Among the Wonderful

by Stacy Carlson

  Lilian Kipp obscured her face by raising an open book in front of it. Her voice was clear and strong.

  “Bradypus tridactylus, the three-toed sloth, rarely comes down from its tree. With its disproportionately long limbs, a sloth on the ground cannot even support its own body weight, and this predicament reduces the creature to an embarrassing, spread-eagled grope.

  “Safely aloft, however, the sloth maintains its lifestyle of nineteen hours asleep followed by five hours of mild wakefulness, the highlights of which include twig-eating and prolonged gazing. The sloth lives its ten-year life span in this way, high in the crooks of trumpet trees. It does not hunt or utter a single sound. It is nonterritorial and cannot fight. Eventually, we must ask: What is the sloth for?

  “It’s no surprise if you can’t picture the face of a sloth. Its closest relative is the armadillo, but what help is that? The sloth has no first cousin and is solitary by nature. It may appear to be an evolutionary orphan, but before we find ourselves weeping in sympathy, notice the greenish hue of the sloth’s unusually long, coarse coat. Its fur was made with a certain aptitude for attracting algae, and there it grows, especially during rainy seasons. Along with this primeval colony, the sloth’s coat harbors moths and beetles that live off the algae. The sloth is even known to lick its own fur to get a taste of it, perhaps at those times when pulling a leaf is too much bother. And so, if we take the time, we see the sloth is not alone at all.

  “Bradypus tridactylus is endowed with three hollow claws on the ends of each of its limbs. By hooking securely around slim branches, the curved claws allow the sloth to hang comfortably in its natural position: upside down. If you happen to see a sloth hanging this way, you might notice an unusual fact. While the coats of other longhaired animals fall down their sides from a sort of middle part along the spine, the sloth enjoys a part on its belly, with its long hair hanging with gravity toward its back. The sloth is so well adapted to this position in the world that it even gives birth and sleeps while firmly attached by its claws, a living hammock.

  “If you’re trying to make sense of the sloth, simply look beyond the bias of its name. Could it be this animal is simply more aligned with its dream world? That it climbs high into the canopy because, to its sensibility, the earth is distracting, if not irrelevant? Perhaps the sloth is a deft navigator of its own soul and, if it ever decided to speak, would answer all of our questions in a soft somniloquy.”

  Lilian Kipp spoke for three-quarters of an hour, and when she had finished, the members of the Lyceum followed her to the display tables where she had laid out her father’s notebooks. Guillaudeu waited until she had extricated herself from the first group of men who accosted her before he approached.

  “I believe we almost met,” Guillaudeu offered. He felt strangely elated. “At Spuyten Duyvil.”

  Lilian Kipp cocked her head, her forehead creasing. Then she gasped. “Linnaeus?”

  Guillaudeu made an exaggerated bow. “I hope you enjoyed it.”

  “I have. Although I wondered over the inscription. This Edie person really wanted you to have the book. I felt awful after I bought it from you. In fact, I looked for you on the ferry. To give it back. I’m sure Edie would want you to keep it.”

  “Edie and I … are no longer close. You probably didn’t see me on the Hudson because I was outside on deck for the whole voyage.”

  She laughed, showing her small white teeth, straight on the top row and crooked on the bottom.

  “Well, here we are, in an entirely new place and time. I see that you’ve another set of clothes after all.”

  “I’d been traveling on foot for some time when we met.” Guillaudeu made a formal introduction of himself.

  “Barnum’s museum!” Lilian Kipp laughed. “My favorite place on the whole island of New York. I’ve written to all my friends in London, telling them it is worth the voyage just to see it. I’ve been at least six times. More!”

  Guillaudeu was taken aback. “More?”

  “My favorite is the sewing dog!”

  “Cornelia? Really?”

  “Among the popular displays. The diorama showing Vesuvius’ eruption is also impressive. What’s your favorite?”

  Guillaudeu had never considered such a thing. “My work is taxidermy.”

  “But among Barnum’s hoaxes? His exhibits, his so-called Representatives of the Wonderful?”

  “I don’t usually pay them any attention.”

  “How is that possible? Don’t you walk among them every day?”

  Guillaudeu was afraid Lilian Kipp was about to dismiss him as a terrible bore. Several men were circling their way closer to her, clearly hoping to catch her attention for a question or two.

  “There is one exhibit I’ve grown very fond of, although you haven’t seen it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I have. I’ve explored every salon and gallery in that building. I’m quite sure.”

  “No, I’m certain there’s one you haven’t seen. It’s quite intriguing. In fact” — Guillaudeu leaned closer to Lilian Kipp and felt something of Barnum in his words — “it’s a bit of a secret; I cannot speak of it publicly.”

  “Oh?” Lilian Kipp leaned closer, and Guillaudeu smelled licorice. “There is a region of Barnum’s labyrinth I haven’t discovered?”

  “Yes. I don’t know how long it will remain a secret, though. Perhaps you’d like to see it?” As he spoke he was aware only that it was a simple invitation that she accepted just as the circling Lyceum members closed in and swept her away from him. After he had found Dr. Putnam and made arrangements for him to visit the new aviary the following morning, Guillaudeu emerged into the full dark of the street. He noticed the particularly deep blueness of the sky. He felt his spirit scooped up into that blue, and for a moment he imagined himself aloft, his ankle tethered by a rope to the lamppost to keep him from drifting into the atmosphere.

  Forty-one

  “But what is a bird without a tree?” posed Dr. Putnam, standing a few paces from Guillaudeu at the center of the gallery. “My single suggestion for this aviary is foliation, my good man. Foliation!”

  Dr. Putnam rotated on his heel, his eyes searching out the shadowy forms of birds along the aviary’s moldings. His round, blunt face and bony elbows resembled the mantis Tenodera sinensis.

  “Improve this habitat by bringing in more potted trees. Install a section of tall grasses, some flowering shrubbery! And certainly more pedestal drinking pools. It would be a dire injustice for these animals to be deprived of the leaves and grass to which they are accustomed. Dire.” The ornithologist’s fervency was a bit disconcerting.

  “As I’m sure you know, these birds have been living in a state of anxiety since the moment of their capture. Just behold that pair of evening grosbeaks. When does one ever see evening grosbeaks so still? To endow them with trees is a necessary service. If I were you, I would even paint the walls. In the form of trees, perhaps, or even simply the color green. The birds won’t be bothered by the paint and afterward they will feel much more comfortable.”

  Guillaudeu scrawled Dr. Putnam’s recommendations in a small notebook. The room was not entirely devoid of foliage: a few saplings leaned in heavy urns, and someone had provided bundles of branches, some quite large, and attached them by rope to the ceiling. Each of these makeshift perches, as well as the window moldings and ornamental woodwork, swarmed with birds.

  “And as to the species, Dr. Putnam, what do you recognize? I was left no notations, no indication of what type of birds are here.”

  Dr. Putnam shook his head sadly. “Most distressing. I would like to speak with Barnum about this. He seems to have very little compassion for his avian comrades.”

  “I suspect he hasn’t given these comrades much thought at all.”

  Dr. Putnam removed a pair of tiny brass binoculars from his jacket pocket and raised them to his eyes. “It is admirable that you are improving this situation,” he remarked as he scanned the room. “You will strengthen the impact
of the birds on museum visitors. Ah! Someone has brought you a horned lark! And it even looks like the western variety. And its mate, good. Aviaries are wonderful places. Just think: Is there anyone who would not get a thrill to have one of these cardinals fly close overhead, from one branch to another? Just imagine a mother pointing out a monk parakeet in the process of nest-building to her child. The true question in my mind is this: What is the world without birds?”

  “I am grateful for your help!” blurted Guillaudeu. “I am grateful. I am new to this whole business.”

  “Birds are a wonderful business!” Dr. Putnam chuckled. “And we aviphiles are not a cutthroat bunch. Call on me whenever you wish. What in the world is a purple gallinule doing here? It appears to be without a mate, unfortunately. You will need to build a small pond or pseudo-marsh for it. And a wood thrush! Oh, how lucky you are! What a voice on that little fellow. And it looks like … wait, I can’t see” — Dr. Putnam swung wildly, following the darting glides of a small bird high above them — “yes, cliff swallows! Gorgeous! Unbelievable that they are here! And already building nests! Up there where the wall meets the ceiling. Where are they getting mud for that? Wonderful, just wonderful.”

  Dr. Putnam watched the birds for several more minutes, swinging his binoculars to and fro. As Guillaudeu escorted him toward the burlap curtain that hung in front of the door, the ornithologist paused.

  “I am so glad Miss Scudder recommended you to join us at the Lyceum. Sometimes we members can become somewhat insular. It is refreshing to draw in new perspectives.”

  “Edie?”

  Dr. Putnam was puzzled by the expression on Guillaudeu’s face. “Why, haven’t you spoken with her? She sent such a beautiful nomination letter, co-written by her father. Usually, you know, the process for inaugurating new members is more scientific. But since the Scudders are so dear to us, and she was so fervent, there was a unanimous vote. And if you must know, the Lyceum’s coffers are quite empty at the moment, so all new memberships do help.”

  Something caught Dr. Putnam’s eye. “Oh heavens, oh no!” He gasped and dropped the binoculars from his eyes. “A shrike!”

  “A shrike?” Guillaudeu repeated stupidly. His head pulsed with shame. Edie?

  “It seemed as though all was well with your birds, but here’s a shrike, a notorious cannibal of the smaller songbirds. You must capture it at once and remove it to its own cage. At once! Where did they get a shrike, of all the birds out there in the world!”

  Guillaudeu was not sure how he would go about capturing a shrike, but he certainly wouldn’t attempt it in the company of Dr. Putnam. He assured the other man he would isolate the bird, thanked him for his recommendations, and escorted him from the aviary. When the ornithologist had gone, Guillaudeu grabbed his coat and pushed his way against the crowd at the museum’s entrance. He launched himself onto Broadway, where a light rain misted his skin. Too impatient to wait for an omnibus, he crossed Broadway and started south, signaling the first cabriolet he saw. Its two black mares carried him swiftly to the Front Street port. He bounded up the stairs to Edie’s office and found it empty, the door ajar.

  With the curtains drawn back, the huge windows of her office framed the harbor as a portrait of commerce. Gulls circled the ships moored in the distance, and in the foreground was a forest of a hundred swaying masts. On the docks below the windows, men speaking many different languages unloaded the myriad cargo that fed the city, while others loaded provisions for the next voyage. It happened here just as it had for centuries all across the world’s oceans, Guillaudeu ruminated, temporarily distracted. The cargo changed over time, but some of these ships had been sailing unchanged for decades, recognized by generations of captains as they passed one another at some distant ocean crossroads.

  By the time he saw Edie she was staring up at him from the rain-slick dock where she’d been directing the sailors, her hands on her hips. His heart jumped. She motioned to him, raising both arms and pulling them down near her temples. He cocked his head, confused. She pointed to him accusingly and then motioned to her own head. Was she telling him to get out of there? That she didn’t want to speak with him? That he was crazy? He had ruined everything.

  Frowning, she jabbed her fingers toward him again, and then she started shouting. Guillaudeu wanted to flee, but no, he would face this. He deserved her anger, every ounce of it. Had he not turned his back on her, his closest friend? He opened one of the windows.

  “Bring me my hat, you silly man! I’m getting soaked!”

  Cautiously, he brought it, a floppy old felt thing that would hold more water than it repelled. Her hair was a dripping net of tangles and her skirt streaked with creosote. She embraced him immediately. “I was wondering when you’d come.”

  He delivered mumbled apologies to her damp shoulder. He’d been foolish, he told her. Brainless! How could he blame her for Barnum’s changes at the museum?

  “You are so stubborn, Emile. I knew there was nothing I could say that would reach you.” By her tone he knew he was forgiven. “But when Father saw you outside the house, you appeared to be quite mad! That’s what got us worrying. He misses you! How many times must I say that to you? You pretend to be so alone in the world, when your family is right here! Why you didn’t come to live with us after Celia died is really beyond me, but what can I do? You won’t listen. You don’t have to say anything, just don’t be silly anymore. Now, come with me to lunch. I’m starving.”

  “I’m starving, too,” Guillaudeu murmured. He followed her up the dock, abashed and suddenly very glad.

  Forty-two

  The next morning Guillaudeu set to work. The aviary door bore a sign reading TEMPORARILY CLOSED. He obtained various supplies at Dr. Putnam’s recommendation and could already envision the finished aviary: Netting would hang like a high-topped tent. Below, a path winding through the trees would give the visitors an entire journey with the birds, with several benches and a small fountain along the way. Perhaps there would be a small plaque, engraved with the words of Audubon and including a small dedication to Celia, the beloved wife of museum naturalist Emile Guillaudeu.

  Within ten minutes of setting to work, he became uncomfortably tangled in the netting he had purchased. It was not particularly fine netting, but in an attempt to lay it out flat, Guillaudeu had caught the buckle of his shoe and then two waistcoat buttons. The more Guillaudeu fumbled with it, the more entrenched, and panicked, he became. After five minutes of struggle, he lay at rest on the floor with both of his feet thoroughly enmeshed. He had not thought to bring a knife, and he had already bruised his hand trying to snap the hemp cord. If he attempted to return to his office, he would drag fifty feet of net behind him.

  The purple gallinule crept toward him, clenching and unclenching each three-pronged foot before setting it delicately down again. The gallinule turned one eye upon him and then the other. It stepped closer.

  “I am an imbecile,” he told it.

  “To too two terp t too,” the gallinule replied.

  Other birds came close, flitting to the sill above him and swooping overhead. Guillaudeu became uneasy. The gallinule’s eyes were beady, the gestures of its head and legs eerily human. He couldn’t keep track of the smaller birds that flitted around him. Two pearlish brown doves pattered across the floor toward him with speed. He recoiled. They cocked their heads and ruffled. Guillaudeu renewed his efforts to untangle himself. He felt he was being watched. His eyes caught too many flickers of movement all around. The swallows dipped closer, seeming to close in on him. Distracted and trapped, he cursed the birds of the world. He pictured Dr. Putnam’s horror at such a gesture. High above him, two ravens, Corvus corax, emerged from inside the bowl of the chandelier. They perched on the rim. They watched him.

  Finally, after removing his shoes, his socks, the buttons from his waistcoat, and his dignity, Guillaudeu wriggled free of the netting. He scrambled back into his clothes before addressing the birds.

  “There now, then. Much b
etter.” He brushed his knees and backed away from the doves, who queried him with a round of head-bobbing. “No need for alarm. Just your keeper making a mess of things.” He continued backing away until he reached the aviary door and slipped outside. He breathed deeply.

  William’s nephew, Gideon, was nowhere to be found and Mr. Forsythe, the theater manager, had recently forbidden his workers to leave their posts to help with other museum tasks. Guillaudeu didn’t want to spend all day searching for someone to help him with the aviary, so he climbed the back stairs all the way to the fifth floor.

  The tribesman had been hauling the buckets of fish up each morning and administering the whale’s morning feeding. After his initial concern, Guillaudeu was delighted by the man’s diligent and solemn execution of the task, and grateful for the help. Most mornings he would meet the tribesman at the beluga tank for a few minutes before proceeding up to the roof to feed the Happy Family. He picked up the neatly stacked buckets on his way back down.

  Guillaudeu crept past the Indian camp, where someone was snoring on one of the cots. He passed through the door to the hall of apartments and made his way to the final door on the left.

  “It seems I need another pair of hands,” Guillaudeu offered when the tribesman opened his door. He must be closer to seventy, Guillaudeu noted. He pointed to himself, then the other man, and back to himself. “Will you help me?”

  Guillaudeu made a poor imitation of a bird with his thumbs hooked together and both hands flapping. He pointed up the hall. “In the aviary.”

  The tribesman nodded as if he’d been expecting the request. He carefully removed a wool shirt from a hook on the wall and buttoned himself into it.

  “You will help me?” Guillaudeu hadn’t expected it to be so easy. The tribesman tacitly agreed. On the way out, Guillaudeu picked up the beluga’s ladder.

  “The things you’ve seen, coming all the way from Botany Bay.” As they returned to the fourth-floor aviary, Guillaudeu had the unexpected urge to converse. “You could be quite a lecturer on the subject of your travels. There are many in this city who would be interested in you. You would have no trouble finding sponsorship. To lecture. If you wished. Which I don’t think you do, but I can’t be sure.