Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet

by H. P. Wood

  “Look,” Spencer whispers. “You see that sour, pinched fellow over there? That’s the newspaper man, William Randolph Hearst. And that’s Henry Ford he’s chatting with.”

  Ros cranes his neck. “Hearst and Ford? They’re friendly? I would have thought they were in different political parties.”

  Spencer laughs. “It’s all the same party—it’s the Haves Party.”

  “Why, Master Reynolds! I’m starting to think you have more in common with Joe than you let on.”

  “No, I just grew up in the game, that’s all.”

  “Doesn’t feel much like a game where I’m standing.”

  Spencer frowns, his eyes serious. “You’re right.” He gently lays his hand on Rosalind’s gloved elbow. “You know, for too long, I’ve been—”

  “Spencer Reynolds, you old dog!”

  Spencer turns to see a round man with white hair peeking from underneath a tall top hat. “Judge O’Gorman, how are you, sir?” He thrusts out his hand, and O’Gorman pumps it.

  “Very well, son, very well! And who is this charming flower?”

  Rosalind extends his hand daintily. “Rosalind Rosebush, of the Block Island Rosebushes.”

  Spencer shoots a look at his companion—Rosebush?—but he doesn’t comment.

  O’Gorman just laughs. “The Block Island Rosebushes, I never! Delighted. And, Spencer, it is delightful to see you. I wasn’t sure I would. Apparently, your father isn’t coming? That’s what I heard anyway. Is he unwell? Or just unwilling to be bored to tears by one of these stuffy events?”

  “Ah, he’s…very busy.” Spencer looks at Rosalind meaningfully. “He sends his regrets.”

  A waiter approaches with a tray of champagne flutes. “More champagne?”

  “Always!” O’Gorman drains his glass and takes a full one, and Rosalind takes a deep breath and does the same. Spencer puts his half-full glass on the tray and stares at the floor.

  “Young man,” O’Gorman says to the waiter, “I can’t help but notice your arm.” One of the waiter’s sleeves is pinned to his uniform.

  Spencer looks up—the empty sleeve, the black eyes, the scar. Shit.

  The waiter nods at the judge solemnly. “Yes, sir. Battle of Manila Bay.”

  “A veteran! Now you’re serving drinks to useless old sods like myself? On Decoration Day, no less?”

  “It’s an honor to serve a great man like Roosevelt.”

  O’Gorman pats the waiter on the back, gently so as not to spill the champagne. “No, lad. It is you who honor us.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The waiter moves on.

  Spencer glances at Rosalind. The waiter gave no sign of recognizing Rosalind decked out in full femme, but Rosalind nods subtly at Spencer. Yes, that’s him.

  “Spencer,” O’Gorman says. “I understand congratulations are in order. Graduated from Princeton this year, is that right? I’m a Dartmouth man myself, so naturally—”

  “Yes… I’m sorry. I just remembered I have to…uh…”

  Rosalind’s eyes follow the waiter. “You have things to do. Go on. I’m sure Judge O’Gorman can keep me entertained.”

  “On with you, then. Don’t embarrass your papa!” O’Gorman leers at Rosalind. “I am dying to hear all about those Block Island Rosebushes…”

  Spencer jogs over to the waiter, who has approached another group of partygoers to exchange their empty glasses. “Pardon me.” He takes the waiter by his arm and steers him to an unoccupied spot by the ballroom’s far wall. “Where is it?”

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “Don’t play games, Joe. I’m a friend of Zeph’s.”

  Joe’s expression changes from servile to something darker. “I’m here making a living, just like any—”

  “Tell me where the bomb is!” Spencer yanks on Joe’s one arm, and champagne flutes shatter on the floor. The guests within earshot subtly adjust their positions, the better to listen in.

  Realizing he has an audience, Joe slathers on the innocence. “Sir, I’m terribly sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t?” Spencer laughs. “Of course you don’t. Because you’ve got nothing.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Joe says loudly. “Perhaps you’ve had a bit too much to—”

  “Right.” Unlike Joe, Spencer doesn’t care who might be listening. “You make me laugh. You strut down Surf Avenue like you’re commander of the Black Flag army, but when the big moment arrives, all you can do is serve cocktails and sneer. You think you’re going to get famous, like that other fellow? What’s his name—Czolgosz? You think we’ll learn to pronounce your ridiculous name too? You’re a joke.”

  Joe takes the bait. “Listen, I don’t need a bomb to do what needs doing.”

  “I take it back. You’re not a joke; you’re less than a joke. You’ve got nothing. You are nothing.” Spencer turns to walk away.

  “Hey!” Joe grabs the hem of Spencer’s jacket and spins him around. “You think I’m a joke? Well, the joke’s on you, because it’s your buddy Zeph who showed me the way. Zeph and that freak with his fleas. That kid, he got me thinking. Bombs are expensive. Even bullets cost. But who needs a human army when we’ve got an army of fleas?”

  “Where are they?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  Spencer grabs Joe’s collar and stares into his face. Joe laughs, but then Spencer screams “Security!” and three guards materialize. “This man is an anarchist,” he tells them, “and he bears ill will toward the president.”

  Joe keeps laughing as the guards drag him out of the Oriental. “You just touched the Black Flag, boy. Better wash your hands!”

  Partygoers timidly looking on suddenly discover their bravery, and they dash to congratulate Spencer. He shakes their hands politely, but his heart is racing, and Joe’s words echo in his mind. Wash my hands? Why say that? Was it a joke? It’s not funny… What could he… Oh God. “Where’s the washroom?”

  Spencer sprints through the crowd, ignoring friends who call out his name and apologizing to debutantes as he elbows them out of the way. He passes Rosalind, who has managed to get himself introduced to Henry Ford.

  “How goes?” Rosalind asks as Spencer rushes by.

  “It’s…complicated” is all Spencer can manage.

  Rosalind bats his lashes at Ford. “As I was saying, Henry, is there really no other color than black for your cars?”

  Spencer keeps running and dodging. He reaches a hallway off the ballroom, which normally would be crowded with men finishing their cigars, arguing politics, generally enjoying a respite from female company. But the hallway is empty, save for four men in tuxedos who clap hands on Spencer when he tries to pass them. “Sorry, son,” one says. “You’ll have to wait. The president is in there.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “I understand fine. Sometimes nature doesn’t just call—it shouts. But you’ll have to wait.”

  “No, I… You need to—”

  President Roosevelt explodes into the hallway, barking at the aides and Secret Service agents trailing behind him. “I don’t care if you did find an anarchist in the building; this is Brooklyn, for Chrissake—the town’s crawling with them. I’m not sneaking out like a frightened schoolgirl. Now, which of you pantywaists has my speech?”

  The president stalks past Spencer without acknowledging him. But his aide notes Spencer’s stricken expression and stops to whisper, “Don’t feel bad. You didn’t want to shake that hand. He didn’t wash it after…you know.”

  With Roosevelt gone, the security team releases Spencer. He sprints for the men’s room—a well-appointed lounge, spotless marble sinks, nothing unusual. He spins around, looking to the attendant for help. Anemic and shifty, the attendant refuses to meet Spencer’s eye. Instead, he stares at his shoes and says, “Towel, sir?”

>   “A towel? No, I don’t want—wait, what?” Spencer snatches the towel and shakes it roughly over the sink. A dozen fleas fall out.

  Spencer quickly turns on the hot water, flushing the fleas down the drain. He looks up to see the attendant’s sneering face in the bathroom mirror. “You bastard!”

  “Yeah, well, fuck you, because Roosevelt didn’t take a towel anyway!”

  Spencer whirls around and moves to slam the attendant against the wall, but he stops himself when he sees the black lump on the man’s neck. Instead, he shouts “Security!” and Roosevelt’s men burst into the men’s room. “You need to close these lavatories. Now.”

  Chapter 25

  The Hero

  The Secret Service does far more than close the bathrooms. The hotel is evacuated while the Committee on Public Safety arrives in their trademark head coverings to scrub down the lobby, ballroom, restrooms, and kitchens. The truly important are whisked off to safety, while the less important are left to make their way home as best they can. Many party guests loiter on the street, gossiping as they watch emergency vehicles come and go. Absent any official announcement, the rumors percolate. There was poison in the food. No, there was gas in the air vents. No, the cellist had a gun; did you see him? He looked pretty shady.

  Spencer is congratulated by the cops but also asked to answer a few questions. Secret Service and NYPD alike are curious how someone of his position knew of the anarchists’ plans. Spencer readily agrees, but Rosalind quickly yanks him aside.

  “I want you to understand something—”

  “Rosalind, I’ll just be a minute.”

  “No, you need to hear this first. After Leon Czolgosz killed McKinley, they had him tried, convicted, and executed in a matter of weeks. And after they electrocuted him, they poured acid in his coffin so there would be nothing left of him at all. And Czolgosz was white. Do you understand me?”

  “No. What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Zeph, of course.”

  “Zeph has nothing to worry about! He didn’t do anything!”

  “Reynolds, we could rebuild the Brooklyn Bridge with the bodies of black men who didn’t do anything. Don’t you dare point them in the direction of the Cabinet. We have enough problems already.”

  Spencer knows Rosalind is right: the last thing Zeph needs is the Secret Service taking an interest in the bodies decomposing in Magruder’s backyard. And so the young prince of the city lies and lies and lies again. You see, Officer, I just happened to be in Prospect Park a week ago, and… His nausea grows with every falsehood. It’s one thing to lie to Chief McGrath; he’s essentially on the Reynolds payroll. Lying to the NYPD, on the other hand…and to the Secret Service, as well?

  But Zeph is—unlikely as this may be—a friend. Spencer doesn’t mention Magruder’s once.

  During the interview, a gaggle of hooded officers comes crashing out of the hotel. In their midst are five men, manacled together: Joe, the bathroom attendant, another waiter, and two janitors. They are pale, pockmarked, and coughing. Joe shouts, “I protest being chained to these men! I protest! These men are contagious! This is a violation of my—” Suddenly, the bathroom attendant stumbles, pulling Joe and the others down, one atop the other. They careen down the steps as a unit and land in a heap on the sidewalk.

  Spencer’s interviewer pauses midquestion, and they all watch as the Committeemen hoist the anarchists up like so much soiled laundry and squeeze them into a waiting Black Maria.

  “You think they’ll even make it to trial?” one of the officers muses.

  “Not with coughs like that,” another scoffs. “Anarchists. Can’t get outta their own way, those guys.”

  After every question has been asked and answered, some policemen offer to drive Spencer and Rosalind home. Afraid of giving Magruder’s away, Spencer declines. The cops look Rosalind up and down and nod knowingly. “Best check each other for flea bites,” one says with a wink.

  Just then, Judge O’Gorman waddles over, an expression of sheer panic spread across his wide, white face. “Spencer, my boy! Are you all right?”

  Spencer forces a smile. “I’m fine, sir.”

  “I shudder to think what would have happened had those bastards succeeded. Two presidential assassinations in three years. Can you imagine? I’ll tell you, I hope our party has learned its lesson about holding major political events in a low place like Coney Island. Hardly a carnival of purity, am I right? It’s a relief, in a way, to proceed with the quarantine. After all, if—”

  Rosalind puts his hand on O’Gorman’s arm. “Pardon me, could you repeat that? A quarantine?”

  O’Gorman leans over conspiratorially. “The Committee had it as a backup plan, in case mere policing of the infected wasn’t enough. Which”—he gestures around the street, swarming with police officers and firefighters and Secret Service—“you can see, it was not. There will be consequences, obviously—cutting off the oxygen for all these hotels and restaurants. But it’s akin to lopping off a diseased limb—painful but necessary.”

  “A diseased limb,” Rosalind repeats coldly. He doesn’t take his eyes off Spencer.

  “Well, now.” O’Gorman chuckles. “We have to think broadly, Miss Rosebush. The president has to face the electorate in just a few months. It’s vital that he respond to this catastrophe with alacrity and force; otherwise, he’ll never win reelection! Just imagine the consequences if the Democrats take the White House in November.”

  “But, Judge.” Rosalind struggles to keep his voice steady. “What about the consequences for the limb?”

  “You are a clever thing! What an excellent question. Economic solvency of the tourist sector is a priority of the Grand Old Party, of course. But revenue lost can always be replaced. I’m sure the federal government can make it right with the hotels somehow. There’s many—”

  “No, sir. I mean the people. The people who live and work here.”

  “The circus folk?” he says with a laugh. “Why, the circus folk will be fine, as circus folk always are. Don’t worry yourself, Miss Rosebush—a quarantine worked beautifully in San Francisco. They threw a rope around Chinatown, and the whole mess was resolved in a matter of months. In any case, I’m sure your young man here can explain things in a far more felicitous manner than I. After all”—the judge pats Spencer on the back—“I’m not telling you anything Master Reynolds doesn’t already know.”

  • • •

  Rosalind and Spencer walk back down Surf Avenue in defeated silence. Rosalind has taken off his heels and walks barefoot down the street. Electric lights turn out one by one as they pass. The moon gazes down at them, a perfect crescent.

  Spencer says, “Is that moon waxing or waning? I can never remember which way the—”

  “Who gives a shit?” Rosalind’s voice is cold. “You knew the quarantine was coming.”

  “I hoped it wasn’t.”

  “You. Knew. And you didn’t warn us.”

  “What difference would it have made?” Spencer stops walking. The moonlight glistens on the bloodred roof of the Sea Beach Palace Hotel. “What do you want from me? Christ, what do any of you people want?”

  “‘You people’? Unusuals, you mean? I’d like P-Ray and Enzo back, if you’re offering.”

  “Rosalind, that’s what I was trying to—”

  “So where the devil was your father?”

  “I don’t know! He and Charlie could both be dead for all I know!”

  “Don’t be dramatic. Someone would have said something. Anyway, your kind are perfectly safe—you always are.”

  “That so? Because it looks to me like we almost lost another president.”

  “Yeah, well, the hero of San Juan Hill slumbers in safety tonight, thanks to his own filthy toilet habits.”

  “But, Rosalind, how many other people used those washrooms tonight? Don’t you see? Th
is Cough doesn’t—”

  “Why should I care?” Rosalind’s voice splits open. “Why in the ever-loving fuck should I care about any of you?” He puts a hand to his mouth, but he can’t prevent the sobs from coming.

  Spencer looks at Rosalind and sees him—truly sees him—for the first time. He looks past the gown, past the jewelry and makeup. He sees a human being, completely on his own. His beloved family gone, possibly for good. Just another person, not so different from Spencer himself.

  Rosalind cries and hugs himself. “I want to go home,” he says, and he starts walking down the avenue.

  “Miss Rosalind! Stop.” Spencer catches up and wraps his arms around him. “Please. Stop.”

  Rosalind struggles against Spencer’s embrace at first, then gives in and sobs into his shoulder. “They took my beautiful boys. I broke it off with Enzo, but I never meant… I never thought it would really be good-bye, not like this. Now I’m all alone in the whole world.”

  “No,” Spencer whispers. “No, I promise you aren’t.”

  Chapter 26

  The Ghost

  It was two or three years ago when Zeph began to suspect the Cabinet was haunted. Unexplainable thumps in the night. Displays rearranged for no reason. Items going missing and then reappearing elsewhere. At Magruder’s, with its clocks that chime when they like and automatons that draw what they will, a ghost seemed more or less the natural order of things. And so, Zeph accepted the presence as a matter of course. He even took to telling it “good morning” at the start of the day and “good night” at the end. This was before Rosalind moved in, before the Cabinet had a tavern. Back then, it was just Zeph and Timur all on their lonesome, and lonesome it was. Even spectral company can be preferable to none.

  Then one morning, Zeph saw a bread crumb in a corner he’d just swept the evening before. Another just a few feet away. And another after that.