Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet (20 page)

Halfway Down the Stairs

Shoved in a corner in the hospital, Kitty and P-Ray are besieged by a seething mass of women, all in the same beige, hospital-provided clothes. They glare and mutter. “How dare they?” “This is why his kind should be kept separate!”

Kitty bends down to make sure P-Ray is all right. She brushes some dirt off his beige outfit—likely the nicest clothes he's ever owned—and tries to keep her mood light. “What's happened, sweetie?”

The boy shrugs sadly. “P-Ray.”

“Yes, that's your name! But might you break your vow of silence and tell me why these women want to toss us in the sea?”

He nods. “P-Ray.”

Kitty sighs. “Well,” she says to the women. “You lot have a great deal to say. Perhaps you might—”

“Show her!” The cookie lady elbows the woman beside her, who nudges her twelve-year-old daughter. When she steps forward, P-Ray shrinks. The girl stretches out her arm. In her hand is a small vial with a cork stopper. Half a dozen black specks dance inside.

Aghast, Kitty turns to her young companion. He shrugs again. “P-Ray.”

For all its flaws, the awareness campaign of the Committee on Public Safety has had at least one clear victory: awareness of the deadly flea has never been higher. When the head nurse arrives in room C, she snatches away P-Ray's vial, tosses it into a bag, and sends the bag to the incinerator.

P-Ray sobs and tugs at Kitty—
do something, do something
—but she can only wrap her arms around him as he cries. “They can't be saved,” she whispers. “I'm sorry, sweetie, but they can't be saved. I'm not even sure about us.”

• • •

Kitty and P-Ray are dragged to the head nurse's office for a scolding. The nurse points to two metal chairs on one side of her desk, and she hefts herself onto a chair opposite. “What,” she demands, “is your son doing with a vial full of fleas?”

“Actually, he isn't—” Then she stops herself. Things will go badly for the foreign-looking flea smuggler; the foreign-looking flea-smuggling
orphan
has no chance at all. “Actually, he isn't a naughty boy,” she says instead. “He keeps them as pets.”

“That is revolting and unsanitary.”

Kitty looks the nurse up and down, taking her measure the way Archie once measured Kitty.
Archie wouldn't just sit here and welcome his punishment. He'd find an angle.

Kitty leans forward, meeting the nurse's angry eyes full-on. “Ma'am, this is
such
an unfortunate understanding. My name is Katherine Hayward. Of the Cornwall Haywards. My father is in railroads, back in England. I presume you've heard of—”

“You are a patient in my ward,” the nurse interrupts. “That's all I need to know.”

Hmm. Wrong angle.

On the desk, among the stacks of patient folders, time sheets, and requisition forms, sits a framed photograph: a freckle-faced boy in a bathing costume, grinning from ear to ear. Kitty smiles.
Aha.

“What a handsome young man! Your son, I take it?” The nurse's face does not soften, but Kitty barrels on regardless. “So you
must
know how children are—so charming and reckless and full of life. It was wrong to keep the fleas, but…” She gestures to P-Ray, who stares at the nurse blankly. “Look at that sweet face! Boys will be boys! Right? Surely you can imagine your son doing something similar?” Kitty smiles prettily. “Can't you?”

“I don't imagine my son doing anything. He died of the Cough a week ago.”

Kitty closes her eyes in defeat. “I'm so sorry.”

The nurse stands up. “You and your half-breed get out of my ward.”

• • •

Kitty and P-Ray are sentenced to the observation suite on the far side of the island—
far
to whatever extent anything on Hoffman's twelve miles can be considered
far
from anything else. But then, language on Hoffman is eerily flexible. There's little about the tiny shack, surrounded by a chain-link fence on three sides and open to the ocean on the fourth, that's suite-like.

“The Oriental Hotel has suites,” Kitty mutters, stomping on a cockroach. “This is the pokey.” Here, in this quarantine-within-a-quarantine, Kitty and P-Ray are sentenced for fourteen days to see if they develop any symptoms. If they do, “It's Swinburne for the both of you,” the head nurse told them. “If it were up to me, you'd be there already.”

• • •

Kitty sits halfway down a staircase to the sea.

The observation suite has one charm only: a small, fenced-in backyard that opens onto the larger backyard of Lower New York Bay and, beyond that, the largest backyard of all—the Atlantic Ocean. Nestled into the giant chunks of shale that comprise the seawall, there is a narrow, metal-frame staircase, which probably once led down to a little beach. Hoffman's designers must have imagined a charming scene—patients picnicking by the water, soaking up the healing powers of sea air. But whatever beach once clung to the island's edge is gone now, washed away by the tides. The metal staircase is all that remains, and waves slosh ambitiously up the steps.

Kitty sits at the stairs' midpoint, staring out at a small ship flying a yellow flag—yellow for quarantine. The wind whistles in her ears, and the spray soaks her uniform. The dampness reminds her of the days spent sitting on that park bench—before Archie, before Zeph and Rosalind and Enzo and P-Ray. Funny, now, to think how irritated she was by the wet air; a short time in Coney Island, and the dampness feels entirely natural.

Another wave crashes on the steps, but this time, it leaves a small crab behind. The crab stumbles around on the step, dazed to find itself on solid ground. He waves his little claws in the air, and Kitty smiles. “Hello, little one. Washed up on Hoffman, have you? I know how you feel.”

Kitty eases herself down the steps to catch it. Perhaps some company will cheer P-Ray a bit. She reaches out to grab the little fellow when another wave hits the steps. When the water pulls back, the crab is gone.

She glares out at the ocean. “So that's how it is? You just take whatever you like, whenever, however, whomever you please?” Kitty stands and brushes the sand off her skirt. “We shall see about that.”

Elixir Salutis

“Ladies and gentlemen, we live in dark times. Anarchists slither across the cobblestones, while death-dealing pestilence stalks us, even into our own homes. It kills with swiftness but without mercy. It's
the Cough
, or so the newspapers say, as though it were nothing but a slight chill, a mere bagatelle to be sent packing with a few aspirin.”

A screechy voice in the crowd. “Them damn papers lie!”

“I'm afraid they do, ma'am. And now, a reckoning is at hand. This morning, we learn that traitorous miscreants have attempted to use the Cough as a weapon. This plague no longer threatens us as individuals. The Cough threatens the very body of our great nation. What shall we do? How shall we restore our own health and the health of the
corps d'état
? Is there indeed no balm in Gilead? My friends, I am no preacher, but I will tell you this: balm in Gilead there may not be, but rest assured, there is balm in Coney. May I humbly present for your edification and transformation Dr. Theophilus Magruder's Elixir Salutis!

“Ladies and gentlemen, I believe you to be not merely good people but wise. You know charlatans prowl these troubled streets, hawking spurious patent medicines of their own devising. You dare not trust the blackguards and thieves clogging Surf Avenue with empty promises. But my good people, I am one of you. A family man, a religious man, a good man.”

Archie smiles. “You can trust me.”

• • •

Spencer skirts around Archie's gaggle of customers. The crowd has a hungry look, like they'd tear each other apart at the slightest provocation. Spencer discreetly holds the satchel of money behind his back. The last thing he needs is someone from the crowd developing an interest in its contents.

Ducking his head and praying not to be recognized, Spencer yanks open the unmarked front door and bounds down the stairs to the tavern. Rosalind is there, sitting alone at a table, trying and failing to concentrate on the novel he's reading:
The Way of All Flesh
.

“Good afternoon. How are you feeling today?”

“Hello, Spencer.” Rosalind sighs. “I'm the same. Very much the same.”

But Spencer can see he has perked up at least slightly—the wig, gown, and makeup have returned at least. “You look lovely. So, where's Zeph gotten to?”

“No idea. I went to lie down, and when I came back, he and Nazan were gone.”

“What? Miss Nazan is here? But why? How did she get across? Is she all right?”

“Ah, yes, she's your lady friend, isn't she? Archie helped sneak her across, and now she's off somewhere with Zeph.” Reflecting on the many bashful smiles exchanged over the dishes, Rosalind arches an eyebrow. “It may be quite interesting when they return.”

Spencer frowns. “I don't know what that means.”

“Oh, you will. So, I don't suppose you were able to speak to your father on our behalf?”

“Rosalind, I'm sorry.” He sits down, placing the satchel on the floor. “He's gone.”

“Who is?”

“My father. He packed up my brother and took him to our summer place in Newport.”

“Should have predicted that, I guess.
And then
,” Rosalind says theatrically, “
across the land cameth the time of the Great Abandoning, when all the rich shall bugger off to their summer homes
… I suppose you'll be joining them?”

Spencer runs a hand through his hair. “No. I probably should—Charlie needs me. But I don't think he wants me there. After all, I did more or less purchase Magruder's.” He looks pointedly at Rosalind. “And I've made some promises. Which I no longer know how to keep, it's true. But no. I'm staying.”

Rosalind suppresses a smile. “What about your father's business interests? Won't he want his right-hand man by his side?”

“Coney Island
is
a Reynolds business interest. And as far as my father's right hand goes, Gib Tilden can have the right hand and the rest of him too. I'm coming around to the notion that Gibson and my father might deserve each other.” He leans back in his chair. “Nah. What in the hell would I do in Newport anyway?”

“Well, well. Good of you to join us in the real world.”

“Actually, speaking of which…” He nudges the satchel with his shoe. “Could you help me stow this away someplace safe?”

Rosalind frowns and stares down at the overstuffed bag. “Is it a head in there?”

“What? No, certainly not. Goodness. It's just…insurance.”

Rosalind eyes Spencer. “I suppose I can find a safe place for it in the back room.”

“Not somewhere obvious, now. Not somewhere anyone would just happen into it.”

“Somewhere in the back, I just said.”

“Thank you.”

They sit quietly, listening to Archie's muffled sales pitch continuing on outside. “Quite a business the old thief's got going out there,” Rosalind notes.

“Yes, I saw the crowd on my way in. What is he up to, anyway?”

“Getting rich quick, he hopes. Patent medicine for the Calcutta Cough.”

“You're joking. What's in it? No rat poison, I hope.”

“Rosewater, quinine, something else I forget now, and—here's the kicker—Zeph's homebrewed whiskey. He better sell it all. If he not only stole the whiskey, but
wasted
it too? Zeph will pitch a fit.”

“Doesn't sound like selling it will be a problem,” Spencer says. “Selling out is what's going to be dicey.”

“That's Archie. Could sell ice to Eskimos. Isn't that the expression?”

Spencer nods. “But this is more like selling ice in the Sahara.”

Archie's voice gets louder, seeping through the window. “Which of you will be first to purchase Doctor Theophilus Magruder's Elixir Salutis?”

A cloud passes over Spencer's face. “He's using the Magruder name? This phony medicine, it says Magruder's on the front?”

Rosalind shrugs. “What difference does that make?”

“What happens when those lummoxes go home, give the children a few doses of Magruder's elixir, and their babies all die anyway? Who will they blame?”

“Oh no. There's enough people wanting to torch this place as it is.”

Spencer stands. “This ends now.”

Out on the sidewalk, Archie can't collect cash fast enough. When he sees Spencer, his shark smile goes even wider. “Mr. Reynolds! Look, everyone, it's none other than Spencer Reynolds, one of the finest princes of this fair city! Young Master Reynolds, sir! I can only assume you've come for your family's portion of elixir?”

“I've come to shut your damned mouth.”

Archie laughs uncomfortably. “I'm sorry, young sir?” He turns so his prey can't see the daggers he's shooting at Spencer with his eyes. “I'm sure you can't mean it.”

“Give the money back, Archie.”

“Ah, what?”

“You heard me, old man. Every dime.”

“Hey!” screeches the woman. “What's all this about?”

Spencer pulls Archie down from the apple box and holds him roughly by the shoulders. “Sorry, folks. You see, this is…” He looks at Archie, a bit disgusted by what he has to say next. “This is my grandfather.”

Archie gasps, appalled. “I most certainly am not—”

“My grandmother passed away from the Cough, and I'm afraid the old man has gone a bit…soft. Mentally. He's not himself.”

“This is nonsense!” Archie wriggles but can't break Spencer's grip.

“It's the grief, you see. I'm very sorry he got your hopes up. If it's medicine you need, I beg you, please, go see a doctor. A real doctor. And I promise, if you all line up patiently, I'll make sure you're repaid.” Spencer digs his fingers into Archie's shoulder. “Now, say you're sorry, Granddad.”

“Fuck you,” Archie spits.

Spencer shrugs at the shocked crowd. “I told you he was crazy.”