Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet (17 page)

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.
”

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? This 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.”

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.

“Huh,” he'd mused. “Hungry ghost.”

He'd followed the trail of crumbs to Daisy and Maisy's cabinet. One of the museum's oldest exhibits, the conjoined skeletons held pride of place in the center of Magruder's maze. And there, curled up like a cat at the girls' bony feet, was a sleeping little boy, no more than five or six years old.

Rather than startle him awake, Zeph had created his own trail—but of cookies this time—that led from Daisy and Maisy to Zeph's stool at the front entrance. Eventually, the child woke up and followed the treats to find Zeph waiting. Instead of fearing Zeph's long braids and absent legs, the boy just smiled. Perhaps he was lonely too. Maybe he liked the fact that he and Zeph were roughly the same height. It could have been the cookies.

As the day wore on, Zeph shared everything he could think of—curiosities from the Cabinet and leftovers from the icebox and that one coin trick he'd learned. But no matter what he tried, Zeph couldn't get a single sound out of the boy. Not one word, not a giggle, nothing.
Amazing
, Zeph thought.
Actual ghosts make more noise than this kid.

Until, that is, he pulled out a dusty, miniature circus that was once used by performing fleas. The boy's face lit up like he was seeing his first snowfall. “
Pire
!” he shouted suddenly. “
Pire
!”

“And what in heck does
that
mean?”

“
Pire
!” the boy said again. Then he laughed, and the sound of the boy's laugh was the first music the Cabinet had heard since who knew when.

“Okay, little man.” Zeph smiled. “P-Ray it is.”

• • •

As an angry-orange dawn streaks the sky, Zeph slips into the tavern. He hasn't been downstairs since the Committee took P-Ray the other night. He hasn't been avoiding the tavern, exactly—he's just busy. Very busy these days. But this morning, he has a mind to check the supplies in the pantry and the cash in the register. Something tells him Magruder's won't see more of either for some time.

The tavern is deserted, the aroma of better days hanging in the air. Drinks left half-finished when the Committee arrived sit on the bar collecting flies. Chairs overturned during hasty exits are scattered about. Somebody left a coat. A hairpin. Even a shoe. Zeph sees a napkin on the floor with “OCean-29” written in lipstick—just a couple of digits short of a full telephone number. “Aww,” he says. “
So close
.”

He can see the precise spot where Rosalind went to war to get P-Ray back. Sequins and sparkly bits ripped off his dress now lie on the floor, twinkling in the morning sun. Looking up at the door, Zeph can almost see Enzo, shouting and fighting, struggling against the four Committeemen it took to drag him out. Two years ago, a ghost in the Cabinet had turned out to be a real boy. Now, the ghost is all that's left.

Okay, yeah. He's been avoiding the tavern.

Zeph goes to the icebox and plugs in wires, looking for company. There's no music to listen to at this hour—at least, not what most people would call music. In the early mornings, instead of waltzes and ragtime, the receiver picks up the sounds of janitors and mops. The chatter of cooks and waiters as they drag themselves to work. Of busboys and clinking plates as tables are laid out for the new day. And at the whorehouse, muttered gossip of the ladies as they shrug off the night before. The symphony of the service class.

Zeph plugs in channel one, hoping to hear the tuneless whistling of Monty the electrician, who prides himself on always being the first to report to work at Henderson's Vaudeville Theater. But the receiver picks up only silence. No Monty. No anybody.

Zeph moves on: channel two, channel three. Stillness. A little static here and there. Silence.

Channel four, five. Nothing.

Channel six, the whorehouse. A woman weeps, her heart in pieces. “Please, Jesus,” she begs. “Please don't take my little boy. Take me, please. I had my life already. Take me instead. Please don't take my—”

Zeph yanks the cord from channel six. Impulsively, he yanks out another cord, and another. And then every cord he can, as fast as he can. A few seconds of fury, and the entire panel is disassembled in pieces on the floor.

He looks at the mess he's made. At the mess the Committee left behind. Zeph closes his eyes, leaning his head against the cool wood of his silent box of sound.

“Jesus, if you ain't too busy, please look after my little man.”