Escaping Dreamland

by Charlie Lovett

  “You should find the book,” said his father. “Someday, you should find it.”

  “I will,” said Robbie.

  “Promise me,” said his father.

  “I promise,” said Robbie, placing his hand on the book that lay between them. “I swear on The Tremendous Trio around the World.”

  “What are you two up to now?” said his mother, walking into the room and ending the conversation. But Robbie would not forget his promise.

  As he carefully slid the stapled packet into another file folder, Robert thought about the vow made to his father all those years ago. As a child, he had no access to eBay or AbeBooks. Now that he did it should have been a simple matter to turn up a copy of The Last Adventure. But a quick search of these and other online sources revealed nothing. The occasional copy of The Tremendous Trio at Niagara Falls or The Tremendous Trio and the Secrets of the Amazon turned up, but nothing else. It was as if The Last Adventure never existed.

  But it did exist, because he had just read the opening. And he had promised his father he would find the book, so he would. He would find The Last Adventure of the Tremendous Trio and he would share it with Rebecca and that would be how he would finally tell her everything that had happened, everything he had tried so hard to forget. He pulled on a coat and started downstairs, headed to the best place he could think of to start a search for a book.

  Robert sat in a diminutive chair at a diminutive table in the children’s area of the St. Agnes branch of the New York Public Library. Snow dusted the skylight overhead, but natural light still filled the room. Across from him was a young librarian named Elaine Corrigan, whom he had first met a year and a half ago.

  “You know you can look online to see if we have a particular book in the library system,” said Elaine.

  “But if I did that, I wouldn’t get to walk the seven blocks up Amsterdam in a snow flurry, and I wouldn’t get to admire that beautiful curving staircase, and I wouldn’t get to cram myself into this miniature furniture and talk to you.”

  It had felt good to walk in the cold. The dour mood that had been growing in him the past few months had too often kept him confined indoors. Even a walk of a few blocks had energized him.

  “How’s Rebecca?” said Elaine. Until recently, Robert and Rebecca had often come to the library together on Saturday afternoons—sometimes looking for something to read aloud to each other, sometimes just browsing separately. Robert thought for a moment about conforming to social convention and lying—saying Rebecca was fine and changing the subject, but Elaine had a look of concern on her face that didn’t promise to let him off that easily.

  “Rebecca’s staying with a friend for a few days,” said Robert. “I’ve been . . . difficult lately.”

  “Some people would say, ‘I can’t imagine that you would be difficult,’ ” said Elaine, “but the truth is I can imagine it very easily.”

  “I know, right?” said Robert. “I’m working on it, though.”

  “I hope things work out. You two seem good together.”

  Robert tried to imagine what about the way he and Rebecca searched for books in their local public library made them seem, to a relative stranger, “good together.” He believed Elaine was right, but how did she know?

  “We haven’t had coffee in a while,” said Elaine.

  “You and Rebecca have coffee?” said Robert. Rebecca had never mentioned any such relationship.

  “Three or four times in the last few months,” said Elaine. “She said she needed someone to talk to about what she was reading.”

  Robert felt a pang of guilt. The last few months meant ever since he had started to withdraw from Rebecca. Desperate for a way to change the subject, he glanced around the room and asked, “When did this branch open?” His excursion into the books of his grandfather’s childhood had made him sensitive to age, and the St. Agnes branch clearly had some years on it. The elegant three-story stone facade nestled between two less attractive brick buildings, and the interior featured hardwood floors, curved windows, and a graceful staircase that greeted every patron.

  “I think 1906,” said Elaine.

  “This all started in 1906,” said Robert. That had been the year not only of the publication of the first of the Great Marvel books, but also of the first appearance of Dan Dawson, Alice Gold, and Frank Fairfax.

  “What started?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about some books,” said Robert.

  “Okay,” said Elaine, unfolding her laptop. “Which books?”

  “Frank Fairfax, Cub Reporter,” said Robert. “Daring Dan Dawson; Alice Gold, Girl Inventor; and the Tremendous Trio.”

  “Are you researching a new novel?” said Elaine.

  “Not exactly,” said Robert. “They were all children’s series from the early twentieth century. My grandfather had a collection and I’m trying to find a missing book.”

  “Children’s series books?” said Elaine. “You mean like Tom Swift and Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys.”

  “Exactly,” said Robert.

  “We can look in the catalogue,” said Elaine, “but if they were anything like those other series, the public library is probably not the place to look for them.” She began tapping away on her laptop.

  “What do you mean?” said Robert. “Why wouldn’t I look in the library for books?”

  “When those series came out they . . . I guess you would say the reading establishment looked down on them.”

  “The reading establishment?”

  “It’s a term I heard at a conference about children’s reading. It just means teachers, librarians—the people who think they should be in charge of what kids read. At the time they thought those books were dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” said Robert, thinking of what a difference those books had made in his grandfather’s life, and in his own, and at the same time how truly, unexpectedly dangerous they had turned out to be.

  “No copies of any of those series are in the New York Public Library system,” said Elaine. “Do you know the authors’ names?”

  “Dexter Cornwall, Buck Larson, and Neptune B. Smythe.”

  “I don’t have records for any of them,” said Elaine after another minute of typing.

  “Why?”

  “Because they don’t have any books in our system.”

  “No, I meant why did librarians think series books were dangerous?”

  “There was an article a woman at the conference mentioned in her talk. I think it was . . .” Elaine continued tapping on her keyboard. “Here, read this. It’s from a magazine called The Outlook in 1914. It’s an article written by the chief librarian for the Boy Scouts.” She flipped her computer around and pointed to a passage she had highlighted on the screen.

  Alas! The modern penny dreadful has not been banished. Its latest appearance is in the disguise of the bound book, and sometimes so attractively bound that it takes its place on the retail bookstore shelf alongside the best juvenile publications.

  In almost all of this “mile-a-minute fiction” some inflammable tale of improbable adventure is told. Boys move about in aeroplanes as easily as though on bicycles; criminals are captured by them with a facility that matches the ability of Sherlock Holmes; and when it comes to getting on in the world, the cleverness of these hustling boys is comparable only to those captains of industry and Napoleons of finance who have made millions in a minute.

  Because these cheap books do not develop criminals or lead boys, except very occasionally, to seek the Wild West, parents who buy such books think they do their boys no harm. The fact is, however, that the harm done is incalculable. I wish I could label each one of these books: “Explosives! Guaranteed to Blow Your Boy’s Brains Out.”

  One of the most valuable assets a boy has is his imagination. In proportion as this is nurtured, a boy develops initiative and resource
fulness. Storybooks of the right sort stimulate this noble faculty, while those of the viler and cheaper sort, by overstimulation, debauch and vitiate, as brain and body are debauched and destroyed by strong drink.

  “Are you okay?” said Elaine. “You sort of went pale there.”

  The word explosives had hit Robert like a freight train. How could this article from 1914 come so close to describing what those books had done to his own life seventy-five years later? He swallowed hard, searching for a voice with which to answer Elaine.

  “My grandfather grew up on those books,” said Robert. “And so did my father and so did I. I mean, I’m not going to argue that they’re great literature, but I don’t think they debauched and vitiated my imagination. I became a novelist, after all.”

  “Different times,” said Elaine with a shrug. “But it’s the sort of attitude that kept a lot of those books from ending up in libraries.”

  “So, no help from the public library on this one,” said Robert.

  “If you really want to find out about this missing book, I’d start by finding out everything you can about the authors.”

  “But if none of those writers have books in the library, I’m not sure where to start.”

  “Try this,” said Elaine, taking a flyer off a stack that sat on the table and flipping it over. She pulled out a pen and jotted something on the back, then handed it to Robert.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s the name of a librarian at the Mechanics’ Society library in Midtown. She’s the one who gave the talk about children’s series books. She might be able to help you.”

  “Thanks,” said Robert, hoisting himself out of the chair and pulling on his coat. “I’ll give this”—Robert looked at the paper—“Julia Sanberg a call.”

  “Good luck with your search,” said Elaine. “And I hope everything works out with Rebecca.”

  “Me too,” said Robert softly.

  “You have to wonder,” said Elaine, almost to herself as they walked back toward the circulation desk.

  “Wonder what?” said Robert.

  “What kind of person would be named Neptune B. Smythe?”

  VIII

  San Francisco,

  When the West Was Still Wild

  Thomas De Peyster bought his Brownie for a dollar in 1901 mostly to annoy his father, who thought that carrying such an inexpensive camera around New York with him made Thomas look crass. But then Tom found that he enjoyed capturing moments.

  Now Tom looked down at the tiny image in the viewfinder of his Brownie. Although he had thrown the curtains open, the sun had not yet risen and the predawn light from the bay window did not sufficiently illuminate his subject. So, he had slowly turned up the gas to the chandelier, hoping the light would not awaken Isabella, if that really was her name. He hoped she did not object to his taking a photograph. After all, the camera couldn’t see anything inappropriate. The parts of her she had revealed to him last night, the parts of a woman he had heretofore only ever imagined, were well covered by the sheets. Thomas held his breath and depressed the shutter lever. The image he recorded in black and white showed a woman’s face in profile against a goose-down pillow. Her long, dark tresses cascaded across the white sheets, the fabric and the hair flowing together in way that reminded him of windswept dunes at the seaside. When he had awoken a few minutes ago, still feeling light-headed from the events of last night, he had, even in the dimness of the room, seen this exquisite pattern, and that, as much as his wish to record this monumental event in his life, had led him to pull on his clothes, retrieve his camera from the sitting room, and turn up the lights.

  As soon as the shutter clicked, Isabella stirred. Thomas had no time to hide his camera or pretend he had been photographing something else—nor did he wish to do so. He wanted her to know that he found her beauty worth recording. If she was angry, he could always open the camera and ruin the picture by exposing the film to the light.

  “What are you doing?” said Isabella. Her voice was thick and rich like fresh cream, and the memory of the things she had said with that voice last night threatened to arouse him, but he did his best to concentrate on the moment. If she was willing, and if the price was not too high, there would be time for him to rejoin her in bed later. He had filed his story last night and had nowhere to be until at least nine o’clock.

  “Taking your picture,” said Thomas. “Do you mind?”

  “I’ve never had my picture taken before,” said Isabella, sitting up in the bed and holding the sheet to her chest. “I must look a fright.”

  “You look beautiful,” said Thomas.

  Isabella smiled. Apparently, thought Thomas, even someone in her profession could appreciate a compliment. “But my hair,” she said. “My hair must be awful.” She ran her hands through her hair, pulling it away from her face. As she did so, the sheet slipped slowly toward the bed and Thomas saw first the plump curve of her breasts and then, for just an instant, her erect nipples. Isabella winked at him as she pulled the sheet back up and held it tightly against herself so that he could clearly see the two small bumps in the fabric. “A chilly morning,” she said, and though Thomas, in his naiveté, did not understand this comment, she said it in such a conspiratorial tone that it felt as intimate as anything that had yet happened between them.

  “Now, take another one,” she said, lowering the sheet slightly and leaning forward to reveal the cleft between her breasts. She tilted her head up toward the light.

  “Pull some of your hair over your left shoulder,” said Thomas. Isabella did this with one hand, holding the sheet with the other. “Now smile the way you just did. The way you did when you told me it was a chilly morning.” Isabella turned her head a few degrees and smiled at him. He could see in that smile, and in her eyes, that they absolutely would make love again. He struggled to keep the camera still as his heart raced with anticipation. Holding his breath, he pressed the shutter lever. The click echoed in the still air. It was 5:12 a.m.

  Less than twelve hours earlier, Thomas had stood in the wings of San Francisco’s Grand Opera House listening to a slightly pudgy Enrico Caruso sing the role of Don José in Carmen. Thomas and Caruso had taken the same train from New York to California—the great tenor to perform with a troupe from the Metropolitan Opera, and Thomas to write articles about Caruso before taking up his new position with the San Francisco Examiner. William Randolph Hearst had personally asked Thomas to make the move from New York to San Francisco. Within hours of arriving in the city, he had befriended one of the stagehands at the opera house and secured himself a spot backstage where he could watch both the afternoon rehearsal and the evening performance. Ashton Stephens, the reviewer for the Examiner, would write the story of what happened onstage; Thomas’s reporting would, as usual, be a bit grittier.

  After the rehearsal, he had taken the short walk down Third Street to Market and into the Hearst Building where he had filed his story. It would appear in the Examiner the next morning alongside the review of Caruso’s performance. Unlike that review, Thomas’s story would also appear in the New York Evening Journal. Mr. Hearst bore a grudge against the Metropolitan Opera and would much rather reprint a report of conflict backstage than a rave review of the actual performance. He had asked Thomas for scandal if possible, and, barring that, at least for colorful accounts that might reflect poorly on the tenor and the opera company. Before Caruso had sung a note in front of the bejeweled, social-climbing audience, Thomas had provided just that.

  CARUSO’S EXPLOSION

  Special to the Examiner

  April 17, 1906

  The famed Italian tenor Enrico Caruso, who has chosen to sing in San Francisco rather than in his native Naples, owing to the recent eruption of Mount Vesuvius in his homeland, had something of an eruption himself today on the stage of the Grand Opera House. Caruso seems to fancy himself a Wild West gunslinger, as previously rep
orted in these pages. Before traveling west, he purchased a six-shooter and a generous supply of ammunition and amused many of us on the train with his attempts to master the “quick draw.” Today his ammunition was his powerful voice and his substantial temper as he went toe to toe with his co-star, the portly Olive Fremstad.

  Madame Fremstad blamed her poor singing during this afternoon’s rehearsal of Carmen at the Grand Opera House on the ineptitude of the local stagehands (who this writer can tell you are as fine a group as an impresario could hope for). Caruso came to the aid of the slandered, but exploded when Madame Fremstad suggested that if the tenor were paid less, perhaps money might be left for more talented help backstage.

  “Yes,” cried Caruso, “I am paid more than a thousand dollars a night.” (The exact figure is $1350.) “But who would come to see this opera without me!” He insisted, in a voice that shook the scenery, that if anyone was fired, he would refuse to go on, the performance would be canceled, and he would never again appear with Madame Fremstad.

  Of course, no one’s livelihood had ever been in danger. Madame Fremstad would certainly have let the matter drop once she sang through the aria a second time. But Caruso insisted on making a casual remark into a moment of seething fury. His co-star seemed, later, to be unfazed by the incident. Perhaps because she did not know that, under his costume, he still carried his six-shooter. Doubtless the streets of San Francisco will not be safe while Caruso is in town!

  Hearst would love this sort of gossip, and it had only required a very slight exaggeration on Thomas’s part. The story had made the evening edition, and when Thomas had arrived at the stage door before the performance, he was greeted with a round of backslapping and handshaking by the stagehands whom he had defended in print. In truth, they were not the most efficient group one could hope for, but Thomas felt his parenthetical praise improved the story. It certainly improved his evening. While Caruso and Madame Fremstad belted their way through Carmen, a stream of stagehands approached Thomas, thanking him for his words, chatting with him in the wings (when perhaps they should have been attending to the scenery) and smiling at him in the oddest way. Thomas caught winks and glances between the workmen throughout the evening. He had been reporting long enough to know something was afoot.