The Museum of Extraordinary Things(69)
“You thought I was about to murder you back there.” Joe looked pleased with himself. “Admit it.”
“It crossed my mind. Then I thought of your allegiance to God, and found relief.” Eddie’s edge of cynicism caused a smile to play at his lips. “You’d have to pay when you came before him.”
“I’m before him now,” the liveryman said solemnly. “I’ve come to understand I’m before him each and every minute.”
The marshland sprawled to the south in patches of gold and green. There was a slight haze as they crossed the wooden bridge that forded a watery fen and a rivulet known as Coney Island Creek. The original bridges over the creek had been constructed of wood, but the first roads were made of shells. Shells were still tossed down as seabirds dropped clams so they might smash open on the bridges and the roads. Several migrating ospreys nested in the branches of tall trees. Sun dashed onto Eddie’s face and made his eyes tear. The salt in the air stung their faces and refreshed their spirits. The light was paler here than in Manhattan, tempered by soft clouds. It was the sort of light Moses Levy would have delighted in, for while it obscured the larger horizon, it allowed the camera’s lens to pinpoint the smallest detail even as they entered the streets of Coney Island with their crowds of shoppers. All of Brooklyn seemed bathed in a glow. The gleam of the trolley tracks on Neptune Avenue, the carousels with their painted wooden lions and horses, all glinted with intense color. Even the market awnings shone with bright stripes of crimson and yellow and blue.
The liveryman stopped the carriage on Surf Avenue. The renovation at Dreamland was in its final stages. Huge piles of sandy earth had been dug up, then dumped in the street. Each time the breeze arose, sand whipped into little dirt devils that burst into the air.
“This is as far as I can take you. Otherwise he’ll know it’s me that brought you here.” Down the avenue the roof and gables of the Museum of Extraordinary Things could be spied. “I’d like to kill him, and don’t think I haven’t had the chance. But he’s got access to what I need, God forgive me, so I’ll go no farther.”
Eddie leapt down from the carriage, camera in hand. “Wait for me then. I’ll need a ride back.”
“What do you mean? I’ve done my part, haven’t I? Do you think I’m your lackey meant to do your bidding?”
“I thought you were my brother,” Eddie mocked.
“Half brother.”
“Stay put. And hope that I come back.”
The liveryman turned the carriage despite Eddie’s order, and let out a whistle that caused his horse to break into a trot. “Hope that for yourself,” he called over his shoulder. “Good luck making your own way back.”
THERE WAS so much noise and commotion at Dreamland that it was a relief to turn onto the slate path that led to the museum. A wash of quiet settled over Eddie, and the air was cooler than it had been on the crowded avenue. The institution Eddie approached appeared to be more of a house than museum; it was still off-season, if only for a few days more, and the place was surprisingly run-down. At the end of the path, Eddie found the entryway door locked. The wooden signs that announced the spectacular marvels to be seen within had not yet been hung but were instead tossed upon the grass, the paint dewy and fading. Two lilac trees were lavishly in bloom, surrounded by a cloud of bees. By now Eddie had begun to hear voices. He followed the sound of conversation around the perimeter of the exhibition hall, finding himself on the outskirts of a large yard. There were new leaves on a towering pear tree. Eddie had to peer through the branches so that he might view the gathering on the porch. Another man might have been stunned by what he saw, but Eddie was delighted by the wonders he observed. For a moment he forgot why he had come and was content to simply gaze upon the miraculous forms that had appeared before him.
The museum began its season early, before Dreamland and Luna Park opened their gates. In this way they could hope to attract weekend visitors who might otherwise overlook such a small establishment in favor of the other parks. The billowing white sheets had already been removed from the cases of specimens, glass canisters and displays of bones had been dusted, and birdcages and fish tanks freshened. On this morning the living wonders had reported in to greet each other after a long winter, signing their names or, for those who hadn’t the skill of writing, making their marks with Xes in a ledger book that charted the acts that would begin performing at the end of the week. Every year some alumnus went missing, and this season was no different. Gianni, for instance, an elderly man from Rome who ate fire and walked barefoot over a bed of hot coals, had simply disappeared. He had been ill at the end of last summer, coughing up bits of cinders and blood, and now people mourned his absence. Those who had returned embraced, gladdened to find they were not the only ones to survive another winter. Some had worked odd jobs, others had traveled with exhibitions or circuses in the South, still others merely waited for the season to begin again, like Malia, the Butterfly Girl, who bided her time in a boardinghouse where her mother took in mending to sustain their meager needs. This reunion was a day of celebration, especially as the Professor had been drinking late into the night and was still in bed. Eventually they would all have to meet with him and discuss their contracts, but for now it was far easier to enjoy themselves when his piercing glance was not evaluating everything that was said and done.