The Peculiars (7 page)

As a child, Lena had pored over pictures of tropical beaches in faraway lands, beaches where sand lay smooth and warm as a blanket. Those were not the beaches of Knob Knoster. She sifted crushed rock, bits of shell, and glass through her fingers. Everything around her was muted in shades of gray—water, sky, and land. She breathed in the distinctive smell of fish and tar. Waves licked the stony shore of the harbor and crashed
against the riprap of a jetty. And Lena found that she was listening, as if the wild call of the ocean was familiar. It filled her with strange longings for adventure, longings Nana Crane would say no civilized girl should ever have. Her heart beat faster. Lena tried not to listen, afraid the ocean might call her name.

She was not sure how long she stood in the harbor listening, and not listening. It was long enough that the sun began to fight its way through the remnants of fog. And with the sun, the wind whipped in, salty and sharp. And the landscape emerged. Lena was surprised to see she wasn’t alone on the harbor beach. A wizened man with a pipe in his mouth stood looking out to sea not more than a few yards away. Not wanting to disturb him, Lena averted her eyes and looked down at the ground around her feet, hoping to discover shells. She jumped. Instead of shells, strange brown snakes crisscrossed the rough beach. Long and bulbous, they sprouted tufts of green hair but lay completely still. Lena bent closer. Cautiously, she poked at one with the pointed tip of her alligator boot. It didn’t move.

“Bull kelp.” The man wore a squashed bowler hat and mumbled his words around the pipe between his lips. “Some folks say it’s mermaid whips, used to tame the sea horses.” His laugh was rusty, creaking like something exposed too long to the sea air. From under the hat deep-set eyes twinkled. “Not from here, are you?”

Lena shook her head and recovered her voice. “No, it’s my first time at the ocean.”

“Thought so.” He nodded and chewed his pipe.

The man, Lena noted, was barely taller than her shoulder. He looked like one of the craggy boulders come to life. “Do you live here?”

“Came here with my father’s fishing boat ’fore this town was anything at all, and I’m still here now that it’s nothing again.”

“You’re a fisherman?” She could see five or six boats bobbing not far offshore now that the fog had cleared.

“Used to be.” He rubbed his hand across the stubble on his face. “Now I just help out on the boats, some.”

Lena thought quickly. If he’d been here that long, he might be just the person to ask. “I want to hire a guide. Perhaps you could tell me whom to talk to?” She wasn’t prepared to reveal too much about her reasons for coming to Knoster.

“Fishing guide? That’s the kind of guide most tourists want.” He squinted out toward the open water.

“No, a travel guide.” Lena scuffed the toe of her boot in the grainy sand. “I’m not really a tourist. I need a guide into Scree.”

The man turned toward her, his furrowed face scrunched tightly as a raisin. “You don’t look the type to have business in Scree.” He sucked his pipe thoughtfully as his eyes traveled from the pointy toes of her boots to her dark, windswept hair.

Lena attempted to appear dignified. “Nevertheless, I am here on business. And I’m willing to pay.”

Overhead a seagull whirled and screeched as it dropped a
clamshell to smash against the rock. In a sharp dive the bird dropped and swallowed the exposed animal in a gulp.

“They’re clever that way,” said the man. “Know how to get what they want.” He tapped his pipe against his leg and pulled out a pouch of tobacco. He took his time refilling the pipe. Lena waited.

“Looks like you know what you want too. Name’s Milo. If we’re going to talk business, we’d best introduce ourselves.” He shuffled toward her and extended a brown-clawed hand.

“Lena Mattacascar.” She held out her gloved hand, which he took and shook without comment.

“Well, Lena Mattacascar—it just so happens you asked the right man. There’s only two folks I’d trust to take me into Scree. Two folks who really know the land and can help you find whatever it is you’re looking for.” He paused, waiting for her to say just what she was looking for. When she didn’t, he continued. “And I suspect it’s not the usual tourist curiosity. But it’ll cost ya.”

She nodded.

“Margaret Flynn—you can find her down at the Parasol.” He nodded toward the row of shops lining the harbor. “And Mr. Tobias Beasley. But he don’t do that kind of thing much anymore. Lives in a big house outside of town.”

Lena started at the name Beasley. “Is that the Mr. Beasley with a library?”

“You’ve heard of him. Yep, that’s him, all right. Used to be a practicing medical man. Gave it up a few years back. But I can
say this for him: He helped out some of those poor folk living in the forests up there. A shame the way they been treated. Beasley and Flynn’re both strange folk, I won’t deceive you. But they know things about Scree others don’t.” He turned back toward the sea, nursing his pipe, hands buried deep in his pockets.

“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Lena looked up the narrow harbor lane, wondering just how far it was to the Parasol. “There’s one thing more.”

“Go on.”

Lena could feel her face turning red. “Does Knoster still have the Pleasure Dome?”

Milo nodded. “Fancy carousel. Still runs on the weekends, hoping to draw in tourists. Not far from the Parasol. You can’t miss it. The front’s covered with cupids and doodads.”

“You’ve been very helpful, Milo.”

“Not often I get to help folks looking to go into Scree.” Lena wasn’t sure, but she thought she caught the muttered words “a fool’s errand” as she walked away.

Late at night. Banging on the front door. I sit up in bed, and in the darkness there are shadows cast from the gas lamps outside my bedroom window. Creeping into the cold of the upstairs hallway, careful to avoid the squeaky floorboard, I seek out the listening
grate. All day Mother’s been sharp, hardly talking, even when she tucked me into bed. And there had been no story
.

Nana Crane watched with her birdlike eyes but held her tongue. I haven’t seen Poppa for two days. I wonder where he’s gone. But I’m afraid to ask
.

I can hear the bolt slide open on the front door and the mumbling of a male voice. Is it Poppa? No, another man’s voice. Mother invites him into the parlor. Good, I can hear the words more clearly when they come from the parlor. It’s freezing outside. I put my ear to the grate and wrap my icy feet in the hem of my nightgown
.

“Your husband’s down at the precinct in lockup. Started a fight in a bar last night and gave a fellow a nasty blow to the head. Sent the gentleman to the hospital. Far as anyone could see, it was unprovoked. Same thing last month, Mrs. Mattacascar.”

Mother’s words are too low to hear. I wonder what a precinct is
.

“I understand, ma’am, but bail’s going to be larger this time. Here’s what the judge has ordered.”

Papers rustle
.

“I’ll pay it, of course, I’ll pay it. First thing in the morning.”

In the morning, before I finish breakfast, Mother hurries out. Nana Crane pours a glug of tea into my mug of milk
.

“Your father has bad blood. Nothing your mother does can change that.”

I stir the milk, wondering what makes some blood bad
.

ALONG THE HARBOR ROAD A HODGEPODGE OF SMALL SHOPS AND
eateries were clustered close enough together to hold each other upright. Unlike the rest of the faded town, these shops were painted bright blues and corals, deep greens and sunflower yellows. It’s alive here, Lena thought. I’ve found the heart of Knob Knoster. Two men gutted and sold fish from a cart while an opportunistic cat slunk nearby, waiting for breakfast.

She inhaled the smell of chowder and frying fish. Shops were just opening for the day. Most were trinket stores that sold shells and models of whaling ships, snow globes with models of the gilded opera house inside, and fancy silver spoons with a fishing boat riding atop the handle. She imagined what type of shop the Parasol might be and pictured the store where her mother bought gloves and hats—a milliner or a dress shop.

She did not expect the Parasol to be a tearoom and public house, but that’s what it turned out to be. And one block
behind it, Lena could see a gilt sign announcing the Pleasure Dome. Her foot tapped with excitement. But first things first.

The Parasol was one of the largest buildings on Harbor Row. It was painted a garish green. A purple sign above the door showed the black outline of a woman’s face peeking out from under the edge of a ruffled parasol. In the window, a hand-lettered sign read
OPEN
. When she entered, Lena found herself standing in a small room with eight tables. Only one was occupied, by an elderly woman and a small boy. A larger sign reading
PUBLIC HOUSE
pointed through an adjoining doorway toward the back of the building. It was clear that the public house was the larger of the two establishments. She hesitated just inside the door until a girl about her own age came out bearing a tray with a teapot and cups.

“Excuse me,” Lena said.

“Be with you in a minute. Got some customers ahead of you.” She gestured to the open tables. “You can sit anywhere you like.”

Perhaps I should take a table and buy something, Lena thought, if I’m going to ask questions. She sat down at the nearest table and waited. When the waitress finally made her way to the table, Lena saw that her face was a star map of freckles; even the backs of her hands were dotted with the sandy spots. This girl couldn’t be Margaret Flynn.

“Do you want anything with your tea?” She handed Lena a sheet of paper with a selection of breads, scones, and muffins neatly listed.

“No, just the tea will be fine. I came here really to talk to Margaret Flynn.” Lena watched the girl’s pale eyebrows rise in her freckled face.

“Are you a friend of hers?”

“No, but I have a business proposition to discuss.” Lena folded her hands in her lap, noting that the girl was staring at them.

“She’s the owner. I’ll see if she’ll talk to you. She’s in the back.”

“Tell her it’s about Scree,” Lena added as the girl hurried off through the open doorway.

From her table by the window Lena watched the activity on Harbor Row. She could see the edge of the long wooden pier and two old men, knobbly as pelicans, who were leaning over the edge with fishing poles. The morning sun warmed her face. She wondered if Jimson had begun his work in the library—and if he’d be dismissed once Mr. Beasley discovered that he knew nothing about libraries.

The waitress returned with a pot of tea and a rose china cup. “She’s coming,” the girl muttered before bustling back to the kitchen.

Dressed in purple silk with an impressive girth not even her corset could tame, Margaret Flynn commanded the room. Her large breasts flourished over the plunging neckline of her dress, and although bustles had fallen from fashion a decade earlier, Margaret Flynn still wore one, sashaying grandly as she entered the room. A mound of gray hair was held in place with a silver comb.

“What’s this talk about a business proposition and Scree?” Her voice was as large as she was, and Lena shrank a little in her chair. “You don’t look the type. Too pale-faced and puny for most men’s taste.”

She loomed over Lena, who shrank even deeper into her chair.

“Men like women with a little flesh on their bones . . . Though you do have good hair and your eyes aren’t half bad,” she added grudgingly.

“I don’t understand.” Lena felt that her voice sounded as pale and puny as Margaret Flynn’s description of her.

“Working girl looking for a business proposition. I sent a trainload of them up to Scree last spring.” She pulled out the chair opposite Lena and edged her bulk down into the seat.

Slowly, Lena began to understand. “Oh. Not
that
kind of business.”

“Pity. Some men have a taste for the exotic.” She nodded toward Lena’s hands.

Burning with embarrassment, Lena buried her hands in her skirt. She tried to keep her voice level. “I need a reliable guide into Scree. I was told that you would be one of the best there is.”

Margaret Flynn’s muddy eyes widened. “One of the best! Why, I know Scree better ’n anyone. Know the good and the bad. I traveled up there with my first husband. He was a miner. We crossed the country one side to the other. The things I saw . . .” Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead, as if the memory required a great effort. “After he died, I earned an
honest living as a working girl. The men up there”—she leaned across the table, and Lena was unable to take her eyes from the mounds of flesh that threatened to topple from her dress—“the men up there are hungry.” She gave Lena a broad wink. “Then I took up guided tours. Took folks into the wild places no one else would go. People’ll pay a lot of money to catch a glimpse of Peculiars.” She fanned her face. “Married a customer of mine and we came to Knoster. A whaling man. Left enough money for me to buy this place when he died.”