The Museum of Extraordinary Things(57)
One day Coralie blundered upon a hint that her suspicions had been correct. She spied Maureen on Neptune Avenue, on the other side of the trolley tracks. It was Sunday, the housekeeper’s day off. The air was bracing due to the spring fog that hadn’t yet lifted. The haze turned the world into a mist, and within that mist Maureen appeared beautiful, her long auburn hair wound up with tortoiseshell combs. Shrouded in the hazy air, her damaged face seemed perfect, as it must have been before she’d been assaulted by her jealous lover. She had no photographs of herself in her earlier years; she insisted that photographs were for the rich. But trust me, she was always quick to say with a grin, I made heads turn.
On this quiet Sunday, Coralie followed the housekeeper to a building where many seasonal workers boarded. She trailed her inside, up to the third floor. When Maureen turned, as if she’d heard footfalls, Coralie darted into the stairwell. At last she dared to glance out, only to find she’d lost sight of Maureen. She went along the hallway, listening in at the doors, her ear pressed close. At one set of rooms she thought she heard the rise of Maureen’s voice, but she couldn’t be sure.
Nearby, a door opened and an old woman peered into the corridor. Coralie had no choice but to pass by on her way back to the stairwell. The hallway was poorly lit, but Coralie could tell the woman gazing out had worked at a carnival or a sideshow, for she was covered with tattoos. Living wonders looked down upon those whose attributes weren’t natural, and the old woman may have felt she was an outcast. Her expression was coarse and bitter. She wore a heavy wool cloak, a hood over her head. When Coralie drew near, it was possible for her to see a mask of flowers and vines on the woman’s aging face, a scrim of blue and red inked around her narrowed eyes.
“What are you doing here?” the tattooed woman wanted to know.
Coralie said she was looking for a Mr. Morris.
“Who are you?” the older woman asked. “His whore?”
Coralie felt the sting of outrage. “Of course not!” She calmed herself and went on. “But I think there is a woman who stays with him. As for him, you’d recognize him—he’s quite covered with hair.”
“Every beast can find a woman. It’s so unfair, for what man would have a woman like me? You can barely bring yourself to look me in the eye, but if you’d like, you can come inside my room. I’ll show you everything, if you have the nerve to look. These pictures cover every bit of me, even the most private parts that were sweet once upon a time.” The old woman gestured for her to come in. “One whore knows another, darling. It’s written all over our faces.”
It was a wretched thing to say. Stunned, Coralie ran down the stairs, her heart pounding, the callous comment still cutting her as she fled. She couldn’t help but wonder if the old woman had a talent as a mind reader, if she’d somehow intuited what had happened on those wicked nights at the museum. Coralie ran home, unaware of the world around her. Once safely in her room, she bolted the door and stood before the mirror. She was a plain girl, nothing more. There were no flowers, no ink, no signs of her true nature. Then she looked down and saw that in her hurry to follow Maureen she had forgotten her gloves. Her deformity had been there for the old woman to see, her own dyed skin, the webbing between her fingers, the mark of who she truly was.
Coralie threw herself across her bed. As she dreamed on this hazy afternoon she found herself lost in the woods. She spied the young man once again and followed him to a cliff. She could view the river from where she stood and hear the birds in the sycamore trees. The young man seemed to know her, and he stepped near. Coralie hoped he would embrace her, but instead he urged her to jump into the river. It’s the only way, he said to her. The danger seemed so apparent, only a fool would make such a leap. Coralie was torn between her wish to win him over and her dread. It’s much easier than you could have ever imagined, the young man told her. She took one step and began to fall through the air, not breathing until she hit the water. There, in the river, she became her deepest self, a monster, to be sure, but one with iridescent scales, a fierce and fearless wonder of the world.
Restless, Coralie went out walking regardless of the weather, often stopping to watch the workers at Dreamland. There were hundreds of men swarming over the park, painting and reconstructing the buildings to ensure that Dreamland would be ready for the last weekend of May. She’d hoped to see Mr. Morris among the crowd of newly hired performers, for many had reported in early so they might practice their acts throughout April and May, but he was nowhere to be seen. Still, the park drew her to its gates. She was fascinated with the land of Lilliputia, where everything had been built to scale, so that a tall man might easily lean his elbow on the roofs of the houses and a full-grown woman could stare down the chimneys to watch the miniature lives that would be led inside for the entertainment of Dreamland’s patrons. Coralie wondered if these small people were grateful to be protected in their separate world, if they would light candles in the evenings and sit comfortably at their dining room tables, curtains drawn, so they might lead ordinary lives.
When she grew tired of watching the little village, Coralie peered through the wire fencing to gaze at the shell of the enormous ride Hell Gate. It was impossible to see inside, but she found herself frightened by the artwork that surrounded it, devils with their beards and magic wands. What she loved most was to view the animals in their pens. The great animal trainer Bonavita spied her watching and invited her in through the employees’ gate. She immediately recognized him from posters that were hung all over Coney Island. Bonavita had been well known in Europe, and now, in Brooklyn, he was a star. He was a handsome, graceful man, despite having lost one arm to a maddened lion called Baltimore. The animals were kept year round in a lot beside the park, surrounded by tall fences spiked with nails and glass to ensure that neighborhood boys searching for thrills wouldn’t climb over and find themselves in a cage of tigers or discover they had come face-to-face with Bonavita’s beloved black-maned lion, Black Prince.