsburgh. Got all the way out to Cedar City one time. I’ve been a Wild Man of Borneo, a Caterpillar Man. I’ve been a Missing Link.” Nazan gazes at him, horrified. “Aww, it wasn’t so bad…”

  But she continues to stare, and he wilts under her big, brown, empathic eyes. “Okay, you got me. It was horrible. Traveling in some penny-ante sideshow, acting the fool while a bunch of hayseeds gawk and throw rocks. Lucky you, Miss Nazan, because now you know what all my nightmares look like—me, in a cage, with some inbred toddler laughing at me till he wets himself. But I’m all done with that now. I got my friends, I got the Cabinet to look after, and there’s no point in—oh, look,” he says with relief. “We’re here.”

  Chapter 34

  The Hound

  Kitty sits on the staircase to the sea, trying not to think about the double funeral she’ll need to arrange for her mother and brother, but thinking about it regardless. Should it be a proper service in London? But how will she get there, and with what money would she organize such a thing? In New York, then? But what would be the point when no one knows them here?

  Surely Mum would want to be laid to rest beside Father. Good luck, given that Kitty can’t even find her body. What a useless girl she’s turned out to be. What did Shakespeare say? How sharper than a serpent’s tooth to have a child lose your corpse?

  She hates that she’s so practic
al. Making jokes, even when she has no one to tell them to. She should cry more, shouldn’t she? Keen or something? Isn’t that what a good daughter would do? She’d shed a few tears in front of the doctor, but they’d soon dried up. Now she can’t stop her brain from making and remaking funeral arrangements. What’s wrong with me?

  A few steps down, at the water’s edge, P-Ray stands with his makeshift fishing pole—a stick with a long piece of string and a hook fashioned from a small piece of metal he’d found in the yard. He casts his line, over and over. Kitty hasn’t bothered to tell him it’s pointless. Even pointless fishing gives P-Ray so much happiness, and it’s not as though the observation suite has much else to offer for entertainment.

  But suddenly, a miracle. P-Ray hoots in delight and scuttles up the steps to show off his prize—a long, brown fish flops in his hands. “Look at you!” Kitty says. “That’s brilliant! Well done, sweetie, well done indeed!” The boy squeals and jumps up and down with such enthusiasm that Kitty has to grab him so he doesn’t tumble into the water.

  “I am returned, signorina!” Enzo stands on the far side of the chain-link fence and begins to climb.

  “I am glad, signore!” Kitty goes to the fence to greet him. For the past couple of days, Enzo has been sneaking out of the men’s dormitory anytime no one is looking. Each visit, he brings a gift—a washcloth smuggled from the lavatory, a bag of cookies liberated from the kitchen. Tiny gestures, but exquisite kindnesses also. His visits keep Kitty from going completely mad with loneliness.

  He drops down to her side of the fence and pulls a book from inside his coat. “For you.”

  She grins and snatches her gift, the title, A Study in Scarlet, in lurid print on the cover. “Oh, lovely, Sherlock Holmes! This is the one where the cab driver did it.”

  Enzo grimaces. “You already read…”