Dreamland Social Club(71)

Her father got up, almost sadly, and walked out of the room, and then he came back with a small wooden box in his hands. He put it down on the coffee table and opened it and pulled out a bunch of items: a ticket stub “from my first date with your mother,” a program from a play “from my second date with your mother,” a penny that had been stretched long like a funhouse mirror “from my third date with your mother.” He didn’t stop until the box was emptied of letters and trinkets and notes, leaving only a few pieces of jewelry and a photo.

“My favorite picture of her,” he said, and he handed it over. Jane saw her mom sitting on a beach chair, a bandanna on her head, drinking a cocktail out of a pineapple with a straw.

“I was saving this for you,” he said. “Her wedding band. For when you were older.”

Jane thought she was going to cry when he held out the ring toward her and said, “I guess I might as well give it to you now, though this isn’t exactly the scene I was picturing.”

“No,” she said, pushing it back. “When I’m older, whenever you think is right.”

He was still looking at the trinkets and tickets.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Jane said, and he sighed.

“I don’t want you to be sorry, honey. I want to be able to talk about stuff like this and disagree and have that be all right. And sometimes I want you to trust that I’m right.”

“But you’re not right about this.” She shook her head. “You can’t be.”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself, then.” He started to put his mementos away. “In the meantime, come with me on Thursday, will you? To the presentation? So you can see the whole of the plan and judge for yourself. I have four tickets for VIP seating. Marcus is coming. And you can bring a friend.”

Jane nodded. “Sure, Dad. Of course.”

“Okay,” he said when Marcus came into the room. “Here goes nothing.” He lifted the lock and chain so that it rested on a block of wood he’d found and then pulled it as far away from the horse as it would go. “You’d better stand back,” he said to Jane, and she stroked the horse’s mane before she did.

“Should I pre-dial 911 right now?” Marcus asked from the couch.

The ax missed the chain entirely on their father’s first try. He swung again, and this time the sound was hot and hard but still, the chain remained strong.

After a few more useless hacks, he put the ax down and rested his hands on his hips. “Tell them if they want it they have to come get it.”





It had been a long time since Jane had climbed the stairs to the attic, pulled the tiny metal beads of the bare bulb’s pull-string, breathed in all that dusty air. It was less dusty than it had been when they’d first arrived so many months ago, but it still felt heavy, old.

Mothy.

She studied the demon from Hell Gate up close for the first time, felt the chipping paint and the smooth lines of the curvature of its lips. She tried to imagine what it had been like to ride through Hell Gate, tried to understand the desire to pay hard-earned money in order to take a boat ride through a simulated hell, to confront its fiery circles, to look Satan in the eye. It seemed that people who lived all those years ago had had a hard enough time just dealing with the realities of their own world—epidemics, wars, outhouses. Did they really have to make it any worse? Any scarier? What was this fascination with the morbid and terrifying and weird? And why didn’t people have it anymore?

Or did they?

Looking around the room, Jane saw a few other things she was going to have to part with, whether her family ending up staying or not. Those “swinging” and “stationary” signs, for example. The invitation to Trump’s Demolition Party.

Those she wouldn’t miss.

But those films!

She’d grown so fond of those orphans, those diving horses, the old footage of Luna Park. They weren’t old family movies, no, but they’d started to feel that way. Apart from Is It Human? they were all she had.

But still . . .

She found a pen and paper and started to make a list of things she thought the Coney Island Museum might want. After she wrote down “Old Film: Orphans in the Surf,” she decided to watch it again, maybe for the last time, and it didn’t seem quite so horribly sad this time around. The shock of it was gone, and in its place was sadness, sure, but not nearly as much of it. When it ended, she returned to her list and wrote down, “Old film reel: ‘King’ & ‘Queen’ the Great Diving Horses.”

She had neglected to turn off the projector, and after she added a few more items to her list, new words appeared on the attic wall.

Baby Class at Lunch.

A new film started playing, tacked onto the same reel as Orphans.

It was impossible to tell for sure if it was the same toddlers. This time there were more of them, sitting on a staircase and eating sandwiches from brown bags. They were chewing and smiling and laughing and making funny faces, and even the herky-jerky grain of the film couldn’t change that fact.

They seemed . . . happy.

In the quiet of the attic, Jane let out a laugh.

Baby Class at Lunch?

The title seemed ludicrous.

Hilarious, even.

And the laugh turned into a giggle as she watched these orphans chew and mug for the camera. She couldn’t stop.