Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet

by H. P. Wood

  He stumbles into the night, struggling to put one foot in front of the other and one thought in front of the next.

  The promenade. That’s where she’ll be. She’s waiting there.

  He runs on, ignoring the teenagers who point and stare, the God-fearing folk who turn hastily away, the young mothers who cover the eyes of their children. That’s the life of a freak. It’s nothing new.

  He barrels through the gates, throwing himself down the wide boulevard. A fit of coughing lays siege to his whole body and forces him to stop. He covers his mouth as he coughs, but he can’t stop the blood, can’t force it back in. He just keeps coughing, and the blood keeps coming, and when he looks up, he sees the enormous winged demon of Hell Gate staring down pitilessly, and suddenly, he can’t recall what he’s doing at Dreamland in the first place.

  Isn’t Monday my day off?

  He hears shouting and looks up to see policemen approaching, guns drawn.

  Oh yes, that’s what I was doing. I was running.

  • • •

  Just outside Dreamland’s main entrance, a small crowd is handing over their money to a sharp-dressed man who makes playing cards dance across a green-felt box. Rosalind and Nazan pass by on their way to the ballroom.

  Rosalind gestures at the box. “Here’s a tip, darling—that is a trick. Rest assured.”

  Nazan hears someone calling her name, and she turns. “Spencer!”

  Out of breath, Spencer skirts through the gamblers and grasps Nazan’s hands. “I’m so glad I found you both. Something terrible is happening at the—”

  A sharp bang comes from inside Dreamland, followed by several more.

  Nazan frowns. “Seems a bit early for fireworks, no?”

  “No.” Rosalind goes pale. “Those aren’t fireworks.”

  Chapter 19

  To Whom Much Was Given…

  Even the worst nights end.

  News of Bernard’s murder spread like a fever through the Unusual community. First Orloff gone in a blink, now one of their own gunned down in the street. Unusuals live their lives with a nagging sense that the Dozens are set against them somehow. But feeling that way is one thing. Seeing a friend carted away in a bag is another.

  The next morning, they gather. The very tall and very small, the very fat and very thin, the bearded and the shorn and the webbed fingered and the rubber boned—they all drift toward Magruder’s Tavern without knowing precisely why. Like birds heading south, they are drawn to the zone of safety their friend Zeph has built. The tourists can have the beer gardens and ice cream parlors and faux Parisian cafés. Magruder’s belongs to us.

  From Rosalind’s window, Kitty sees Unusuals drifting down the street in small groups. Holding hands, leaning on one another, heads low. It’s oddly comforting. With her entire family dead or presumed so, being a castaway in the “people’s playground” is a bit like being a widow at a wedding. Now, she thinks, we can all be sad together. She dresses quickly and goes downstairs to join her fellow mourners.

  But when she walks in, she realizes there is no we—there is she, and there is everybody else.

  In the tavern: painted faces, tattooed faces, faces with bones through the nose. And every face casts unwelcoming eyes at the blond British teenager. Their pain is their own, not to be shared with someone as perfect as she.

  Who’s that?

  Some Dozen.

  She’s just a tourist.

  What the devil is she doing here anyway?

  Bernard ain’t her people.

  Just like a Dozen, thinking every damn place is hers.

  Uncomfortably, Kitty makes her way over to Zeph. The bar is covered with platters of sandwiches and bagels and spreads of various hues. “Good morning, Zeph,” she says as brightly as she can. “Lovely buffet here…”

  “Morning, Miss Kitty. Yeah, ordered in from Feltman’s. Reynolds took Miss Nazan back to Manhattan, but before he left, he shoved a fistful of cash in my hand and told me to do right by Bernard’s people. Which, I reckon, is us.” He shrugs. “Somebody dies, people gotta eat. Don’t know why, but it’s a fact.”

  A willowy lady in a floor-length coat and peacock-feathered hat elbows her way in front of Kitty. “Bonjour, Monsieur Zeph.”

  “Mornin’, Vivi. How are ya? Can I introduce Miss Kitty Hayward? Kitty, this is Mademoiselle Vivi Leveque, leopard trainer extraordinaire. Miss Vivi, Miss Kitty here is from London. Y’all should talk. You both got that Europe thing going on.”

  Kitty smiles, pleased to try out her French. “Mademoiselle, je suis enchantée—”

  “Non.” Vivi has nothing to offer Kitty but her back. “Monsieur Zeph, we must speak. With all this illness, I am concerned for the welfare of my leopards. Did you know all the rats are dead?”

  “Leopards don’t eat rats, do they?”

  Kitty moves away, yielding to Vivi’s greater force.

  In need of something to do, she studies the buffet like a scholar, reminding herself of that hard-earned lesson on the beach: never skip breakfast. But she’s far too self-conscious to seriously consider eating. What if I pick the wrong thing? Or too much of it? What do I do with those fishy bits, anyway? There’s no hope.

  Spotting Rosalind in the corner, she moves toward him. But he’s engaged in a serious conversation—argument?—with Enzo. So Kitty stops halfway and finds herself marooned in a glacial sea.

  What do I do now?

  Mum answers. Make yourself useful!

  She scans the room. People are fed, talking. Nothing needs cleaning. Nothing needs fetching, arranging, or picking up. Nothing needs doing here.

  Katherine Emmeline Hayward! Something always needs doing somewhere.

  That gives her an idea—an idea that, if nothing else, will get her away from all these angry stares. But she’ll need Zeph’s help. She takes a deep breath and reinserts herself beside Vivi. “Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle. I just need to ask Zeph something.”

  Vivi turns to her, affronted. “Monsieur Zeph and I are speaking!”

  “Je suis désolée… One moment, I promise. Zeph, could you tell me where—”

  “Pas maintenant, little church mouse. We are speaking!”

  Kitty raises up on tiptoe, the better to look Vivi in the eye. “Avec tout mon respect, est-ce que tu peux fermer ta gueule pendant dix secondes?”

  “How dare you! I won’t be spoken to this way! I am a lady!” But this time, it’s Vivi who yields, turning on her heel and huffing away.

  Zeph eyes Kitty mischievously. “I don’t know French, but did you just tell my girl Vivi to scram?”

  “Well,” she says, “my people didn’t win the Battle of Agincourt so some overdressed baguette could push me around.”

  He laughs. “Fair enough. So what’s up, English?”

  “Is there a hospital nearby?”

  “Yep, Reception Hospital. Of course, it’s more like a snobby first aid station than a real hospital. But,” he says, suddenly concerned, “why d’ya ask? You feeling okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  He peers at her. “You sure? Your mom got sick, and we did all of us get kinda close to Maggie. You sure you ain’t, you know…” He fake coughs dramatically.

  “No, no, I’m perfectly all right. It’s just…yesterday, the ambulance man said they were terribly busy. I’m wondering if I might be able to assist.”

  “That’s neighborly of you. Sure, it’s on Sea Breeze Avenue, few blocks west of here. You want maybe somebody goes with you?”

  “No, no, I don’t want to put anyone out.”

  “Come on, English, it ain’t a problem. Let me—”

  All Kitty can think of is getting out of that room, away from all those eyes. “I’m fine. Sea Breeze Avenue, west. Thank you. I’ll be off.”

  “Are you sure you don’t—”

  Bu
t she’s gone.

  • • •

  Out on the street, however, Kitty’s confidence ebbs. “West…which way is west?”

  At random, she turns right. But after passing nothing but run-down tenements for several blocks, she convinces herself she’s made a mistake. Her attempts to ask passersby for directions are met with dead-eyed stares. Soon, all the buildings begin to look alike, and she has a vision of herself losing track of Magruder’s too—wandering for eternity in a maze of cold-water flats and bellicose Russian housewives.

  She skulks back to the Cabinet. She’s standing outside the door, trying to sort out how to brazenly walk back in and ask for directions a second time, when—rescue! The door opens, and Rosalind steps out, blinking back tears.

  “Rosalind! I’m so happy to—oh dear. What’s happened?”

  He shakes his head violently. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t ask me. What are you doing?”

  “I was just on my way to the hospital. Thought I’d see if they need any assistance. Would you perhaps accompany me?” Assuming you know where it is, she thinks but doesn’t say.

  Rosalind frowns, then smiles. “Yes! Yes, I’ll walk you there. No sense sitting around.”

  They go down one block and then turn left. “Of course,” Kitty mutters. “That’s west.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You look lovely, Rosalind.”

  Naturally, Rosalind pulled out every possible stop in honor of Bernard—black top hat perched atop a flowing blond wig, tuxedo-style jacket in black brocade, and full skirt with a long, black train.

  “I adore that skirt. Is it chiffon?”

  “Mousseline de soie, actually, and thank you. I’m glad someone around here appreciates it.”

  “Is that…is that what you and Enzo were discussing?”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it. Afternoon, Morty!” Rosalind waves at a man walking along the other side of the street. He’s on stilts.

  “Afternoon, Rosalind,” he shouts down. “You’re a pretty sight on a sad day.”

  “You have excellent taste, darling. Everyone’s at the tavern, and there’s food waiting. We’ll chat later.”

  Morty waves appreciatively and continues on.

  They walk awhile in silence.

  “I’m rude, he says. Not feminine enough, he says. Insulting to Bernard, to ‘play this game,’ as he puts it, this ‘ragazza/ragazzo game.’ A game! How dare he?”

  “Well, perhaps he—”

  “‘Would you rather I wear my dark gray suit?’ I asked him. ‘You won’t even make eye contact with me dressed as a boy, and you know it.’ And he says I’m rude.”

  “I suppose—”

  “In public, it’s ‘Oh, cara mia.’ But do you hear that? That little insult, tucked in with the romance language? Cara mia. Feminine. Because we’re supposed to pretend, you see, like we’re children. We’re supposed to pretend I’m just some Dozen girl. That’s just in public, of course. In private, he can’t get my gown off fast enough.”

  Kitty flushes.

  “Who is he kidding? Strutting around, Mr. Manly Fireworks Expert! Mr. Hypocrite. He only gets away with it because nobody can understand what he’s saying half the time. If you get him talking about opera? Suddenly he’s got more camp than Yellowstone!” Rosalind takes a deep breath and exhales. “It’s over. I told him so. We’re finished.”

  “Surely you don’t mean that?”

  “What do you know, little girl?”

  Kitty shakes her head. “Nothing. About this? Less than nothing.”

  Rosalind softens. “I’m sorry, dove. It’s been such a terrible day. I shouldn’t take it out on—good Lord, look at that.”

  They’ve arrived at Coney’s hospital, such as it is—a narrow, two-story building with a mansard roof and a small front porch. A giant sign over the porch spans the entire front of the building, declaring RECEPTION HOSPITAL. But that bold claim aside, it doesn’t look prepared to receive anything more serious than sunstroke and jellyfish stings.

  The hospital’s wide lawn is ringed by a wrought iron gate. A large tent has been set up, where patients are laid out on cots, folding tables, even steamer trunks. Doctors in long coats and nurses in pinafores float among the patients, doing what they can. But as their hands are empty and their manner unhurried, Kitty surmises it isn’t very much. Men in business suits hover around the perimeter, the uncomfortable representatives of somebody powerful.

  Rosalind eyes the scene nervously. “All right if I leave you to it? My people and doctors…it’s not what you’d call a love story. I’ll be at Magruder’s if you need me.”

  Kitty squeezes Rosalind’s arm and smiles. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for the company.” She opens the gate but turns back. “Maybe don’t give up on Enzo just yet.”

  Rosalind shakes his head. “I told you. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Chapter 20

  …Of Him (or Her) Shall Much Be Required

  Kitty lets the gate close behind her and climbs the steps of Reception’s porch. As she reaches for the door, a doctor rushes over from the tent. “Miss! Miss, what are you doing? If you’re ill, you need to be checked in over here.”

  Kitty gazes down at him from the porch. “I’m sorry, no. I’m not ill. I’m just here to help.”

  He laughs ruefully. “There’s nothing you can do in there, that’s for sure. Check in at the tent, please. That’s the procedure.”

  She nods, and the doctor returns to the business of trying to look busy.

  The front door bursts open, and a figure in a pinafore tumbles out. She wears a cloth hood with goggles sewn into the front, which she yanks off just before projectile vomiting all over Kitty’s shoes. Kitty leaps back, too late, and nearly tumbles off the porch.

  The young woman looks up, horrified. “Miss, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you’d be there.”

  “Please don’t apologize. These things happen.” Kitty looks down at her splattered shoes. Her stomach lurches, and it strikes her that sometimes it is, in fact, okay to skip breakfast.

  “I’m Marisol.” The young nurse wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and thoughtlessly offers it to Kitty to shake.

  Kitty smiles but declines the hand. “I’m Kitty Hayward. You’re new at this nursing business, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a student,” Marisol whispers. She glances to make sure none of the doctors are nearby. “I’m just a student. And I can’t do it—it’s too terrible. No one should have to do this.” Tears gather in her eyes.

  “Of course you’re right.” Kitty adopts the tone her mother used with the urchins of the settlement houses. “No one should have to. None of this should be happening at all. But here you are.” She takes a handkerchief from her pocket and wipes Marisol’s face. “And here I am. And we’ll make the best of it, won’t we?”

  Marisol stares at this strange arrival. “Who are you again?”

  “Kitty Hayward. Now, which patients are inside?”

  “Nurse Marisol!” One of the nurses has noticed the two girls on the porch. “I told you to get some water and bring it in. Don’t take all day. I need you out here.”

  Marisol waves. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be right there.” She rolls her eyes. “She’s such a witch,” she tells Kitty. “The coughers are inside. The bad ones. People come here, and if they’ve got a cold or a sprained ankle, they stay outside in the tents. The coughers go in. And it’s…” She shudders. “I can’t.”

  “I know, it’s frightening. I saw someone with the cough pass the other day. It was horrible. But they’re just people. And,” Kitty says, perhaps a bit more smugly than intended, “it is your job, you know.”

  Marisol shoves the hood into Kitty’s arms. “Not anymore.”

  • • •

  Kitty pulls Marisol
’s pinafore over her head and tucks the hood under her arm. She walks around to the back of the hospital, where Marisol said there was a water pump and a supply of pitchers. She walks right past the doctor who’d stopped her minutes earlier.

  “I’m just getting the patients some water,” she says, and he nods disinterestedly. The pinafore seems to have rendered Kitty invisible.

  But she is noticed by a male attendant in the yard. The young man stands beside a collection of sticks, each one poking straight up out of the ground, each one with a glove on the end of it. He’s pouring a strong-smelling bleach across his little glove garden. “Hey there. You new?”

  Kitty nods. “I’m meant to get water?”

  Without looking up, he points at a pump just to the left of the building. Several pitchers stand at the ready.

  “Thank you,” Kitty says. She looks at the gloves. “Scarecrows rising from the grave?”

  He shakes his head, confused, then chuckles. “Oh. Right. Nah, we reuse the gloves, so I figured, better clean ’em somehow. You’re going inside, you’ll want to get yourself a pair.”

  Kitty comes over and selects the smallest ones she can find. But she grimaces at the bleach. “Rather a pungent smell, isn’t it?”

  “You must be really new. Death has a smell, you know. Once you get a whiff of that? This bleach here’s like fine perfume. Bleach smells like maybe I don’t die today.”

  “Hmm.” Kitty’s brow furrows as she pulls on the gloves. “All right, then. Off I go.”

  “Maybe don’t,” he says.

  “I’m sorry?”

  He looks at her for the first time. “I don’t know, it’s just…you look like a nice enough person. And you’re, what, giving those folks water? What’s the point? They’re gone already; they just don’t know it yet. Won’t change nothing.”

  “I do believe this is the worst hospital I’ve ever seen. When I’m breathing my last, I do hope someone can see far enough past their own noses to bring me a bloody drink of water.”

  The attendant returns to his cleaning. “Fair enough. Don’t die today.”