Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet

by H. P. Wood

  The voice of Bernard’s sanity insists that he not go out. I should be in bed, a hospital bed probably. This is madness. But he’d invited Miss Maggie to go dancing at the fine new ballroom at Dreamland. She’d smiled at him and said yes—she’d said yes!—and no sore in the world would keep him from her. Surely her face was all the medicine he needed anyway.

  On his dresser, he locates the finishing touch for his outfit: a pair of diamond cuff links won in a craps game. He smiles, thinking how Miss Maggie will admire the diamonds. Then he frowns, discovering how difficult it is to get them on. His hands are even clumsier than normal, as though they belong to someone else.

  He holds up his fingertips to examine them. They are dried out and black, like stubby chunks of coal.

  The sane voice in Bernard’s head pitches a fit, demanding to know why his fingers are rotting. But the only voice Bernard hears is the one in his heart. And it has a more pressing concern.

  Will she still hold hands with me?

  • • •

  Nazan and Rosalind spend the next few hours politely nudging their way through the crowds, searching for their giant. Rosalind has changed into his male garb to make it easier for them to pass among the crowds unremarked upon.

  He sticks out his elbow, offering it to Nazan with a laugh. “Just a regular John and his regular Jane,” he chuckles in a lower-than-usual register. “Ain’t nothin’ interestin’ here at all, no, sirree.”

  Together, they stroll around Dreamland, Luna Park, Steeplechase Park, up to the racetracks, and back down Surf Avenue. Everywhere they go, they stop anyone Rosalind knows—which, to Nazan, looks to be about 80 percent of everyone. Have you seen Bernard? Have you seen our giant? No one has.

  “So, Miss Nazan,” Rosalind says as they go. “I expect this was not the afternoon you envisioned? Wandering the streets in search of a giant?”

  Nazan smiles. “No, not exactly. I was hoping to see the Automatic Boy again. Do you know of it?”

  “Chio? Of course I know Chio. I’ve never had a finer portrait than the one Chio did of me.”

  “Yes, exactly! That’s why I’m so curious. But is it just a trick?”

  Rosalind shakes his head, confused. “A trick? What do you mean?”

  “Spencer says it’s all done with punch cards or some such.”

  “That boy can take the fun out of just about anything, can’t he?” Rosalind laughs and takes Nazan’s arm. “I’m afraid your Spencer doesn’t know half as much as he thinks he does. Oh, I know! Let’s try Feltman’s. Maybe someone on the waitstaff has seen Bernard. I could use a knish anyway—I’m famished.”

  “What’s a knish?”

  “My dear! So very much to learn.”

  • • •

  Kitty sits at the window in Rosalind’s bedroom, looking out at the city. The street in front of Magruder’s is dark and quiet, but just down the way, the party remains in full swing. Coney Island at dusk is pandemonium, even on a weeknight. Stark electric lights assault the eyes, while sideshow talkers and souvenir vendors compete for the ears, shouting over calliope music that’s as inescapable in Coney as oxygen. But all the hurly-burly outside just makes Kitty feel more alone.

  Her visit to Coney was supposed to be so different. Nate had it all planned: “I’ll take you on the Ferris wheel… I’ll take you to the racetrack… I’ll swim circles around you at the shore.”

  Mum, of course, had her own ideas: “I understand that the Association for Improving the Condition of the Poor does wonderful work with destitute children. Perhaps we can assist.”

  At which Nate would groan theatrically. “Mum, can’t we have a bit of fun for once?”

  “Nathan, ‘Unto whom much was given—’”

  “Please, not this again…”

  “‘—of him (or her) shall much be required.’”

  Meanwhile, Kitty stared at the ceiling, begging for a lightning strike to silence them both.

  Now, she’s all alone, gazing out the window at a skyline flecked with tiny electric stars. What a fool she’d been.

  A soft knock at the door.

  “Rosalind, is that you?”

  The door opens, but it isn’t Rosalind: it’s Spencer, carrying a tray. “Sorry to disturb you, Miss Hayward. Zeph thought you might be hungry.”

  “That’s lovely. Thank you.”

  Spencer puts the tray down on Rosalind’s dressing table. “Rosalind is out with Miss Nazan, looking for Bernard Coyne, the giant. Do you know him?”

  “I do, actually. ” She looks at him curiously. “You didn’t go with them to look?”

  “I was specifically not invited to join the giant hunt.”

  “She blames you.”

  “So it seems.”

  Kitty looks Spencer up and down. “She’ll forgive you.”

  “Hmm.” He shakes his head. “I hope so.”

  “So you’re just waiting here, then?”

  “I’ll go back just as soon as I’ve seen Nazan home safely.”

  “Such a gentleman.” Kitty fingers her mother’s necklace. “Mr. Reynolds, I do understand you are in a difficult situation.”

  He smiles. “Really? You’re the only one, then.”

  “Miss Celik will come around. But if there is anything else you know that might help…”

  “I… It’s… Well, we’re calling it the Calcutta Cough.”

  “I’m sorry? I don’t—”

  “Instead of the plague. Can’t say plague; it’s too frightening. Calcutta Cough makes it sound more…”

  “Foreign. Naturally.”

  “None of this was my idea, you know. I’m just the son, Miss Hayward. It’s not as powerful a position as everyone seems to believe. But I do want to help you, and I will try. I promise.” He looks down at the tray. “You should eat before it gets cold. Circuit hash.”

  Kitty makes a face. “Excuse me?”

  “Good ol’ home cookin’, Zeph says. It’s, ah, let’s see: tomatoes, corn, pork? Some type of bean. I had some—it’s good.” Putting the tray down on the table, he gives Kitty a wink. “Nothing as sophisticated as British cuisine, of course.”

  “Oh ho ho,” she says, smiling. “The dauphin does have a sense of humor after all.”

  • • •

  It’s dark by the time Rosalind and Nazan return to Steeplechase Park. Bernard doesn’t work there and would have no reason to go, but Rosalind has run out of better ideas, so they resolve to give it one more look. Neither wants to face Magruder’s empty-handed.

  Along the way, they pass the High Striker, a test-your-strength game in which customers hoist a sledgehammer and attempt to ring a bell sitting atop a tall pole.

  “Hang on,” Rosalind says. “I know this blackguard.” He waves to the fellow running the game. The man is outlandishly tall and nearly as thin as the pole itself, and he’s decked out in a red-and-white-striped suit and straw hat. “Mr. Fitz!”

  Fitz ambles over to them, grinning. “Hello there! Rosalind, you are a vision as always. Although I prefer you in a gown, if I may be so bold.”

  “You are not alone, my friend. Fitz, I’d like to introduce my friend Nazan Celik.”

  He tips his hat. “Evening, miss.” Fitz gestures at his game. “Care to have a go?”

  Nazan smiles. “That sledgehammer looks a bit heavy for me.”

  Fitz and Rosalind laugh. “Anyone can win this game,” Rosalind explains, “if Fitz likes you enough to push the button that makes the bell ring. But I’m afraid Miss Celik and I are on a rather urgent mission. You’re friends with Bernard Coyne, aren’t you, Fitz? You wouldn’t know where he is?”

  “Hmm…I reckon today is Coyne’s day off.”

  “Any thoughts as to where he might be? It’s urgent.”

  “Ah, well. You know, he’s quite taken with some girl…”

&
nbsp; Rosalind nods vaguely, trying not to betray too much. “Miss Maggie, yes.”

  “Right, Maggie. He bragged to me he was going to take her dancing with all the swells at the Dreamland ballroom.”

  “The ballroom.” Rosalind nods. “Oh boy.”

  • • •

  Dreamland’s ballroom is lit by hundreds of individual lightbulbs overhead, with a luminous oak dance floor under foot. One long wall is exposed to the sea, and a cool breeze wafts through the windows, balancing the sizzling heat drifting down from the lights. An orchestra plays a waltz, and a large crowd of well-dressed couples glide to the music.

  Bernard stumbles around the ballroom like a vaudeville character who’s blundered into the wrong play. Gentlemen give him a wide, worried berth, and their companions turn up their noses in disgust. But Bernard has been eight feet of strange for a long time—he isn’t going to be put off by that kind of reaction now. He doesn’t even see it anymore.

  Where is she?

  His balance is off somehow, as though the ballroom is a storm-tossed ship, but he’s the only one who notices. He stumbles, colliding with an older man in a monocle three feet shorter than himself. The man shoves Bernard away as his wife squeaks.

  “Sorry,” Bernard mutters. “Very sorry.”

  He steadies himself and scans the room. It’s so bright, and the music is so loud, so much movement, so many colors sweeping around on the dance floor and people sitting at tables drinking wine, chatting, chatting, chatting, so much babble, pretty girls laughing, but none of them are Maggie, and his eyes start to water.

  “Maggie…”

  • • •

  Spencer leaves Kitty to her meal and wanders downstairs to the tavern. Zeph and Archie are at the bar, and there’s an orchestra playing…somewhere? It’s a waltz, Spencer is sure, but where is it coming from? He stares at the icebox in confusion. “Orchestra?”

  “Mr. Reynolds,” Archie says, “have a seat. Actually, take mine. I think I’ll prowl around a bit, see if I can pick up any Surf Avenue scuttlebutt about this trendy Black Death all the kids are wild for. Zeph, we’ll speak soon.” With a quick doff of his hat, he heads up the stairs.

  Before approaching the bar, Spencer eyes Zeph to see if Archie’s invitation is acceptable.

  Zeph nods, and he fixes Spencer a drink. “Go on, white boy. Have a seat. And the orchestra ain’t in the icebox. It’s across town in your ballroom at Dreamland. The sound is picked up by a transmitter that an electrician buddy of mine hid in the ceiling lights. The icebox is the receiver.”

  “No kidding,” Spencer says. “I’ve read about Marconi’s wireless, but this is another level of… This is Doctor Timur’s doing, is it?”

  “Nah, Doc’s all about the making of things,” Zeph explains, “but he don’t ever know what to do with the things he makes. Doing with is my department.”

  “So why listen in on our ballroom?”

  “Ain’t just yours, son! I got a bunch of transmitters out and about. I like music, and that orchestra you got is damn good. That’s Tchaikovsky they’re playing now—a waltz from…ah…dammit, I forget now. Some opera—Enzo told me. He says the opera’s no good, but of course, he only likes the Italians. I don’t know. I think he’s all right, that Tchaikovsky. Nice waltz. I ain’t much of a dancer, of course. Beautiful to hear, though.”

  “Why not just go listen, if you feel that way? Wouldn’t it be better in person?”

  “Well, gosh, that ain’t never occurred to me. Too bad I have more chance of flapping my arms and flying to the moon than I do goin’ to hear music live down the Dreamland ballroom.”

  Spencer sips his drink to hide his embarrassment. “Sure, because of your leg…uh…situation. Yes, I can see how that might—”

  “Not my leg situation, it’s my skin situation. Your ballroom is whites only.”

  Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it again. “That’s…that’s not our policy. Not…ah…officially.”

  “Oh, not officially. Okay. Hows about next Saturday, I get together the prettiest group of Negroes I can find and we’ll all go waltzing in your ballroom? Maybe we’ll eat there too. Hey, how about we use the lavatories? How do ya reckon that will go?”

  Spencer doesn’t answer.

  “Don’t need some official policy, Reynolds. Everybody knows. So do you.”

  They listen to the waltz in silence. Spencer lays his hands on the bar and stares down at them. They look soft. Pink and soft and useless. His hands have never known the making of, much less the doing with. What are they even for?

  “It’s wrong,” he says finally. “You’re right. It’s wrong. But I don’t know what to do about it. I suppose…I pretend that I can’t see the things that I know I can’t fix.”

  “Good thing you’re rich and pretty, Reynolds, because you ain’t all that smart, are ya?”

  Looking up, Spencer is surprised to see Zeph smiling at him. For the first time since they met, he’s smiling. Experimentally, Spencer smiles back.

  “So.” Zeph pours himself a glass of his famous lobster whiskey. “Why’s the Reynolds family so interested in Coney anyway? Daddy can’t resist a clam shack or what?”

  Spencer scoffs. “My father? No, Dreamland’s just an investment to him. For my brother and me, though, some of our best memories are out here.”

  “Your brother—the one who needs my cart?”

  “Yes, exactly. We used to swim here all the time. Before he…you know. Before polio. Charlie would come tearing out of the bathhouse, turn cartwheels down the beach, and then—bang!—into the water. He’d be a fish for the rest of the day.”

  “The Reynolds boys are swimmers, huh?”

  “He was, not me! I was terrified.” He chuckles. “I liked Surf Avenue better. One time, my father let me bet a dime on one of those Find the Lady games. I can still see the fellow’s fingers, making these cards dance on the box, you know? Then he looks at me and says pick, so I pick, and there she is! Red queen, looking right up at me.”

  Zeph laughs. “Ha! You won Find the Lady. Now, that is a miracle.”

  “Allowed to win, more like. After all, Senator Reynolds was standing right behind me! Fellow wasn’t stupid. Still, I’ll never forget that feeling when the card flipped over. You know, the life of a politician’s son is a little…ah…limited, I guess? Circumscribed?” Zeph arches an eyebrow, and Spencer quickly says, “I’m not asking you to feel sorry for me. I’m just saying that’s how it is. But when I saw that red queen, I felt… I don’t know. Like maybe anything could happen to me after all.”

  “Sure.” Zeph nods. “Finding this place here was like that for me. I was touring with this sideshow, and Steeplechase Park hired us for—”

  A bloodcurdling scream comes from the icebox.

  Zeph and Spencer stare at the receiver. Shouts, crashes, plates smashing. The orchestra gives up on Tchaikovsky. More screams. Then the howl of a wounded animal.

  Spencer looks at Zeph. “What kind of trick is this?”

  “No trick. I don’t—”

  “It’s not funny, Zeph!”

  “I swear, it’s not… That’s coming from the ballroom.”

  “Nazan could be there.” Spencer goes pale. “She and Rosalind both. They were looking for Bernard. What if they’re—”

  “No, no. They could be anywhere on Surf Avenue by now. You don’t know if—”

  Another feminine scream. Men shouting, “Stop him!”

  Spencer stands up. “I have to find her.”

  “Now, think this through. Rosalind’s plenty capable; he’ll take care of her. And didn’t you promise her you’d be here when they—”

  “I won’t just sit and listen to your magic box while she’s out there, maybe frightened, injured, or maybe—no, I won’t do it.” He runs out.

  “Reynolds!”

  • • •


  “Maggie…” Bernard says, or wants to, but his voice strangles in his throat, and only a choking sound emerges. The black lumps are so bad, he can no longer speak.

  How will I tell her? How will I say everything I have to say?

  He needs paper, a piece of paper and something to write with, and then he can explain. It won’t matter that he can’t speak; he’ll write—he’ll compose a love letter to Maggie while she sits beside him. He’ll write about how sorry he is to be sick but how joyful he is to see her. He’ll tell her about all the thoughts he’s had, all these daydreams, holding hands and sharing secrets and apple picking—you know, Maggie, apple picking is something giants are extremely good at—and she’ll laugh at this and throw her head back, and her lovely hair will glimmer in the lights just so.

  He turns to a woman nearby, reaches down, grabs her shoulders. “Please, ma’am, I need paper! It’s very important! Do you have a piece of paper?”

  That’s what he tries to say. What comes out is “Aahhhgggghahhrrrrrrr…”

  The woman shrieks, and her husband pushes Bernard away, sending the giant tumbling onto a table of champagne-sipping lords and ladies, and they leap up screaming as the table collapses and he crashes to the floor, glasses shattering and utensils flying. Somewhere, a woman shrieks and crashes into another table in a faint. Bernard stands up, and everywhere there is pointing and shouting and running. Even the band stops playing, and the entire ballroom focuses on the bleeding, rotting, retching giant as he sobs and tries to explain that he really just needs a goddamned piece of paper.

  Suddenly, there are arms, policemen’s arms, and they’re all around—in front, behind, on him, under him, everywhere. With a roar, Bernard wrenches himself away, sending grown men flying like dolls. He stumbles forward on rotting feet, trying to get out, run, praying Maggie will understand why he had to leave. Maggie would never abide Bernard being treated this way, he knows it. “Maggie, where are you?” he cries out. “I love you. Where are you?” But a bleating “mahhhaarrrrrooooo” is all he can manage.