The Museum of Extraordinary Things
Page 114
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MAY 1911
THE STABLE was empty, although several of the liveryman’s pigeons managed to find their way in through gaps in the wooden siding to take shelter for the night. Eddie had taken to spending time in this gloomy place with both Mitts and North, breathing in the scent of hay, remembering how he had come here as a boy and slept beside the horses. After one tiff, when Mitts approached the wolf in an overly friendly fashion, the two got on well enough, if ignoring one another meant there was an uneasy peace. Eddie’s hand was still wrapped, but the pain had eased. He supposed the bones were mending. His heart, however, was not in a similar condition, precisely the problem with having such an organ, for it caused pangs of desire and regret, reminding an individual that he was indeed human, prone to human sorrows and desires.
Eddie had reverted to his old insomniac’s habits, avoiding sleep for as long as possible, existing on a diet of coffee and gin. When he did close his eyes, whether dozing in a chair or resting his head against the stable wall, Coralie came to him in his dreams. She was in the river, in his bed, out of reach and leaving him in a fevered and dejected state. He’d memorized several lines from the note she’d written him. I do not love you and cannot pretend to. I am promised to a man in France, a family friend, and it is to him I now go. Please do not follow me. Forget me if you can.
He wished to do exactly that, but had discovered it wasn’t possible. He’d taken to drinking with serious intent, not for pleasure but for sheer inebriation. He missed the presence of the liveryman, and now held a deeper understanding of why a person might turn to opium, as he, himself, had embraced gin, for it was gin alone that allowed him a deep, black brand of sleep. Eddie tried not to dwell on the fact that he would soon be homeless. In a matter of days, the stable would be rented out to a tenant who had put in an offer to let the entire building. The new renter was an ironmonger who wished to set up a furnace in the alleyway and use Moses Levy’s studio for storage. Eddie was to vacate by the first of June. It was already the end of May, and deciding where to go next loomed as an impossible task, for it was difficult enough to find loft space possessing good light, all the more challenging given his financial situation and the presence of two large canines, one of which was indistinguishable in form and temperament from a wolf. When Eddie was drinking heavily enough, he had half a mind to move onto Beck’s property and build himself a shack. There he would take the hermit’s place, equally embittered and alone, avoiding humankind, but close to the river, comforted by that proximity. Then he thought better of the notion, for what the old man had predicted would surely come true before very long. The woods would disappear, replaced by concrete and bricks. There would be no room for wild creatures, just as there’d be no room for men who wished to escape the concerns of city life.
Eddie soon unwrapped his hand from its splint. It had healed well enough in his opinion; he didn’t need a doctor to tell him so. He was mulling over where he might go, perhaps to Queens County or even out to the potato farms of Long Island, when Beck’s wolf-dog began to growl, the hair rising along his back. Mitts also fixed his gaze on the back door that opened into the alley. Eddie grabbed a pitchfork from a stall and told the ever-friendly Mitts to stay, while North accompanied him. A light rain was falling when he opened the door and stepped onto the pavement that led to the dirt alleyway. There was the stench of outhouses and of rotting garbage. North’s growl deepened as they walked along, and although Eddie spied nothing beyond the dark, the wolf-dog suddenly lunged forward. A man’s deep resonant voice rang out. “Hold him back, please! I beg you!”
Eddie grabbed North, pulling him off his quarry. The night was dark, starry, but in this narrow alleyway there was only a small slice of sky to be seen. As summer approached, a dense heat collected between buildings so that every inch was a tinderbox. Perhaps it was that heat, or perhaps it was the tension of a possible confrontation, that caused Eddie to break into a sweat. By now, his eyes had adjusted well enough to spy the hazy figure of a man. The stranger’s head was bowed as he examined a rip North’s sharp teeth had torn in the fine woolen cape he wore. “Please understand, I’m here for your benefit,” the man said without gazing up. “I don’t wish to frighten you.”
Eddie laughed. He had the pitchfork as his weapon and the hermit’s fierce companion beside him. “And how would you do that?”
The fellow stepped forward and North lunged again. Eddie kept his grip on the wolf-dog’s collar and held fast, all the while mesmerized by what he saw. Before him was a man entirely covered by hair, growing down his face so that his features were difficult to discern. He had a feral, wild countenance, yet he wore a well-tailored suit under his fine woolen cape.
THE STABLE was empty, although several of the liveryman’s pigeons managed to find their way in through gaps in the wooden siding to take shelter for the night. Eddie had taken to spending time in this gloomy place with both Mitts and North, breathing in the scent of hay, remembering how he had come here as a boy and slept beside the horses. After one tiff, when Mitts approached the wolf in an overly friendly fashion, the two got on well enough, if ignoring one another meant there was an uneasy peace. Eddie’s hand was still wrapped, but the pain had eased. He supposed the bones were mending. His heart, however, was not in a similar condition, precisely the problem with having such an organ, for it caused pangs of desire and regret, reminding an individual that he was indeed human, prone to human sorrows and desires.
Eddie had reverted to his old insomniac’s habits, avoiding sleep for as long as possible, existing on a diet of coffee and gin. When he did close his eyes, whether dozing in a chair or resting his head against the stable wall, Coralie came to him in his dreams. She was in the river, in his bed, out of reach and leaving him in a fevered and dejected state. He’d memorized several lines from the note she’d written him. I do not love you and cannot pretend to. I am promised to a man in France, a family friend, and it is to him I now go. Please do not follow me. Forget me if you can.
He wished to do exactly that, but had discovered it wasn’t possible. He’d taken to drinking with serious intent, not for pleasure but for sheer inebriation. He missed the presence of the liveryman, and now held a deeper understanding of why a person might turn to opium, as he, himself, had embraced gin, for it was gin alone that allowed him a deep, black brand of sleep. Eddie tried not to dwell on the fact that he would soon be homeless. In a matter of days, the stable would be rented out to a tenant who had put in an offer to let the entire building. The new renter was an ironmonger who wished to set up a furnace in the alleyway and use Moses Levy’s studio for storage. Eddie was to vacate by the first of June. It was already the end of May, and deciding where to go next loomed as an impossible task, for it was difficult enough to find loft space possessing good light, all the more challenging given his financial situation and the presence of two large canines, one of which was indistinguishable in form and temperament from a wolf. When Eddie was drinking heavily enough, he had half a mind to move onto Beck’s property and build himself a shack. There he would take the hermit’s place, equally embittered and alone, avoiding humankind, but close to the river, comforted by that proximity. Then he thought better of the notion, for what the old man had predicted would surely come true before very long. The woods would disappear, replaced by concrete and bricks. There would be no room for wild creatures, just as there’d be no room for men who wished to escape the concerns of city life.
Eddie soon unwrapped his hand from its splint. It had healed well enough in his opinion; he didn’t need a doctor to tell him so. He was mulling over where he might go, perhaps to Queens County or even out to the potato farms of Long Island, when Beck’s wolf-dog began to growl, the hair rising along his back. Mitts also fixed his gaze on the back door that opened into the alley. Eddie grabbed a pitchfork from a stall and told the ever-friendly Mitts to stay, while North accompanied him. A light rain was falling when he opened the door and stepped onto the pavement that led to the dirt alleyway. There was the stench of outhouses and of rotting garbage. North’s growl deepened as they walked along, and although Eddie spied nothing beyond the dark, the wolf-dog suddenly lunged forward. A man’s deep resonant voice rang out. “Hold him back, please! I beg you!”
Eddie grabbed North, pulling him off his quarry. The night was dark, starry, but in this narrow alleyway there was only a small slice of sky to be seen. As summer approached, a dense heat collected between buildings so that every inch was a tinderbox. Perhaps it was that heat, or perhaps it was the tension of a possible confrontation, that caused Eddie to break into a sweat. By now, his eyes had adjusted well enough to spy the hazy figure of a man. The stranger’s head was bowed as he examined a rip North’s sharp teeth had torn in the fine woolen cape he wore. “Please understand, I’m here for your benefit,” the man said without gazing up. “I don’t wish to frighten you.”
Eddie laughed. He had the pitchfork as his weapon and the hermit’s fierce companion beside him. “And how would you do that?”
The fellow stepped forward and North lunged again. Eddie kept his grip on the wolf-dog’s collar and held fast, all the while mesmerized by what he saw. Before him was a man entirely covered by hair, growing down his face so that his features were difficult to discern. He had a feral, wild countenance, yet he wore a well-tailored suit under his fine woolen cape.
