The Museum of Extraordinary Things
Page 111

I called for another drink. Without my resentment toward my father, the hatred I’d been carrying around was now directed at myself. The terrified boy in the forest who thought the owls could carry him away. The boy who believed there were ghosts in the grass. I was the coward who had cried in the forest. I was the one who could not stop mourning my mother.
Because I could not endure who I was, I had changed my name so that I might be someone brand new. I had placed upon my father’s shoulders my many flaws and faults.
“Maybe you’ll understand why he would risk everything for you now that you’ve known love,” Hochman said. He laughed when I gazed at him with surprise. “There’s no need of psychic powers to see that. I can spot desire after all these years.”
“Unfortunately she doesn’t feel as I do.” I had the letter I’d been given in my jacket, which I’d read over and over again, a wound I couldn’t help but revisit. “She’s sent me away.”
“Don’t walk away too fast,” the Wizard said. “She may change her mind.” Hochman toasted my health and wished me good fortune. “Love is the one thing that’s not easy to find. It’s an achievement, Eddie, to feel such a glorious emotion, whether it’s returned or not. Some men never do. Though I’m not surprised to hear you have a passion. I saw it inside you, even when you didn’t know it was there. Why do you think I hired you? I saw exactly who you were.”
THE NEXT DAY, I went looking for my father. I knew I owed him an apology. If I were to be honest, I owed him more than that. I had brought Mitts and North with me, knowing they needed the walk, and they were quiet, tempered by my mood. Once I’d climbed the steps, however, I found I couldn’t knock on the door. I stood there in the hallway where I had been a hundred times before, and yet I was not the same person who had lived here. The corridor appeared smaller and more narrow than I had remembered. There was the scent of cooking from other flats, onions and chicken, and the dim lighting that turned shadows blue. I imagined my father on the other side of the door, his prayer book open as he said the evening prayers, the photograph of my mother on the table propped up beside an empty soup bowl. I had looked to find what I was missing in Moses Levy, in the hermit, in Hochman, in Mr. Weiss, but all along it had been here, at the end of this corridor.
Still, I could not go farther. I couldn’t imagine asking for his forgiveness. My throat had closed up. Could words burn you? Could they tear you to pieces? I stood with my back against the wall that was streaked with cheap green paint. Mitts and North were beside me, on edge. Did I bring them for protection or merely for company? Or was there another reason? I had met an old woman on the dock the day I rescued Mitts, and she’d told me that it was easy enough to judge a man by the way he treated his dogs. Perhaps I wanted my father to see that I was not a wretched, thankless person, the sort of man who would walk away without a look back, a son who would judge his father and fail to rescue him when he was drowning. I had a heart after all, not straw inside me, but blood and bone and flesh.
I did the only thing I knew how to do. I had the rest of my savings with me, all I had. I slipped the envelope of money under the door. I thought I spied a shadow. I thought I felt him near. I bowed my head and said the evening prayers. I was grateful for the teachers I’d had, though I now recognized myself to be a slow and unexceptional student. I finally understood what Mr. Weiss had given me in return for finding his daughter, for, like the angels who are said to follow men’s lives on earth, he’d sent me a message. I was my father’s son, no matter what my name was.
Soon after, I returned to the mansion on Sixty-second Street. It was the day when all New York pulsed with excitement, for President Taft had come to preside at the dedication ceremony of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue. The building had cost more than nine million dollars and boasted a collection of over a million volumes. The huge lions that fronted the staircase to Fifth Avenue, sculpted by Edward Clark Potter, were nicknamed Leo Astor and Leo Lenox, for the library’s founders, John Jacob Astor and James Lenox. I avoided the crowds and slipped into a tavern, where I took my time over some warm gin till evening closed in. Then I went on to my destination. I stood in the dark, a shadow from my own past yet again. I looked up into the window I knew to be Juliet’s bedroom, but it was dark. I wished to thank her for her help. She was so bright, I thought she could help me grasp why the one woman I wanted would run from me. Juliet was an advocate for women’s rights. I, too, believed each woman had the right to follow her own destiny, but I hadn’t paid attention to the personal liberties women were lacking. Perhaps there was much more I hadn’t understood.