The Museum of Extraordinary Things(34)

An investigation had begun, but the owners of the factory, who’d fled before the mourners could identify their dead, had yet to be arrested. The curtain that split the city in two, separating those who could escape to the rooftops from those who could not, had been torn open to reveal inequities long kept in the dark. People were furious to find that life was considered a treasure for some but worth so little for others. A huge gathering of garment workers was arranged to take place at the Metropolitan Opera House on Thirty-fourth Street, with hundreds of women taking the stage, insisting on better conditions for the half of the city that worked for the benefit of the half that could calmly gaze at the damage around them through their windows, safe and protected from the mayhem on the streets and from the despair of those who tailored the clothes they wore.

It might have been best to let go of the idea of creating a monster, but the Professor was single-minded, convinced that, in brutal times, people longed more than ever for an escape from the harsh realities of their daily lives. Why else would the construction to spruce up Dreamland continue at such a fast pace? The renovation of the park would cost close to a million dollars. The buildings, once starkly white, had been repainted in a riot of color, and a thrilling concession named Hell Gate was being prepared, a wild boat ride over rushing water through a covered tunnel in which an individual might become drenched and terrified as he progressed through man-made rapids and whirlpools while having the time of his life. The greatest animal trainer in the world, the one-armed Captain Jack Bonavita, would have a show of lions. And Colonel Joseph Ferrari, a genius with animals, had gathered leopards, pumas, bears, and hyenas. One of the most beloved creatures in Coney Island, Little Hip, an elephant so attached to his trainer they slept in the same room, would lead a parade circling the park each morning. Coralie had gawked through the fence at the huge ballroom overlooking the sea, now being revamped on Dreamland’s Pier. A thousand electric lights would glow in tints of rose and green. She wondered how it might feel to dance in the arms of the young man from the woods. He might whisper The whole world is ours if we make it so.

There had been a recent announcement declaring that Dreamland would venture into the world of science, for what was more miraculous than the future men made for themselves? There was already a village built in 1904 called Lilliputia, where three hundred little people resided in a world of their own, with their own fire department and parliament, so that they might be studied by the crowds. There were exotic human beings who startled New Yorkers with their differences: Algerian horsemen, Somali warriors, Bantu women who stretched their necks and lips with brass rings. The Dreamland sideshow featured oddities and curiosities the Professor referred to as freaks rather than wonders: Ursa, the bear girl. Rob Roy, the albino. A human salamander named Schrief, who could catch flies with a flick of his tongue. There was an exhibition to display the tiniest babies in the state, each cared for by a nurse in a starched white uniform, each babe placed in a new contraption called an incubator, a machine not yet used in hospitals.

This devotion to science infuriated the Professor, for it was a realm he considered to be his own. He could never afford the huge exhibitions Dreamland would offer, and yet he felt that grand park stole from him. The Wolfman, the very act Sardie had created, was said to be one of the acts planned for display in the sideshow just outside Dreamland’s gates, steps away from the Museum of Extraordinary Things. The beaten-down creature rescued from a jail cell would now be known as Professor Morris. He would wear a tuxedo and glasses and smoke a pipe as he read Shakespeare’s sonnets and the poetry of that great local hero, Whitman, in a voice that was as heavenly as his countenance was beastly.

“Do you think it’s true that he’ll work for Father’s enemy?” Coralie asked Maureen as they cleared the overgrown area that would soon be the vegetable garden. Coralie had always wished Mr. Morris had left them to travel from one wonder of the world to another, from Paris to Cairo to the Victoria Falls.

The two women tended their garden each spring, wearing muslin aprons and heavy boots as they cleared out mud. Coney Island, once pastureland for cows, flooded each winter, which was why there was a need for raised, slatted sidewalks and why the iron pier was so very popular. This year the women raked cinders and their eyes teared as they labored. These were the ashes of the dead that had drifted across the East River. By June there would be all manner of herbs in this garden, rosemary and sorrel and parsley, along with mustard, which was said to cast off gloom, and madder root, which was used for a dye. There would be bulbs of garlic that would appear burnt when peeled and tomatoes with bloody, black hearts, formed, perhaps, from their bed of embers. Coralie and Maureen did not speak of the tragedy. They usually did not discuss disturbing issues, which was why Mr. Morris was not often a topic of conversation. The museum employees likely had been directed not to ruminate over his fate, for whenever Coralie had brought up the Wolfman, the living wonders had gazed away. It had been several years since Professor Sardie had let him go. Now, as they worked side by side, Maureen paused upon hearing Mr. Morris’s name, but she quickly resumed ridding the garden of stickers and weeds. “How would I know what’s become of him?” she huffed. “I’m employed as a maid, not a mind reader.”

Yet a distracted smile played upon her usually stern mouth. Coralie had always guessed that the housekeeper knew far more than she dared to say.

“Fine, don’t tell me. Keep your secrets.”