Among the Wonderful (39 page)

I remember I had shut myself away from the light. Even the oblique northern sun gave me horrible headaches, especially if I hadn’t had enough medicine, so I stayed behind drawn curtains, watching motes drift up and down in the narrow shafts that managed to angle in
.

I watched the two strangers come across the yard and felt Mother watching, too. When we heard the gate we thought it must be Father; he would be coming home anytime now. Methuselah Jones’ beard was still dark then, and it tumbled down his chest in unusual curls. He was elegantly dressed in a violet vest and lavender cravat, all the rest black, as I recall. And it’s a good thing he was dressed well, because his finery just barely offset the fact that his black hair was blatantly unkempt, some of it even tangled into felted clumps. His mustache obscured his mouth completely, and his wide-set eyes held more than a glimmer of chaos. Bright blue and constantly flitting from one thing to another, Methuselah Jones’ eyes were probably
the primary attractions of Jones’ Medicine Show. They were painted, in the manner of the Turkish evil eye, on all the carriages and even over the entrance gate
.

Madame Jones tempered the effect of her husband exquisitely. Slim, just old enough to be trustworthy, and dressed in tawny shades of gold and amber that accentuated the blond hair swept back in a simple bun, she was his conduit into the realms of society. She walked slightly ahead of him toward the house, her arm already reaching for the bell and a charming smile spreading on her lips. I heard my mother’s hesitant steps toward the door and returned to my chair. I preferred to meet them sitting down
.

“Hello, Miss Swift,” Mrs. Jones said as they came into the room. My mother parted the curtains, and both strangers bowed courteously. Mrs. Jones stepped forward. “You are surely aware, by now, that you are the only giantess currently working in the world?”

“Actually, no.” This took me by surprise. “But I am not actually working. I’m sure you saw the booth in our yard. It has been overtaken by brambles.”

“We are hoping to change that,” Madame Jones said bluntly. Methuselah Jones had faded into the shadows behind his wife. It was one of his many strategies. “I hope you will hear our terms.”

It was the subject that Mother would not dare to raise with me. It was totally beyond her scope to urge her only child (even if she was already twenty years old) away from home, especially a female child into a world of commerce. My mother left the room
.

“Our medicine show tours six months of the year,” Madame Jones continued. “We employ all kinds of people, maintain a menagerie of animals from all six habitable continents, and additionally produce special exhibits and performances during winters from our permanent theater in Halifax. We are known worldwide, and have been in operation eighty years, since Methuselah’s father started his traveling menagerie. As our employee, you will see the world; every other year we take our best people and animals (of which you will be one, that we guarantee) overseas, to London, Paris, Amsterdam, Prague, and Saint Petersburg. All our accommodations are exquisite. You will have your own custom-built living coach while we travel on this continent, and private rooms in Halifax.”

I listened to her, already sensing Pictou slipping away. I had
destroyed our lives here, the farm was gone and my mother worn almost entirely away. If I left, she would return to real life, wouldn’t she?

“The truth is, we are surprised you haven’t been approached already,” Madame Jones confided. “If there are special things you want, you must really let us know.”

I said nothing. Years ago now I had stepped out of one life, leaving the husk of a little girl behind like an abandoned cocoon to blow away in the wind. I would do it again
.

She came closer to me, glancing quickly over her shoulder to make sure my mother wasn’t there
.

“To really live, Miss Swift, you must expand yourself into many identities. You are constricted here, I can see.” She gestured to the shabby room. “This world is just one of many. Very many. You can belong to different worlds, Miss Swift. The Greeks! Folklore and fantasy are open to you. And there are so many others who could be a new family. You must try being with them. You will be independent. You will have money. For them.” She gestured toward the kitchen. “And for you.”

I nodded. “How soon can I go?”

Madame Jones clapped her hands. “Soon! We must talk terms, and then we’ll arrange your passage.”

Methuselah Jones then stepped into the light, leading with his eyes. “You come with us, miss, you quit the morphine. That’s part of the deal.”

I nodded. Outside, the gate creaked. He’d returned from the boats. I heard no welcoming footsteps from my mother toward the door. Methuselah Jones looked at his wife. She nodded. He stepped into the kitchen to meet my father
.

“We have other remedies,” Mrs. Jones assured me. “Many others. You’ll see. We employ doctors of our own who are accustomed to the specific conditions of our employees. You won’t need the morphine, Miss Swift. I promise. A new world awaits.”

As Maud and I left the museum that evening, my chest constricted in the usual manner. Although I had celebrated the museum’s closure with the rest, these unstructured days were wearing on my nerves. Each morning I slept as late as I wanted to, without the usual pain in my feet and legs from walking through the galleries. But when I rose out of bed and stood at my window, panic descended like a dark fog upon me, lodging in my chest, a tight bridle. What would I do with the day? I had a new routine, but it occupied me for only an hour or two: a thorough foot and leg massage; a trip down the hall to check on the Aztec Children, who were usually still sleeping in their new cots. Then breakfast on the roof. After that, however, I was on my own until dinner. I did not visit the galleries. Why would I? And I had not ventured into the city. I needed new shoes and a new dress, but I had been trapped by inertia. It was the actors guild that finally pulled me from my disgusting ennui.

Maud led the way. The address was on Broadway at Prince Street, well north of the museum. Maud had worked at Niblo’s Garden for six months prior to joining Barnum’s museum and when she had discovered I was going to the meeting, she would not be left behind.

“They employed me before their
conversion,”
she said as we approached the building. It had a façade similar to Barnum’s, but instead of marble Niblo’s building had been created with bricks of a rather fiery orange. “Yes, Mr. Niblo the younger
married into the Van Hoek family, and after that a hirsute women would never do.”

The lobby was wide and accented with three frescoes painted in brilliant tones that depicted tigers in a jungle scene. Rugs of incredible dimension lay across the promenade, and an elegant hanging sign pointed the way to the fountain. Other signs advertised the evening’s entertainments:
PERFORMANCES TODAY COMMENCE AT HALF-PAST SIX WITH THE OVERTURES TO
A
CTÆON, AFTER WHICH WILL BE PRODUCED THE HIGHLY LAUGHABLE
B
URLETTA, OF
A
NIMAL
M
AGNETISM! (WITH A NEW SCENE WRITTEN FOR THE OCCASION). IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE FIRST PIECE, AND PREVIOUS TO THE INTERMISSION
, M
R
. B
UTTON WILL SING A NEW SONG, CALLED “RHYMES AND
C
HIMES ON THE
S
IGNS OF THE
T
IMES!”
B
ETWEEN THE PIECES, AN INTERMISSION OF HALF AN HOUR WILL BE ALLOWED FOR PROMENADE AND REFRESHMENTS IN THE
G
RAND
S
ALOON, WHERE ICE CREAMS, FRUIT ICES, AND REFRESHMENTS OF THE CHOICEST KINDS AND IN GREAT VARIETY WILL ABOUND
.

Compared with Barnum’s enterprise, Niblo’s Garden was a rather breathtaking manifestation of elegance.

There was no one about, but we found a sign propped against a high mahogany counter on one side of the lobby,
ACTOR’S GUILD, GREEN ROOM
, with an arrow pointing the way. I passed by the doors to the main theater. Through them, I witnessed the elaborate gallery, layered with so many varieties of velvet, so many tiers of balcony, so many baubles and gilt-framed alcoves that I was nauseated and squinted to dim the glare. It was spectacularly silly.

The green room was a spacious and well-lit den with about twenty people gathered near the front. I sensed immediately that the actors, who are always recognizable by the slight arrogance of their stance, had taken one side of the room and the costume-makers the other.

“I recognize the tall one,” Maud said. “And the two women sitting down. They’re German.”

By the way their gazes lingered on Maud, I deduced these people recognized her as well.

“It’s remarkable. The manager here encourages the actors to meet like this. Can you imagine if Barnum did the same thing? Oh, my Lord! Look who it is, the Emperor himself!”

How could I have not immediately seen one of my own kind? Tai Shan, the Chinese giant, the most elusive of Barnum’s Representatives of the Wonderful, was standing against the room’s far wall. He was reading a pamphlet, which he held between two fingers of each hand. His head was level with a crystal wall sconce, and it illuminated his face quite dramatically.

Each of the few times I’d seen the Chinese giant he’d worn a different, richly patterned silk tunic, with similarly colorful loose trousers underneath. Tonight he was swathed in a robe of red silk alternating with bands of purple and panels of a textile embroidered with poppies. I had to admit the clothes looked exceedingly comfortable. I watched him put on a pair of spectacles and lift the pamphlet to eye level. His face was impassive, strikingly angular and made more so because of his bald pate. I guessed he was younger than I, but it was impossible to know for sure. He was the recluse of the fifth floor and never made an effort to talk with any of us, so we never bothered to speak to him. Neither Maud nor I went over to him.

We found two seats and in due time a man rose to address us. Based on his humble manner and long, elegant fingers I assumed he was a costume-maker. He welcomed the group, and then welcomed the
newcomers
, looking pointedly in our direction. He paid no attention to Tai Shan.

The costume-maker continued by summarizing the previous meeting, which included various items almost unfathomable to me, including guaranteed annual contracts and schedules that included ten Saturdays off work each year. He sent a petition around the room, the subject of which he did not reiterate for those who had missed the previous meeting.

“But before we continue these discussions, we have an item of new business. We are a small group here,” he continued.
“When newcomers arrive, we like to give them a chance to tell us something about themselves. Please, ladies. Indulge us.”

Everyone in the green room turned to scrutinize us; in a maddening gesture, Maud looked at me as if she’d never seen me before, her lips pursed. It was a clear sign that I was to be our spokesperson. I did not stand.

“We’re from Barnum’s American Museum. There are certain issues among the employees there, including unfair pay, inadequate care for children, and a prevalent general disorganization that precludes the resolution of these issues. You may have heard of the recent arrest of the Martinetti family of acrobats. They are entirely without representation, legal or otherwise. I saw your advertisement in the
Evening Post
this morning. We are not actors in the conventional sense of the word, but I believe we fit into the same arena. I’m hoping to listen to your discussion and ask for your advice and guidance to help remedy the situation at the American Museum.”

None of the actors regarded me, or the details of my little speech, with particularly friendly expressions, but I was still unprepared for what followed. From one corner of the room, a voice that was registered somewhere in the lowest regions of the bass clef and shockingly loud emitted a mind-splitting barrage of language. Everyone jumped, including the mild costume-maker who stood in front of us. The instrument of this noise was a robust male, of above-average height and stormy complexion, who had risen from his seat and now glowered at Maud and me while spewing chains of words in German.

It also soon became clear that everyone else in the room knew the German language. I was incredulous. On the fifth floor of Barnum’s museum, one could not find a group of more than five or six who spoke the same language, English included.

“They’re
all
German?” As I whispered to Maud, the terrible shouter began waving his fist at us, and at the costume-maker, who visibly recoiled.

“Most are. That’s one of the reasons I left; they revert to German to discuss real business.”

“I thought you were fired.”

“It was practically mutual.”

“Sir?” I raised my hand and addressed the costume-maker. “Would you mind enlightening my friend and me as to what is going on?” At the sound of my voice the shouter paused.

“There is some discussion —” he began.

“That is clear,” Maud snapped.

“Why should we help you?” The shouter switched languages seemingly mid-sentence, his voice retaining the volume and force of a pipe organ. “Since your museum closed, attendance here at Niblo’s has doubled. Why should we help you?”

“Not everyone is agreeing with Mr. Messner, madame,” the costume-maker offered. Mr. Messner had reverted to his native tongue and now addressed the seated actors. The costume-maker cleared his throat and switched to German, calling out to the group. Mr. Messner did not immediately back off, and several of the assembled people shouted their opinions in German over his voice.

“Your meetings are advertised as open to the public,” Maud shouted over the din. “I’m surprised that you would put in the effort and money to place these ads if you did not really mean what they say.”

“Mr. Niblo places the ads” — Mr. Messner growled from his seat — “so people will think his establishment
progressive
, as they say. Nothing more.”