The Museum of Extraordinary Things
Page 85

Though it was my own house, and though I had permission granted to me, I felt like a thief as I made my way upstairs. My intentions were not pure, but they drove me on. I pushed open the door to my father’s room, which was at least double the size of my own small chamber. I first took note of the dressing table, where he kept cigars and pipes and tinctures, along with a decanter of rum. There were pots of the tar-like oily stuff that he often preferred to his pipe tobacco. Strewn about were books of tabulations and reams of bills. My father’s predilection for the rare had cost him dearly, and the creatures and artifacts on exhibit had not come cheap. Though I lacked accounting skills, I saw that the Museum of Extraordinary Things owed more than it earned. There were marks in blue, and more in red, all adding up to the steely truth of my father’s statement that I must be able to earn my keep.
I tugged open the drapes. The view from the window was quite lovely in my opinion, all sky and then the outline of the white and silver towers of Dreamland. From here it was possible to make out the edge of the sea, and the fishing boats and ferries. I saw to the linens on the bed and dusted the woodwork. When I reached the feather duster to the highest window sash, I spied a sword, a glossy silver thing, embossed with designs of stars and moons. It was the very same sword he’d used in France to cut a woman in half, for I’d seen sketches of it in his handbook. When I took it down, it was heavy in my hands, an enormous, ornate piece of cutlery. I noticed the blade was still sharp, but not before I unintentionally cut myself.
I gasped with pain, and it was my bad fortune that at that moment Maureen came bustling in, wondering why my task was taking so long. Surely, she immediately regretted allowing me entrance to my father’s bedroom. Blood was pooling in my hand. She grabbed the sword from me, a look of despair on her face. If only I had nicked the webbing of my fingers, but the cut was in the center of my palm.
“This is not a toy or some amusement,” she informed me. “I thought I taught you far better than this.”
She returned the sword to its rightful place, drew the curtains, and ushered me from the room. In the hallway she held me by my shoulders and shook me. “I had no idea I was raising such a fool” was what she whispered to me. I was stung by her words, surprised by the depth of her anger. Then I saw tears in her eyes and I understood. She feared for my welfare. I knew she would not have sat idly by if she had been aware of my father’s punishments, or of the way I earned my keep. I felt an apology upon my lips and longed to explain with a full confession of what my life had become. I wished to tell her how I ached to run away, as the Wolfman had done. I dreamed of climbing out my window to feel the rain upon my skin, and walk, if I must do so, all the way to Manhattan, where I could sift among the crowds unnoticed, and find the one man who might see me as more than a curiosity and connect to the soul I carried inside of me.
I yearned to tell Maureen all this and more, but I did not say a word. I could not bring myself to worry her or cause her any more pain than she’d already known. A few days earlier I had come upon her washing up after her day of work. She was at the sink with a pitcher of water and a washcloth, partially unclothed. I realized I had never seen her naked, for we were modest people. Now her muslin blouse was open as she rid herself of dust and grime. I saw that she had been burned not merely on her face but across her body as well. The splattering on her mottled skin convinced me that when acid had been thrown at her it had splattered, and had burned right through her clothes, for the blotches were everywhere.
On the afternoon Maureen scolded me in the corridor outside my father’s room, I told her nothing of my own distress. Instead I simply promised I would not touch the sword again. I took her hand and kissed it, and I think she believed me, for she brought me down to the kitchen and had me scrub out pots while she made us a lunch of toast and fried eggs with mushrooms she had unearthed in the garden, a special treat she knew was a favorite of mine.
NOW AND THEN, on afternoons when I dashed off to the market to run errands at the end of the day, I caught sight of the Wolfman waiting for Maureen. I myself had not spoken with him since the day he disappeared. He usually positioned himself in the shadows of two large cypress trees that framed either side of the fenced entranceway to a funeral parlor. He rightly assumed that people would rush by that cold address, not wishing to see what was eventually in store for them and their loved ones. He wore a hooded cloak and made himself all but invisible, but despite the distance and his disguise, I could see his aspect brighten whenever he spied Maureen leaving our establishment and heading toward him. Each time I saw them together I understood love a little more.