The Museum of Extraordinary Things(76)

I hated to be thought of as my father’s daughter and nothing more. I might have flounced off, but curiosity had always been my downfall, and now it bloomed inside my breast. I left behind the fish I’d bought for some street cats, then followed Maureen and Mr. Morris down Neptune Avenue to Ocean Parkway. It was a long walk. Their destination was the Church of the Guardian Angel, an imposing Gothic stone building. I had never been to a Catholic church before, and this one had rows of beautiful pine pews and carved fittings. It was a space that could accommodate more than three hundred worshipers. Today there were perhaps fifteen attendees, half of them people I recognized from the museum. The Durante brothers, wearing stylish black suits, stood up in place of Malia’s father, a man she’d never known, and walked her down the aisle. There was the moody scent of incense, and dozens of candles were aglow. If an angel were ever to come to earth, I thought this would surely be the place he would choose for his arrival.

I ducked behind a column so that I might remain hidden from view during the service, not that anyone would notice me. All eyes were on Malia and her betrothed, both of whom stood like wondrous statues at the altar while the priest recited prayers in Latin. The prayers were like music, a river of words I didn’t understand, though I recognized them as a blessing. From where I was concealed, Malia looked nothing like the Butterfly Girl, that marvelous creature who perched on a wooden swing in the Museum of Extraordinary Things, resplendent in her orange and black costume, wings fashioned of silk and wire strapped in place of the arms she would have had if she’d been another girl. Now she wore a white taffeta dress, and a stunning veil of Portuguese-made lace tumbling down her back. Her groom stood beside her, a man of average height and appearance, love-struck, unable to take his eyes from his bride. He was a completely ordinary individual, not handsome or tall, and from bits of murmured conversation I overheard, I learned he was a streetcar driver. That was how they’d met, on a streetcar Malia and her mother had taken on an outing to Brighton Beach.

Many people cried during the ceremony, Maureen among them. She downright wept, and I was surprised to see her so emotionally wrought. Afterward, the guests rushed to congratulate both bride and groom before heading off to a small celebration at the groom’s family’s house. By then, I was halfway home. Because I couldn’t bear to go back to my father’s house, I went to the shore instead. I sat on a bench and breathed in the salt air. My gloved hands were folded on my lap, and the cotton fabric felt as if it had been spun from shards of glass. I knew what was inside of me: the green tendrils of jealousy. I wanted nothing more than to be an ordinary girl with the man I’d seen in the woods in love with me, though this seemed a more impossible occurrence than swimming out into Gravesend Bay, across the Atlantic Ocean to my father’s homeland of France.

When Malia came to work the following day, I nodded a greeting. I did not offer my congratulations or ask why she appeared so radiant. I pretended I had never stood behind the column in the church to witness her joy. I noticed that she, too, went about her business as if nothing had changed. Because she could not wear a ring, her husband had given her a simple gold necklace, which was clasped around her throat. She acted as if she had always had this lovely ornament, and made no mention of it. She gracefully slipped on her costume and chatted with her mother in their pretty, birdlike language. If she felt my gaze upon her, I assume she was accustomed to being stared at, just as I was used to wanting what I could not have.

But all things changed, or so it was said. Maureen once told me she believed she was the last person in the world who might find happiness. She believed she didn’t deserve it, she said, and had many times thought of throwing her life away, for it did not serve her well. Perhaps in the great scheme of things, another, more deserving person would be granted her time on earth. But each time she had considered ending her life, she’d had second thoughts. Who would have made your breakfast? she said to me. Who would have met the Wolfman when he first came into our yard, wearing his cloak, beaten by the world? Love happens in such a way, Maureen told me. It walks up to you, and when it does, you need to recognize it for what it is and, perhaps more important, for what it might become.





MAY 1911

THE OFFICERS had tramped through the garden, paying no attention to the runner beans, or the rows of lettuce, or to the huge bottle-green leaves of the squash plants, soon torn from their tendrils. The police in Coney Island could be hired as a personal squad for those willing to pay the price, and the Professor was among those who regularly made a donation on his own behalf so that he might run the museum as he pleased, unmolested by the authorities. It was a common enough practice, not just for reputable businessmen but for those with a more criminal intent, a world of con men and thieves. There were theater owners whose clientele had come to watch private shows of dancing naked women, only to be given knockout drops and robbed. Gambling houses where games of chance were rigged to ensure any and all players would lose. All of these establishments paid for the protection of the sheriff’s men.

Upon seeing the photographer, the Professor sent one of the Durante brothers to fetch several officers. The lawmen arrived quickly, there to do the museum owner’s bidding, for that was part of the bargain; they had their bully sticks at the ready, while the Professor and Eddie were still in the midst of a heated argument.

“If you’ve nothing to hide, why keep me out?” Eddie demanded.