Dreamland Social Club(30)

Jane couldn’t find words to speak, just studied that mermaid and her cigarette and nodded.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you home.”





“Anybody here?” Jane called out in the dusty foyer. When there was no answer, she invited Leo in.

“So there it is,” he said immediately upon entering the hall, then he approached the Claverack horse and stroked it, as if it were real.

“Climb on if you want.” Jane turned a lamp on; it glowed gold.

“Nah,” Leo said. “I shouldn’t.” He stepped back from the horse. “What do you think you’ll do with it?”

“I honestly have no idea.” She nodded her head toward the stairs. “The rest is upstairs.”

She led the way to the attic, pulled the bulb light on, and stepped aside to let Leo up the final step. He crossed the room to touch the Hell Gate demon and said, “Incredible.” He shook his head a few times in disbelief. “How the hell did he get his hands on this?”

“I don’t know. But I found this in a box of stuff.” She handed a small piece of cardstock to Leo; it was an invitation to Trump’s Demolition Party at Steeplechase. “He must’ve been on a sort of mission to save stuff. It’s possible he made off with the horse the night of the party.”

Leo turned to take in the rest of the room. She just watched his eyes, the way the blue in there seemed to swirl with excitement over what he was seeing. She had uncovered a few other notable pieces in Preemie’s collection: an old sign from Nathan’s; a sign that said “Wonder Wheel 5￠”; and a pair of old signs, one “swinging,” one “stationary.”

Leo shook his head. “Crazy old dude was single-handedly trying to preserve Coney. Gotta love that.”

Orphans in the Surf was on the reel, and Jane moved to the projector and turned it on. Leo swatted at the title card projected on his shirt, then laughed and moved out of the way. He turned and watched, and the only sounds in the room were the whir of the motor, the click of the film, and their breathing.

“It’s so sad,” Leo said as the film played, and Jane just nodded, watching the kids run through the surf.

Ashes, ashes. We all fall down.

The film ended and she turned the projector off. Leo said, “Do you think they were really orphans?”

She shrugged. “It’s almost sadder if they’re not. Because that would be cruel, you know?”

Leo stuck his hand into the box of reels and pulled one out. “What’s on this one?”

It was a reel Jane hadn’t watched yet. She’d been taking it slowly, savoring them, spreading them out over time. But Leo was there and he was asking, so she changed the reels, threaded the film. When the image of the entryway of Luna Park appeared on-screen—with its moon slices and towers and lights—she and Leo both sat cross-legged on the floor and watched.

It must have been a reel that they showed in movie houses, advertising Coney Island to tourists, because it was just a series of clips of amusement park attractions with people enjoying them. Jane recognized some of the amusements from pictures she’d seen, but to see them in action was another thing entirely. There was the human roulette wheel, with a bunch of people spinning round and round on a big circular disc, then being shot out off it when they couldn’t hold on any longer. There was the crazy spiral roller-coaster ride. Who would have guessed that the whole thing spun like a top on one big axis while cars rolled down the track. She wished she knew what it had been called, longed for it to have a name.

“Do you think it’s weird to be nostalgic for something you never even experienced?” she said, and Leo said, “No,” softly, shaking his head in the dark. Jane was suddenly this close to tears for reasons she couldn’t explain. Something about these images reached deep inside her, as if looking for a memory there, but it wouldn’t come. Not yet. She pushed the emotion aside and just watched. Because maybe it was nothing, not a memory at all. Maybe it was just that seeing Luna Park in action was more powerful than seeing it in photos.

That Coney Island, old Coney Island, had been something worth saving. Only no one had.

When the reel ended, Leo said, “I’d give my right arm for a time-travel machine,” and Jane felt like her heart might burst. Then when he said, “So tomorrow, you’ll meet my mom,” she was sure of it.




“I found something I want to show you,” she said to her father later that day. He fixed himself a cup of tea and then climbed up to the attic behind her, and Jane felt at once like she was about to do something both potentially great and potentially dumb. “Sit,” she said, and she reloaded the reel.

The images were no less magical the second time around, and Jane alternated between watching Luna Park come to life again and studying her father’s rapt face, lit by the film’s glow.

“Wow,” he said when the film was done.

“Wasn’t it amazing?” she said.

“It was.” He nodded, then sipped his tea, swallowed. “And you know something? I gave your mother a hard time about wanting to name you after Luna Park. Now I sort of wish I hadn’t.”

Jane said, “It should be that way again, don’t you think?”

He was quiet.

“You could help, Dad. It’s what you do.”