“Pete?”
He turned, almost surprised to find Grace smiling strangely. “The half lady didn’t spook you, but an old carousel horse does?”
“I heard something. A voice.”
Her balled hands landed on her hips. “And it’s a Friday. Tell me something that doesn’t happen regularly.”
“It belongs . . . to her.”
“Her.”
He nodded. “Esme.”
Grace’s expression flipped from blasé to surprised. “Oh. Have you . . . I mean, I’m well aware of Esme in your past, but I didn’t know she’d moved on to communicating. When did this start?”
“Yesterday morning. Not long after I came back from . . . you know. The usual.” He said this in reference to a murderous scene Grace knew about, grateful he didn’t have to repeat the grisly details. “Just now. She said, ‘If Paris is France . . .’”
“‘If Paris is France’ . . . ?” Grace’s trivia-filled brain took over. “Hey, that’s part of a saying, the guy who invented Coney Island. ‘If Paris—’”
He held up a hand. “I know. Esme said it yesterday too. My mother figured out its origin. I just have no clue what it has to do with . . .”
“You and Esme?”
“More or less.” He glanced at the horse. “After all these years, I hadn’t anticipated a riddle being the icebreaker.”
“Huh.” She came closer to the horse. “What do you make of it? Did she say anything else? Anything to do with . . .”
“Me killing her?”
Grace offered a small shrug.
Pete stared into the eyes of the carousel horse, as if waiting for it to clarify. “Oddly, she didn’t mention it. Or anything of substance.” Quick as a hiccup, in his mind’s eye, he saw Esme sitting upon the horse, her strawberry-blonde hair moving with the breeze. Pete drew in a low, deep breath but said nothing to Grace. “Like I told you, things have unraveled differently with this trip home.” He also hadn’t mentioned the postcard from yesterday. Pete was too unsure how it factored in and didn’t want to invite random speculation.
But the house on Rabbit Lane, there was no speculation here. It was plain unsettling beyond its common spirit population. Pete’s hint of nausea turned into a surge of panic. “You know, I don’t see anything here that would be of significance to my mother. Nothing that connects to Charley. I say we came, we saw, we get the hell out.”
He abruptly pivoted. Sawhorses and a saddle seemed to have galloped into his path. Shorter breaths pumped in and out of Pete, his mouth went dry, and any hint of spit evaporated. It was as if he’d crashed into a memory. The coffee-colored English saddle sat center, showing off a two-tone seat. Vintage leather through and through. Pete brought his hand forward, approaching it with more apprehension than he had the carousel horse. This object had been saddled to a live animal, one he saw in his head—a glorious black horse, at least seventeen hands. A draft horse. His horse . . .
Pete touched the pommel, knee roll, and stirrup leather, which showed obvious wear. His fingers hooked around the shiny but nicked stirrup iron. Equally curious, while everything in the room was covered in dust, the saddle was pristine. Its leather looked as if it had been massaged with mink oil that morning. What the fuck is mink oil?
Pete moved his hand over the saddle as if he were petting a horse. As he did this, the vibration connected to yesterday’s paperwork, or even the postcard, didn’t emerge. This feeling was more intrinsic, deep-seated. A burst of tiny electric pulses stuttered through Pete, a dotted-line connection to another life. He let go, backed up, and the sensation vanished.
“Pete? What’s with the saddle? You look more startled than after your go-round with the carousel pony.”
“I know these things. The saddle. It was mine. It sat on a draft horse . . . traveler.”
“You don’t ride. As far as I know, your interest in horses doesn’t go beyond watching the Kentucky Derby.”
“No. I’ve always known I rode a horse . . . back then, during the war.” Pete’s breathing labored, sweat rolling. “That was his name. Traveller. He wore that saddle.” Pete pressed a closed fist to his mouth. Smells of a rotting war invaded, the whinny of a horse in agony. He backed up farther, hearing his mother’s warning to be careful. But Pete also recalled her urging—that this house, these things, could lead to answers he’d spent more time avoiding than seeking. “There’s a lot more here than a house full of memorabilia, Grace. It’s like the things here connect to a whole other life.”
ACT II, SCENE I BROOKLYN, NEW YORK 1917
Esmerelda listened as Oscar bargained and Henry Erlanger spoke. “‘If Paris is France, Coney Island, between June and September, is the World.’” Mr. Erlanger went on, poking his walking stick through heavy July air, noting Luna Park’s forthcoming Whip ride and the entrance to an under-construction subway rail. “George Tilyou said it best. And soon crowds will flood in from all five boroughs. After that, no one will have any need for Paris. Let the Krauts have it, I say.”
His eyes were set so close Esmerelda thought he could be his own one-eyed act. He looked between her and Cora, and Esmerelda had to bite down on her lip to keep from laughing.
“Your girl on the left,” he said. “I’ll give her this weekend’s shows, matinees too.” He tapped his cane on Cora’s shoulder. “I haven’t any use for a juggler. They’re a dime a dozen—unless they’re midgets or can breathe fire while they juggle.” He sniffed, checking his pocket watch before reverting his attention to Oscar.
Esmerelda drew an unsettled breath. She wasn’t a fan of Luna Park’s human or animal exploitations, the things that, to her amazement, drew the largest crowds.
“If that’s your best off—” Oscar began.
“Mr. Erlanger,” Esmerelda said, “I take it you’ve not seen Cora juggle while I sing ‘Circus Days in Dixie.’ It, um . . . it makes for the most unusual performance.” She swiped at the line of sweat on her neck, which underscored her lie. “Your patrons will be wowed.”
Henry Erlanger, Luna Park’s talent manager, stood dumbfounded. It was as if Esmerelda were a sack of flour or a swine that had suddenly taken to speech. “And since when do sideshow acts do their own negotiating?” he asked. “Particularly females.”
Oscar shot her a wary look. “The girl’s mouthy, afraid it’s the price I pay for her singin’. Even so, she’s worth—”
“And you might be pleased to know,” Esmerelda interrupted again, “guests at Hupp’s Supper Club have been mesmerized.” Cora laced her fingers tighter to Esmerelda’s, tugging. Esmerelda held steady. If Cora went another weekend without work . . . well, she preferred not to test Oscar’s good graces. “Cora here, she juggles beside me while I sing, even during ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’” Oscar widened his fair eyes and craned his neck forward as she embellished. “Clearly, we’re not midgets or the elephants who roam your grounds.” She gestured to one of several beasts that mingled with Luna Park crowds. “But we are an amazing act.”
“A singer paired with a juggler? Maybe over at the Elephantine Colossus, dressed in your knickers, but on a main stage?” The narrow pinch of his eyes made him look like an hourglass set on its side.
Luna Park’s talent manager plucked at his watch again, grunting at time, at them. “She . . . they go on at eight. I’ll pay twenty cents an hour more. And they’d better be good!” He pivoted and pointed his walking stick at two men hanging a sign, stepping toward them. “No . . . no! Higher! And more to the right.”
Oscar folded his bulky arms. “Juggles while you sing, does she? To ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ no less.”
Esmerelda’s hand now squeezed tight to Cora’s. “We’ll figure something out. It’ll be fine, Oscar.”
“Only if you two turn into those Siamese twins by showtime. With Cora glued to you, juggling cups and saucers and a cat while you sing might make sense.”
“If we can make people believe we talk to the dead, why can’t we get them to think singing and juggling is anot
her sort of act?”
“Because I didn’t think of it!” He unfolded his arms and hooked his thumbs into his vest pockets. “Besides, you’ll run into a mixed crowd at Luna Park. Savvier than the mutts we get at Albee’s or the Vitascope.” He looked around the massive forest of plaster towers, endless minarets that dazzled in the dark and fascinated in light of day. “Even so, listening to a fine singer while watching a juggler, who ever heard of such a thing?”
“At least Cora has a paying job for two days. Can’t you look at it like that?”
“Stay out of trouble until showtime.” It was as close to an agreement as the girls would get from Oscar. “And don’t be late or you’ll both be lookin’ for new representation.”
With their fingers still tangled, the girls nodded.
“I’ve got an appointment at the Elephantine.” He dug into his pocket and handed Esmerelda two nickels. “Here.” He walked away, his lumbering frame and derby hat vanishing into sun-soaked crowds.
“What do you suppose his appointment is?” Cora looked to Esmerelda. “Do you think he’s going to find an act to replace me?”
“Replace . . .” Naïveté rivaled Cora’s juggling skills. “Um, no. Oscar’s not going to the Elephant Hotel for that. Not unless he plans to completely alter the talent he represents.” Cora’s smile dimmed and Esmerelda touched her fingertips to her head. “It’s got nothing to do with . . .” She let the thought go. “Maybe you and Licorice, the cups and saucers, should practice a few rounds.”
“Not a bad idea.” Cora pushed up the sleeve of her dress to reveal a scab that traveled from her elbow to her wrist. “Last show we worked, Licorice got me good.” She looked at Esmerelda. “We’d be better off finding us a husband or two. Might be some quarrels, but surely fewer scratches.”
“Thank you very much,” Esmerelda said, “but if I have to be under a man’s thumb, I prefer it be Oscar’s.” She glanced in the direction of the Elephant Hotel—its pink elephant shape on the outside, its dodgy goings-on inside. She’d heard enough talk about the wares men went there to buy.
“Why would you say such a thing?” Cora went on. “What girl doesn’t want a husband?”
“This one.” Esmerelda thumbed at her chest. “With Oscar, I don’t have to bake him a pie or do his mending or . . .” She glanced again at Luna Park’s most unique attraction. “Nothing but sing to keep in his good favor.”
“You have a point. And it’s good to know your shortcomings.” In reply, Esmerelda shot her a look. “Well, based on your pie baking or mending skills, find me one man who’d want you as a wife. I’ve had to darn your stockings myself.” She folded her limber arms. “’Course, you’re also about as obedient to Oscar as you are a Sunday church service.”
“So I imagine it’s myself I’ll count on to keep me from the streets.”
“And they say I’m the silly girl. What is it you want from life, Esmerelda, if not a husband?”
She straightened her spine. “I’m not sure.” It was a short but true answer. “And I didn’t say I’d never want a husband. As you’ve kindly noted, I’m not sure what I’d have to offer one.” And beneath Esmerelda’s true answer was a far deeper shortcoming than Cora could guess.
“Sounds to me more like an excuse to be overly picky. Girls who look like you . . .” Cora spoke, and Esmerelda’s glance dipped to the pounded dirt path. When it came to their appearances, both girls were wise to connotations. The ones that made Esmerelda feel like an object and Cora feel something worse. “Most pretty girls have a husband by now.”
“Oh, like that should be the reason for anything. And a marriage bargain should be about more than maid’s work and someone to pay for your dinner. Certainly not for the sake of . . . well, things a fellow will go to the Elephant Hotel for. Marriage should be about being together because . . .” Esmerelda couldn’t find the exact words. “Because being apart isn’t an option.”
“Like the Siamese twins Oscar’s been wishin’ for?”
She sighed at Cora. “Never mind.”
“Then explain your indifference to Mr. Hupp. Seems to me you don’t care much for the wooing type either.” She narrowed her eyes at Esmerelda. “I haven’t missed something, have I? You’re not like Barney and Bill, are you?”
“Barney and Bill—” She hadn’t imagined Cora had picked up on such a thing. Esmerelda had been stunned herself when Barney and Bill’s relationship became evident. This occurred after she accidentally pulled back a daybed curtain in a rooming house where the troupe stayed last winter. Since then, she chose to say nothing. Vaudevillians boasted a wide berth for the uncommon, and Esmerelda had settled on silence as her policy.
Esmerelda rolled her eyes at her friend’s remark. “No, Cora. I don’t fancy you. But I wouldn’t mind having what I see between Barney and Bill.” Cora’s brow knotted so tight Esmerelda thought it might twist inside out. “Marriage should be about what you feel. Not an exchange of goods and services, not even an amicable one.” She paused, thinking, if not rambling. “The ‘till death do us part’ words. It shouldn’t signal an end, but the thing a body might fight against, even after it’s left this world.”
Cora widened her eyes. “Is that truly what you think, or are those words from a dramatic scene Oscar has you practicing? Something like Hamlet or a song from Misters Gilbert and Sullivan?”
“It’s what I think, after what I’ve seen. Why do it at all, if that’s not how you feel?”
“To avoid being a spinster, I’d think.” Cora’s mousy faux bob swayed as she shook her head. “Esmerelda, you confuse me more than arithmetic. Fight beyond ‘Death do us part.’ Practicality may have something to say about that.” She laughed. “Or has the Amazing Miss Moon seen life beyond this one?” Cora arced her scabbed arm past Esmerelda, mimicking Oscar’s onstage antics.
Esmerelda’s face warmed. “I’ll not be teased by you, Cora. I’m entitled to my thoughts, even if it includes death not being the end to a love story.”
“Love story?” Cora’s fisted hands settled onto her hips. “Listen to you. Sensible Esmerelda Moon spoutin’ on like she’s one of the Brontë girls. Life doesn’t work like that. Love certainly doesn’t. It’s why people pay a nickel to see it on stage.”
“You don’t know,” Esmerelda said. “There could be something other than what we see and what we pretend.”
“And they call me a ninny. Keep your head in those clouds and all you’ll end up with is the last scene from Romeo and Juliet.”
A man’s voice interrupted. “Do they sing in that show? I would love to hear Esmerelda’s version.” The girls turned to find Benjamin Hupp. He removed his derby hat, taking a deep bow. “Ladies. Warm afternoon, isn’t it?”
Cora giggled, which had been her breadth of conversation around Benjamin. Since June, he’d become a fixture in Esmerelda’s staged life. Cora finally managed a sentence. “Mr. Hupp. We were just speaking about you.”
“Were you?” He looked pleased, smiling at Esmerelda.
“We didn’t know you’d be here today,” Cora said.
“Didn’t we?” Esmerelda would have been more surprised if Benjamin hadn’t turned up near the venue in which she was scheduled to perform. Since she’d started singing at Hupp’s Supper Club, Benjamin had sat regularly in both audiences, turning up backstage, alternating flowers with candy. He’d also insisted Esmerelda stay in the hotel above the club. The room had its own bath, a perk that admittedly caught Esmerelda’s eye. It was divine opulence compared to the Flatlands, where Oscar and the rest of the troupe camped in Brooklyn. Logistically, since she was a fixture on the supper club’s billing, the hotel room made sense. But Esmerelda had also been quick enough to invite Cora to bunk with her.
Not long into her hotel stay, Benjamin showed up at her door with champagne in hand—a prop as permanent as the deep dimples in his cheeks. He’d blinked at the clothesline she and Cora had fashioned from a bedpost to a wall hook, stockings dripping from it. His square jaw turned oval as Benj
amin spied Licorice on the moonlit sill and Cora, who’d lit a fire, reheating a bit of pigeon leftovers.
He’d stumbled through his next thoughts. “The room. I hadn’t considered . . . I didn’t think you’d invite . . .” Esmerelda had smiled sweetly. He’d gulped, his gaze moving over her and the cluttered space. “I, um . . . I trust you’ll both be comfortable here.”
“We will. Thank you again, Benjamin. I do hope the show was everything you were expecting.”
While Esmerelda’s move had been strategic, she thought innocence remained her best ally. She’d performed flawlessly. There were no other terms to her contract with Hupp’s Supper Club. She owed him nothing.
Benjamin and Cora traded words about the weather, and Esmerelda’s stare drifted. On the far edge of Luna Park stood Phin. Her heart thumped, her brain uncertain if it should believe her eyes. He was a good distance away, throngs of people causing him to vanish and reappear like the rabbit in a magic act. Esmerelda’s insides jumped every time she caught a glimpse of him. He struggled along, his own balancing act, which included an easel, tin box, and, so it seemed, ample determination. “Now what do you suppose he’s . . . ?”
“Esmerelda?”
Her gaze flicked back, her ear catching on Cora’s tone. “Are you going to answer Mr. Hupp, or have you gone into one of your trances?”
“Her what?” Benjamin smiled at her like always, as if he’d bit into a peppermint petit four from the supper club’s dessert tray—so sweet it left you woozy.
“Nothing,” Esmerelda said. “A different act we perform.”
“Sounds fascinating. Right now, I was asking if you”—he hesitated, breathing deep at Cora—“and Miss Cora would like to get a lemonade. They serve it on ice, a booth just a little farther down. Quite refreshing.”
“Lemonade. On ice.” Esmerelda strained her neck, as if looking for the booth. Phin and his curious belongings turned for the sea. “That sounds . . . lemony—and tempting.” Esmerelda squinted toward the edge of Luna Park and back at Benjamin. “But we can’t.”
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