The Museum of Extraordinary Things
Page 115
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“I’m a man, though you might think otherwise,” the stranger announced, obviously accustomed to a puzzled, often hostile response to his presence.
Eddie was bewildered. He gazed at the individual in the alleyway with unabashed curiosity. Though functioning through the haze of drink, he was still a photographer to the core, and he cursed himself for not having his camera at the ready so that he might record this visitation. “The world is more varied and wondrous than most men understand,” Eddie said to his visitor. “No one is what he seems.”
“I’d agree with that. And in that same vein, I’d say that beast is no dog.” The stranger eyed North cautiously. “Dogs usually prefer me to ordinary men.” Dogs, it was true, often had an uncanny sense of what a person was made of, while wild creatures did not take the time to discern such distinctions, for it was equally true that men mattered little in their world. Yet, it seemed that North recognized the stranger as an equal of a sort, for after he had assumed the stance of the dominant of the two, he seemed more accepting of the hairy man. The stranger appeared relieved. “We may need a wolf where we’re going.”
Eddie laughed at the notion. “Sir, it’s late in the evening and I plan on going nowhere.”
The stranger, however, seemed convinced otherwise. He had a rented carriage waiting on Tenth Avenue. He introduced himself as Raymond Morris, a resident of Brooklyn and a concerned friend of Coralie’s.
Upon hearing his beloved’s name, Eddie felt instantly sobered. “You’d best not include me in Miss Sardie’s concerns. She wrote me a note plainly stating she never wished to see me again.”
“Sir, you are mistaken. Coralie has not the ability to compose a note. She was never taught to write.”
Eddie was startled to hear this, for Coralie had spoken of her love of reading. “Say what you will, but I received her note,” he protested. Indeed he had the sheet of paper in the drawer of his bedside table, though he’d thought a hundred times of burning it.
“You received what the Professor wished you to have. The museum is closed and every employee has been let go. He has her trapped, for that is the only way he can keep her. The best course of action is for you to come with me, as I would never get a foot in that house. We may do well to let the wolf lead the way.”
Mr. Morris slipped on his hood, then gestured for Eddie to follow. Like a dreamer who asks not for reason, needing only a single mission to move him forward in his dream, Eddie accompanied his new companion to the street. North, for his part, was wary, but willing to follow the stranger.
The driver of the waiting hansom seemed a nervous man. He had on a cap and a formal suit, for he worked full-time for a wealthy patron, and took odd jobs in his off hours. He’d known Mr. Morris for some time and had become used to his appearance, but he didn’t care for the way the horse startled when it picked up North’s scent. “You didn’t say nothing about a wolf, Ray,” he said to Mr. Morris.
Mr. Morris handed over an extra ten dollars, an enormous amount considering the streetcar crosstown was a dime, but one had to take into account the distance to Coney Island, the secrecy of their journey, and the wolflike creature now leaping into the rear of the carriage. In his haste, Eddie had left the stable door ajar, and Mitts, who could never tolerate being left behind, managed to push his way out. The pit bull galumphed his way to the waiting carriage and made a beeline for the driver, cheerfully ingratiating himself, licking the driver’s hand and wagging his stump of a tail. Perhaps it was this genial, merry behavior that allowed them to gain their transit to Brooklyn that night, for the driver said he’d had a dog like Mitts in his youth and he firmly announced there was no finer or braver companion.
It was late when they reached their destination, after one in the morning. The sky was a bowl of stars in Kings County. The streets of Coney Island were deserted, but as the carriage passed by Dreamland they could see brilliant banks of lights and a boisterous crush of carpenters and workmen. A fiendish amount of last-minute construction was at hand, with hundreds of employees and day workers doing their best to finish before morning, when the park would open its gates for the season, with thousands arriving by excursion steamboat and ferry and railroad. In only hours, the first customers would be invited into the new and improved playground that had cost a true fortune to refashion. Great care had been taken to assure it would outshine all other entertainments, not simply on Coney Island but in the world.
Dreamland was illuminated by thousands of lightbulbs; the scene was so bright Eddie needed to blink to see within the gates as they passed by. He could spy the outlines of the grand entertainment Hell Gate, with its leering forty-foot-tall demons holding court at the entranceway to the ride’s covered tunnel. Every light in the park had been turned on for the workers, but the strain was too much. All at once, as their carriage approached, there was a short circuit, with many of the bulbs shattering from the burst of energy that surged before everything went black. Mr. Morris’s driver whistled for his horse to increase his pace, for he feared the creature would be spooked by the rising sound of the roars of lions and tigers pacing their cages, all startled and invigorated by the sudden dark.
Eddie was bewildered. He gazed at the individual in the alleyway with unabashed curiosity. Though functioning through the haze of drink, he was still a photographer to the core, and he cursed himself for not having his camera at the ready so that he might record this visitation. “The world is more varied and wondrous than most men understand,” Eddie said to his visitor. “No one is what he seems.”
“I’d agree with that. And in that same vein, I’d say that beast is no dog.” The stranger eyed North cautiously. “Dogs usually prefer me to ordinary men.” Dogs, it was true, often had an uncanny sense of what a person was made of, while wild creatures did not take the time to discern such distinctions, for it was equally true that men mattered little in their world. Yet, it seemed that North recognized the stranger as an equal of a sort, for after he had assumed the stance of the dominant of the two, he seemed more accepting of the hairy man. The stranger appeared relieved. “We may need a wolf where we’re going.”
Eddie laughed at the notion. “Sir, it’s late in the evening and I plan on going nowhere.”
The stranger, however, seemed convinced otherwise. He had a rented carriage waiting on Tenth Avenue. He introduced himself as Raymond Morris, a resident of Brooklyn and a concerned friend of Coralie’s.
Upon hearing his beloved’s name, Eddie felt instantly sobered. “You’d best not include me in Miss Sardie’s concerns. She wrote me a note plainly stating she never wished to see me again.”
“Sir, you are mistaken. Coralie has not the ability to compose a note. She was never taught to write.”
Eddie was startled to hear this, for Coralie had spoken of her love of reading. “Say what you will, but I received her note,” he protested. Indeed he had the sheet of paper in the drawer of his bedside table, though he’d thought a hundred times of burning it.
“You received what the Professor wished you to have. The museum is closed and every employee has been let go. He has her trapped, for that is the only way he can keep her. The best course of action is for you to come with me, as I would never get a foot in that house. We may do well to let the wolf lead the way.”
Mr. Morris slipped on his hood, then gestured for Eddie to follow. Like a dreamer who asks not for reason, needing only a single mission to move him forward in his dream, Eddie accompanied his new companion to the street. North, for his part, was wary, but willing to follow the stranger.
The driver of the waiting hansom seemed a nervous man. He had on a cap and a formal suit, for he worked full-time for a wealthy patron, and took odd jobs in his off hours. He’d known Mr. Morris for some time and had become used to his appearance, but he didn’t care for the way the horse startled when it picked up North’s scent. “You didn’t say nothing about a wolf, Ray,” he said to Mr. Morris.
Mr. Morris handed over an extra ten dollars, an enormous amount considering the streetcar crosstown was a dime, but one had to take into account the distance to Coney Island, the secrecy of their journey, and the wolflike creature now leaping into the rear of the carriage. In his haste, Eddie had left the stable door ajar, and Mitts, who could never tolerate being left behind, managed to push his way out. The pit bull galumphed his way to the waiting carriage and made a beeline for the driver, cheerfully ingratiating himself, licking the driver’s hand and wagging his stump of a tail. Perhaps it was this genial, merry behavior that allowed them to gain their transit to Brooklyn that night, for the driver said he’d had a dog like Mitts in his youth and he firmly announced there was no finer or braver companion.
It was late when they reached their destination, after one in the morning. The sky was a bowl of stars in Kings County. The streets of Coney Island were deserted, but as the carriage passed by Dreamland they could see brilliant banks of lights and a boisterous crush of carpenters and workmen. A fiendish amount of last-minute construction was at hand, with hundreds of employees and day workers doing their best to finish before morning, when the park would open its gates for the season, with thousands arriving by excursion steamboat and ferry and railroad. In only hours, the first customers would be invited into the new and improved playground that had cost a true fortune to refashion. Great care had been taken to assure it would outshine all other entertainments, not simply on Coney Island but in the world.
Dreamland was illuminated by thousands of lightbulbs; the scene was so bright Eddie needed to blink to see within the gates as they passed by. He could spy the outlines of the grand entertainment Hell Gate, with its leering forty-foot-tall demons holding court at the entranceway to the ride’s covered tunnel. Every light in the park had been turned on for the workers, but the strain was too much. All at once, as their carriage approached, there was a short circuit, with many of the bulbs shattering from the burst of energy that surged before everything went black. Mr. Morris’s driver whistled for his horse to increase his pace, for he feared the creature would be spooked by the rising sound of the roars of lions and tigers pacing their cages, all startled and invigorated by the sudden dark.
