Jackaby (2 page)

B
y the following morning I had managed to put Mr. Jackaby out of my thoughts. The bed in my little room had been warm and comfortable, and had cost only an hour’s worth of cleaning dishes and sweeping floors—although the innkeeper had made it very clear that this was not to be a lasting arrangement. I threw open the drapes to let the morning light pour in. If I planned to continue my bold adventure without reducing myself to living beneath a bridge and eating from rubbish bins—or worse, writing to my parents for help—I would need a proper job.

I hefted my suitcase to the bed and opened it with a click. The garments within were pressed up to either side, as though embarrassed to be seen with one another. To one end, fine fabrics with delicate, embroidered hems and layers of lace began immediately to expand, stretching in the morning light as the compressed fabric breathed again. Opposite the gentle pastels and impractical frippery sat a few dust-brown denim work trousers and tragically sensible shirts. A handful of undergarments and handkerchiefs meekly navigated the space between, keeping quietly to themselves.

I stared at the luggage and sighed. These were my options. One by one I had worn through everything in between, until I was faced with these choices, which seemed to reflect my lot in life. I could costume myself as a ruddy boy or as a ridiculous cupcake. I plucked a plain camisole and drawers from the center of the suitcase and then pulled the top closed in disgust, stuffing the fancy dresses back down against their muffled protests. The simple green walking dress I had worn for my arrival hung over the bedpost, and I held it up in the sunlight. Its hem was tired, still a bit damp from the previous night’s snow, and growing frayed from use. I pulled it on anyway and wound my way back downstairs. I would look for a job first, and new clothes after.

By the light of day, New Fiddleham felt fresh and full of promise. The air was still crisp as I embarked on my trek into town, but the cold was a little less invasive than it had been during the night. I felt the tingle of excitement and hope tickle along my spine as I hefted my suitcase up the cobbled streets. This time, I resolved, I would find conventional employment. My previous and only real prior job experience had come from foolishly following an advertisement with bold, capitalized words like
EXCITING OPPORTUNITY
, and
CHANCE OF A LIFETIME
, and, probably most effective in capturing my naive attention,
DINOSAURS
.

Yes, dinosaurs. My father’s work in anthropology and paleontology had instilled in me a thirst for discovery—a thirst he seemed determined I should never quench. Throughout my childhood, the closest I had come to seeing my father’s work had been during our trips to the museum. I had been eager to study, excelled in school, and had anticipated higher education with excitement—until I found out that the very same week my classes were to begin, my father would be leaving to head the most important dig of his career. I had begged him to let me go to university, and been giddy when he finally convinced my mother—but now the thought of suffering through dusty textbooks while he was uncovering real history made me restless. I wanted to be in the thick of it, like my father. I pleaded with him to let me come along, but he refused. He told me that the field was no place for a young lady to run around. What I ought to do, he insisted, was finish my schooling and find a good husband with a reliable job.

So, that was that. The week before my semester was to begin, I plucked the
EXCITING OPPORTUNITY
advertisement from a post, absconded with the money my parents had set aside for tuition, and joined an expedition bound for the Carpathian Mountains. I had been afraid that they wouldn’t take a girl. I picked up a few trousers in a secondhand shop—all of them too big for me, but I rolled the cuffs and found a belt. I practiced speaking in a lower voice and stuffed my long, brown hair into my grandfather’s old cap—it was just the sort all the newsboys wore, and I was sure it would complete my disguise. The end result was astounding. I had managed to completely transform myself into . . . a silly, obvious girl wearing boys’ clothing. As it turned out, the leader of the dig was far too occupied with managing the barely funded and poorly orchestrated affair to care if I was even human, let alone female. He was just happy for a pair of hands willing to work for the daily rations.

The following months could be described as an “exciting opportunity” only if one’s definition of excitement included spending months eating the same tasteless meals, sleeping in uncomfortable cots, and shoveling rocky dirt day in and day out on a fruitless search. With no recovered fossils and no more funding, the expedition collapsed, and I was left to find my own way back from the eastern European border.

“Stop your dreaming and settle!”
seemed to be the prevailing message of the lesson I’d spent several months and a full term’s tuition to learn. It was on the tails of that abysmal failure that I found myself at a German seaport, looking for passage back to England. My German was terrible—nearly nonexistent. I was halfway through negotiating the price of a bunk on a large merchant carrier called the
Lady Charlotte
when I finally understood that the captain was not sailing to England at all, but would be briefly making port in France before crossing the wide Atlantic bound for America.

Most jarring of all was my realization that the prospect of sailing across the ocean to the States was much less frightening to me than that of returning home. I don’t know whether I was more afraid of confronting my parents, having stolen away with the tuition money, or of confronting the end of my adventure, which felt as though it had never really even had a middle.

I purchased three items that afternoon: a postcard, a stamp, and a ticket on the
Lady Charlotte.
My parents most likely received the post about the same time I was watching the shores of Europe drift behind me, and the vast, misty blue ocean expand before me. I was not so naive and hopeful as I had been when my voyage began, but the world was growing larger by the day. The postcard was brief, and read simply:

Dearest Mother and Father,

Hoping you are well. As you had previously cautioned, a professional dig site proved to be no place for a young lady to run around. Currently in seek of a better location to do so.

Regards,

A. Rook

Now that I was here in New Fiddleham, I was not ready to abandon my foray into adventure, but I would compromise by taking a conventional job to sustain it.

My first prospective stop was a general goods store. A bell chimed as I entered, and the shopkeeper, a thin, older woman, looked up from a flat loaded high with flour sacks. “Good morning, dearie! Be right with you!” She heaved one of the heavy bags to a shelf behind her, but it caught the corner of the rack and threw her off balance. The parcel hit the floor and burst in a billowing, white cloud. “Oh bother! Would you wait, just a moment?” she said apologetically.

“Of course. Please—let me help you with those,” I said, setting my suitcase beside the door and stepping in. The woman accepted my offer happily, and I began lifting bags to the shelf while she fetched a broom and dustpan.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” she observed, sweeping up the mess.

“I only just made port,” I confirmed.

“I’d say London, by the accent?”

“A few counties southwest, actually. A little town in Hampshire. Have you been to England?”

The woman had never left the States, but she was happy to hear my tale. We chatted pleasantly, and I made quick work of the heavy bags. When I had stuffed the last one into the shelf, she pushed the empty flat into the next room, disappearing behind racks of dry goods. She was still away when the chime rang and a bushy-bearded man with rosy cheeks stepped in.

“I’ll have a tin of Old Bart’s, thanks.”

I realized I was still behind the counter, and looked around quickly for the shopkeeper. “Oh, I’m not—I don’t . . .”

“It’s pipe tobacco, darling. It’s just behind you, there—the one with the yellow label.”

I pulled down a tin with a robust sailor printed on the front and laid it on the counter. “The shopkeeper will be back out in a moment, sir,” I said.

“Oh, you’re doing just fine.” The man smiled and began counting out coins.

The old woman finally reappeared, brushing her hands off on her apron. “Oh, good morning, Mr. Stapleton!” she called, pleasantly. “Tin of Bart’s?”

I slipped out from behind the counter and let the woman conduct the transaction. “I like your new girl,” said Mr. Stapleton before he left. He gave me another friendly smile as he opened the door. “Don’t worry, darling, you’ll get the hang of it. Just keep that pretty chin up.” And then he was off, the door jingling shut behind him.

“What was that about, then?” asked the shopkeeper.

“Just a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, well. I can’t thank you enough for the help, young lady,” she said, clicking shut the cash register. “Now, what was it you needed?”

“Well, actually—if you have any other work—that is, if you might be hiring . . .”

She gave me a pitying smile. “Sorry, dear. You might try the post office—they get pretty busy over there—but I’ve got all the help I need.”

I looked briefly to the shelves behind her, sagging slightly under the weight of the merchandise, and wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. “You’re quite sure you couldn’t use just a little help?”

She sent me on my way with a wrapped piece of fudge for being such a good girl, which did nothing for my self-confidence as a mature adult. I picked up my suitcase and, following Mr. Stapleton’s advice, did my best to keep my pretty chin up as I plodded farther into town.

I met more polite but unavailing storekeepers and office managers as I explored the frosted streets of New Fiddleham. It was a remarkable city, though difficult to wrap my head around geographically. It felt as though no two roads ran parallel for more than a few blocks. Each avenue seemed to have been built to accommodate necessity, rather than according to any city-wide orchestration. Gradually I began to recognize the town’s loosely defined quarters: a cluster of showy commercial buildings here; a block of practical, nondescript office buildings there; and the industrial district, where the buildings grew into wide factories and sprouted smokestacks. Residential neighborhoods overflowed in the gaps between.

Every street was bursting with character, with broad structures elbowing one another on either side for dominance of the neighborhood. The roads were dotted with street vendors peddling their wares in spite of the snow, kids racing up the sloping hills to slide back down on soapbox sleds, and the press of people marching every which way, their footsteps and carriage wheels beating out the constant pulse of city life.

I had been at my task for hours when I finally found myself in the New Fiddleham post office. In spite of the shopkeeper’s suggestion, I found no better luck there. As I turned to go, however, something caught my eye. On a public posting board, peppered with lost pets and rooms to let, hung a simple sheet of creased paper with the words —
SSISTANT WANTE
—just visible between a sketch of a runaway collie and notice of a room to let on Walnut Street.

I carefully freed the advertisement, which read as follows:

INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES

ASSISTANT WANTED

$8 PER WEEK

MUST BE LITERATE AND POSSESS A

KEEN INTELLECT AND OPEN MIND

STRONG STOMACH PREFERRED

INQUIRE AT 926 AUGUR LANE

DO NOT STARE AT THE FROG.

Peculiar though the notice was, I felt I met the requirements soundly—and eight dollars per week would keep me fed and out of the snow. I got directions from the postman and walked the short mile or so to the address.

The little building was nestled among much taller, wider structures in the business district. On either side, men in stiff suits hurried along the frosty walk. As they passed number 926, they seemed to walk all the more quickly and find things in the opposite direction in which to take a sudden interest, like schoolboys carefully avoiding an embarrassing younger sibling at recess.

From a curled, wrought-iron pole above the door hung a sign that announced: 926—
INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES
in large letters and
PRIVATE DETECTION
&
CONSULTATIONS: UNEXPLAINED PHENOMENA OUR SPECIALTY
in smaller ones.

Three stories tall with, perhaps, room for a small attic, the building was busy with gables and ornate trim. With no apparent consideration for either form or function, the architect seemed to have included columns, arches, and carved festoons wherever space was available in whatever style was handy. Balustrades and cornice windows peeked out from a variety of angles, some of which seemed uncertain to which floor they belonged. Despite all of the mismatched chaos of its design, the building coalesced into something that seemed, somehow,
right
. No two elements of the property belonged together, but taken as a whole, not a thing stood out of place.

The door was brilliant red and humbly adorned with a knocker the size and shape of a horseshoe. I stepped up and rapped three times, then waited. I strained my ears for the telltale sounds of footsteps approaching or a chair shifting in the interior. After several long moments, I tried the handle, and the door swung open.

“Hello?” I called, gingerly stepping in. The entryway opened into what might have been intended as a waiting room of sorts. A wooden bench faced a desk, which was occupied only by stacks of books and loose papers. I set my suitcase to the side and stepped in farther. On the right side of the room, a long bookshelf housed several leather-bound volumes and strange, assorted artifacts including an animal skull, a small stone statue of a fat, nude figure, and a nestlike bundle of sticks and string. At the end of the shelf sat a glass box with dirt, leaves, and a little pool of water inside it.

I leaned down and peered into the glass, looking for an inhabitant. It took several seconds before I recognized the shape of a lumpy, gray-green frog that had been staring back at me all along. It glowered, and its tiny nostrils flared. With a sudden burp it puffed up its throat at me, bulging out a massive double chin. As the chin tightened, a visible stream of gas puffed out from the creature’s eyes. I stared. I was not mistaken. A gas, not far different in color from the amphibian’s damp skin, vented in quick streams from each eye. Soon the entire terrarium was a cube of drab smoke, and the continued venting could only be inferred by a faint whistle issuing from behind the clouded glass. The stench followed.