Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet

by H. P. Wood

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

  “Now,” Zeph mutters, “that particular line is gettin’ old.”

  Archie takes an impudent step toward Spencer. “You listen to me, you spoiled little lickfinger. A British citizen’s life is at stake, and if you think for one second that you are getting out of here without—”

  Archie’s tirade is cut short by an inhuman howl just outside the door.

  “What in hell is that?” Zeph asks.

  They rush out, Zeph and Kitty first, followed by Spencer and Nazan, with Archie following reluctantly behind.

  A woman stands screaming in the middle of the street. Oddly dressed for a warm May morning, she wears a full-length cloak with a hood obscuring her face.

  “Hey, ah…hey, miss?” Zeph approaches carefully.

  She stops screaming and glares down at him.

  “Miss Maggie? Is that you?”

  “You!” Maggie lunges for Zeph, fingers outstretched like she means to pluck out his eyes. “You did this to me!”

  Protectively, Spencer places himself in front of Nazan and Kitty, but Kitty pushes past him. “Maggie, please calm down. You remember me from the other night, don’t you? I’m Kitty…”

  Maggie’s hood drops onto her shoulders, revealing a face covered in oozing black sores.

  “My God,” Zeph says. “Miss Maggie, what happened to you?”

  Maggie’s bloodshot eyes roll back, and she shrieks. “You freaks happened is what! I came to your freak tavern with your freak drinks and all your freak friends, and now look at me!”

  There’s a sudden squeak behind Archie. Zeph turns and sees P-Ray peeking out the door, his eyes wide.

  “P-Ray! That’s the last thing we—somebody get him out of here,” Zeph says urgently.

  Nazan nods. “I can.” She kneels beside P-Ray. “Hello there. We met the other day. Do you remember me? Come along. Don’t you worry about this—Mr. Zeph can handle it. Why don’t you show me your flea circus again?” She takes P-Ray’s hand and drags him back into the Cabinet.

  “Miss Maggie,” Zeph says, “you need to calm down, and we’ll talk about—”

  “I’m dead, can’t you see? I’m dead already. Let go of me!” She wiggles one arm free, reaches into her cloak, and produces a boning knife with a long, narrow blade.

  • • •

  Inside, Nazan and P-Ray stand beside the flea circus. He has pulled the jar of fleas out of the drawer for Nazan to see, but his interest lies elsewhere. He listens nervously to the struggle going on outside.

  “So, these are wonderful beasts you have here. However do you train them?”

  No answer.

  Nazan studies the boy for a moment. “Zeph called you P-Ray. That’s a funny sort of… Wait a minute.” She says the name again, but with the emphasis on the second syllable, and a little roll of the R. “Pire?”

  “Pire,” he agrees.

  “Merhaba, küçük adam,” she says. Hello, little man.

  The boy nods excitedly. “Merhaba!”

  “Why, you’re Turkish like me!” Nazan exclaims. “P-Ray isn’t your name at all, is it? Pire means flea! What is your name, really?”

  The boy shakes his head no.

  “Come now,” Nazan said. “Adın ne?”

  “P-Ray,” he asserts.

  Nazan laughs. “You are a stubborn little flea, aren’t you?”

  • • •

  “Please now, Miss Maggie,” Zeph says, “you don’t want to do this. Think, just think now… You don’t want to do this.”

  “Oh, but I do.” She laughs and cries simultaneously. “I very much do. You freaks killed me, and I’m returning the favor.”

  “That’s enough!” Spencer steps forward and reaches for Maggie’s arm, but she scuttles away, howling like a wounded animal.

  “Look at this!” She slashes at a black spot on her cheek, and dark red fluid sprays from the wound. “Look at this!” She slashes at an inflamed lump on her neck. “And there’s more here.” She slices across her waist, ripping her corset open. “And here.” She hacks at the top of her thighs, jabbing the knife through her skirts.

  Spencer reaches out again. “Miss, please stop—”

  Maggie screams again. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you goddamned freaks touch me!” She looks around, wild-eyed and delirious. “You all want to see a Dozen die? Huh? Is that what you want? Step right up! Step right up and watch a Dozen die, and why not? You got a dime? If you got a dime, we got a Dozen.”

  They all watch, horrified, as she suddenly draws the knife across her throat, cutting a deep red line from one black lump to the other. Maggie tries to speak as the blood pumps out. Retching, she collapses on the sidewalk.

  “We need an ambulance! Do you have a telephone?” Spencer asks Zeph.

  “Here we go again with the phones. Does this seem like the kind of neighborhood that got telephones?”

  Spencer looks around the street helplessly. He realizes that Maggie hadn’t been entirely unhinged—she did, in fact, have an audience. Old gray heads peek out of windows, small children perch on fire escapes, and grown men lean over roofs. Front doors crack open, and curious eyes peek out.

  “Does anyone on this street have a telephone?” Spencer yells to the onlookers. “Anyone? Can anyone fetch an ambulance? Please! This lady needs help!”

  Every spying eye vanishes, disappearing behind doors and curtains.

  “I see you all, you know,” he shouts. “I see every damned one of you!”

  Silence.

  “My God, what’s happening to this city? It didn’t used to be like this.”

  Archie shakes his head. “I’m much older than you, son,” he says. “And I assure you the city has always been and will always be exactly like this.”

  “Miss Maggie?” Kitty creeps toward her gingerly. “Are you still with us?”

  Maggie shudders and then goes still.

  Chapter 16

  Ye Who Are Cursed

  A small spotlight snaps on. Dust mites tango along the beam of light that cuts across the dark tent, illuminating the tattooed body of the sideshow talker. He stands silent for a moment, allowing the audience to get an eyeful of the decimated castle splashed across him. His pet rat sits obediently on his shoulder and nuzzles his neck. Crumbly Pete’s lips curl into a wide, alligator smile.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you know me. And I know you. I know you didn’t trek all the way out here to Coney Island to see some overfed princess riding a tricycle in a tutu. You are a discerning audience, and you want the best. You want to see the true freaks, the ones that chill the heart of the Almighty himself. And that’s what we’re going to give you. Ladies and gentlemen, the Captivating Congress of Unusuals presents ‘Robert or Roberta?: Half Man, Half Woman, All Freak!’”

  The audience applauds, and Rosalind enters in complete darkness. He sits sideways on a stool for a moment, letting the anticipation build. A man in the audience coughs.

  Rosalind takes a handheld lighter, made for him by Timur, and lights a long sparkler, made for him by Enzo. The sparkler hisses, shooting tiny stars in every direction.

  Seated sideways, only his male half is exposed to the audience. Rosalind pushes his voice into a lower register and slathers on a thick Southern accent. “My name is Robert Percy,” he intones. “I am the seventh son of Colonel Kintzing Percy, who was himself the seventh son of Ephraim Percy. Before I was born, my father served under Robert E. Lee in the War for Southern Independence. His finest moment came during the Spotsylvania campaign. When the battle was over, thirty thousand boys lay sprawled across those Virginia fields.” Rosalind arches his male brow. “Far more of your boys, of course, than ours.”

  The sparkler slowly burns down, and the audience leans forward to study Rosalind’s deviant profile. Another cough rings
out, followed by a sharp “Shh!”

  “When the war ended, my family, which then numbered six boys plus my mother, headed west to begin a new life in San Francisco.”

  “Good riddance!” someone calls out.

  Rosalind smiles—he has them right where he wants them. He glances quickly at the sparkler to gauge the timing of his spiel. “One day, my mother discovered that she was again with child. A surprise, given her age. She knew this was her last opportunity to obtain what she had always wanted…a daughter. She had already produced six children—all of them boys. Her body, it seemed, had been designed by God to produce ever more sons of the South. What was she to do? How could she ensure the birth of the daughter she desired so desperately? She searched everywhere for answers.”

  The sparkler burns low, and the stage grows dimmer. Rosalind feels the audience’s attention on him like a caress.

  “In Chinatown, she purchased a lotion made from sea horse oil. You see, the sea horse male raises its young and is thus believed to contain mystical feminine properties. For months, my mother rubbed the sea horse oil on her expanding belly. And she waited.”

  With a final hiss, the sparkler goes out. The audience holds its breath, waiting to see what monster emerged from the traitorous mother’s womb. Rosalind lets them wonder.

  The tense silence is broken by the coughing man, followed by a woman’s voice: “Will you please stop that!”

  “Sorry, ma’am, can’t help it,” the cougher whispers.

  “At the very least,” the woman snarls, “you might cover your mouth!”

  Rosalind groans inwardly. All that effort expended on building tension for his big reveal, and it’s being ruined by squabbling. Nothing to be done, of course—just keep going. He pivots on his stool to face the audience and whispers to the darkness. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is said that we must be careful what we wish for, because we may get it. But what is not said, what my mother learned, is that we must be careful what we wish for, because we may only get…half.”

  He claps twice, and Pete turns on the spotlight. The crowd gasps at the full Rosalind—left side Southern belle, right side Southern gentleman. On the left, half an ample bosom slopes outward and then down to half an hourglass waist. On the right, half a male chest is barely contained by a too-tight tuxedo jacket. Rosalind wears half a fake mustache on one side of his face. On the other, theatrical women’s makeup emphasizes his features, creating the illusion that the female half of his face is slightly larger than the male.

  “It was the will of God that my mother raise seven sons,” he intones. “This is what happens when we deny God’s will.”

  Rosalind cools his feminine side with an elaborate lady’s fan. He offers to entertain questions from the thunderstruck audience.

  Leaning on the spotlight, Pete grins. Most of the Captivating Congress is merely strange or vulgar. Rosalind manages to be both strange and vulgar—also beautiful and somehow terrifying, all at once.

  Milo the Goat Boy taps Pete on the shoulder. “Cops outside,” he whispers.

  “Goddamn it. Really?” Pete sighs. “All right.” Pete sneaks behind the audience to a hidden area of the tent where the performers change and await their turns onstage. He pokes his head through the curtain.

  Amelia the Fat Lady sits at the mirror, combing her hair.

  “Hey,” Pete says. “We’re gettin’ raided.”

  She groans, annoyed. As Coney Island becomes increasingly respectable, scandalous shows like the Captivating Congress are getting pushed out. But Pete has always been able to talk the right people—or, more likely, frighten them—into allowing the Congress to continue. “Pete,” Amelia complains, “I thought you worked out a deal with—”

  “Apparently it’s off.” Pete heads for the tent’s main entrance, trying to remember if he has enough cash in the till to make this problem go away.

  Lifting the tent’s flap, he expects to see a few beat cops on the take. Instead, he’s confronted with four men in nondescript tan uniforms with what look like potato sacks over their heads, goggles sewn into the front.

  “Gotta interrupt your little show,” says their leader, his voice muffled from inside his hood.

  Pete won’t be intimidated by a few masked men. “Listen, I’m paid up with George Tilyou. If there’s a problem, you gotta speak to—”

  The man shakes his head. “This ain’t that. We’re from the Committee on Public Safety.”

  “The hell is that, now?”

  “Committee on Public Safety. You got a health problem.”

  “Well, wait a few goddamn minutes for the show to be over.”

  “Now.”

  “Listen,” Pete growls, “we got rights. You can’t just barrel in here and—”

  The four men elbow Pete aside and enter the tent. The leader announces, “Ladies and gentlemen! We represent the Committee on Public Safety. We’re looking for James Warren. He’s on the passenger list of the SS Arundale. James Warren, stand up, please.”

  The crowd murmurs, looking from Rosalind onstage to the men in the back. Is this part of the show?

  Rosalind squints into the darkness. Committee on Public Safety? What is that?

  The masked men circle the audience, which remains seated, unsure what to do. “James Warren? Where is James Warren?”

  The coughing man stands up. “My name is James Warren. Is there some sort of—”

  The men are on him, wrenching his arms behind his back and dragging him to the exit. “You’re coming with us.”

  Warren protests and struggles, but they are four and he is one, and out of the tent he goes, shouting all the way.

  “What are you doing?” Rosalind shouts from the stage. “You can’t do that! He’s a customer. He has a right to… You in the audience, stop them! They can’t do that!”

  But the crowd is confused and reluctant, some still thinking this is part of the act, others unwilling to tangle with uniformed men with bags over their heads. Whoever he is, he must have done something.

  The men depart with their prey, and the audience turns its attention back to Rosalind. A man in the front row stands. “Uh, so, I have a question. Do you shave your—”

  “Go screw yourself,” Rosalind snaps, fake accent gone. “Did you see what just happened? Were you here a moment ago? Or were you all asleep?”

  The man shrugs. “I’m sure they had a reason.”

  “I hope that’s a comfort when your turn comes.” Rosalind spits on the floor and stalks offstage.

  “What—that’s it?” asks the man. “If that’s it, I want my money back!”

  Others in the crowd murmur agreement.

  Crumbly Pete dashes up to Rosalind and grabs him. “Where do you think you’re going? We got a full house!”

  “You know what you can do with your full house.”

  “Hey.” Pete’s grip gets tighter. “Don’t think you can—”

  “You can’t bully me, Pete. Let me go, or I’ll knock you all the way down the Bowery.”

  The two carnies stare each other down. Out in the audience, the calls for refunds grow louder. When Pete’s eyes dart toward the empty stage, Rosalind wrenches himself away. “Go on, Pete. Your marks need some attention.” Rosalind strides out, leaving Pete and the angry Dozens to fend for themselves.

  Outside, Rosalind scans the crowds milling around the Bowery. Garish yellow banners flutter in the summer breeze, each advertising a different Unusual on display—all of them, as the signs say, Live on the Inside. There’s the Robert or Roberta? banner, of course. Another for Milo the Goat Boy, for Amelia, Fattest Lady in the Known World, for the Last Living Dragon. There’s even a banner for the no-longer-live-anywhere Count Orloff, which, Rosalind notes with dismay, no one has had the respect to take down.

  At the far end of the street, Rosalind finally spots the masked men, dragging James
Warren to a waiting Black Maria. Horrified, Rosalind can only watch as the men toss him roughly into the back. The vehicle pulls into traffic and drives away.

  “Satan’s minion stands before you!”

  Rosalind whirls around to see a dour undertaker of a man in a dark suit, pointing at him with a gray, bony hand. A flock of overdressed churchy types cower by the undertaker like frightened chickens around a rooster. They nod eagerly, sneering at Rosalind as they look him up and down.

  “Here in Sodom by the Sea,” the undertaker man shouts, “the devil and his minions dwell! This plague is God’s judgment upon us!” He turns his accusing finger to the banners, one by one. “Judgment upon the satyr, upon the gluttonous eaters of meat, and upon the dragon that is Satan himself! And you!” The undertaker man rounds on Rosalind again. “The degenerate she-male. It is you who have inspired God’s most righteous wrath!”

  Rosalind rolls his eyes. “Oh, do tell.”

  “Depart from me, ye who are cursed!” The undertaker man is screaming now, his finger shaking and his gray skin turning purple. “Depart into the eternal fire crafted for the devil!”

  “For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat,” Rosalind recites. “I was a stranger, and you did not invite me in. I was sick, and you did not look after me.”

  The church ladies stare at Rosalind. Even the undertaker looks shocked.

  “How do ya like that—I can quote Matthew too, you dried-up old witches,” Rosalind says. And then he raises a finger of his own, turns away, head high, and stomps back up the Bowery like he owns the pavement itself. But on the inside, nausea floods through him.

  “Archie was right,” he mutters. “They’ll come for us first.”

  Chapter 17

  Tourist Season

  On the street in front of Magruder’s, Kitty and Zeph dump buckets of water onto the sidewalk. Maggie’s blood turns a watery pink as it flows into the gutter. Spencer’s longed-for ambulance eventually clip-clops up to the Cabinet, long past the point of usefulness.