Alice Hoffman - The Museum of Extraordinary Things

The museum began its season early, before Dreamland and Luna Park opened their gates. In this way they could hope to attract weekend visitors who might otherwise overlook such a small establishment in favor of the other parks. The billowing white sheets had already been removed from the cases of specimens, glass canisters and displays of bones had been dusted, and birdcages and fish tanks freshened. On this morning the living wonders had reported in to greet each other after a long winter, signing their names or, for those who hadn’t the skill of writing, making their marks with X es in a ledger book that charted the acts that would begin performing at the end of the week. Every year some alumnus went missing, and this season was no different. Gianni, for instance, an elderly man from Rome who ate fire and walked barefoot over a bed of hot coals, had simply disappeared. He had been ill at the end of last summer, coughing up bits of cinders and blood, and now people mourned his absence. Those who had returned embraced, gladdened to find they were not the only ones to survive another winter. Some had worked odd jobs, others had traveled with exhibitions or circuses in the South, still others merely waited for the season to begin again, like Malia, the Butterfly Girl, who bided her time in a boardinghouse where her mother took in mending to sustain their meager needs. This reunion was a day of celebration, especially as the Professor had been drinking late into the night and was still in bed. Eventually they would all have to meet with him and discuss their contracts, but for now it was far easier to enjoy themselves when his piercing glance was not evaluating everything that was said and done.

They were gathered around a table, drinking tea, delighting in Maureen’s apple fritters, excellent as always, even better than usual on this day, pastries concocted of sweetened dough that had been boiled in a vat on the huge coal-burning stove before being sprinkled with brown and white sugar.

Eddie stood just inside the garden, inflamed and astonished. There was Jeremiah, a sword swallower who made sure to coat his throat with a thick syrup made in the Indies before each performance and liked his tea especially hot. Two young brothers from the Bronx, the Durantes, ate from the same plate. The Butterfly Girl used her bare feet to partake of her breakfast as another might use her hands, and the Jungle Boy, whom people around the table called Horace, could not speak, yet made himself clear enough when he wished to have three cubes of sugar to his tea. There was a new wonder this season, a spritely man named William Reeves, who kept an alligator the size of a hunting dog on a chain. In Reeves’s act he removed the cap he wore, then held the beast’s jaws open to fit his head inside its gaping mouth, an orifice that was currently tied with string, to ensure the safety of those nearby should the beast mistake a thumb or forefinger for one of the chicken bits he was fed each night.

Eddie hoisted up his camera so that he might catch an image of this wondrous breakfast gathering. The garden itself seemed enchanted. Bands of light streamed over the table in shades of lemon and gold, and there was the scent of mint, and of damp earth, and of fragrant black currant tea. Malia threw back her head and laughed at a joke the Durantes told in tandem—the older brother always announced the punch line—and the new man, William Reeves, gazed at her joyfully, fully appreciating the Butterfly Girl’s beauty, while the sword swallower drank from his steaming cup of tea, his blade with its brass handle leaning against one bony knee. Though Eddie’s camera was so very quiet, the hollow click was enough to make the group on the porch freeze. Perhaps their senses were attuned in ways an average person’s were not. They turned en masse, wary, as though expecting to find a snake stretched along the length of a branch. They seemed startled to see such an ordinary individual there beside the pear tree, a tall young man with short-cropped hair and dark eyes, carelessly dressed in a blue jacket, light wool trousers, and laced boots.

As for Eddie, he approached humbly, knowing full well he was disturbing an intimate gathering. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping. I was passing by and it was such a perfect scene. I’m a photographer.”

Fearing his very presence would spook them, he held out his camera, evidence of his good intentions. Rather than shrink from him, the natural wonders were intrigued.

“I take portraits.” Eddie came closer, encouraged by their reactions. “And I’d be so happy to take any of yours.”

“Would you now?” the character named William Reeves replied with an edge of suspicion. “At what price?”

“Oh, there’s no fee,” Eddie assured him.

“Then you’ve got a deal.”

Reeves was the first to pose, and once he’d agreed, the ice was broken. The others gathered round to watch the slight, wiry man lift the alligator over his lap, placing one hand on its gray-green scales. “I always wanted a picture of Arthur,” he said, for he called his creature by this name. “Do you want me to look solemn?”

“Whatever suits you,” Eddie recommended.

Upon hearing this, Reeves broke into a grin. “This is me, buddy. Happy go lucky. Arthur’s the one who’s glum.”

From the kitchen where she was helping Maureen with the fried dough, Coralie overheard a murmur of conversation, then bright laughter. When there was a round of applause, she was compelled to go to the back door to peer through the screen. She could hardly believe the sight before her. There was Malia, perched on the porch railing as if ready for flight, a beautiful half butterfly. And, far more distracting, there he was, the man from the woods, right in Coralie’s own yard, as if he’d been magicked to Brooklyn. He had beautiful hands, long and pale, like a musician’s. When his jacket constricted his movements, he shrugged it off and continued working in his white shirt and suspenders. He had a brooding expression, so concentrated on his subject he seemed not to take in a single breath of air.

Coralie gazed through the meshing of the door, entranced as she watched him adjust the lens of his camera.

“Stay exactly as you are,” the photographer called to Malia. “This is perfect.”

The next batch of fritters sizzled in a pot on the stove, ready to be scooped out of the bubbling hot oil, but Coralie ignored her kitchen duties. This was the hand of fate. She was certain of it.

The photographer thanked Malia, then quickly began to set up his camera for another shot, removing one plate and inserting the next. The Durante brothers readied themselves for their turn, bending around each other in a fluid circle so perfectly round it seemed to defy the capabilities of the human spine.

Maureen had been pulled into the kitchen by the scent of fritters burning. She gasped when she saw the pot of oil, singed and turning black. “Here’s a waste,” she said mournfully as she quickly lifted the pot from the flame. She noticed Coralie at the door, a strange expression crossing her face. “I’d like to know what all the ruckus is about.” Maureen approached the back door, narrowing her eyes when she took note of the man with the camera. The brothers were cheerfully posing for him. “What does he think he’s doing? He’ll get a thrashing if he’s caught. We’ll all be in the shit.”

Maureen pushed open the door before Coralie could prevent her. “Stop what you’re doing this minute,” the housekeeper called sharply to Eddie. “This yard is private property and there are private lives being lived here.”

Eddie gazed up to see a beautiful red-haired woman whose extreme disfigurement was evident even across the distance between them. He felt humbled by the strength and authority in her tone. “Miss,” he said earnestly. “Forgive me for not asking your permission.”