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.

5. The Selection of the Trio

Chapter Five

"The Selection of the Trio"

Mr. Whittington awoke to the tantalizing smell of cooking bacon. When he opened his eyes, he was right where he had fallen asleep last night-on his old red couch, and when he looked towards his eating area, he saw a rather perky-looking Miss Fleck at the stove, clad in an apron, humming to herself as she pushed the sizzling bacon around with a spatula. Beside her was a bowl of hard-boiled eggs and a pitcher of juice. When he sat up and stretched, she smiled shyly. Her complexion was looking better already. The rosiness of her cheeks was accentuated by the rose-colored caftan she'd chosen from Bernice's clothes bag, making her look like a painted porcelain doll.

"Good morning!" she chirped. "Just thought I'd do something to earn my keep. And how fun it is! The last time I cooked food on a stove, Roosevelt was in the White House, a glass of Coca-Cola cost a nickel, and I had all of my teeth. And by the way, it's snowing."

"Snowing?"

Mr. Whittington looked out the window, and to his great surprise there were little white flakes blowing across the gray tableau of a typical Brooklyn morning.

"Funny, isn't it?" said Miss Fleck as she put the eggs and juice on the table. "It's snowing today, and the next part of my little narrative picks up on the greatest Christmas I ever had. Here, Jay, help me drain the fat. Got any old milk bottles?"

He did, and after they drained the bacon fat into them, Miss Fleck fastened the caps and put them aside with relish.

"There! Now you can flavor anything you like with that. Green beans, potatoes, you name it. I ought to make you hot potato salad sometime. But for now, we've got a breakfast to eat. Tuck in!"

For someone who hadn't cooked since 1907, Miss Fleck's culinary skills were surprisingly good; Mr. Whittington felt as though he were at a free diner.

"Now, that Christmas," she began, "Started out quite a bit like today. Cold, snowy, the works. As I hustled into my dress, I could hear everyone else banging around, hollering greetings and putting their shoes on..."

(Miss Fleck's story continues.)

It didn't take me and Daddy long to get ourselves together, and when we were through we grabbed our coats and wraps and headed out into the frosty, flake-filled Christmas morning. I had to be very careful because of my crutch. For a moment I was blinded by the brightness, but then I made out the swaddled forms of our other freak friends, making their way to Mr. Y's little home.

"Good morning to ya, Flecks!" called little old Mr. Geddes wheezily through his scarf. "Merry white Christmas, although I'd gladly trade the snow for some dang sun!"

"Good morning, Alf, dear," Mrs. Beardsley greeted my father.

And then Aggie-Ann came sliding by, both heads singing the happy refrain, "Joy ta t' world, the Lawd hath come! Let earth re-seeve 'er King! Let e-e-evr'y hea-a-art prepare him roo-o-om..."

"If the Lord really has come, you're bound to scare Him back away with your caterwauling!" crowed Damien around a glowing cigarette, and Genevieve, her impressive hair topped by a fur cap, cackled with amusement around her lollipop.

"Aw, Day-mee-in, yer just sour apples, ain'tcha?" growled Ann, but Aggie-Ann went sliding on with no further comment.

Coney Island was a blue, frozen fairyland, wreathed in whispering piles of whiteness. Everything was closed up. The roller coaster tracks were glazed with ice and trimmed with hanging icicles that made me think of a cave. The concession stands were boarded over. The snow piling on their roofs made them look like sparkling little gingerbread houses. Up ahead was Mr. Y's place, and as we drew near to the modest door, Mr. De Rossi suddenly accosted me from the behind.

"Oh!" I cried in surprise as he grabbed me, and all at once I found myself nestled against his warm jacket, with his pleasant face laughing silently at me. I grabbed his lapel and pretended to slap him.

Buon Natale to you, too! he mouthed cheekily, pretending to be injured.

"Merry Christmas there, Ee-talian!" chuckled my Daddy. "Ready to find out what Mr. Y's surprise for the three of us is?"

He nodded excitedly and held open Mr. Y's door for us, bowing.

Once inside, the first thing I noticed was Mr. Y's Christmas tree. You couldn't miss it. It stood impressively against one wall, its wandering, metallic branches spreading all over the place, blending beautifully with the tinsel and hangings. It was not a real live tree, but it was alive in its own way. Little automaton birds popped out and danced about, lights sparkled, elves handed each other gifts, and a tinkly tune filled the room with a sense of real Christmas cheer. There were piles of presents under it. Mr. Y, donning his usual smart suit, sat proudly in a high-baked chair. Behind his mask, his eyes were both light-hearted and deeply contemplative as he nodded his Christmas greeting.

"Oh, Mr. Y," exclaimed Genevieve, her throaty voice full of admiration, "How glorious! I declare you've outdone yourself! Oh, Damien, isn't it just too much?" She jammed her lollipop back in her mouth.

"Too much," echoed the brother in obedience. Disagreeing with Genevieve was never a good idea.

"Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Y," growled my Daddy politely, sitting and rubbing the knees of his trousers, which always got wet when he crawled in the snow. "I guess I haven't been this excited for Christmas since I was a little boy!"

Mr. De Rossi and I sat down on a bench, nodding our shared agreement.

"And I guess you have good reason to be," replied Mr. Y mysteriously. "But we ought to have something warm to drink before we open presents. Is everyone here? No? Well, we'll start passing out the cider anyway."

The light in the fireplace cast a lovely warm glow over everything and everyone as we drank mug after mug of that excellent warm cider. As we drank, the rest of us wandered in and were similarly seated and treated. Then, to our great surprise, in walked Madame Giry and Meg, arms filled with gifts. We looked at each other. Since when did they celebrate Christmas with us? They hadn't ever bothered before.

"Joyeux Noël!" bubbled Meg with uncharacteristic joy as her mother smiled a creaky, underused smile. "Joyeux Noël, Monsieur Y!"

Meg's beautiful blond hair was waved and gathered into a bun that was glittering with jewelled hairpins, but her eyes shone brighter as she looked at Mr. Y. Her cheeks flushed. It seemed as though she were awaiting a critique or something. Beside her, Madame Giry exuded a sense of cautious optismism, her dress a muted shade of green. It sure beat her usual black.

Mr. Y nodded at them, looked around, and then he spoke. "Merry Christmas to you all!" he said. "Now, without further ado, I shall be presenting everyone with their gifts, one at a time. The Flecks and Mr. De Rossi, however-" Here he gestured to us, and my heart leapt-"Will be getting their gifts last. They have special gifts."

A rumble of wonder, and then out came the gifts!

For Aggie there was a treasury of hymns, arranged for the banjo, and for Ann there was a big, handsomely-bound Bible. Their eyes were perfectly round as they accepted them into their respective hands. One head giggled with joy at the music while the other started flipping through the Bible, but both of them were just ecstatic. It made me smile.

"Oh, thank ya, Mister Wah!" cried Aggie. "We'll be sharin' these nice things, o' course."

"O' course!" seconded Ann.

For Genevieve there was a red silken shawl covered with a pattern of branches, flowers, and nightengales that made her shriek in delight. She pronounced it "utterly too-too" and tossed it about her shoulders. Her brother recieved a set of quality fire-eating torches that would be very beneficial to his work. His flame-seared lips smiled in gratitude.

For old Mr. Geddes there was a pair of stilts that he leapt onto enthusiastically; we all laughed uproariously as he padded about at a height he'd never dreamed possible, until he collided with the ceiling lamp. Then they had to be put away.

For Mr. Taylor was a fine robe, tailored for his height. Della recieved a pair of satin gloves-of course, Mr. Y had to buy two pairs to accommodate her third arm. There were two painted fans for Mrs. Pritchard, a bag of new earrings for Tom, and a clever braiding tool for Mrs. Beardsley. Mr. Y had built it himself. All one had to do was push the little button, and the little steel arms did the braiding! Legless Ms. De Luzy got a little spider-like device that enabled her to walk about without help. She was thrilled. No more being carried.

Meg Giry became the proud owner of a long, gauzy red scarf embroidered with roses. It was as light as air, soft to the touch, truly exquisite against her golden hair. She trembled with delight as she recieved it, and gasped something in French to Mr. Y that made him smile and nod. As for Madame Giry? Mr. Y gave her a nice, but practical gift: an ivory hair-reciever. Being a more practical than sentimental woman, she was very pleased.

"And now..." said Mr. Y, looking towards me. "For Miss Fleck."

I was a properly-raised (as far as circus freaks go), seventeen-year old young lady, but I couldn't stop the grin that almost busted my face in half as Mr. Y ducked into a big bag, like he was Santa Claus or something. My father and Mr. De Rossi patted my back, just as excited as I was. Everyone else leaned forward in their chairs.

"And here it is!" announced Mr. Y, taking out a handful of what appeared to be scrap metal. "Now before you all get to thinking it's a pile of garbage-" For our enthusiasm sort of died at the sight of it-"Let me demonstrate. Miss Fleck, show us your bent leg."

As I had done in the freak show for countless years, I tossed up my skirt to expose my wool-stockinged bent leg, with the malformed knee cap-or lack thereof-that made it go backwards and sideways.

"What I have for you, Miss Fleck," said Mr. Y, kneeling, "Is a brace that will force your leg to bend the right way. Your knee has no ability to support itself, so this will hold it in place. As you can see, this thing requires some assembly, but you'll learn to manage it alright. Here let me show you."

"Wait a minute," piped up my Daddy. "Are you saying that she'll be able to walk around like a..." He struggled for a way to put it nicely and failed. "Like a normal person?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Y.

There was a murmur of amazement as he began attaching the brace to me with bands and screws, brow furrowed in confident concentration. Me, my Daddy, and Mr. De Rossi exchanged incredulous looks. The man couldn't really be serious, could he? But on and on he went! I felt my leg being bent into a normal position (did that ever feel strange!) as thick bands of metal were screwed snugly around my it, and the bands were connected to one main splint that jointed at the knee. At last it was all assembled. I looked like I'd become half-automaton. My whole bad leg was covered in metalwork. Mr. Y snapped some thick rubber bands on it that forced my knee out, and he was done!

Mr. Y extended his hand to me, his face gleaming in triumph. "Alright, smooth your skirt down, and I'll help you stand up."

Up I went, crutchless, leaning heavily on him. My father trembled visibly. All eyes were on me.

"Now, I'll keep supporting you, but let's take some steps. Ready?"

I extended my good leg, and then, as I extended my braced one, I felt a fluid bending motion that let it go forward, and I took a completely normal-looking step.

The room exploded into applause, like I'd won a marathon.

"By the nation!" cried Mr. Geddes. "Look at that!"

My Daddy's eyes were the size of dinner plates as I got excited and started walking about faster, in circles, and at last Mr. Y let go of me, letting me walk about on my own, unaided, going from smiling face to smiling face. I could scarcely believe it.

Neither could my Daddy. "I can't believe it," he said, his tattooed face almost blank with disbelief. "I can't believe it. Look at her! Look at how perfectly...Mr. Y, that is amazing!"

Mr. De Rossi couldn't talk, but he silently cheered and clapped when I curtsied to him.

"Oh, Mr. Y!" I cried, hustling over to where he stood proudly smiling. "Thank you! Thank you! This is wonderful!"

"You're welcome," he replied simply. "Now, would you like to see what I've got in store for your Daddy?"

Did we ever! If Mr. Y didn't have our interest before, he sure had it now. Into his big bag he went, and he extracted more metal pieces. This one looked almost like a metal spine and a ribcage, fastened with pulleys. It was another brace. Daddy looked a little afraid as he examined it.

"It's not as painful as it looks, I promise," reassured Mr. Y. "In fact, it shouldn't be painful at all. Let me explain. This cage-looking part is going to get fastened around your torso, and these pulleys are going to gently pull your back a little straighter than usual. It would be impossible to pull you perfectly straight immediately, and it would be dangerous, too. Your back muscles are too atrophied to support you and your spine correctly. We must go very gradually."

And so away went Mr. Y again, kneeling beside my Daddy like he was working on a car in a garage. On went the cage, and then the fastening of each individual "vertebrae" to a "rib", until Daddy was encased in metal. He looked nervous, so I patted his shiny head.

"Alright," said Mr. Y at last. "Now I'm going to retract the pulleys a little."

Swiff! Clack, clack, clack! said the brace as Mr. Y gently let them pull Daddy up a couple degrees.

"Feeling alright, Mr. Fleck?" he asked. "Feeling dizzy?"

My Daddy looked like a dog being hoisted onto his hind legs, the way his eyes darted about. "I feel a little funny," he admitted. "But it doesn't hurt, and I'm not very dizzy." He breathed deeply and smiled a little. "I'm not using to seeing at this height when I'm sitting!"

"By spring," declared Mr. Y, "You should be completely straightened and able to walk about like your daughter."

To a man who had been crawling for almost fifty years, this was unbelievable-almost scary-news. It even made my mind reel. Daddy, not crawling? That was almost like imagining Daddy with no tattoos. It practically made him who he was. We had old photographs of me as a wrinkly little baby, sleeping on his bent back while he read books. I rode around on him when I was a toddler. We'd always had to keep things at his eye level. This was all going to change! I hugged Daddy and kissed his head.

We were still murmuring at the wonder of it all when Mr. Y looked at Mr. De Rossi very significantly.

"I have saved the best for last," he announced with glee. "For our mute Italian friend is about to get his voice back."

The eyes of our "mute Italian friend" widened. My breath caught my throat. Get his voice back? Me and him looked at each other, at a loss. I'd never been able to imagine what my best chum's voice would sound like. It just seemed impossible. High? Low? Did he have an accent? I was going to find out!

For the third time, Mr. Y leaned into his big bag. At last, he withdrew a little gold trumpet. It looked as though he'd plucked it off of a tiny Victrola. It had a rope on it.

Mr. De Rossi accepted it as though he were taking the Holy Grail.

"Here," explained Mr. Y, touching his throat. "Is where your vocal cords used to be before they were severed."

There was a low gasp when we heard that. His vocal cords had been severed! That was why he could never talk! He'd never told us before. But who had done that to him? At any rate, that explained the scarring at his throat...

"Now, all you have to do is press this up against that spot. This is designed to pick up on the varying vibrations in your breath when you use your palate to make sounds." Mr. Y pressed the trumpet to his throat. "All you have to do is act like you're talking normally, and this device will do the rest. Here, take it."

He looked afraid.

"Don't be nervous. Just try making a vowel sound. Like ahhh."

He cleared his throat and pressed it to the scarred area. We leaned forward, breathless. You could've heard a hair drop.

The sound was masculine and distinct. "Ahhh."

My heart jammed right into my throat. It worked! It worked! We all laughed and gasped nervously. Mr. De Rossi almost dropped the trumpet in astonishment as color rushed into his cheeks.

"Good job. Now," said Mr. Y, grinning. "Say your name."

Mr. De Rossi's voice was dark, a blend of Brooklyn and Italian accent that thrilled me. "G...Gregory De Rossi."

The walls vibrated with the wildness of our cheering. You'd have thought we won the lottery. Mr. De Rossi barely had time to gasp before he was smothered in congratulatory hugs and kisses.

"Good Lawd!" cried Aggie-Ann. "Good Lawd!"

"Oh, Damien! Can you believe it? I declare I can't believe it!"

"Nor can I!"

"Oh," I cried, so happy for him, "Your voice sounds...just right for you!"

"Congratulations, De Rossi," said my father, slapping his back. "Congratulations."

Our "no-longer-mute Italian friend" was momentarily overwhelmed and had to wipe his eyes, but he smiled radiantly and shook Mr. Y's hand so hard that his whole body vibrated.

"Grazie, Signor Y," he said with his newly-restored voice. "For remembering your promise." The Italian words sounded so lovely. It made my heart flutter.

Mr. Y bowed his head graciously.

"Get him something to read!" clucked Genevieve, swinging her arms about. "Get a book, or something!"

"He can use our Bah-bull!" cried Aggie, and she brandished her new Christmas Bible. "Ya can read somethin' outta here!"

And he did! He flipped it open to Genesis, and away he went with those familiar words, "In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth..." We all sat around, amazed, hanging on every word. It was like a church where people actually paid attention.

After a chapter or two, he stopped reading and decided to re-introduce himself to everyone. We got in a line, and he went down person by person, shaking their hand and greeting them.

"Hello, Mr. Y. Hello, Ms. Pennysworth. Hello, Ms. Caine..."

At last he reached me. He took my hand, kissed it, looked tenderly into my eyes and said, "Hello, Signorina Fleck."

I can't remember if I cried, but I know that I snuggled into his jacket and hugged him for about a half hour while everyone clucked and cooed.

"And so," came Mr. Y's voice through the hubbub, "My Trio has been fitted with their devices!" Before we had time to be confused, he grouped my Daddy, me, and Mr. De Rossi together, looking at us approvingly. "For you see, Phantasma will be a big operation to run. I'll need three trusted helpers to spend part of their time in the Ayrie, keeping affairs in order. In addition, I won't always be available for issues of public relations, or promotional stunts, or overseeing things. I need a Trio to do that, and here they are."

Everyone clapped-a bit jealously-for us, particularly the Girys. (Meg gave me a funny little look.) We clapped for ourselves, feeling numb at all the wonderful things that had happened on this Christmas morning. For what felt like the ten millionth time, we thanked Mr. Y, only to recieve the same modest nod.

"Now," he said, looking at his pocket watch. "I understand that those religious among us have church services to attend. Off you go. Non-believers, follow me to the dining hall and help me set up!"

And so it was that everyone-except for the Pennysworths and Mr. De Rossi-headed off to church. Boy, did I have a lot of things to thank God for! It always sort of hurt me that Mr. De Rossi never bothered with church, especially now that he had so much to be thankful for. In those days, church was something you did regardless of whether you actually believed or not, because it was a sign of respectability. To not go was to say that you didn't give a damn what anyone thought of you, sort of. Well, it couldn't be helped. We piled into Mr. Taylor's car and took off into the frosty Brooklyn morning.

We had a funny saying among us religious freaks: Catholics to the left, Protestants to the right! That's because we all parted ways at the corner of 5th and Main; all the Catholic churches were to the left, all the Protestant ones were to the right. Daddy and I went left with a few others, but instead of stopping at the Roman Catholic place, we went a little farther to St. Anastasia's, the Greek Orthodox cathedral in which Daddy and Mama were married. On went my black chapel veil, and in we went.

Once seated, Daddy closed his eyes and seemed to suddenly become very sad.

"What's wrong, Daddy?" I asked.

"I was thinking," he replied softly, lifting misty eyes to me, "Of how much your Mama would have loved to see her baby walking." He swallowed and looked down. "And me."

I looked at my emerald ring and my throat suddenly got a big lump. I hugged Daddy. "But she did see. She saw everything. Don't be sad, Daddy."

But a big stupid tear already went down my cheek. I knew how Daddy felt. It was true that Mama could see us from Heaven, but he wished he could share in her happiness. What would she have said? Would she have laughed, or gasped? Would she have-as she did once at Thanksgiving-get over-excited and scream, Happy Anniversary? She felt so far away.

"I'm not sad," Daddy replied. He lifted his eyes to where he and Mama had been mystically made one in matrimony, and smiled bravely as though he could still see it. "I'm still just so grateful that she chose me."

(

)

(

(

After that wonderful Christmas, life was like a roller coaster going ever upwards. Daddy's back was looking straighter every day, I could walk and run without reserve, and my dear Mr. De Rossi could talk-and talk, and talk, and talk. He had something to say about everything. It had been so painful for me to see him frustrated and angry, unable to express himself, but now the words, English and Italian, flowed from his mouth like water from a thawing glacier. We got to know each other even more.

Speaking of thawing glaciers, that winter was a pretty short one, and the moment it thawed into spring construction began on Phantasma immediately. And I really do mean immediately. One day Daddy and I awoke to a great rumbling, like an earthquake; as we hurried into our parlor/kitchen, our wall-hangings and photographs were vibrating.

"It's like an invading army!" cried my father, dashing to the window. He was a little boy during the Civil War. I don't think he ever truly accepted the fact that it was over.

But it wasn't an invading army-at least not a hostile one. It was a small army of construction workers, ready to get moving on Phantasma! Following them were a whole slew of other performers: trapeze artists, animal trainers, dancers, you name it! In less than a week, the brick roads were laid, and by March, the buildings were going up, including the tall spire of the Ayrie. Public interest was wild, and in poured the investors. Madame Giry and Meg really had their hands full.

As our impending debut drew nearer and nearer, me and my other fellow athletic freaks had serious training to do. On the aerial hoop set up in a nearby training gym, I practiced all of my mother's old tricks, including the ones she could never do with one arm, like the upside-down split. The choreography had to be very precise; I was working with two trapeze girls, and I also had to practice the "peacock fan" trick with a big sheet.

Daddy, thoroughly straightened, proved to be ridiculously strong. Half a century of dragging himself-and sometimes me-around gave him some powerful arm muscles. He spent a lot of the day lifting weights like they were twigs. He even playfully picked me up once. You'd better believe I took care not to anger him after that.

Meg Giry and a handful of dancers were promised their own routine by Mr. Y. As a matter of fact, she was planned to be a major attraction-the "Ooh-La-La Girl!" You should've seen her costume. It was beautiful. It was elaborate. It came with a feathered headress. It covered no more than her breasts and bottom half. One day she went strolling past my Daddy. The man almost fell over. At lunch, he and Mr. Geddes had an intense conversation about "women today".

Genevieve had to train hard too. Sometimes in the break between routines I'd just sit and watch her. It was mind-blowing how she could contort her body. With no tools other than a mat and her raw flexibilty, she could lay on her stomach and bring her whole body up over her head, so that her rear was nestled in her up-do and her legs were out in front of her face. Today she was doing a handstand whilst putting her feet on her head. I was coming down off my hoop.

"Say, Ariel," she called, walking about on her hands in that funny pose, "You've become really excellent at that hoop business. Just like your ma. Poetry in motion!"

Despite the fact that Genny was what my Daddy called "not nice" and her outspoken tenancies, I always found her to be quite friendly in a cavalier sort of way. She seemed to make a point to be sweet as sugar to all women. Men? Forget it.

"Thank you, Genny," I replied. "And look at you! You're a human pretzel."

She unfolded her body and stood up straight. "Harder than aerial acrobatics and a hell of a lot less pretty. Anyway, you're turning eighteen pretty soon." She grinned. "Ready to be a legal adult?"

"I think I am." The thought was a bit daunting. "But...it feels pretty fast. My mother was already married by the time she was eighteen."

"It ain't a requirement, you know," Genny said slyly, unwrapping a new lollipop.

"Oh, I know that," I said. "To be perfectly honest, I do not think I shall ever marry."

"Really?" In went the lollipop. "Not even among our kind?"

It was a given that a freak had basically no chance of marrying unless it was to another freak, and the vast majority of our kind never did. Without knowing it, we'd been born into a virtual cloister. Early on, I had accepted the fact that I would likely live the life a little old maid, caring for my parents until they died, and now that Daddy was all alone, I felt my responsibility even more keenly. Poor Daddy, who sometimes cried nights for Mama. No, I wouldn't-I couldn't-leave him to marry anybody. He would be so lonely.

And so it was with conviction that I answered, "No, Genny. I don't think so." And then I added, "I don't need a husband to be happy. I'm not that sort of girl."

Genny approved of my reasoning heartily, although my reply initially surprised her. "Oh, I'm not suggesting that..." she quickly insisted, smiling, "I'm not suggesting that a woman needs a husband to be happy. Banish the thought! That's a fine decision you have made. A fine one! A reasonable one, as your father would say!"

I laughed. Yes, that did seem to be my father's one-size-fits all term of acceptability.

"Speaking of your father," she went on, "Once you're a grown woman, you won't have to listen to that old Puritan anymore. You can do what you want!"

"I...don't understand you."

"I'm not saying you have to declare all-out war on the guy," chuckled Genny, "In his current body-builder state, I'd certainly refrain from pulling any nonsense. But by Golly! We never get to do anything together. I've always got to be content with Della all the time. She's okay, and her extra arm comes in handy when you've got picket signs to carry, but she's not you! I like you!"

"And so do I," I replied sincerely, "But my Daddy...well, he thinks you're..."

"A slob," finished Genny frankly. "Don't spare my feelings, I can take it. Your Daddy hates my guts."

True as it was, it almost sounded like a lie when it was worded like that. "Hates your guts?" No, please, it's just that-you know, back in his day..."

"Ah!" sighed Genny. Out came the lollipop, and she thrust it about like a pointer. "Ah, yes. Back in the gay old 1870s. And now he resents me because I don't subscribe to that patriarchal, backwards, medieval bunk and knit all day. What a drag!"

When she got like this, it was best to divert her with a little humor. "But I'm good at knitting," I said wickedly. "What do you say to that?"

The humor worked. "I say you're a goose. But wait, Ariel dear, I need to ask you a question. What is your favorite flower?"

"Red roses," I replied. "The ones that seem to have black blushing around the edges." I had seen them once in a big glass bowl. I never forgot them.

"Naturally! Red roses would look utterly marvelous with your face. Oh, yes, there couldn't be a nicer combination. Alright, I'll remember that!"

By now, we had walked out of the training gym and were about to part ways.

"One last thing, Ariel. Ever since Christmas, I've been wondering about that friend of yours, De Rossi. Mr. Y mentioned that his vocal cords got severed. You're always with the man; do you think you could wheedle him into telling you how that happened?"

"I really doubt it," I answered automatically, seeing Mr. De Rossi in my mind's eye. "He absolutely hates questions like that. They make him angry."

"Well, I declare!" snorted Genny. "I don't see how he has the right to march about like a man of mystery. Mr. Y, too! We don't know dickens about either of them! One's from France, one's from Italy. That's it! Well, if you manage to make any discoveries, do tell."

(

)

(

)

It turned out that each of us freaks had been fashioned with characters to portray in addition to our costumes. Shortly after changing out of my gym clothes, Daddy and Mr. De Rossi showed me some papers Mr. Y had written up for us. He was pretty keen on creating the Phantasma illusion. The papers said:

Miss Fleck: During his travels, Mr. Y had the good fortune to stumble across a most marvelous photograph opportunity: a flock of peacocks! He had scarcely erected his tripod, however, when he found himself looking into the eyes of a strange young lady with a twisted leg, who fancied herself queen of the peacocks. Her true identity and how precisely she came to live among peacocks the world may never know, but Miss Fleck's skill in all things aerial intrigued Mr. Y greatly, and now she seems content to call Phantasma her new home, provided she is never far from her beloved birds nor is tethered to the ground.

Mr. Squelch: While stopping off by an Indian incense market, Mr. Y was interested to hear the tale of a renowned strongman who had covered himself in serpentine tattoos. It seemed there was nothing he couldn't lift, but when he tried to budge a golden statue of Shiva the Destroyer his back was terribly bent. Never one to miss a beguiling opportunity, Mr. Y made a visit to the injured Mr. Squelch. So desperate for a cure was he, that he promised to swear his loyalty to whoever was able to help him. The rest, as you can see, is history!

Dr. Gangle: Contrary to popular belief, Dr. Gangle is a real criminal-or perhaps we ought to say "former criminal". After a fateful encounter with a sword-wielding hero, his throat was slit and his voice destroyed. Thoroughly humbled, Dr. Gangle resigned himself to a life of honest labor, assembling mouse traps, despairing of ever having his voice back. Enter Mr. Y, who met his greatest challenge yet: restoring a lost voice and rehabilitating a criminal! Nowadays, Dr. Gangle is a perfect gentleman, and as you can hear, has a very loud voice!

Clever, hmm? We got a good laugh over those, and when the others got theirs, we were even further amused. There were some pretty funny ones. Genny and her brother were described as being unloved half-siblings of a demon-which explained the contorting and fire-eating-and Mr. Taylor's height was supposedly the result of a tragic accident involving a barbaric game of tug-of-war. Mr. Geddes was the son of gnome, off to seek his fortune, Ms. De Luzy had selflessly given to her legs to some starving wolves, Mrs. Beardsley had grown a beard to sneak into her late husband's Lodge Meeting, Tom was a former jewel-thief who loved showing off his stolen booty, Mrs. Pritchard was a mysterious tattooed medicine woman, Della's third arm was a gift from a Hindu god, and Aggie-Ann had been fused together by God when the orphaned sisters prayed never to be forced apart.

"I guess we'd better start calling each other by our new names," reasoned Mr. De Rossi. "From this point on, I'm Dr. Gangle!"

"And I'm Mr. Squelch!" added my Daddy cheerfully.

I shrugged. "And I'm still Miss Fleck."

"Nothing wrong with that!" Dr. Gangle said, pulling my collar. "It sounds good with our names, Signorina."

From where we stood we could see the half completed dreamworld of Phantasma: the scaffolding around the buildings, the fresh earth being overturned for the gardens, the fountains being dug out. Over in a studio, Mr. Y had hired some artists to paint the promotional banners. The air was filled with the warm, acrid scent of fresh earth and new paint. There we stood, the Trio, watching our world come to life.

"I can hardly believe this real," my Daddy said after a long silence. He was standing straight, proud, not a trace of his former disability showing, save for the metal brace, just visible under his jacket. "If someone had told me ten years ago I'd be walking upright, and my child would be walking beside me without a crutch in a big fantasy land where we both had headlining acts, I'd have told 'em to get their unreasonable head out of Cloud-Cuckoo Land."

I brought Mama's emerald ring up to my lips. "No more cages for the Fleck family anymore, hmm, Daddy?"

"Nope." His arm slid across my shoulders as he looked back over Phantasma. "Not anymore."

(

)

(

(

I never breached the subject of severed vocal cords to ol' Gangle, knowing very well that he would lapse into a hostile silence and change the subject. Instead, we got into a Mr. Y conversation one day, as we were sitting on a bench, watching the stars together. We did that a lot. Nobody else appreciated stars the way we did. Genevieve inevitably became bored within minutes and would begin yapping about current events, Aggie-Ann always began a sober discussion on the end times, and Daddy got too emotional. The sight of the glittering heavens made him think about Heaven, and God, and Mama; a few minutes of star-gazing was a surefire way of getting him to go inside, light a candle by Mama's picture, and pray the Prayer for the Dead until the tears slid into his tattoos and he was exhausted.

"I ponder long the velvet, jewelled night, and dreaming, speculate upon the stars," I quoted quietly, for the sky reminded me of a poem. "What lies behind their diamond points of light, that beam so kindly on this world of ours?"

"Mmm," hummed Gangle in appreciation. "Questa poesia è bella, Signorina."

I had a feeling he'd like it, but didn't say so. We never needed to say things like that to each other.

"Say," I ventured, "Don't you find it funny how Mr. Y knows just about everything about us, and we know nothing about him? All these years, all these plans...and he's a mystery to us."

He stiffened. I was treading on dangerous ground.

"I no know anything about-a him," he eventually said, his English suddenly lousy and his Italian accent very thick. That always happened when he got mad or emotional. "Everybody ask me, and I tell-a them same thing. I not hiding anything."

"Very well, Signor," I hugged his arm. "I was making a statement, not a inquiry. Don't be mad."

"I no mad."

"You are indeed. Just listen to your accent."

There was a proud, intense little silence.

Moments like this made me want to nail him. "Mi dispiace!" I cooed, knowing that properly-spoken Italian always loosened him up. "Never mind Mr. Y. For pity's sake, you get so easily flustered. Let's look at the stars some more, and shut our traps before we lose our tempers."

We did for a little while, but then, suddenly, he blurted, "Ah, what means 'flustered' in Italian?"

"It's another way to say 'completely wonderful'."

"You lie to me." He turned, a big merry grin on his face. "You almost grown woman, and you lie to me. Soon I not be able to call you Signorina no more, and you lie. This is very great shame. I tell-a your father."

I bopped him over the head.

"Ah! And you hit-a me also. Queen of Peacocks!"

"Mouse-trap builder!"

"Chicken!"

"Snake!"

He grabbed me. "Snake? Last straw! I no stand-a for this!"

And so the stars were ignored as Dr. Gangle and Miss Fleck went to (friendly) battle, poking noses, grabbing collars, and trying to jam tickling fingers into armpits. This insult/battle routine was a common fixture of our strange relationship.

"Ahahaha!" he eventually cried, caving, "Ah, no more!"

"No more?"

"No more!" He settled back onto the bench. "Oh, madre di Cristo, Signorina. Te voglio bene. You make-a me happy."

I made him happy. That was one of those unspoken things we both knew, but when he said it out loud like that it hung really awkwardly in the air. It seemed only polite to reply to it.

"You make me happy, too," I replied, returning my gaze to the stars.

The murmuring chords of a piano became audible. For a full minute I didn't think about it. I imagined, dreamily, that the stars were making some sort of celestial music, but soon it occurred to me that something else was making music. Whatever the music was, it was perfectly suited to the night! Beside me, Gangle stirred.

"You hear that, too?" I asked him.

"I do. That's Mr. Y. At night, he likes to play the piano in the dance hall. Nice music, hmm?"

Anyone who has known me for any length of time knows how I feel about live music, and so up I went from the bench, Gangle in tow, and we snuck to the side of the dance hall. It was like a barn. We sat beside a crack in the door and listened, smiling at each other like we were getting away with something. But soon we concentrated on nothing but the music.

The piano, cheap though it was, sent forth heartbreakingly tender notes under the expert hands of Mr. Y, and before long I felt my throat swelling. The music was almost like a living thing; when it was loud, it was making a declaration, when it suddenly grew soft, it was pleading. I felt like it wanted something of me. And all at once Mr. Y sang along to it.

Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation

Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination

Silently the senses abandon their defenses

Helpless to resist the notes I write

For I compose the music of the night.

The music of the night! Yes, that's what it was. It was exactly like the night. It was perfect. My heart thumped, and all at once a hot tear burned in each eye.

"Signorina," I heard Gangle whisper in concern, but I waved him away. I snuck closer to the door crack.

There, just visible in the soft lamp-light, was Mr. Y at the piano. He was tall and straight, and dressed in his usual suit and mask combination. His arms and fingers flew effortlessly around the piano. He did not seem to need to concentrate. There was no sheet music. The music of the night was flowing out of his fingers and singing through the piano, as natural as the whistling of the wind when it blows through the trees.

Mr.Y! It seemed that a day could scarcely pass without me becoming more impressed with his genius, and tonight he was winning me over-mind and soul-with his music.

Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar...

Music strikes you deeper than anything in the world. It defies language barriers. It defies your reason. When it is done as Mr. Y did it, it defies your consciousness.

"Signorina, you don't look well..." I heard Gangle say, but I shushed him again.

I looked at Mr. Y. For the first time, I noticed a great many pleasing things about him: the intense gleam in his eye, the strong line of his jaw, the capable, skilled fingers, like great instruments. A sensation in my body like the licking of a flame leapt up and grabbed me. I felt as though the vibrations from the piano were travelling along the floor and running up and down my spine, infecting me with a marvelous pain. It did not release me until the last note hummed and died.

The next thing I knew, I was back at the bench again. I don't know how I got there. Gangle was looking at me, an expression slightly deeper than concern in his eyes.

"You okay?" he asked, his accent thick. "How you feel-a? I sorry to pull-a you away, but you no answered me, acted crazy, like you about to cry. You okay?"

"I'm fine." My voice sounded bizarre to me.

"Too much-a night air," he said grimly, coming to that peculiarly Victorian conclusion. "I put-a you to bed."

He escorted me home to Fleck Manor, but as I passed through the room of framed ancestors my heart was aching. A nameless hunger was consuming me. The music of the night had filled me with an earnest longing that I could not identify, let alone satisfy. That Mr. Y! Perhaps everything would be better in the morning. Somehow, the sunlight has a way of shutting up one's moonlight desires.

As I undid my brace and prepared to toss on a nightgown, I looked in the mirror and gave my pale, unclothed body a long once-over. I don't know why I did. I guess I half expected to see my strange emotions, bubbling just under the skin, but all I saw looking back at me was a naked freak-girl, with pale skin, pink-tipped breasts, and a long, long mane of black hair. On went the bleached tent of a nightgown, and then I hobbled to bed. I completely forgot about my prayers.

The candle next to Mama's picture was out, but it was smoking. Daddy was asleep. Gently, I laid myself down beside him and resolved not to think about the music of the night-or Mr. Y-for the remainder of the evening.

And so it was that I thought the music of the night-and especially Mr. Y-for the remainder of the evening.

(Miss Fleck's story stops here for now.)

When Miss Fleck at last cleared her throat and stopped, all that remainded of the breakfast were the dregs of the juice and a broken piece of bacon, sitting in a little pool of solidifying fat.

"When are you seeing Gregory again, Jay?" she asked.

"Next chance I get. Tomorrow, if I can manage it. It depends on whenever Rodger has an hour to spare. He's a reporter for the New York Times, you know."

"Well, when you do, I've got a letter you can give him." Miss Fleck ate the broken bacon and stared absent-mindedly at her plate for a moment. Then she looked up. "I saw him three days ago. But, still...how did he look when you saw him?

"He looked reasonably healthy, if that's what you're asking."

Her eyelids drooped as though she were suddenly tired. "I don't really know what I'm asking, actually." And then she rose heavily, looking over at the bedroom. "I should take a nap," she added abruptly.

Mr. Whittington insisted she drink a little milk first, and after she obediently drank a glass she retired to bed. Despite the fact that it was still morning, sheer anxiety lulled her into the deep sleep that she hadn't had the night before.

NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:

1. Do you like? (That's not really a note...) I liked writing this chapter very much. It came naturally.

2. FUN FACT: I should mention that "Aggie-Ann Hansel" is a character based on the real-life conjoined twins Abigail and Brittany Hensel. I threw in a Southern accent and a generous helping of religious piety, for humor.

3. Genevieve is a hoot to write. She's one of my favorite characters.

4. Thank you (again) for reading "City of Wonders"! I'm pretty partial to it.