Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet

by H. P. Wood

  “Darling, I was born precisely this way.”

  Pale and spluttering, Maggie turns to her date. “Bernard, have you… What is he—she… I mean…”

  “Good evening, Rosalind,” Bernard says.

  Rosalind smiles coquettishly. “Evening, you big lug.”

  “Maggie,” Bernard explains, “Ros here is what’s called a half-and-half.”

  “I prefer double-sexed,” Rosalind says decorously. “But half-and-half does seem to be the preferred term among the Dozens.”

  “Dozens?” Maggie asks.

  “That’s what we call you…normal people. You call us Unusuals, freaks, monsters… Did you never think we’d have our own name for you? Dozens. As in, dime a.” Rosalind shrugs. “Offense intended, I suppose.”

  “So, Zeph,” Bernard says, “Miss Maggie had herself one hell of a day.”

  Zeph fills Bernard’s glass. “Do tell, Miss Maggie.”

  She pivots awkwardly on her stool, trying to keep Rosalind out of view. “I had this big table today—eight. One of them was coughing a lot, which was a little…off-putting, I guess. They seemed nice enough, though. But when I came back to check on them? They were gone. Entire table, vanished.”

  Zeph tuts. “Koster’s took the bill out of your pay, didn’t they? Sons of bitches.”

  “No, that’s what’s so strange. I went to the manager, tears in my eyes. I thought for sure he’d fire me. But he said, ‘Forget it, kiddo; it happens.’ And he gave me five dollars! He said, ‘Take this as your tip and forget this happened.’”

  Zeph exchanges glances with Enzo and Rosalind. “It happens, he says? And then he gives you five whole dollars? That don’t sound like no Koster’s manager I ever met.”

  Bernard nods. “Seen dozens of Dozens tossed out over the years—for stealing, scrapping, screwing… But coughing?”

  “I’m telling you,” Zeph says. “Something ain’t right.”

  Magruder’s door opens again, and a couple descend the stairs—an older gentleman, on his arm a young woman, her clothes rumpled but expensive. This is a young lady in the wrong part of town, and she hovers uncertainly by the entrance. Meanwhile, her companion strides in like he owns the place.

  When he sees them, Zeph raises his arm like an umpire ejecting a player. “Turn around right now,” he says. “I told you, I don’t want you in here.”

  The old man removes his hat. “Master Zephaniah—”

  “Nah, none of that, Archie. You’ve had your chance—plenty of chances. Then you sneak out of Magruder’s with one of our paintings under your arm? What were you gonna do with that ol’ Vermeer, anyway—it wasn’t even real, you know!”

  “Well,” Archie says, “it doesn’t need to be real if—”

  “Get out. Bernard, do you mind?”

  Bernard rears up to his full height and advances on Archie.

  “I have money,” Archie says quickly. “A lot of money.”

  Zeph rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I heard all about it yesterday when I fell offa that turnip truck.”

  Archie holds up a ten-dollar bill. “I’m on the level this time, look. To show my good faith, next round’s on me.”

  Bernard snatches the money and walks it over to Zeph, who inspects the bill carefully. “Nice chunk of boodle here, Archibald. Looks legit enough.” He sighs. “Okay, I s’pose if—now, hold on one minute. This ain’t one of them things where you ask me for change and I give you change and then you say, ‘Not so many ones, please,’ and before I know it, I’m down ten bucks? ’Cause I ain’t falling for that again.”

  Archie laughs. “I would never run a grift like that on you, Zephaniah. Not more than once, anyway.” He gestures at an open stool with his hat. “So? Might we stay?”

  Zeph shrugs.

  Archie leads his companion to the bar. “Drinks for us, please, and one each for the assembled. Good evening, everyone. May I introduce Miss Kitty Hayward? That’s Zeph Andrews behind the bar here, the lug down the end is Enzo Morrone, and this eerie creature is either Miss or Mr. Rosalind Butler, depending on where you sit.”

  Zeph nods, pouring the green liquor from the samovar. “Miss Hayward, welcome to Magruder’s.”

  Kitty smiles. “Thank you. But I don’t care for absinthe.”

  “This ain’t that. I mean, I hear ya—green liquor, looks like absinthe.” He hands Archie his drink. “But I make this myself, and it’s the usual corn mash. Let me fix you a Belle Epoque, you’ll see.”

  “But how is it—”

  “Secret ingredient. I add a little something to the mash, to make it more…beach-like, I suppose.” Zeph puts some lemon juice into a cocktail shaker, along with brandy and the green whiskey. He pours the drink and places the glass in front of Kitty, who eyes it suspiciously.

  “Give it a try, darling.” Rosalind approaches Kitty, giving her the full-on, double-sexed experience. “I absolutely swear by them.”

  Kitty stares at the extraordinary creature before her—fully male on one side, fully female on the other. Suddenly, London has never felt so far away. But Kitty grew up with a mischievous older brother. She knows when she’s being teased, and she knows when she’s being tested. “Lovely costume, Miss Butler,” she says with a deliberate mildness. “I must meet your seamstress.”

  “It’s just Rosalind, please—no ‘Miss’ or ‘Mister.’ And I am my own seamstress.”

  Kitty raises her glass. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  Rosalind laughs. “I do love unflappable girls.”

  Inspired, Kitty takes an unflappable swig on the strange concoction. The green liquid warms her lips, her gums, her mouth, ambling down her throat like an unexpected visit from a friend. She turns to Zeph. “What’s the secret ingredient?”

  Zeph raises his hands. “I don’t tell nobody that.”

  Kitty shrugs. “Fine. Don’t, then.”

  “Oh, all right, I’ll tell you.” Zeph leans over the bar, so close that his locks brush against her porcelain skin. “Tomalley,” he whispers.

  “I’ll take another down here,” Maggie calls.

  Zeph winks and rolls away. So Kitty turns to Rosalind. “Tomalley?”

  “Lobster liver, darling. The liver of a lobster is green. It’s called tomalley. Once a month, we all sit here at Magruder’s eating lobsters for hours so that Zeph can collect the tomalley for his mash.”

  Kitty grimaces. “That’s…interesting. At least it explains the smell in here.”

  Rosalind laughs again and raises a glass to her. “To new friends. And, of course, to Archibald, our old enemy but new benefactor.”

  “Why, thank you,” Archie says. “But we ought to toast Kitty. Thanks to her, I had a very good day today. And when you hear Miss Hayward’s story, you’ll see she’s a potential source of many good days to come.”

  Rosalind turns to Kitty. “Is that so? Let’s hear it—I love a story told by an unflappable girl.”

  Chapter 12

  A Practical Matter

  The sunlight pierces Kitty’s eyes like a railroad spike. She groans and turns over. But terrible as she feels, sleep has gone and won’t return, so she sits up and looks around. She’s in a large bed in a small room, oil paintings hung haphazardly on the walls and racks of clothing in each corner. A large mirror dominates the far wall, and below the mirror is a long table, laid out with enough personal items to furnish a store. The right half of the table is home to straight razors, aftershave lotions, pomades—the tools of the male world. The left half hosts makeup, false eyelashes, wigs—the weapons of women. Slowly, it dawns on her. Kitty is in Rosalind Butler’s room.

  She sees Rosalind stretched out on a daybed by the window. “Good morning, my dear. How are you feeling?”

  Kitty starts to shake her head when the sharp pain behind her eyes stops her. “I feel terrible. I’m sure I’ve never felt so terrible.”<
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  “Mmm, the Belle Epoque is a cruel mistress.”

  Kitty rubs her eyes. “How did I end up here? And where is here?”

  “Here, my sweet, is my bedroom on the third floor of Theophilus P. Magruder’s Curiosity Cabinet.”

  “Is Magruder the owner?”

  “Don’t think so. I’ve certainly never met him, if he exists at all. This place has been Timur’s domain long as I know of. He lives here, as does Zeph, of course.”

  “And you.”

  “And me,” Rosalind agrees with a smile. “You aren’t the first bit of sea glass to wash up on Magruder’s beach, you know.”

  As her eyes painfully begin to focus, Kitty gets a better look at Rosalind. Without the makeup, without the wig and the gown, it’s clear that Rosalind is male. Midtwenties, with delicate cheekbones and soft eyes framed by long lashes. But his cropped hair, which is slicked back in the manner fashionable for young men, only serves to highlight his teardrop-shaped pearl earrings. He wears a button-down shirt that might have been designed for a man, except that it’s pale yellow with lace accents at the sleeves. His pin-striped trousers lead the eye down to lace-up boots with a distinctly feminine heel.

  “You’re a man,” Kitty says in surprise. “I mean…you’re a man?”

  Rosalind grins. “As a matter of biology, I am most tediously male. Lots of people assume my male half is the act—that I’m a woman dressing as a man. I suppose it obliterates their peace of mind to contemplate the alternative. But there’s no denying.”

  “Do you wish you were female?”

  “My, we get right to the point, don’t we?” He considers the question. “You know, I don’t think anyone ever asked me what I want before. And the answer…is no. No, I don’t. Which is not to say I’m particularly attached to being male. My parents named me Edward Butler.” He pronounces the name like it’s a synonym for vomit. “I took the name Rosalind because I like it better. Some days, I wear dresses because I like them; sometimes, I wear trousers because I like those too. Frankly, I don’t know why it all has to be so complicated. Actually, that’s not true. Of course I know why; I’ve just chosen not to care very much. Isn’t our little earth grim enough without denying ourselves the perfect lipstick? It’s not so much that I wish to be female—what I wish is that they’d stop insisting I choose! Why can’t—” He stops himself, smiling shyly. “Sorry, I’m speechifying now. But does that make any sense?”

  “Once, I wore bloomers to school,” Kitty offers, “and the headmistress sent me home to change. Is it like that?”

  Rosalind laughs. “A bit like that. Although with me, it goes deeper than bloomers. But as far as trousers are concerned—your day will come, my pet. Don’t you worry. I’ll loan you a pair, if I have to.”

  Kitty blushes at the very idea. “Maybe one day.”

  “Now, trousers may not be fetching, but you’ll find they can be very practical.”

  “You have the best of both worlds, then.”

  Rosalind gazes out the window thoughtfully. He has a sad, unreadable smile. “I suppose, in a sense. Also the worst.” He stands, shaking off the melancholy. “That’s enough philosophy for now. The boys are waiting to speak with you.”

  “With me? About what?”

  “Why, about your mysterious past. You started telling us last night, but you weren’t making the greatest amount of sense at that stage. Something to do with the Manhattan Beach Hotel? Or was it a trip to Manhattan? That wasn’t clear.”

  Kitty looks down at her hands. “It was both. Both of those.”

  “I see. Well, let’s go downstairs and sort it out, shall we?”

  As Kitty gets out of bed, standing causes her head to pound anew. She groans.

  “You poor thing.” Rosalind chuckles. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you fixed up.” He pilots Kitty to the full-length mirror and stands behind her, doing his best to tidy her messy braid. It’s the first time anyone has touched her with gentleness in what feels like infinity, and Kitty can feel her insides melt a bit. “After we have our chat, I’ll run you a hot bath. And I must have a clean corset and dress somewhere that can be made to fit you while we launder your clothes. How does that sound?”

  “Like heaven.”

  “Excellent!” Rosalind puts out his arm. “Come with me, then, mysterious girl.”

  As they walk down the stairs, Kitty says, “Rosalind, what about Mr. Morrone?”

  “Enzo? What about him?”

  “Last night, you two seemed…” She shrugs. “I apologize. I’m being rude, and I’m probably wrong anyway. I thought I noticed something between—”

  “Oh, you aren’t wrong. May God help me, but you aren’t wrong. So, go on. What’s your question?”

  “I just…I was just curious. Does Mr. Morrone wish you were a lady?”

  Rosalind smiles sadly. “With all his heart, I’m certain. But here in Coney Island, we learn to take each other as we are.”

  • • •

  “Buongiorno, Signorina Hayward, Signorina Rosalind.” As Enzo stands, his eyes flick across Rosalind’s creative mix of male and female attire. Rosalind looks him squarely in the eye, daring him to comment. But Enzo keeps his own counsel, pulling out chairs for both Rosalind and Kitty and sitting back down.

  Zeph and Archie remain seated at the table; Zeph can’t stand up, while Archie can’t be bothered—he’s too busy studying the day’s form from the Gravesend Race Track.

  “Buongiorno, everyone,” Rosalind says. He gestures at the green drinks on the table. “We’ll take two of those, if you please.”

  “Done,” Zeph says, and he hands Rosalind a glass.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Kitty says. “But please, no alcohol for me. Ever. Again.”

  “Hair of the dog, Miss Hayward,” Archie sings without looking up from his form.

  She collapses into a chair. “I’ll pass.”

  Zeph laughs. “Ros thought you might say that, so he had me make you this.” He nudges a china teacup over to her.

  Kitty takes a sip of the hot, strong tea. “May the Lord bless you, Rosalind,” she says.

  “My pet,” Rosalind says. “One can only hope.”

  “So!” Archie folds the racing form and slides it into the inside pocket of his coat. “Now that the guest of honor has arrived… Kitty, perhaps you can tell them what you told me.”

  Kitty sighs and takes another sip of tea. “Yes. So Mum and I left England for Cape Town to fetch my brother, Nathan, who was about to be discharged from the army. But…” She pauses and looks at Archie.

  “It’s all right. We’ll help you.”

  Enzo grunts. “We’ll see about that, Archie.”

  “Just listen. Honestly. Go ahead, my dear.”

  Kitty stares into her teacup. “When we arrived, we learned Nate had been killed several days earlier. There was no telegraph on the ship, I suppose, or if there was, they didn’t bother sending word.”

  Rosalind takes Kitty’s hand. “So your expected reunion was…”

  “Not what I expected.”

  “My sweet, I’m so sorry.”

  Zeph nods. “Sorry for your loss, Miss Hayward.”

  “Le mie condoglianze, signorina.”

  “Thank you.” She takes a deep breath. “A few days ago, we docked at the seaport in Manhattan, and Mother and I took a ferry here. We checked in at the Manhattan Beach Hotel, and the bellboy—Seamus, his name was—helped us with the trunks. A lovely suite, number 218. Overstuffed velvet furniture and the sweetest wallpaper, with little roses on it. But, you see, Mother had been looking rather wan for the past day or so. Just a bit off.”

  “Who can blame her?” Rosalind says. “Her son gone and all.”

  “By the time we reached the hotel, she was feeling poorly. Her forehead was hot, but she was shivering. She kept saying never mind, it’s
nothing, but she had a coughing fit, and I saw blood on her handkerchief. So I rang for the hotel doctor. He came up to our room and examined her. He said…he said she had the flu, that it was very common on these big ships to pick up something. He told me that there was medicine that would make her more comfortable, but someone would have to go into Manhattan to pick it up.”

  At this, the men exchange glances.

  “Manhattan?” Rosalind asks. “Why so far? Was every chemist in Brooklyn closed?”

  Archie nods. “I told you this was going to get interesting.”

  “I realize it sounds odd now,” Kitty says. “But I’m not from here! How would I know?”

  “My dear,” Rosalind says. “We’re just surprised is all. No one blames you.”

  “You’re wrong. I blame me rather a lot.” She bites her lip. “But I didn’t know what else to do. I made the trip. Ferry to streetcar to second streetcar to chemist, and then the whole thing in reverse. It took all day. It was far—somewhere north of Central Park, even.”

  “This don’t make a lick of sense,” Zeph says quietly.

  “Yes, I kept thinking that too.” Kitty isn’t sure whether having her suspicions confirmed makes her feel better or worse. “But the doctor said to go, and I thought…”

  “You wanted to protect your mother,” Rosalind says. “We understand, I promise.”

  Enzo nods. “For the mamas…”

  Kitty blinks back tears. “Yes. But when I returned… When I returned, I went to collect my key, and the man at the desk refused to give it to me. He said that he’d never seen me, that I had the wrong hotel. The very same man who checked us in. He said someone else was checked into 218 and had been for days. I protested and protested, but some men came and tossed me out—no money, no baggage, nothing! How sorry the man claimed to be, terribly sorry! I loitered outside the hotel for several hours, and I finally spotted the doctor on his way home. I followed him down the street, calling out, but he wouldn’t even look me in the eye! Later, I saw Seamus, the bellhop? Archie was with me—you saw, Archie, how he pretended not to know.”