Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  “Why…yes.” Puzzled by the boy’s behavior, Evan added, “Just a b-brief recitation about why and when the song was written. A paragraph or so, no m-more.”

  The boy squirmed and looked away. “I’d—I’d rather not, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  Evan frowned. The boy’s face was absolutely white. “But why not, son? You have a s-splendid voice—for reading, I expect, as well as for singing. And this is a m-most important song.”

  Still avoiding Evan’s eyes, Billy mumbled, “I’ll do the singing part, right enough, Mr. Whittaker. I know all the words. It’s just that I’d rather not do the reading, don’t you see?”

  Something in the tremulous tone of voice and averted gaze told Evan he mustn’t press. “Very well, B-Billy,” he said reluctantly. “That’s fair enough. You will sing the solo, and I’ll assign the recitation to one of the other b-boys.”

  The lad nodded, keeping his gaze lowered.

  An uneasy suspicion stirred in Evan; it continued to nag at him throughout rehearsal. Trying not to be obvious, he watched the Hogan boy more closely than usual. After a time, he began to study some of the other youths as well. By the end of the hour, he thought he understood.

  With a heavy heart, he wondered why he hadn’t seen it before today. He already knew that none of the boys could read the music itself. Most of them, though, used the scores he passed among them to learn the words.

  But not Billy Hogan. Billy, and at least four other boys, were, he was convinced, learning by rote: memorizing what they heard as they went along.

  It was, Evan strongly suspected, the only way they could learn. Unless he was mistaken, and he rather thought he was not, the boys could not read.

  Throughout the entire ferry ride home, Evan fretted about his discovery. He could not imagine what it would be like being unable to read. For most of his life, reading had been both a passion and a comfort to him. He had explored the world through books, and in the process gained a certain solace in his childhood loneliness, found a kind of escape from his miserable shyness and the hateful stutter of his speech. Books had enlarged his schoolroom, expanded his vision, encouraged his dreams. He simply could not conceive of a life without reading.

  His mind went to the wretched souls in Five Points, that abysmal slum so infested by evil and hopelessness. For some, decimated by their poverty and in despair of a mean survival eked out in filthy cellars and garrets, reading might well represent the only chance of escape. At least for a few moments, they could be transported to another place, another time. They might even catch a glimpse of a dream of their own, or find a glimmer of hope in the words of another.

  Yet, here were at least five boys—five that he knew of—within his singing group that could not, he feared, so much as read the Scriptures for themselves!

  It wouldn’t do. It simply would not do!

  As he stepped off the ferry onto the dock, Evan paused, shivering in the cold. It was almost dusk; the spray off the river was icy, the wind rising. Yet, he stood, thinking, unable to shake off his troubled thoughts.

  The Hogan lad had obviously been embarrassed that he’d had to refuse Evan’s request. No doubt the other boys, if confronted, would have felt just as awkward.

  No one, Evan thought sadly, young or old, should have to be shamed by illiteracy. Yet, more than likely it was a common problem throughout most of the slum settlements, especially among the immigrant population.

  Something needed to be done. Obviously, only those more fortunate—those who could read—were in a position to help.

  I’m one of those, he reminded himself. At least, I know enough to help my boys.

  Tugging the collar of his coat more snugly about his neck, Evan started to walk. He smiled at his own thought…my boys…then realized that in a very special way, that was exactly what they had become: his boys.

  Well, his boys would not be cheated of this immeasurably precious gift. His boys would have the opportunity to learn to read. He would see to it!

  It was a promise to himself—and a promise to God as well.

  Arthur Jackson hunkered down inside the buggy that Mr. Jess had sent to fetch him and Casey-Fitz home.

  It was almost dark. Casey-Fitz had fallen asleep on the seat across from Arthur. A cold rain pattered against the roof of the buggy. Somehow, rain after dark always made Arthur feel cold. Cold and kind of lonely-hearted and sad.

  Would he ever get used to the cold weather in the North? Seemed as if he hadn’t seen the sun for months. Mr. Whittaker claimed the sun shone more in New York than it did in England, but that seemed near about impossible to Arthur. For sure, he wouldn’t like a place like England. Uh-uh, not a bit!

  He thought Mr. Whittaker had acted a little strange today. More than once Arthur had caught him staring at him and Billy Hogan and some of the other boys, too, during rehearsal.

  Had he done something wrong? He didn’t think so. Unless maybe Mr. Whittaker had caught him not paying much attention to the songs.

  That was possible. Truth was, he was having a time of it, trying to keep his mind on singing—or on much of anything else, for that matter. He couldn’t stop thinking about the trouble the Daltons had gone and gotten themselves into, all on his account.

  Miss Kerry, she went around looking so worried most of the time—and when she wasn’t looking worried, she looked angry. And Mr. Jess—he kept up a good face, but he didn’t laugh near as much as usual.

  Just last Sunday, Casey-Fitz had finally told him a little about what was going on, had explained that his folks weren’t saying much about things, so as not to worry Arthur. Casey hadn’t wanted to tell, but Arthur just about made him.

  That boy just couldn’t lie, nossir! Casey-Fitz’s face would give him away every time. He couldn’t even pull a joke, that boy couldn’t! So, once Arthur started in on him serious-like, Casey had talked. Told him how some of the people at the big church were kicking up a fuss because of the Daltons wanting to give Arthur a home.

  When Arthur got all upset and vowed to leave so as not to cause any trouble, Casey-Fitz liked to have had a fit! He said Arthur couldn’t do that or he’d break “Little Mother’s” heart.

  Little Mother. That’s what Casey called Miss Kerry because of her being such a small lady, and also because he had called his real mama, who had died in a factory fire, “Mum.”

  “She’s become attached to you, don’t you see? It would hurt Little Mother something fierce if she knew you were even thinking of going away!”

  Arthur didn’t see. There were a lot of things about these people he didn’t see. Like, why such a nice white woman like Miss Kerry could give a hoot about a runaway slave boy. Or why an important preacher-man like Mr. Jess would knowingly take on trouble on his account.

  Back home, he remembered most people doing just about anything at all to avoid trouble. ’Course, trouble did seem to have a way of shadowing black folks, no matter how hard they tried to get around it. But for a white man to invite it into his house for the sake of a Negro boy?

  Arthur shook his head. There was no figuring it. Anyhow, Casey-Fitz had made him promise to stay.

  “Vow you won’t leave,” he’d insisted in that little-old-man way he had. “Give your word. All we can do is to pray. But God and Dad will take care of this. The two of them will handle everything, you’ll see.”

  Arthur didn’t know about God. He didn’t know God very well, leastways not just yet, although Mr. Jess was doing his best to get them acquainted.

  But when it came to Mr. Jess—well, he did believe that man could handle just about anything that came along! So, even though he felt ashamed that he’d brought trouble on the Daltons, he couldn’t help but think that Mr. Jess would work it out.

  If not…well, he guessed Casey-Fitz would just have to understand if the time came he needed to break his word.

  Because one thing was certain: he wasn’t going to be responsible for Mr. Jess or his family getting hurt. Nossir, not ever!

  23
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  Help in Unexpected Places

  For the poor body that I own

  I could weep many a tear….

  PADRAIC COLUM (1881–1972)

  Michael Burke had never doubted that his investigation of Patrick Walsh would take him to some strange places.

  Still and all, he would not have expected to end up at one of the dime museums in the Bowery. He hated these pits of wretched humanity as much as he despised any of the myriad horrors the city had to offer. “Freak Shows,” as they were called by most of the other policemen on the force, weren’t entirely confined to the Bowery, of course, but they seemed to thrive best here.

  The name “dime museum” had to do with the price of admissions; not by the remotest stretch of the imagination did the places bear a resemblance to any respectable institution.

  As Michael approached the entrance doors, he saw that Roscoe Brewster, the establishment’s owner, was at his usual place in front, hawking the “wonders” on display inside. A big, florid-faced con man who had invested his faro winnings in “business,” Brewster sported a fierce mustache and fingers blazing with flashy diamond rings. At his side, dressed like a gambler’s dandy, stood a bulldog-faced little man called Plug.

  Slightly bigger than a dwarf, Plug at first glance appeared jovial and harmless. However, like most policemen familiar with the Bowery district, Michael knew the little man was never without a knife and a specially crafted set of brass knuckles, honed with ridges sharp enough to slice a man’s ear with one blow. Plug was Brewster’s bodyguard—and he was anything but harmless.

  Michael caught Brewster’s eye, and the man gave a grudging nod that he should go on in. For a moment, he hesitated, reluctant to subject himself to the “museum.” He knew what waited inside. In his years on the force, he had closed down two or three similar establishments, mostly for fleecing the customer with petty thievery right on the premises, or making outrageously bogus claims about the “wonders” within.

  There were always the few authentic poor wretches whose deformities lived up to the garish billboards. As it happened, Brewster’s place was known to have some of the “best” attractions.

  Trying to ignore the gaudy paintings emblazoned across the outside, Michael pulled in a long breath and walked through the door.

  Brewster ran his place like a theater: the attractions were paraded across a stage, with a “lecturer” explaining and elaborating on the qualities of each. Already on stage was the predictable Tattooed Man, a feature of every dime museum in the city. A tall fellow in a shabby suit—the lecturer—was at that moment introducing the “Smallest Living Man in the World.”

  And indeed, he would seem to be just that. The ridiculous little black hat on his head fell off as he bowed and greeted the audience in a sharp, thin voice. He claimed to weigh only twelve pounds, and Michael would not have questioned it.

  Most of the other “attractions” on stage were the usual: two dwarfs, an albino, a bearded lady. Michael turned his gaze away from the stage to scan the crowd. Working people mostly. Day-laborers and factory girls, out for the evening to spend their hard-earned wages. A number of newsboys. An entire mix of reprobates: gamblers, pickpockets, and other petty crooks.

  Not for the first time, he found himself angered by the perverse streak in the heart that provoked one human being to pay for a glimpse of the misery of another. Moreover, he wondered what kind of a man it took to earn a living—and a high one at that—by mongering such wretchedness to a hall filled with gawking eyes.

  Steeling himself, he walked halfway down the aisle, then crossed to the side door that led backstage. A grizzled custodian on a stool stopped his advance.

  Michael showed him his star, saying, “Where would I find Bhima?”

  The aging custodian curled his lip and revealed the dark cavern of a toothless mouth. “Bhima?”

  “Aye, Bhima.” Michael paused. “The one they call the ‘Turtle Boy.’ ”

  “Last door on the left,” muttered the old man with a marked lack of interest.

  Michael followed the dim, vile-smelling corridor almost to the rear of the building. Stopping at the last door on his left, he hesitated before knocking.

  This part of the theater building was eerily quiet. Foul smells seemed to ooze from under the doors, smells too old and mixed to identify. It was almost as if the building itself were corrupt, a breathing, stinking entity of wickedness.

  For a moment, Michael was tempted to turn and bolt from the building. He had seen the Turtle Boy on stage, chatted with him once about inconsequential things. He knew what lay within the room.

  With a heavy sigh, he finally lifted a fist to knock on the paint-blistered door.

  The room was pathetically stark, barren of any warmth or appeal, lighted only by one narrow, cracked window. The wallpaper was peeling in some places, completely missing in others; the wooden floors were marred and rough. In one corner leaned a slant-backed chair, in another a lumpy—but clean—bed.

  Michael noted a neat stack of a dozen or so books and newspapers. For some reason, this surprised him. He would not have expected the Turtle Boy to be a reader. Still, the room’s occupant had written his own message and signed his name.

  The one who had summoned him waited against the wall, next to the books and newspapers beneath the window.

  Michael managed not to stare. Even though he had seen the boy before, the sight of the poor, deformed body bit him like a blow.

  The face was that of a youth little more than twenty years old, olive-skinned with large dark eyes and a rich head of black hair. The face was sensitive and mournful, of obvious Indo-European extraction.

  Clad in a gray wool sweater and worn blue shirt, he appeared slender and well-set in the shoulders, altogether different than he looked in his “stage dress,” a slick, tube-like affair that served to emphasize his deformity. Indeed, he appeared a normal youth. Until one looked below the waist. For the Turtle Boy had no legs, no legs at all—only flipper-like feet attached directly to his torso.

  Presumedly, he was an accident of nature, more than likely born to one of the city’s many prostitutes or poverty-stricken immigrant girls who rejected him at birth.

  The Turtle Boy was one of the few who had found a permanent home with Roscoe Brewster’s dime museum. He had been moved about from circus to circus until Brewster signed him on, giving him a room and his board in exchange for the boy becoming a “resident freak.”

  A few years back, a kind-natured Bowery stagehand had fashioned for the boy a type of four-wheeled cart, whereon he could hoist himself and ride about at will. Apparently Brewster had come to depend on his loyalty, for the Turtle Boy was free to come and go. He could be seen at all hours of the day rolling along on his cart, doing errands for his employer or just taking in the neighborhood.

  At first, the boy did not look directly at Michael. He remained where he was, propped on his little cart beneath the window, his eyes cast slightly to one side.

  “Bhima?”

  Michael saw the eyes blink, a muscle twitch beside one corner of the mouth, as if the sound of his own name had caught him off guard.

  “Bhima…” the boy finally echoed quietly. “Yes, I am Bhima. Forgive me…I so seldom hear the name.”

  The voice was soft, with an unexpected note of humor. Michael felt altogether awkward; he could not think of what to say to this most unusual boy. “Your message said you had information for me.”

  The boy nodded, still averting his eyes. “You have…an interest in a man named Walsh, I believe.”

  Michael tensed. “Perhaps. Among others.”

  Again Bhima nodded. The last of the day’s light was fast disappearing, leaving one side of his face—the side turned toward Michael—in shadows. “Rumor has it you’re seeking evidence you might use to curtail some of Walsh’s ‘business activities.’ ”

  Wary, Michael waited, saying nothing.

  “There are few secrets in the Bowery, Captain.” The boy’s lips curved in a
faint smile, as though he could sense Michael’s skepticism. “Between the newsboys and the rag-pickers, there are few secrets indeed.”

  He paused, then asked, “Tell me, Captain, what would you do with such evidence if you should come by it?”

  “Hang the devil if I could,” Michael bit out. “If not, I’d do my best to see his miserable bones rot in jail.”

  The boy—Bhima at last turned to look at him, and Michael, caught his breath. In truth, the lad had a beautiful countenance, the face of a saint. Delicately formed, kindly features, and an unexpected warmth.

  The dark eyes raked his face. Michael knew himself to be under a disturbingly shrewd scrutiny. He forced himself to meet the boy’s gaze straight-on. “I’d do with it whatever I could,” he said evenly. “It would count for something, you can be sure.”

  The boy smiled, suddenly looking much younger. “It is said in the Bowery that Captain Burke is a man of his word. A dangerously honest man, some say.” He nodded slowly, still studying Michael. Then his expression sobered. “Across the street,” he said, motioning up toward the window with his head, “there’s a warehouse building. You know the place?”

  Michael nodded. A dark, rambling structure that had once been a garment warehouse, the building had stood abandoned for over a year. “What of it?”

  “It’s not as empty as it might appear on first glance, Captain,” Bhima replied. “In fact, there would seem to be a good, brisk business going on there some nights.” He paused. “Do you know who owns the building?”

  Michael shook his head.

  “Walsh—Patrick Walsh. ‘Snake Eyes,’ he’s called in the streets.”

  Michael felt the blood rush to his head. Could it finally be that, after all these months of futile searching and digging, he was about to get something concrete on Walsh? “You mentioned ‘business.’ What sort of business? One of his gambling dens, is it?”

  The boy smiled, a bitter slash, quickly gone. “Oh no. Not gambling.” He stopped, studying Michael’s face as if gauging his level of interest. “More in the way of a slave market, I’d say.”