Dreamland

by Nancy Bilyeau

I’d not paid much attention when fitted for my beach clothing in Manhattan, but when I held in my hands my own bathing costume, I was appalled. It was made of dark blue wool, with long sleeves, a high neckline, and, under its skirt, pants that reached the ankles. Every bit of skin was to be covered except for my face, hands, and feet. This was how I was intended to meet the sea.

  “Why is it of such a dark color?” I mused.

  The young hotel maid sharing my stall said, “So that no one can see through it when it’s wet, Miss. You can’t have it be trans… trans…” She frowned, searching for the word.

  “Transparent?”

  “Yes! You can’t be transparent in the water. There could be gentlemen nearby.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment and then called out, “Alice, did you bring your sewing scissors?”

  “Miss, I’ll be there in a minute to help,” she replied, sounding frazzled with four Batternberg women and four maids on her hands.

  “I just need the scissors,” I said, and directed the wide-eyed maid assigned to me to fetch them. Once armed with Alice’s sharp scissors, I went to work in my curtained stall, humming a little tune.

  “There – what do you think?” I asked my maid, holding up the fruits of my labor. I’d cut away the sleeves and snipped the threads attaching the pants. It was now a sleeveless dress that reached, perhaps, my knees.

  The maid burst into giggles and said, “It’s shocking, Miss.”

  “Yes,” I said, with deep satisfaction.

  Lydia called out that the rest of them were ready for the water, and I replied that they should go ahead; I’d follow shortly.

  After I’d put on my modified bathing costume, my thick black braids pinned under a bathing cap, I pushed aside the curtain of my stall. None of my family remained, only the maids. I stepped out from the stall to make my way toward the open door.

  A gush of female gasps heralded my appearance in the larger part of the pavilion, along with Alice’s mournful, “Oh, Miss Peggy. Now you’ve done it.” Quickening my pace, I headed for the wooden doorway hanging open.

  As my feet landed in the hot sand and the blazing white sun toasted my face and arms, I could only see one thing ahead of me: the sparkling blue water. I ran toward the ocean, joining the women of my family. They had already ventured in and stood in a cluster, the water not even reaching their knees. My mother, wearing an enormous hat, was the first one to lay eyes on me, and her reaction was predictable. “Margaret, what have you done?”

  “Don’t worry, Mother, nothing is transparent,” I sang out as I stepped into the delightfully cool water, the balls of my feet sinking into the firm sand. I provoked other reactions – principally Lydia’s, who laughed and said, “Wish I’d had the nerve.”

  My mother proceeded to scold her for desiring to follow my horrendous example. Not wanting to have my outing spoiled, I pushed my way into deeper water, directly in the path of a white-crested wave. When it crashed against my stomach and thighs I nearly capsized, but righted myself. After being trapped in the inescapable heat, I thrilled to this assault. The cold water carried such a salty, stinging snap.

  Soon enough, the water reached my waist. The next wave cost me my bathing cap, and I decided it was time to swim. The last German nanny we’d had insisted on lessons for Lydia and me. It had been quite a while since I practiced my swimming, but it soon came back to me. I ventured out until my feet no longer touched the ocean floor, and the waves transformed into safer rolling swells. When a slimy, feathery plant of some sort wrapped itself around my leg, I shuddered. But disentangling myself wasn’t difficult, and after practicing my breast stroke I shifted to back-stroke. I stared at the wisps of clouds drifting across the sky and two seagulls circling. It reminded me of the seagull Stefan fended off yesterday, and for a moment I lost myself to memories of his strong arms pushing the cart, followed by how it felt to be pressed against him in Hell Gate. Nine days to wait. When I closed my eyes, the sun warmed my eyelids. My arms reached high like two lazy wheels while my feet paddled. The saltwater was buoyant; it was easy to float along.

  When a spray of water hit me, I thought for a second I’d aroused the interest of a predatory fish. My eyes flew open – and I saw the slick black haired head of my cousin Ben, just a few feet away. He’d flicked water on me to break my reverie.

  “You’ve discovered the secret,” he said, treading water.

  “What’s that?”

  “You have to push out past the waves to swim. Most other girls won’t do that. They definitely don’t swim out this far.”

  I looked back toward the shore. I’d gone farther than I realized. I could make out my mother still, thanks to her hat. I also recognized Lydia, covered neckline to ankles in the requisite dark blue wool, while Henry Taul loomed over her, wearing nothing but a scoop-necked T-shirt and swim trunks.

  “That’s quite a bathing costume,” Ben said.

  “Have you come to criticize?” I groaned.

  “Are you joking? I never criticize a girl for taking off her clothes in public, and I’m sure I’m not the only man here today who votes that ticket.”

  “I did it for myself, not for you,” I said, and with that, I side-stroked away from my cousin. Let him find someone else to tease. The sounds of people – both the laughter and chat of those on the Oriental Hotel private stretch, and the faint roar of the thousands of others spread across miles of Coney Island beach – were nicely removed from my own domain of the Atlantic Ocean.

  I so enjoyed the swim that it was only after my brother Lawrence ventured out twice to tell me Mother said I must come in, that I made my way back to the bathing pavilion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  My mother’s reactions to both what I wore and how far out I swam were predictably acerbic. I nodded, making sounds of contrition. My bout of rigorous exercise had so refreshed me and distracted me from my troubles that I found it easier than usual to cope with her.

  After the beach, it was back to our rooms to change once more, this time for tea at the Manhattan Beach Hotel. Lydia, I took note, had abandoned her sailor dress for something more sophisticated: a rose-colored dress with a dropped waistline.

  As vast as the Oriental seemed, the Manhattan Beach Hotel was more so. I wondered if it were true that this was the largest such establishment on the east coast. It was like a village rather than a hotel, with its complex of buildings, gardens, piazzas, and verandas. Somewhere within were the rooms of my cousins Ben and Paul. But of far more interest to Lydia were this brother and sister, Jason and Susannah. I was curious about them. For Lydia to make such an arrangement with me, circumnavigating Mother, they’d have to be something special.

  The hotel’s high-ceilinged, oak-paneled tea room was sprinkled with not only tables sprouting polished silver tea sets, but also a dozen large vases stuffed with red and white roses and gorgeous pink lilies. The floral scents mingled with that of baked, creamed, sugared treats as the maître d’ led us to our table, where the celebrated siblings awaited.

  My first impression was that they might be twins. They had hair of identical color, a shining chestnut brown, and turned the same wide, welcoming smiles at us. As we took our seats and I was introduced, I realized that Susannah was older, in her late twenties, while Jason looked to be a year or two older than me. She had the rounder face and stronger nose. Jason, with his oval-shaped face and delicate profile, was in truth more attractive.

  “I’m so sorry we’re late,” said Lydia. “Our swim ran over.”

  I jumped in to say, “It’s my fault entirely. I had to be practically dragged out of the water.”

  Lydia gave way to a meaningful laugh, which Susannah seized on, wanting to know what made the swim so special for me. With a shrug I told of my spontaneous decision to modify my bathing costume and then my intense enjoyment of the salty, waves-tossed ocean.

  Susannah said, “Ah, you are quite different from your mother.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “Lydia,” I said, “I
believe I like your new friends.”

  Lydia and Jason looked at each other and chuckled. But Susannah leaned toward me, unsmiling. “You are more connected to your id, while your mother, Mrs. Batternberg, exists in a state of complete repression, governed by her super-ego.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Please don’t be offended by my sister,” said Jason Campion. “She is a disciple of Dr. Sigmund Freud and applies his theories to everyone we meet.”

  The Interpretation of Dreams was a popular seller at Moonrise Bookstore, and I’d attempted to read it, intrigued by Dr. Freud’s theories of a mind that functions beyond what we realize: the unconscious. But for me the book, long and detailed, was too hard to understand. Susannah was pleased that I knew anything of Freud at all and urged me to give The Interpretation of Dreams another try. “I can give you a dream journal, it will help enormously. You keep it by your bedside and fill it out the moment you wake up.”

  “Yes, Lydia, how about you, do you have anything to report on your dreams?” asked Jason.

  “Sorry, I don’t remember a thing from last night,” Lydia said.

  At that moment, our waiter arrived with a little cart on wheels bearing the tea tray. He was a man with a fierce gray mustache and a pronounced Scottish accent, dressed in a Victorian topcoat of a previous generation. I had no doubt that many of the patrons of the tea room came specifically to bask in his rolling Rs. As he oversaw a young woman’s pouring hot water over the tea-leaves-stuffed brewing baskets, and another woman’s offering us cucumber or salmon sandwiches, I wondered why Lydia told Jason and Susannah she didn’t remember anything from last night. She had informed me this morning that she was disturbed by a strange dream.

  I took tea only, no finger sandwiches. “I prefer to concentrate on scones with clotted cream or cake with icing,” I told Susannah. The response could not have made her happier.

  “You are an excellent subject for me,” she exulted. “Tell me, if there were any food or drink you could have right now, apart from the scones or cake, what would you desire most?”

  “Truly?” I asked. When she nodded, I said, “A cold bottle of Coca-Cola.”

  “Peggy, you must be joking,” exclaimed Lydia. “They’re not going to have Coca-Cola in a nice hotel.”

  Susannah Campion dived into a satchel resting at the side of her chair. I spotted a thick book with a dozen markers thrust into pages – that must be Freud’s. She withdrew a slender notebook with the words ‘Your Dreams’ printed on the cover, explained she’d had them custom-made for her prospective subjects. “I anticipate you will have less obscuring of meaning in your dreams,” she said, thrusting a notebook into my hand. “You are not as blocked from your unconscious as most young American females.”

  As we made our way through the first course of our high tea, I learned that the Campions were alone in the world, their parents dying several years ago and, left unsaid but clearly the case, leaving their two children handsomely provided for. Jason had just graduated from Columbia with his undergraduate degree, planning to begin medical studies at Princeton this autumn. They celebrated Jason’s degree from Columbia with two weeks in Austria and Germany, followed by a few days home in Manhattan and now several weeks here in Coney Island. While in Europe, they had made a pilgrimage of sorts to Vienna, the home of Sigmund Freud. He had made no public speeches while they were there and would accept no appointments that had not been made months in advance. However, simply breathing the same air as Freud, walking in his footsteps, had transported Susannah. Then it was on to Munich, home of a hundred museums and concert halls and, most important to Jason, the base for composer Richard Strauss.

  “Why follow up such heights of culture with a trip to Coney Island?” I asked.

  “It’s an excellent place to study mankind in extreme emotional conditions,” said Susannah earnestly. “Dr. Freud himself traveled to New York City and other American cities two years ago, and I know he specifically spent time in Coney Island, focusing on Dreamland.”

  “Well, that makes sense,” I said, wondering if Freud’s visit came before Stefan was exhibiting his art in Dreamland.

  “I have tried to obtain every printed interview since that time, and I regret to say that I cannot find even a syllable on what he thought of Coney Island,” she said with a sigh.

  “What do you think Dr. Freud would have made of it?” I asked.

  “I’m still composing my opinions, but I think it is a place that exerts a pull that these thousands of people cannot resist because it’s the only way they can feel their emotions – through experience of the extreme: fear, contempt, delight, and of course, lust,” she said, glancing over at Lydia and Jason as if to be sure they were immersed in their own conversation and not listening to her. Apparently she believed these cerebral creatures were unprepared to hear about such desires. “It’s especially the case for the poor factory workers. They labor such long hours, and in such unpleasant conditions of deafening noise and dirt, even risk of continual injury, that ordinary amusements just can’t stir them to excitement. They must descend hundreds of feet very rapidly, witness accidents, look upon people with deformities, or make advances of a romantic nature on strangers.”

  I nodded, trying not to let on that I’d been the enthusiastic object of a stranger’s advance.

  “Why the fixation on disaster if it were not needed to stimulate the jaded park attendees?” Susannah continued. “There are the buildings set on mock fires, the staged train collisions, the simulated floods and exploding volcanoes.”

  This was one of the most interesting conversations I’d had since leaving my job at Moonrise Bookstore. Unfortunately, Jason swooped in with a question about Munich for Susannah, and a moment later the talk of the table switched to music – specifically, to Richard Strauss – and my attention wandered.

  As the three of them happily debated the music of Strauss versus Wagner, I became aware of an unusual young woman sitting two tables over, directly in my line of sight. She was an ash blonde, wearing an exquisite lavender dress with filmy sleeves and a matching hat. It was an ensemble perhaps too formal for afternoon tea, especially as she wore ostentatious long earrings set with diamonds that flashed whenever she turned her head. She didn’t need such enhancements to impress anyone, for she was astoundingly pretty, with a creamy complexion, an upturned nose and vivid blue eyes. What struck me most was that she was alone but did not seem to want to be alone. When the Scottish head waiter came to her table, she chatted with him until, with an apologetic bow, he was forced to move along. Was she a pampered young wife whose husband was too busy working to join her? That didn’t make sense. A couple without children or other family wouldn’t come all the way out to the Manhattan Hotel, only to separate during the day. Hadn’t she made a single friend at the hotel to share teatime with? I tried to imagine a scenario that explained her.

  Our own tea reached the happy stage of scones and cake slices, and I shrugged off the mysteries of the stranger. The raspberry scone made for a heavenly collapse of crumb and cream in my mouth. “I don’t need to seek out extreme experiences to enjoy something – I have it right here,” I told Susannah, who laughed. I glanced over at Lydia to see if she’d deigned to eat anything and was delighted that she was halfway through a slice of lemon cake. In this company, her appetite returned.

  I was sorry to have to say goodbye to the Campion brother and sister. Lydia was right, they made enjoyable companions. Jason seemed quite reluctant to part as well, suggesting they peek inside the music room to see if any orchestra members rehearsed for a later performance. I told them to go on ahead and I’d meet them, for all this tea necessitated a trip to the women’s lavatory.

  I followed a discreet sign in the lobby to a door leading downstairs. If this were the Oriental Hotel, I’d have had no problem finding my way around, but I got lost in the lower level of the Manhattan Beach Hotel. After locating the lavatory, I took a wrong turn trying to find the stairs, passing the forlorn
tailor and shoe-repair shops that I thought I remembered, but after those two establishments, along this narrow hallway, were only closed office doors. The corridor itself was surprisingly filthy, with broken lights. It seemed all effort was being expended on what was visible above.

  I came to the end of the hallway and turned left, hoping to reach a more populated area. Exactly the opposite happened. I found myself on an even lonelier and dirtier corridor, this one with a folding chair in a dark alcove jutting to the side. I’d caught something in my shoe and decided to sit and remove the irritant. Then I’d try to properly retrace my steps.

  I heard footsteps walking my way. By the lightness of the step and the click of heel I could tell it was a woman. A few seconds later, a blonde in a lavender dress and hat swooshed by. I was amazed by the coincidence. This was the mystery woman who drank tea alone, and she seemed to know her way around this warren of dreary corridors stretching below the Manhattan Beach Hotel.

  I began to rise to ask her for directions when two men rounded the corner to head in the same direction. Now I had more people to query, which was a relief.

  But the graceless way the taller of them loped along, the cut of the other’s black hair – I tensed as I realized I knew these two.

  What were Lawrence and Paul Batternberg doing down here?

  The lavender-clad woman had stopped and turned as if to greet them, her diamond earrings shimmering in the dim light. Peeking out farther from my alcove, I watched my brother Lawrence and my cousin Paul greet her. Except they didn’t greet her. The three of them stood together for a few seconds, but no one said a word.

  She held out her hand, and Paul put a thick white envelope in it.

  “It’s ridiculous to do this down here,” she said. I had imagined a woman of her elegance would have a low, lilting voice, but hers was high-pitched, even nasal.

  “You know that’s the way it has to be,” said Paul.

  “Nobody ever asks me what I think,” she complained.