City Of Wonders

by J. C. Wright

The completed tale of Fleck, Squelch, and Gangle's time at Phantasma, as told in their own words.

2. Miss Fleck Begins Her Story

Chapter Two

"Miss Fleck Begins Her Story"

The noon-day sun found Mr. Whittington striding purposefully down the street with a brown paper bag that contained a turkey sandwich and a bottle of Coca-Cola. The owner of the delicatessan had assured him that mellow-flavored turkey was the best choice when one didn't know someone's tastes; as for the Coca-Cola, he figured he couldn't go wrong with the old standard. Feeling encouraged by his early-morning success at the library, Mr. Whittington was confident that he would surely succeed in securing quite a story from Miss Fleck, and in turn his book would be all the more enriched. Even the weather seemed to support his endeavors; the refreshing, salty breeze and the laughing of the seagulls filled him with vigor. What a fine day! He could see the beginning of the boardwalk in the distance. He just had to cross the street.

Screeeeeeeeech!

The sudden scream of tires skidding froze his blood. As he leapt back, dropping his bag, a car went swerving wildly around someone, tore past him, and came to an abrupt halt. He coughed from the stench of scraped tires as the shaken, wide-eyed passengers spun around and looked out their windows.

"Damn it!" the driver yelled furiously, sticking his head out. "Damn it, Ariel, you dumb cooze! You got a death wish or something? Keep your drunken ass out of the road!" And with that, he threw the gears back into drive and the car lurched off like an injured beast.

Alarmed, Mr. Whittington ran down the street to where Miss Fleck lay stunned on the pavement, her little cap and veil askew and her crutch knocked over nearby. The car had just missed her, but the screeching of the brakes had frightened her and made her fall, and now, as best as he could, he helped her up and sat her down on the sidewalk.

"Are you alright, Miss Fleck?" he asked her. "Anything hurt?"

She was unharmed but terribly upset. Mr. Whittington quickly retrieved his dropped bag and dug out the Coca-Cola, coaxing it up to her trembling lips.

"Go on, old girl, you're alright," he said, slapping her back. "The worst is over. Have some cola."

She sipped some, and after Mr. Whittington could see the color returning to her cheeks, he handed her the bottle and went into the street again. She watched him as she sipped. When he returned with her crutch and her grocery bag of possessions, she smiled cautiously. "Thank you."

"There, now she's sensible again!" said Mr. Whittington kindly, sitting down beside her. "What happened?"

Miss Fleck gestured to her bad leg. "It's this leg here," she mourned in that eerie sing-song voice. "Even when I have this crutch it drags along. I got the bottom of the crutch stuck in a crack over there-" She pointed, and Mr. Whittington could see the big fissure in the pavement-"And I fell over into the street. I was just pulling myself back up when that fella in the car came screaming past me. Scared the hell out of me. I thought I was dead."

"So did I, for a minute." confessed Mr. Whittington, and then he remembered himself and exended his hand. "My name is Whittington. Jay Whittington. We met last night, remember?"

She shook his hand clumsily, as though she'd forgotten how, blinking in confusion. "We did? I don't remember meeting anybody. But I woke up with an awfully nice scarf around my neck. Did you do that?"

"Yes, I did."

She leaned forward and gave his jacket a deep sniff. "You certainly did. I can tell. You and the scarf smell the same. Clean. Like laundry soap. Thank you. Too bad it'll smell like me soon. Did I tell you my name?"

"I already know your name, Miss Ariel Fleck."

"You most certainly do not. Not my whole name, anyhow. My name," she announced with dignity, "Is Ariel Frances Lavinia Fleck."

"Ariel Frances Lavinia Fleck," repeated Mr. Whittington with an impressed smile, and then he added, without thinking, "That's quite a name to live up to, isn't it?"

Miss Fleck looked at the crumpled grocery bag in her lap. Her eyes grew sad.

"No, no!" he groaned, ashamed of himself. "No, please, I didn't mean to suggest..."

"It doesn't matter." She shrugged and drew her long black veil back over her face. "It was good of you to help me, Mr. Whittington. I'd better get back home, and you'd better get back to your business. You'll be late."

"I haven't any business," he assured her. "Well, not any business I can possibly be late for. I'm on vacation. Please, let me walk you back."

She consented, fearing another fall, and together they headed across the street, around the corner, and onto the boardwalk. The beginning of the boardwalk was still relatively prosperous; vendors and merchants of all sorts had little booths, and people milled lazily about, smoking, drinking, yelling after children, and eating hot dogs. Today there was a crowd watching some skiffs sailing in the bay, admiring the way the sails looked like white birds on the blueness of the sea.

"A vacation," said Miss Fleck dreamily as she strolled along on Mr. Whittington's arm, unaware of the way people were staring at her. "What's a vacation like?"

"Well, you don't do any work," replied Mr. Whittington. "That's foremost. You also must meander about in whatever clothes you like and do whatever you please, and if anyone asks you what you are doing, you tell them that you are on vacation and are having a splendid time. And then you do."

Miss Fleck was thoughtful for a moment. "That's very nearly what I do," she commented, "Only when folks ask me what I'm doing, I tell them to shove it. Especially when it's those reporters harping on me about what I'm doing at Coney, what I used to do there, all that sort of thing. Fifteen years and they're still trying to make a buck off of me. None of their damn business, I always tell them!"

"I see," laughed Mr. Whittington uncomfortably as they passed the last vendor and headed towards the dingy part of the boardwalk. "Say, Miss Fleck, did you know that they were singing a song about you at the Gypsy Cafe last night?"

"A song? Wait, was it an old black fella?"

"Yes."

Miss Fleck chortled in amusement. "So he really did write a song about me. Huh! I didn't think he'd do it. How did it go?"

"The melody was quite upbeat, but the lyrics were depressing," said Mr. Whittington honestly. "I don't quite remember, but it involved you wearing a black veil and weeping while wandering around the pier."

"Well, I was hardly expecting a feel-good Broadway number," admitted Miss Fleck in resignation. "Or royalties, for that matter. Oh well."

Ahead of them was the long fence with the eyeless advertisements. The cheery sound of the crowd faded away and was replaced by the grim crash of the waves. Even in the daytime the place felt desolate.

"Home sweet fence," sighed Miss Fleck as she leaned against the weathered old fence and let herself sink onto the ground. She removed her veil, stretched, and examined a hole in her shoe.

"I'm sorry," said Mr. Whittington.

Miss Fleck kept working on the shoe. "Sorry? What for?"

"Sorry that your home is a fence."

"Well, don't be sorry," she replied, putting a piece of paper over the hole and trying to get it to stick. "I'm right where I belong. Say, have you got any gum?"

"No," he said. "But I do have a turkey sandwich for you."

She immediately forgot the shoe and looked up, her eyes shining hungrily. "You do?"

He did, and when he gave it to her she devoured it. She kept on eating and eating until even the crust and crumbs were gone, and when she swallowed the last morsel, she leaned back against the fence with an enraptured, satisfied smile, wiping her hands on her dirty overcoat.

"God bless you. I never had anything so good as that sandwich," she told him, punctuating her words with a burp, but then a sudden thought made her stop and frown. She looked up at him warily. "Why are you doing all these things for me?"

"Because I want to."

"Don't lie to me, son," she said seriously. "First you give me a scarf, then soda, then you walk me around and make small talk with me, and now you're giving me sandwiches. You want something from me."

"Well," Mr. Whittington began awkwardly, unsure of how to go about wording what he wanted. "I was hoping you would-"

"No!" Miss Fleck interrupted sharply, her fine little features suddenly severe. "No, indeed I won't!"

"What?"

"I may be a bum who's hard up for money, but I'm an honorable bum," she informed him. "And no matter what you offer to feed me, I refuse to make love with you."

"What?" cried Mr. Whittington. "No! No, that's not what I meant at all! Why on earth would you think that?"

"Because it's happened before," came the grim reply. "These dandies come along thinking ol' Miss Fleck is a desperate loony who'll throw her legs open for a five-cent hot dog-er, sorry, that came out wrong-but you know what I mean! I won't stand for it, though. No, I'd sooner starve."

"You needn't worry about that from me," Mr. Whittington assured her. "What I was hoping for...well, the thing is, I'm writing something..."

"Ha!" laughed Miss Fleck bitterly. "Ha, I knew it all the time. You're one of those reporters. I knew it! How much are they offering you to get a story out of me?"

Mr. Whittington had been fearing this reaction. "They're not," he said meekly. "I don't work for a paper. I've got this book I'm writing..."

"A book!" she snorted. "As if I want my sad life immortalized in a book. Next thing you know, it's a radio drama, and then it's a movie and Theda Bara's playing me." She stumbled to her feet, grabbed her crutch, and started limping away. "No sir! No thanks! Good day to you!"

"It doesn't have to be about your life," insisted Mr. Whittington desperately, hustling after her. "It's Coney itself I'm interested in, particularly the Phantasma sideshow, and I know you used to work there."

She kept on going, a little faster, her mind made up. "Go away."

"I'll compensate you generously," he offered hopefully.

Her pace did not slacken. "Go away."

"But...!"

"I told you to go away."

"Listen, I just..."

Miss Fleck spun around, enraged, fists clenched and eyes flashing. "If you don't get away from me," she hissed dangerously, "This crutch will go up your ass."

Hostile green eyes stared into dismayed blue ones for a long moment, and then Mr. Whittington looked down in defeat.

"Alright," he sighed. "Alright. You don't have to attack me, I won't bother you. But you must understand that all I wanted to do was find a few answers. You see, I've been researching the life and work of the fellow who owned Phantasma, that "Mr. Y" character..."

The effect of those words on Miss Fleck was astonishing. Her face softened. Her eyes watered. She shuddered as though some unknown breeze was chilling her, yet at the same time her cheeks were visibly flushing. Mr. Whittington could not determine whether it was pleasure or pain.

"Mr. Y?" she breathed. She stumbled forward and grabbed his arm. "You...you know about Mr. Y? Now? Where he is?"

"I knew him briefly, in England, before and during the war," replied Mr. Whittington, flinching a bit. Her grip was tight. "Until 1916, when he...well...it was a real shame."

Miss Fleck's eyes widened. "What was a shame?"

"What happened to him." Mr. Whittington looked away sadly. "It was an air-strike. I was down in the village when the planes came roaring through and started bombing. I got myself into a ditch under a bridge until I didn't hear any more explosions, and then I ran to where he was staying, and... well, the whole place was blown to bits. Found his body a week later under all the rubble. Still had his mask on when we pulled him out. We never found that boy who hung around with him, Gustave."

"So he's... they're...dead?" Miss Fleck asked feebly, her grip loosening.

Mr. Whittington bowed his head. "Yes."

Somewhere in the distance a seagull chattered, and some people called out to a passing ship, and for a few moments Mr. Whittington and Miss Fleck stood in silence, the former regretting the revelation and the latter completely devastated by it. She pressed her fingers to her lips and sunk to the ground, her poor little face trembling.

Mr. Whittington had not expected her to take it this badly. "I'm sorry," he said gently, reaching out to touch her.

"Dead," she mewed, her eyes beginning to overflow with tears. "Mr. Y, dead. God help me. God help me!"

Shocked and saddened at how heartbroken his news had made her, Mr. Whittington pulled her into his arms and let her cry into his jacket. He sat there stroking her hair and murmuring usless words of comfort for what felt like an hour until, finally, she took a shaking breath and calmed down.

"Dead," she moaned, her voice hoarse from weeping. "Mr. Y and Gustave, dead. Oh, how will I ever tell Gregory?" She wiped her nose on her sleeve.

Mr. Whittington gave her his handkerchief to use instead. "Gregory?"

"He's someone who used to work there with me," she explained, dabbing her eyes. "Dr. Gangle was his nickname. He's in jail now. I was visiting him today; that's where I was coming from when I almost got hit. He was the master of ceremonies at Phantas..." Her voice broke.

"It's alright." Mr. Whittington patted her back. "If it will make you feel any better, Mr. Y thought very highly of you."

Tears sprung to Miss Fleck's eyes again, but her face brightened. "Oh, did he? Really?"

"Yes. I remember him sitting at the piano, rifling through his sheet music, and he'd turn to me and say how he wished Miss Fleck was there. Said you'd keep the place as clean as a whistle."

She chuckled and wiped her eyes.

"That wasn't the only time, though. I remember another time we were eating, and he looked out the window and told me he wished he could have some of that Greek honey-tasting stuff that Miss Fleck cooked for him once. That was a week before the air strike."

"I remember that! It was baklava!" she cried. "Oh, I can't believe he remembered that after so many years."

"He remembered a lot about his old Phantasma sideshow," Mr. Whittington said. "Told me how sorry he was, how he really regretted...how it all ended up."

"He said that?"

"Mmm-hmm! From what I gathered there were thirteen of you, but only twelve bodies because-"

"Because one of us was Aggie-Ann, the conjoined twins!" Miss Fleck finished with a smile that made her sickly face beautiful. "Oh, Mr. Whittington, I... you can't understand. The last time I talked with someone about Phantasma-other than Gangle, of course-was years ago, when Madame Giry came back."

"Madame Giry?"

"One of his investors." Her face darkened a bit. "She and her daughter, Meg...it's a long story."

"I'll bet."

They sat quietly for a minute, watching the sea, and then Miss Fleck said, softly, "I hope Mr. Y and Gustave are at peace now. I'll pray for them."

"Ah, she's religious, is she?" Mr. Whittington asked lightly.

She shrugged, and then she grabbed his arm again. "Mr. Whittington," she said seriously. "I'm sorry for threatening to shove my crutch up your ass. You're a good man. Any friend of Mr. Y is a friend of mine."

He chuckled. "I forgive you. So we're friends now?"

She nodded, her hands still on his arm. "And since we're friends, I want to tell you all about Phantasma."

"You do?"

"I do."

Mr. Whittington smiled. "Well, I'll be glad to listen."

"When I'm finished telling you, will you tell me more about Mr. Y?"

He promised that he would.

Miss Fleck got to her feet and pushed a board of the fence aside, beckoning for him to follow. "Come inside with me."

They squeezed through the fence and found themselves on the barren old field on which the Coney Island fairgrounds-and Phantasma-had been fifteen years ago. Now it was the haunt of seagulls, a solemn sort of place that still seemed to exude a sense of majesty, a plot of land mourning its past.

Mr. Whittington had his handkerchief ready just in case the recollection of her past became too painful for Miss Fleck, but the opposite proved true. As she looked across what had once been her home, a serene smile, completely free of bitterness, illuminated her little face. She gently grabbed Mr. Whittington's arm again. He could see the memories coming to life again in her eyes, playing like a film without sound.

"There's nothing left now," she said, her musical voice soft and tender. "Nothing but ghosts, and me, and my memories. But I still see everything."

She looked up, remembering the brilliant lights and mechanical tunes of the Ferris wheel, and slowly, it all came back to her. She saw the serpentine sillohuette of the roller coaster, smelled the grease and sugar, saw the ladies laughing at each other in their big hats and Gibson girl dresses. Just down the mainstreet would be the turn-she'd pass the animal menagerie and throw a cookie at the llama-and then there was a building covered in paintings and slogans: ASTLEY'S ASTONISHMENTS! FREAKS AND HUMAN ODDITIES, FIVE CENTS ADMISSION. People were congregating around it, fumbling with change purses.

"I still see everything," Miss Fleck repeated where she stood, frail and sickly, her memories so powerful that they were nearly tangible. "But before Phantasma and Mr. Y, this was my home, a dingy old sideshow called Astley's Astonishments, and it only makes sense to start my story from the beginning."

Within that firmament of freaks, she could faintly hear the irritated grunt of a beloved old father. The scorched grass crunched beneath her feet. The wind filled her nostrils with the smell of dust and hay, and as the sun warmed her hands, the dream was complete. This was the first day of June, 1906.

(Miss Fleck begins her story.)

June 1, 1906

My father, myself, and the rest of our fellow freaks were all ready and seated on the blankets in our cages when our boss, Mr. Astley, pushed open the doors and strode in, his shirt damp with sweat and his face flushed. With him came a hot breeze that smelled like burnt hot dogs and raised the room's temperature about thirty degrees. We moaned. As he quickly shut the doors behind him, the cigar smoke curling about his face made me imagine that he was an evil dragon, retreating into his lair, and we were his sweaty, malformed minions.

"Ninety-somethin' damn degrees," he puffed, fanning himself with a handbill. "They're sayin' that today's goin' on record as the hottest opening day we've ever had."

Nobody needed to tell us that. We'd figured it out for ourselves that morning. We'd all made a special effort to look good for opening day, starching shirts and dresses and combing our hair all nice, and when we were done we grinned proudly at each other. Even if we were freaks, we still looked like a million bucks. We'd show those people who thought freaks were dirty, unkempt boogey-monsters what was what!

Then we opened the dressing room door. I thought I'd died and gone to Hell. I knew I should've read the Bible more often. Off we courageous, smartly-dressed freaks marched into that blazing heat, fanning ourselves in the vain hope that we could still get to Astley's looking somewhat presentable, but about halfway through our trek, when our clothes began clinging to us like wet tissue paper, we abandoned all such hope. We staggered into that place like dying racehorses. In my feverish imagination, I wondered what an announcer might say if this had really been a horse-race. I'll tell you what I thought, and this will serve to introduce me and my fellow freaks.

Here they come, folks! It's a close one, a real photo finish! Who's it gonna be? Who...? Yes! Yes! First to cross the finish line is the stunning (and sweaty) Miss Ariel Frances Lavinia Fleck, and the only thing more impressive than her name is the fact that she's been racing with a cruch! Yes siree! Our little winner has a leg that bends in the opposite direction, as though it got put on backwards. I guess that's why they call her "The Half-Bird, Half-Woman!"

In second place is the winner's father, Mr. Alfred Fleck! Look at that determination, folks! Look at those tattoos! Look at the resolve in his eyes as he wearily drags himself across the finish line! Nearly won, but let's give him a break. After all, with a spine as deformed as his, it's all he can do to crawl about on all fours!

And here comes our third place winner, wringing the sweat from her beard! Yes, you heard that right! It's a woman with a beard, the aptly-named Edna Beardsley! In fourth position, shaking his fists at the sun, is Gilbert Geddes, but at a mere three feet, it's gonna take this fella more than a few phone books if he wants to get that high! And in fifth, it's Della Caine, using one hand to wipe her face, one to smooth her dress, and another to pull a hair from her mouth. Three arms, ladies and gents! What a peach! And in sixth, it's Muriel Pritchard, sweating hard enough to wash her tattoos clean off! Last but not least, in seventh place (and at seven feet high) is Thomas Taylor, looking a bit faint! Tiiiiimber!

Anyway, we dragged ourselves to our places and collapsed on the blankets and hay, smelling like barnyard animals. We soothed ourselves with the thought that there was always next year.

"So," said Mr. Astley, and I was dragged back to the present, "I'm thinking folks will be spendin' their nickels on ice cream, and not a freak show. Bad for business, this heat. When they actually do come around, make it worth their time. I'm outta here. Gotta see if that shaved ice stand is open. Park opens in ten minutes."

As he swept back out into the heat, we looked at each other in despair. Shaved ice!

"Huh," grunted my father. He lay curled up like a Saint Bernard. The best way I can describe his body is like this: imagine God drawing the letter C, sketching a whole body around that shape, covering it with black, serpentine tattoos, and then blowing the breath of life into it. That was my father. "The park's not even open yet," he complained in his gentle but growly voice, "and I've already reached the point where I'd kill a man for a shaved ice. This heat is absolutely unreasonable."

"We'll get some at lunch," someone wheezed weakly.

On a day as hot as this, that was like saying we'd get some in twenty years. I decided to spend the last few minutes of preparation time trying to wave some life back into my limp serge skirt. Woosh! Woosh! Woosh!

"Do it towards me," groaned my father, so I did. Woosh! said my skirt as I sent my father a sweaty starch-scented breeze. Woosh! Woosh!

The door made a similar sound as our friend, Mr. Gregory De Rossi, walked in, a scorching breeze hot on his heels. He was from another freak-show within Coney Island. We all called out a pathetic but cheerful greeting, (I dropping my skirts) and he coughed in return. Whenever he really wanted to express himself strongly he coughed, for he could not speak at all. I liked him. He was from Italy, and had a nondescript, pleasantly ugly sort of countenance, with kind eyes and a wonderful smile. His throat was covered with ragged scars. We wondered if some sort of injury had ruined his voice, but asking him questions like that really upset him, so we stuck to speculation. Anyhow, there he was, with a letter in his hand.

"Buongiorno, Signor De Rossi!" I called to him, and he grinned. He absolutely loved being spoken to in Italian. Me and him were real chums. "Is that a letter from Mr. Y?"

It was. He pushed it through the bars and we all gathered around. Mr. Y was from the same freak-show as Mr. De Rossi. They'd come together on the same ship from Europe nine years ago, but unlike his companion Mr. Y kept a polite distance, inquiring after us civilly but never seeming to want to be close friends. When he was not performing, he wore a white mask over the disfigured side of his face, and he made a point to dress smartly. He seemed real interested in us freaks. He always sent letters-always marvelously written with long words and lofty adjectives-asking about how we were doing and the things we enjoyed, and every once in a while we'd get gifts. So, as you can imagine, we all liked Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi.

Today's letter said:

Greetings to the ladies and gentle-freaks of Astley's Astonishments! I perused your last letter with great interest, and I am particularly pleased with the coupons you gave me. Thank you. You mentioned that Mr. Astley vetoed the notion of Miss Fleck doing aerial acrobatics in the style of her mother (God rest her soul) this season, the excuse being that "people go to freakshows to see freaks, not legitimate performers", and frankly, I was appalled, not only by his maddening underestimation of Miss Fleck's talent, but at his assumption that none of you are "legitimate performers". It is apparent to me, as it ought to be to anyone with a scrap of intelligence, that you all have very marketable talents. If Mr. Astley has any intentions of survival in this industry (and judging by his downgrading, I do not believe he does), he must understand that these are modern times. The age of the freakshow is waning. People are no longer satisfied to spend their nickels on mediocrity.

That said, do not expect to remain as you are. I am pleased to announce that I am now in a ensure that your talents-your true talents-will be perfected, and be something to marvel at, something I have been desiring greatly for nine years. Tonight all will be made clear. Muddle through this wretchedly hot day with joy, for it will be the last you will endure as mere oddities.

Sincerely, Mr. Y.

"The last night we will endure as mere oddities," my father repeated, the tattoos on his forehead wrinkling. "Tonight all will be made clear. What the heck is that supposed to mean?"

We couldn't make head nor tail of that letter, and for a while we sat there in amazement. Was Mr. Y going to come and give Mr. Astley a piece of his mind or something? Why did he have to wait nine years to do it? We looked to Mr. De Rossi for an explanation, but he drew a finger to his lips and smiled wickedly. He knew, but he would not (and in all fairness, could not) tell us. Gesturing to his watch, he indicated that it was eight o' clock. The park was officially open, and now he must hurry back to the sideshow where he and Mr. Y lived.

"Arrivederci!" I called after him, and before he exited he flashed me another grin and mouthed, Arrivederci, Signorina! Then he was gone.

"Damn Italian!" wheezed Mr. Geddes. "Now I'm gonna be sittin' in suspense all damn day!"

Our wonderment was cut short by Mr. Astley, who came sweeping in so abruptly that we jumped. "Park's open!" he said, his nickel-box under his arm. His tongue was blue from eating shaved ice. "And we've got folks headed this way. Look lively!"

I could hear the music and rumbling of the crowd outside. We stuffed the letter under someone's blanket, made one last attempt to tidy ourselves. and then our first customers of the day poked their heads cautiously around the door. We straightened up. It was a lady and her son, followed by a nursemaid. The lady's hat made me drool: lavender with big white flowers all around the brim. It looked grand atop her big brown updo. I self-conciously licked my palm and smoothed my frazzled hair. He was in one of those sailor-suits that were supposed to be so sporty. He came running right over to us, his eyes as big as dinner plates, a red shaved ice melting like blood all over his hands. As I had done for years, I raised my skirts to show him how my leg bent backwards.

"Look, mother, look!" he cried, and the mother looked at my exposed leg with a nervous smile. "Her leg's backwards! It says here that her name is Miz Fleck. Does that hurt you, Miz Fleck?"

"Not at all," I replied. "Because that's the way I was born."

Other people were beginning to walk in when they finally left, but before they did-and before his mother could protest- the little kid gave me the sticky, melting remnants of his red shaved ice.

"Bye! You're funny!" he said, and off he went, back into Coney.

Of all the things he could've said, he called me funny. It was a pleasant change. I gratefully drank the cool, cherry-flavored sludge as my fellow freaks groaned in jealousy, and when I tossed the cup aside, a different sort of customer was leering at me. Up went my skirts again, but this time I didn't get a cry of admiration. Not an innocent one, anyway.

"Mmm-hmm!" the fellow said, nodding, then he tapped the bars and offered, insolently, "I've got a dime here for you if you raise your skirt a bit higher."

My face flushed, but I knew how to deal with questions like that. "daddy," I called, sweetly, "This fellow's offering me a whole dime if I show him my knickers! What do you think?"

Judging by the way my sweaty, furious father came lumbering over like a savage beast, I guess he wasn't too thrilled, and when that fellow saw that his body was about as thick as daddy's neck, he took off. This wasn't the first time something like this happened. When I was younger, right around the time when a girl should be trading the underwaist for a corset, a man (probably drunken) actually said that he didn't want to see my bent leg; he'd rather see my tits. To say that my father "went insane" would be an understatement of biblical porportions. Thankfully, before he could tie the man around the bars, Mr. Taylor called over Mr. Astley, who chucked the guy out. That next Sunday, the lady-freaks took me into the city. I returned with my first corset ever. (Pink with white lace, if you care.)

"Scum," growled my father, then he forced a smile back onto his face to assure the disturbed patrons that he wasn't violent.

Being a freak is a funny sort of life. You don't have to do much except exist, and as long as you don't mind the stares and remarks, it's the easiest job on earth. As of that opening day in 1906, I had been an official, paid-by-the-hour Coney Island freak for twelve seasons. I knew no other life than being gawked at by paying strangers, no other home than the room me and daddy shared, and no other world than the dusty, exotic fairgrounds of Coney Island. As a very young child I didn't think much of it. I thought that most everyone had twisted legs, and learned to walk on boardwalks, and ate food on a stick, and sat in cages, and had elephants and clowns for neighbors, and all those other folks weren't as lucky. After all, daddy always told me that we were special people, and that Coney Island was a special place, and so it was fitting that we must live there.

That made me real proud. Whenever people came to see me, I'd toss up my little dress with pride and show them my bent leg. Then I'd run over and show them daddy's bent back, and then off I'd go to introduce mama, who only had one shriveled arm but could do flips on a hoop anyway. We were the Flecks, a whole special family. I was always so thrilled when people would push things through the bars to give us as gifts: combs, newspapers, little pamphlets about "the end times", soap, little dolls, and Bibles. Especially Bibles. New Testaments, Old Testaments, ones with paper covers, some with small print, some with pictures of Jesus in them, you name it. (Much to my sorrow, Christ's fate was not as diverse as the Bibles' appearances; he never managed to escape being crucified.) We got so many that we put them all on a shelf like a library. I felt like such a little diva.

Then one day that all changed. I was eight years old. Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi had only been at Coney for a month. It was a typical day, typical crowd. These two young ladies came strolling in. I remember them so clearly. They must have been sisters, perhaps twins, because they both had the same frizzy blond hair and wore similar, floral-patterned dresses, and they both looked so nervous. As always, I tossed up my skirts and showed them my leg, and introduced them to my parents, and all the other freaks went through their routines as well. These young ladies, however, seemed much more saddened than impressed, and as they left I heard this exchange:

"Oh, Mabel. To be stared at all day. Those poor, poor people."

"I know. It makes you feel lucky, doesn't it?"

"I should think so. Oh, it makes me appreciate the normal lives we-"

That's all I heard, but it was enough. The door shut behind them with a thud, and I sat there in the hay with my cheek against a bar, my bent leg limp. I had never felt so small.

They considered us freaks to be poor, poor people? We made them appreciate their lives? And then, suddenly, the cruel reality began to unfold like a nightmare, and all my whole world seemed to evaporate like mist. I'd had it all wrong. People didn't come to admire us for being special. They came to pity us for being malformed, to gawk at what they had been fortunate enough to escape. I looked at the Bibles, the soap, and the combs. People didn't give us those things as gifts. They gave us those things because they thought we were dirty, uneducated heathens as wretched as we looked. Life had its winners and losers. Those pretty sisters with their long, beautiful hair and flowery dresses were the winners, and for a nickel they had come to feel sorry for ugly, plain-clothes Miss Fleck, the loser.

I made a valiant attempt to contain my unhappiness, but as the days went on and on my fears were repeatedly validated. For the first time I noticed the mingled admiration and fear in the patrons' eyes, the sad smile of the missionary girl who slipped me a Bible, the reproving looks mothers gave their children as if to say "See? That might have been you!" I had always been so proud of myself, but by the end of the week I could scarcely raise my head. All I saw before me were endless years of shame, a continual slap in the face I was powerless to challenge. The only thing to do, my eight-year old brain reasoned, would be to commit suicide. Then they would feel bad, and since I would be dead, I wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore.

I didn't a gun, nor did I have any idea how to go about hanging myself correctly, so I decided that I must bleed myself. After Friday night's dinner I stole a big knife, left my parents a proper suicide letter, and hid in the back of Mr. Astley's storage closet. I slashed the blade across my palms-there was a sharp, surprisingly fast pain-and then warm trickles of blood came dripping down my arm. With every beat of my heart, a fresh gush gathered at the incision and dripped in streams of brilliant red. I had done it. Now I would die as all my blood oozed out. I lay down, watched my blood make little pools on the ground, and fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was in someone's arms, wrapped in a blanket. A light made me wince. Suddenly I heard the sound of a roomful of voices. Had I died? No, I couldn't have. My palms were stiff and stinging, and there wasn't supposed to be pain in Heaven. I blinked hard, and slowly the room-the room me and my parents shared-came into focus. Poor hunched-over daddy was holding me, his tattooed face all teary, and beside him, leaning on his shoulder, was mama, her one little hand shaking. Mrs. Beardsley was rubbing her back. I had bandages on my hands. Over in the corner of the room, I saw Mr. Geddes with the little blue scrap of paper, on which I'd written, Dear Daddy and Mama, I don't want to be like this anymore. I want to die. I'll miss you. Ariel.

"Ariel?" Daddy's voice was so frail and hurt that I thought he was someone else. "It's Daddy. Please say something, precious."

I felt drowsy. "Where'm I?"

"We're in our room now," he replied. "Mr. Y found you in the closet."

I became aware of both Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi standing nearby in their night-robes, peering anxiously at me as though I might run over and stab them too.

"Ariel, why have you done this to yourself?" Daddy pleaded. "What's wrong? Did someone say something to you?"

My eyes felt prickly and hot all of a sudden. "Yes."

I cried as I told him about the two girls, the comments they'd made, how I realized I wasn't really special after all, and how I hated being ugly and strange. I wanted people to see what a nice girl I was, and how nice all of us freak-folks were, but I knew that couldn't ever happen. I also went on and on about some other stuff I can't remember, but I talked and cried for a long time, and when I was finally through my parents just sat there, heads hung. Mr. De Rossi dabbed his eyes, and Mr. Y cleared his throat. There is a point in every freak's life when they realize that the world is laughing at them and not with them. They knew I'd reached that point, just as they once had, and it was breaking their hearts.

"Ariel," Mama moaned.

Mr. Y sat down on the bed next to me. "There's nothing you've said that I haven't thought myself," he told me softly, "It's a shame that people will so readily ignore what talents we might have, isn't it? We're like uncut diamonds. If only someone would take the time to recognize all the potential and beauty underneath, and not see all the roughness."

"We'll be vindicated in the next life," my daddy said stoutly, holding me close. "I ain't holding my breath for this one to do any good by us, no sir." My mother flapped her little arm-stump sadly.

"You won't have to wait," replied Mr. Y. His eyes were shining as though he could see something in the distance. He grabbed my hands, gently because of the bandages. "What if I told you, Miss Fleck, that I plan to make us different-different then we are now? We're already different, but we'll be completely changed. We'll be something to be marveled at, admired, and when people see how wonderful we've become they'll be ashamed."

"Like diamonds?" I asked. There was nothing more wonderful than diamonds.

"Exactly like diamonds," he assured me. "I've been thinking about all these Coney Island sideshows for a while now, and I think I've struck upon a plan. It'll take me years, yes, it will most certainly take me many years, but I promise you-" Here he looked into my eyes very seriously-"I promise you I'll be able to do it. But until then, you must promise me that you won't hurt yourself anymore. That will never do."

I looked at my hands and felt like a such a stupid little ninny. "No, that will never do," I said meekly. "I'm sorry I did it. I won't do it anymore, honest."

"That's a good girl." Mr. Y rose and turned to my parents. "You needn't worry about Mr. Astley. I told him Ariel here was playing with a knife and accidentally hurt herself; he seemed content with that. Me and Mr. De Rossi had better get back now."

A moment of grateful handshaking, a couple back-slaps, and our two friends headed out into the night. The freaks who'd helped search for me were similarly thanked, and they too headed off to bed. Now alone as a family, we Flecks had a rather emotional little family discussion that frankly, I don't think you need to know about, but I will say that we came to three important conclusions: firstly, I was loved very deeply. Secondly, life could be unfortunate, but we must be brave. Thirdly, Mr. Y was a fine fellow, but what on earth had he been talking about?

So that was that, and now that I've thoroughly bored you with some of my sad history-which was necessary, I'm afraid-we will return once more to that miserably hot opening day.

All the events of the last ten years went racing through my mind as I read and re-read that letter. Mr. Y was finally ready to do what he had promised me as a child. He had not forgotten. My last day as a mere oddity was today, he said. Oh, the suspense was absolutely awful. It seemed that it would be never be closing time, but before long the sky began to darken, the lights began sparkling, and the night-time attractions were opening. A refreshing breeze off the sea was tossing the hay. Mr. Astley strode in, shut the doors, locked them, and nodded.

"Alright, folks. We're closed."

We rumbled to our feet, looking at one another in nervous anticipation. It was night-time now. Tonight all will be made clear, Mr. Y had written.

"I have an announcement, though, before you go," said Mr. Astley, and to our great excitement, in walked Mr. Y, his suit sharp and his mask gleaming, Mr. De Rossi at his side. "We're coming under new management. Mr. Y here has purchased this freakshow."

Purchased it? Mr. Y was our boss now? We all gasped.

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Astley, grinning. "Purchased it this afternoon for a nice price. Well, my fine ladies and gentle-freaks, it's been a pleasure workin' with you. Mr. Y's in charge now. I'm out!"

Out went the man who'd run my life since I was child, so delighted that he was practically skipping, and we were alone with Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi. The door shut. We looked at them. They looked at us.

"My first order as your new boss," said Mr. Y seriously, "Is this." He let the tension build for a few heartbeats, then a sly little smile tugged at his mouth. "Get the hell out of those cages. You won't need them anymore."

I believe everyone within a 3-mile radius heard us cheer. It was a party. Daddy kissed me, Mr. Geddes threw hay in the air like confetti, and the others slapped palms and tapped those hateful old bars that would never shut us away again. All the years we'd waited, hoping for the promise to come true! If only my precious mama were alive to see. It was the one thorn in my otherwise perfect happiness.

"Alright," said Mr. Y after we'd climbed out and sat around him. "I've succeeded in Phase One of my plan, namely, purchase Astley's Astonishments. Tomorrow I hope to purchase the rest of the surrounding freakshows, and then we can begin the real work."

"You're purchasing all of them?" my father asked disbelievingly. "Forgive me asking, but with what money?"

"Mine, naturally," replied Mr. Y glibly, "And of course, I will be helped by my investors; they are most interested in my vision."

He sat down and motioned for us to all have a look at his sketchbook. On the first page, there was a watercolor sketch of a big city, filled with all sorts of wonderous things. There was a tall building in the city's center, and from that point streets went out in all directions, like the spokes of a wheel. There was a volcano, a Roman Colleseum, crystal fountains, pavillions, restaurants, a giant funhouse, a concert hall, and more things. If I were to list them all I would go on for years. Above this beautiful picture, in black marker, was the legend PHANTASMA: CITY OF WONDERS.

"What do you think of my world, my friends?" Mr. Y asked, seeming to take great pleasure in astonishing us. "It'll look even better once it's built."

We looked at the sketch, then at Mr. Y, then all around us, hardly daring to believe it. It was going to be real!

I suddenly became aware of Mr. De Rossi sitting down beside me and tugging my ear. "Well, Signorina," he mouthed teasingly, "What do you think? Good surprise?"

(Miss Fleck ends her story for now.)

Miss Fleck settled back against the fence and nudged Mr. Whittington. "Sorry to stop short, but have you got a pencil and paper? Men always seem to."

Once produced, she began to write.

"What are you writing?" asked Mr. Whittington.

"The location of my beloved Mr. De Rossi, otherwise known as Gregory, once known as 'Gangle'," Miss Fleck replied. "I bet he remembers quite a bit of Phantasma too. He knew Mr. Y even before I did. There. Here's the address. You know where that is?"

On the paper was the address of the Brooklyn City Prison.

"Yes, I know where that is." Mr. Whittington wondered what Mr. De Rossi was in prison for, but decided not to ask.

"Excellent. Tell him that Ariel Fleck sent you. If he doesn't believe you, tell him that my nickname is Signorina."

"Signorina?"

"Yes." Miss Fleck sighed. "Well, anyway, Mr. Whittington, you can go see him tomorrow; I'm sure he'll be a help. Judging by how long telling you about my childhood took, it's going to take me a good couple of days to relate my whole story. Between the two of us, I think we'll do fine."

Together, Miss Fleck and Mr. Whittington went back through the fence and onto that old boardwalk. It was late afternoon now. The boats were coming back in, the people thinning out, the temperature getting cooler. Miss Fleck took out the white scarf and put it on.

"Thank you," said Mr. Whittington, shaking her hand. "For talking to me. You'll...be alright?"

"Hmm?"

"Alright here. All by yourself."

She shrugged. "I've been alright here for fifteen years."

Mr. Whittington knew that he must leave and get ready for dinner with Rodger, but something in Miss Fleck's voice made him want to bring her along, tidy her up, let her stay in his spare room. It just seemed so ungentlemanly to leave her alone.

"I wish you'd come with me," he admitted. "You know, I have a spare room in my rented place; I'd feel better if you'd sleep there instead of out here in the cold."

The very idea of leaving her fence seemed to throw Miss Fleck into a panic. "No, no, I'd better say no," she replied, shaking her head. "It's nice of you, but no. Definitely no."

"You can trust me."

"Oh, it's not that I don't trust you," she insisted with a frightened little laugh. "It's just that..." Her eyes darted across her fence with all the eyeless advertisements. "I can't...leave. At least I don't think I can."

There was a minute or so of silence as she seemed to struggle with the idea of leaving, looking from the fence to Mr. Whittington with trembling lips.

At length she finally said, "Not tonight, but I'll think about it. Go see Mr. De Rossi in the meantime. Then come see me again. Bring a sandwich when you do."

Mr. Whittington smiled. "Alright then, Miss Fleck. Any specific requests?"

"Turkey."

"I'll do that." He patted her shoulder and turned to go. "Be safe until then, ma'am."

"You remind me of them," said Miss Fleck gently.

He turned back. "Who?"

Her eyes watered slightly. "All of my loves."

Mr. Whittington kept hearing that phrase replaying in his mind for the rest of the night, as he ate dinner with Rodger, as he looked over all the old photographs of Coney Island, as he lay down in his apartment with a cup of tea. All of my loves. He tried to think of all the loves a girl like Miss Fleck might have. He looked at the address she'd written-with surprisingly lovely handwriting- in his notepad, and wondered how this Mr. De Rossi, her "Gangle", might help him unfold even more of the story.

NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:

1. Thanks for reading "City of Wonders!" I told you the chapters would get longer!

2. This chapter's bonus picture is the pre-Phantasma Fleck family (Fleck, Squelch, and Polly), drawn like cute cartoons! The link will be provided to all my reviewers.

3. For those who don't know, I DO ALLOW Anonymous reviews, and a membership with this site is NOT required. Yay! In that case, you'd have to PM me with an email address to send the bonus picture link.

4. This story is a seperate entity from "Freaks Never Die". What goes on in this story does not necessarily affect that one.