The Museum of Extraordinary Things(77)

“I won’t be the one keeping you out,” the Professor told him coldly. Though he was a liar, there was truth in his statement, for as soon as Eddie glanced over his shoulder, members of the sheriff’s department were upon him. They wasted no time dragging him from the property. He shouted that he had his rights, but in this garden clearly he did not, nor did he in all of Kings County. He cried out that he was being kept from his own property, for his camera and stand had fallen to the ground, but no one listened to his protestations. If he’d had ready cash for a payoff, he might have turned the situation around once they were out on Surf Avenue. But he had nothing to offer, and the officers did the job they had been paid to do, in which the goal was to dispose of him in such a way that he would never dare to return.

Coralie watched from her window, stunned. She had a wild urge to leap out and chase after them, and imagined grabbing the sword from the wall in her father’s bedroom so she might fight off the officers. But when the Professor turned to gaze up into her window, a hand over his eyes to block out the sun, she ducked behind the muslin curtains, breathing hard, terrified he might spy her shadow. She was ashamed by her own lack of courage, yet she shivered there, immobilized, tears streaking her face. Where was the bravery the trainer Bonavita had insisted she possessed when she stood inside the lion’s cage? Furious with herself, she tore off her gloves, then withdrew a needle from the sewing kit on her bedside table and stabbed it into the flesh between her fingers until there were drops of blood, each one a penance for her cowardice.

Later in the day, Coralie retrieved Eddie’s camera, which had been pitched into the hydrangea bushes, along with the glass plates that had captured the images of the living wonders. One plate had cracked, but the others were safe enough, though wet with dew. Coralie stashed Eddie’s belongings beneath the porch, then she went to her room and pulled down one of the curtains. She hurriedly returned to toss the curtain over the photography equipment to keep it from harm, weeping as she did so, as if it were a secret burial she was attending to.



That evening, Maureen called to her, suggesting they slip out to the porch, where they might be afforded some privacy. The Professor was in his study, still fuming, drinking too much rum. He had questioned Coralie after the incident. Had she ever met this young man who had dared to photograph the wonders? She vowed she had never before made his acquaintance, which was true enough. They had never formally been introduced.

“They took him over the bridge,” Maureen confided, for she’d asked the Durante brothers to follow the police wagon and report back to her. “They treated him as you might expect. He did not come out as the winner of this encounter. The authorities made it clear that, should he dare to enter Brooklyn again, he’ll find himself in the Raymond Street Jail, and that’s a place no man deserves to see. Let this be the end of it, Cora, for it can only finish badly for one and all.”



But it was not the end of it, not by far. The museum opened the following day. There were even fewer in attendance than anyone had expected, and several potential customers walked away rather than pay the price for a ticket, declaring forty cents to be an exorbitant fee. Still, it was the beginning of the season, with much to do to prepare for what they all hoped would be a more profitable summer, helped along by overflow crowds from Dreamland, which would reopen in all its glory on the last weekend of May.

The Professor made a special point to warn Coralie against strangers. He told her to report anyone who might be lurking about. They were in the parlor, beside the horrid cereus plant, its twisted brown form bare as sticks, its bitter scent dizzying. Coralie assured her father that she would do as he ordered, though she wished she dared ask what she was to make of the strangers who attended her private shows. She, indeed, looked out of sorts, her cheeks flushed and red, and the Professor insisted on testing her forehead for fever. The burning that consumed her, however, was not an illness, only the hatred she felt for him. All the same, his belief that she was afflicted suggested the beginnings of a plan. The following afternoon, she forced her fingers down her throat so that she might be sick and beg off her performance due to illness. She powdered her face so that she appeared infirm, and circled her eyes with coal so they seemed sunken and hot.

“Don’t think this will be a regular occurrence,” the Professor warned when he agreed to cancel the evening. “We need the income more than ever.”

Coralie took the Professor’s hand and kissed it, as if she were a dog willing to do his bidding. But dogs can bite no matter how well trained, and as soon as she went up to her room, Coralie brought out the keepsakes she had nabbed from the workshop desk. She did so every night, gazing at them, imagining how she might arrange a way to get them to those who were dearest to the drowned girl. Now she knew, her feigned illness would be the first step out the door.



The following morning, she said she was too ill to run errands, and was left in bed. It was Sunday, and the Professor had plans to visit one of the racetracks out on Long Island, where he often tried to double his money, or, at least, not lose it all. It was Maureen’s one day off, and most likely she would spend the afternoon with Mr. Morris. Coralie quickly dressed. She peered down from her window to see that the liveryman had returned. This was luck indeed, for he was not merely a workman but also the means of her escape. The weather was warm, and the liveryman’s shirt was off as he jumped down from the driver’s bench to fasten his horse’s lead to the fence post. Coralie could see what Maureen had whispered was indeed true—he had a great many wounds and scars, as well as a series of tattoos inked in deep reds and blues. On his back there was the image of a bird in flight, black wings stretched from one broad shoulder to the other.