Among the Wonderful

by Stacy Carlson

  “It looks like an N. Yes, N,” Miss Crawford whispered. “Then O, R, and A. Nora. She has written Nora.” The women looked around with their hands over their hearts. Some shook their heads. “Who sent prayers and a request to speak with Nora?”

  No one responded. After thirty seconds, Miss Thibodaux’s fist banged on the tabletop.

  “Nora,” Miss Crawford repeated, but no one claimed Nora.

  The next name, John, elicited a response from the deep-voiced woman on my right, who turned out to be wild-haired and elderly. “My brother,” she whispered.

  “He is here with us. What would you like to ask him?” Miss Crawford said.

  “John, my dear, where did you leave the deed to Mother’s house? We haven’t been able to find it anywhere!” The deed to a house? But Miss Thibodaux’s hand responded quickly to the question.

  “Ask my neighbors,” Miss Crawford read from the paper.

  We waited for further messages from beyond the divide, but after several minutes of silence, Miss Thibodaux indicated that the spirits had left us. We all joined hands, then, and sang another few rounds of the hymn. At the end, a rosy-cheeked Miss Crawford untied Miss Thibodaux from the chair and removed the bandanna.

  The mesmerist couldn’t have been more than fourteen, and she looked straight at me. “I need water,” she said.

  “Let us all now retire to the ballroom, ladies, please.” Miss Crawford put her arm protectively around Miss Thibodaux. I filed out with the rest, vowing to give no indication, now or ever, that the young mesmerist had written the name of my mother.

  “Welcome to the fourth meeting of the Second Chapter of the Women’s Empowerment League!” Miss Crawford stood in the center of the ballroom. We gathered around, dutifully raising our tiny glasses of punch. “We are dedicated to raising female civic, social, and spiritual consciousness!” The group gave out a tidy huzzah! “Through these meetings, our collective feminine powers are strengthened, for the betterment of our lives and our society!” The rest of the league responded with a decidedly feminine round of applause.

  “I would like to introduce two very special women with us tonight for the first time. You’ve already met Miss Thibodaux. She visits us from the town of Savannah, Georgia. The other is Miss Ana Swift.” Miss Crawford gestured to me. I smiled, politely, I hoped. “Who is currently employed in Barnum’s American Museum. I ask everyone to please make these two ladies very welcome tonight, as you enjoy your drinks and the dessert that will soon be served. I believe our own Miss Evelyn Wilcox will now pleasure us on the pianola.”

  It really was a lovely room, filled with candlelight and the many-hued forms of the ladies, who now broke into small groups. Miss Crawford came to me, confirming that I had some punch, that I was comfortable.

  “You didn’t tell me this would be a political soiree, Miss Crawford. You should have given me fair warning,” I chided her, glad for her attention.

  “Oh, nonsense. It’s just my closest friends. We formed the league six months ago, when we began the children’s improvement plans and our efforts with the impoverished mothers of the ports.”

  “Mothers of the ports?”

  “Prostitutes. With children.” Miss Crawford’s eyes flitted among her guests. “Oh, you really must meet Gloria. Gloria!” She waved her friend over, a sharp-featured woman with an unfortunate overbite, who eagerly reached out her hand to me.

  “What a pleasure. How did you ever get her to come, Miss Crawford?”

  “Oh, just the usual,” she said with a wink. “I’ll leave you two to get to know each other.”

  I looked down upon the impeccably straight middle part running the length of Gloria’s skull, and the very minor cleavage she had tried to create at the top of her dress.

  “You know,” she said, “I’ve been interested in the American Museum for some time.”

  “Really. Have you attended any of the theater performances?”

  “Oh, no.” Another woman approached us. “Hello, Miss White. Have you met Miss Swift?”

  “It’s a pleasure to have you in the league.” Miss White was a tiny blond woman in a bronze gown.

  “Oh, I’m not a member.”

  “You are now!” laughed Gloria.

  I felt more like its pet.

  “We were just discussing the museum,” Gloria continued. “My interest is more of a critical one, I’m afraid. You see, as chairwoman of the Association for the Improvement of the Condition of the Poor, I’m a sponsor at the Bethany Hospital for Orphans. It came to my attention recently that two orphans, a brother and a sister, had been purchased from Bethany Hospital. When I investigated further, I discovered that Mr. Barnum’s American Museum was responsible. An agent from that institution had visited the orphanage and purchased them.”

  “It is quite illegal to buy children!” Miss White gaped.

  “It is indeed,” Gloria confirmed.

  We each took an outraged sip of punch on behalf of purchased children. “Well, when I found out, I went straight to the museum and demanded to speak with someone.”

  I almost smiled. “Let me guess. Barnum was not available.”

  “Yes. I was quite insulted. I spoke with a naturalist of some kind.”

  “A taxidermist, I would imagine.”

  “He knew nothing. He suggested I speak with the theater manager, Mr. Forsythe. I waited two hours, and then Forsythe wouldn’t say anything! He wouldn’t even let me into the area of the museum where apparently many of these so-called performers live! Can you imagine? The children were probably somewhere in that building, but they wouldn’t let me in, even to confirm their safety.”

  The women did not appear to realize that I, too, lived in the museum, or that I might have some knowledge of the children they sought. I was trying to think of who they might be.

  “It’s an abomination,” said Miss White, “that children have no protection from those who would abuse them.”

  “I have written a letter to Mr. Barnum,” Gloria continued, “requesting full access to the children. But unfortunately he is abroad and will not be back for several weeks.”

  “Where is he?” I inquired. After Barnum’s latest disappearance, I had been only mildly interested in his whereabouts. The museum seemed to function just fine without him. But after hearing of Olrick’s higher salary, I wanted a meeting.

  “Haven’t you been following the paper? He’s in London, at the Royal Exhibition there.”

  “Miss Swift, perhaps you could investigate the matter of these siblings for us!” Gloria clapped her hands.

  “Well, I don’t have anything to do with other contracts or —”

  “Oh, Bitsy! Bitsy, come here for a moment.” Gloria called our hostess over, who seemed mildly annoyed to be pulled from her conversation across the room. “We’ve just had a wonderful idea. Miss Swift can look into this matter of the children from Bethany Hospital!”

  “Oh?” Miss Crawford colored slightly.

  “I won’t be able to do anything more than you could,” I protested.

  “Well, I don’t believe that at all,” Gloria scolded.

  “Just try,” Miss White added dolefully.

  “But if you can’t, Miss Swift, then don’t feel obligated,” Miss Crawford said.

  “Well, I certainly don’t know that anything will come of it.”

  “Oh!” Miss Crawford blurted. “Good! Here comes dessert. Priscilla has made us a beautiful almond cream cake.”

  I managed to stay at the party for almost an hour, and toward the end I realized I was enjoying it. Miss Crawford drifted back and forth with ladies whom “you really must meet, Miss Swift.” My favorite was Miss Pregler, who dispensed with small talk after politely introducing herself.

  “You must have a terrible time with hats, Miss Swift. How do you ever find them in your size?”

  As she escorted me to the door, Miss Crawford insisted I come to the next meeting.

  “The ladies adored you.”

  Thirty-five
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  As soon as I went looking for the children I found Beebe pacing in front of the theater doors. I had avoided him quite successfully since my hellish visit to Saint Paul’s Chapel, despite the fact that he’d left several reconciliatory gifts at my booth. The first was a small cake in a pink paper cup. When I saw it I thought an absentminded museum patron had left it on my counter and threw it away, but the next day, as I returned to my gallery, I saw Beebe scurrying away with his head down. Tucked behind the Giant’s Rings was a tiny yellow-green elephant carved from soapstone. I kept it because it reminded me of a creature I’d loved in Methuselah Jones’ menagerie. Since the elephant, he’d left a tin of peppermints and a tiny cut-glass bauble, but I hadn’t sought him out. When I saw him I felt a curious lurch in the gut; my rage over our botched liaison had cooled to a simmering annoyance over the fact that he apparently did not have the courage to face me again.

  He froze mid-stride when he saw me, and then, astonishingly, he smiled shyly. “Miss Swift, do you hate me quite thoroughly?”

  “I —”

  “Wait! Do not answer! I’ve been so confused as to whether to leave you entirely alone or pursue a further explanation of my ill-received but, you must know, benignly spoken words that night. You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me.” His voice became rather mournful.

  “You lodged me firmly in a world of vice, Mr. Beebe. How was I supposed to interpret it?” I found my rebuke less sharp, less firmly believed, than expected. I suddenly saw quite clearly a fact that dried up my ill feeling: He cared for me. This knowledge hung in the air between us so palpably that I was left quite speechless.

  “You misunderstood me,” he insisted.

  “Perhaps,” I conceded. “We must all release our iron grip on our beliefs once in a while, mustn’t we?”

  “Perhaps?” His face broadened. “Perhaps? Then you do not hate me?”

  “How did you know elephants are my favorite animal?”

  “I didn’t! I didn’t, Miss Swift.” He opened his palms as if this coincidence were God’s will. Certainly he believed it was.

  “Well.” I could not help but return his smile. “Let’s not speak of it again, shall we?”

  “Speak of what?” he cried. He lunged forward and took my hand with both of his. “I’m so glad you came to find me!”

  “Actually, I didn’t.”

  “Oh?”

  “But I’m glad I did.”

  “Yes.”

  I told him about Miss Crawford’s party, and that I was curious about the number of children employed by the museum.

  “Well, there are the albino twins, the General Tom Thumb, the four Martinettis. And these.” He pointed to the sign behind him. THE AZTEC CHILDREN. “So, eight.”

  “Are the Aztec Children new? I haven’t heard of them before.”

  “Yes, they’ve been here only a couple of weeks. They’re onstage right now. Straight from the heart of the South American jungle, ladies and gentlemen.” Beebe aped the master of ceremonies. “After all trace of the great Aztec civilization vanished into perpetuity, only these royal children remain, captured by a group of Brazilian Pigmies and subsequently rescued by our own Professor Chatterton! I’ve heard it so many times, I could scream.”

  “And do they live on the fifth floor?”

  “I don’t know. If they did, I’m sure you would have seen them.”

  I remembered pushing open the tribesman’s door; that musty room, his starving gray face. “Not necessarily. You wouldn’t mind if I peeked in the theater, would you?”

  “I’m not supposed to open the doors if the show has been in progress for ten minutes. And they’ve been going for twenty.” Beebe stiffened a bit reciting his duty.

  “Mr. Beebe, really. I just want to get a look at them.”

  “I’m really not supposed to.”

  “Well, then, I’ll just have to go around to the —”

  “Oh, all right, Miss Swift. You see how my resolve crumbles! Let me get the door for you.” He pulled it open soundlessly, motioned me in, and then slipped in himself before easing the door closed.

  The Aztec Children stood in the center of the brightly lit stage surrounded by painted set pieces depicting pyramids and various jungle animals. A professor stood to one side, addressing the audience: “They were malnourished and frightened, but over time I was able to gain their trust. Through a system of sign language, I began to learn the story of their Royal Heritage in the grand city of Iximaya.”

  The Children themselves regarded the audience with dazed expressions. They were brown-skinned, quite young, and dressed in furs of some kind. Gold jewelry adorned their necks and wrists. One, a girl, I thought, was much smaller than the other, and she wore a circlet set with stones around her forehead. Their heads had been partially shaved, exposing high, strangely sloped foreheads, with matted black hair cascading down their backs.

  “Eventually, they led me back into the jungle to the site of their former glory. In those caves, I found urns full of gold! So much of it that Cortés himself would have been jealous. Unfortunately, the area was patrolled by bloodthirsty Brazilian tribesmen who would have killed us instantly if we had tried to reclaim the treasure.”

  Could these be the siblings Miss Crawford and her friends had mentioned? I told Beebe I had seen enough.

  “Why are you interested in them?” he asked once we’d returned to the empty foyer.

  “It’s nothing, really. I was just wondering how they are taken care of. Who arranges their meals, things like that.”

  “I believe there’s a nurse with them, although I’m not certain.”

  Applause erupted from inside the theater and Beebe jumped to attention. “I must go, Miss Swift.” He straightened his usher’s cap and took a step toward me. “I have just a few seconds until the masses descend upon us.” He reached for my hand.

  “All right.” I was blushing like a girl, and so was he. “So good-bye?” A bizarre giggle erupted from my mouth. I should have been turning away but I moved toward him, extending my arm. It is a delicate matter to make love to a giantess, Beebe. I will not give you more than half a minute to act.

  He used both hands to clasp one of mine. He raised my hand to his mouth in the ancient manner, but at the last moment he flipped it over and kissed the center of my palm. His lips were unexpectedly soft even as they pressed against this hardened pad. Quickly he kissed again, and again, working his way past my wrist. I cupped his face, felt the contour of his skull with my fingertips. He pressed his cheek against my hand with his eyes closed. He rested there for a moment before springing back, walking slowly backward toward the theater door, keeping hold of my hand as long as he could.

  At the end of the day I set off to find the Aztec Children. It wouldn’t be difficult, since I knew who occupied all the rooms on the fifth floor except two, and I was fairly certain that one of those was empty. I approached the one at the end of the hall on the right. My knock was answered by the smaller of the children, still wearing the furs and tiara.

  From where I had stood against the back wall of the theater, I did not perceive what was now immediately clear: The children were weak in the mind, perhaps to the point of idiocy. One child stared up at me while her brother sat on the floor, rocking slightly, a thread of saliva hanging from his lip. Their foreheads, which the professor had described as ritually shaped, were actually the bloated cones of encephalitis. They were alone in the room, and a cursory look yielded enough disarray to indicate neglect. Dishes, some broken, were stacked in the corner near the door. Their chamber pot was pungently full and looked as if someone had knocked some of its contents onto the floor. The boy seemed to be crying, although his assonant yelp could have meant anything.

  If these children were the siblings Miss Crawford and her friends were looking for, their anxiety was more than justified. I could already see the women’s horrified faces, each vermilion set of lips pursed into a perfect O as I explained the situation, and their relief and grati
tude when I described the children’s’ rescue. It wouldn’t be difficult to verify that these were the right children.

  Outside the museum entrance I found Beebe, transformed by our earlier encounter into a dashing stranger, non-uniformed and standing with two other men. The sun had just set, and the whole avenue was cast in lavender. Visible between two buildings, a line of flat-bottomed clouds reflected angled planes of fuchsia.

  “Isn’t it extraordinary?” Beebe came to me, gesturing aloft.

  “Do you know where Bethany Hospital is?”

  “Don’t tell me that’s where you’re going.”

  I turned away from him, looking for a carriage for hire.

  “I know where it is,” he said.

  “Could you point the way? I have a quick errand there.”

  “Ah, I’m afraid I won’t help you. Unless you agree to have me as an escort.” Beebe appeared as startled as I was by this bold assertion.

  I laughed. “Such drama, Mr. Beebe.”

  “No. I’m quite serious. Saint Paul’s has several aid programs in the Points. Lives have been lost delivering food along those streets. Please. Allow me.”

  He caught the attention of a hack driver and we both ignored the obvious list in the four-person carriage as I stepped aboard. We lurched northward in the twilight, veering right onto Chatham Street alongside City Hall Park. Against a backdrop of buildings tinted mauve and reflecting panes of orange sunset in their windows, I explained to Beebe what I was after with the siblings and the children’s aid society. He was unconvinced that the museum would have obtained children from the Bethany Hospital.

  “That would be terrible. And I’d be surprised if Barnum’s scouts even know Bethany Hospital exists.”

  It was only a minute before the marble buildings gave way to red brick, and the people moving up and down the street faded from the well-heeled Broadway shop owners and businessmen to the drab tones of foundry men, laundry girls, and finally rag pickers. We turned up Mulberry Street; the hooves of our mare clacked dully as the cobble turned to clay brick. Beebe leaned up and spoke a few words to the driver, who nodded.