Chapter Nine
One-Armed Angel, Part I
Donning a smart brown dress, a coat with a fur brim, and a neat little cloche, Miss Fleck went brightly to see her dear Mr. De Rossi, escorted by Mr. Whittington. He took her as far as the prison steps.
"I'll return in an hour to see you back, Ariel," he told her, holding open the door. "Tell me how the man's getting on later, won't you?"
"Naturally," she agreed. Her countenance was merry and flushed at the prospect of seeing her friend. "See you later!"
In she strode, and Mr. Whittington was free to return home and have a look at Mr. Fleck's journal. He settled down on the old red couch, carefully turned the yellowed old pages, and had a look.
(Mr. Squelch's journal starts here.)
If life isn't just one thing after another! This day has been terrible. As I'm writing this, I'm lying in bed. Doctor Lawrence is making me tea, and Edna is bringing me a tray from dinner. Ariel and De Rossi are star-gazing, probably discussing me. I'm feeling pretty bad. Today at lunch I had a huge seizure, the first one I've had in years, in front of God and every person in the dining tent. I did it all. The thrashing, the drooling, the other unmentionably embarrassing bodily function, the whole nine yards. I never told anyone I had these sorts of issues, so I scared the dickens out of everyone, particularly Ariel. She was madder than a hornet. I guess she has the right, too. If I ever told her I actually had a tiny seizure at the library yesterday, and what I was feeling on the way home were the after-effects, I guess she'd tie me to a tree and shoot me.
Mr. Y has given me the whole week off, which I'm sure he expects me to take, and it seems inevitable that I am now officially the "invalid" of this establishment. Right when I thought I had this thing beaten. At least I'm not Uncle Ivan. I told Ariel all about that, and how Dad used to go to great lengths to cover up my issues. I explained all that to her. She was so mad that I never told her, but I think she understands me now. My precious girl is just like an angry, worrying version of her mother.
Speaking of which, my wedding anniversary is coming up. If Polly were still here, this would have been our 23rd anniversary, for we married in 1884. I will never forget this date, because it is a day that I thought would never happen. Polly and I got married against such ridiculous odds. I still can't believe she existed, or that out of all the men on earth, she chose a deformed, tattooed young man with a seizure disorder, who lived in a freakshow, had no ability to get a real job, owned no property, and had about a sixth-grade education. Additionally, there were no guarantees that I could successfully sire any children. I was very strong, but that didn't help very much. As far as marriage material went, I was the bottom of the heap.
Until Polly, I had zero experience with women. I didn't even have a mother. My mother, Lavinia, was weakened pretty severely by my birth, and when I was five days old, she had a sudden attack of apoplexy and died. And I mean sudden. I was nursing on her breast, and Dad left the room. When he came back with a newspaper, she was dead, and I was still sucking away as her body grew cold. It was like I had sucked the life right out of her. All I ever knew of my mother were a few old sketches and daguerrotypes, my Dad and my brothers' memories, and the sad fact that I, Alfred the Shaking Hunchback, indirectly caused her death. My life was off to a great start.
Today, me and Ariel live in the same little home ("Fleck Manor", they call it) that my brothers and I grew up in. The main room has not changed much, only now we have electricity and a lot more pictures on the wall. The two bedrooms are set up different, too. Sometimes I sit at the table and close my eyes, imagining myself as a little boy, sitting at the table with my Dad and all four of my brothers. We were all tattooed and deformed to some extent. I was the most severely affected, and on top of that I had a seizure problem, so I was "Al" (not "Alf", that was later), the Fleck family's spoiled baby. I still hear the banter, just as it was one day in 1863:
"Daaaad," I'd whine, bent over my oatmeal. "I want more syrup."
Dad's wrinkled, tattooed face would appear over his newspaper, which always contained developments of the ongoing Civil War. "No, Al," he'd say. "There's quite enough syrup in that oatmeal. It's unreasonable of you to eat so much of it when your brothers barely have any."
Edgar, my oldest brother, would always silently nod in agreement with Dad, and so would Charles. They were the oldest, and felt their duties keenly.
"Indeed, Al," Wilbur would add, insolently, while John pretended to shake. "Don't be such a selfish little hunchback."
"No-o-o-o!" I'd roar like a sore little bear, banging my spoon. "Shut up! Daaaad!"
Down went Dad's newspaper, with the stern ultimatum: "You all pipe down and eat your food, and I don't mean maybe!"
Oh, the memories. It was one of the few memories I have which contain all of my brothers and I together, for shortly after that they began to die. When you've got a deformed skeleton, you're naturally unhealthy, and sicknesses are harder on you.
First we lost John to pneumonia, in 1867, when he was thirteen and I was ten. It was so fast. He took ill one day, spent a week gaspng pitifully in bed, and expired against my weeping Dad's shoulder a week later. It was a tremendous blow to our little family. I remember being hoisted up by my armpits so I could look upon John in his casket, see his frozen, waxen face, surrounded by violets and baby's breath. It scared the dickens out of me. Somehow I couldn't grasp that he was in Heaven when I saw him like that.
"My Johnny," said Dad sadly some days later, looking out at the rain. "He's gone ahead of me, and I can't follow him just yet."
Sitting on my bed, bent and miserable, I couldn't even conceptualize any such comfort. All I knew was that John's ball and hoop were sitting in the corner. They would never know him anymore.
Then we lost Wilbur in 1875, when he was twenty-three. It was an infection of the lungs, and the bizarre bend of his spine caused undue pressure to be put upon them, which made it worse. Yet another harrowing funeral, yet another blow to my poor father. At this point, I was eighteen, and had a more mature grasp of death. I missed Will terribly, but when I remembered his days of suffering, I was so glad to know he was in Heaven. Still, his ships-in-a-bottle gathering dust in the corner made my throat swell every time I saw them.
Tragedy struck again seven years later, in 1883, with the sudden death of Charles, who had been feeding the horses. He always did this, but a new horse, unused to people, had been brought in that day. The sight of tattooed, bent Charles, even with a carrot, scared the beast, and he kicked him to death. The offending creature was shot, and Dad recieved one-hundred dollars.
"As though one-hundred dollars could buy my boy!" wept Dad.
At the time, I was twenty-seven, and becoming accustomed to the cruel reality that life was unfair. I rejoiced that Charlie was with the Lord, but the sight of his charcoal sketches of horses made me very sad.
Poor Dad! If I needed any further evidence that the man was a rock, it came a week after Charlie's funeral, when we were informed by telegram that Uncle Tim (his older brother) had died of a heart attack. His widow, Aunt Fanny, was very lonely and wondered if Edgar or I would like to come stay with her and keep her company. I couldn't because of my disorder, so it was Edgar who took the offer, rather gratefully.
"Makes me guilty to say it, Al," he told me as he packed and prepared to catch the next train to Albany, "But I'm glad to go. This place feels like a giant funeral home. Too many memories. Too many ghosts. I'll visit as often as I can."
A puff of smoke, a wailing whistle, and away went Edgar, leaving me and Dad to return alone to Fleck Manor. We stepped over the well-worn threshold and stood in silence. It was the same home we'd always known, with the same smell of scuffed wood and old pomander balls, the pictures on the walls, and that big old table with its seven chairs, but something about it semed so alien when only Dad and I were in it and our footsteps echoed.
At length, we sat down. We didn't talk. Dad's eyes lingered on all the scratches the table bore, all the stains caused by food and drink, all the nicks and dings that had accumulated over thirty-five years. He looked at them as though they told a story, the story of his life as a husband and a father of five rowdy little boys. Then he slowly looked up and looked at me, his sickest and most severely deformed boy, sitting before him, with four painfully vacant chairs, as poignant as Tiny's Tim's abandoned crutch, standing beside me. He put his head down and wept.
I didn't know what to do or say, so I sat in silence, feeling the desolation sweep over me and amaze my soul. Ed was right. Too many memories. Too many ghosts.
Well, Lord, I thought miserably to myself. Here we are. It's unreasonable of me, most likely, to complain, but I wish there were some way to make this house feel like a home again. It would have to be a miracle, of that I'm sure, but can't You help?
Little did I know that I would have that prayer answered. Two weeks after Ed left for Albany, the Flying Papakonstantinau Family arrived at Coney Island. We were one of the stops on their tour.
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Another day, another cage. It was July 20th, 1883. Dad and I were "The Bizarre Flecks", a part of the Astley's Astomishments freakshow, the same freakshow that my daughter would be a part of until 1906, when Mr. Y shut us down. Over the years, freaks have come and gone, died, been purchased by other shows. There was Dog-Faced Derek, the 600-pound lady, some Siamese twins...they're all gone now. The only freak who has remained from the old days is old Mr. Geddes.
Anyhow, there we were, father and son, doing what we did best: sit behind bars and look goofy while ladies and gentlemen gazed on, although in those days the patrons were looking pretty goofy too. In those days, this awful thing called a "bustle" was popular with ladies. Imagine fastening a birdcage to one's backside, and then putting on a dress over it. That was a bustle, and the popular sentiment towards them was "the bigger the better", resulting in ladies who looked as though they could actually be centaurs if I looked under their skirts.
Dog-Faced Derek sat beside me. "Al. Did you know there's this aerialist family from Athens that just arrived today?"
"Athens?" I asked stupidly.
"Athens, Greece, Al," he clarified, rolling his eyes amusedly at my Dad. That made him look like a cocker spaniel. "They're doing their first show on our lunch break. Come see it with me, if only for the girl."
That got Dad's attention, but not mine. I had resigned myself to the fact that I would be a lonely hunchback for the rest of my life, and I had no intention of gazing upon beautiful women and tormenting myself with frustrated desire. What good would that do me? It was hard enough, being a twenty-seven year old man passed by, daily, by ample-bosomed, pink-lipped women, and knowing that the joy of their love was something I couldn't ever have. Better to just read books all day! What a rotten world!
"The girl?" my Dad asked. "Who's the girl?"
"Apollonia...some long mumbo-jumbo Greek last name," Derek replied. "Anyhow, that's not important. The catch is this: she's only got one arm!"
"A one-armed aerilast?" Dad laughed heartily. "I'd like to know how that works out."
Derek looked out beyond the bars as though he could see her. "They call her the One-Armed Angel," he said dreamily, admiration in his dog-like face. "And if she looks anything like she does on the poster, that's a good nickname. Come on, Al, and you, Estevan. Aren't you curious to see how a one-armed girl does acrobatics?"
What can I say? Dad and I were intrigued, and judging by the crowd lining up for "The Flying Papakonstantinau's" first show, so were a lot of other folks. In I went, against my blaring conscience.
A clash of orchestra, a burst of lights, and the aerial rigging was illuminated by a spotlight.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" trumpeted the announcer. "From Athens, Greece, the Flying Papakonstantinau Family! Comprised of the honorable Apollo..."
A swarthy, pleasant man waved at the crowd.
"His wife, Frances..."
A woman who looked just like him waved as well, her hair decorated with feathers.
"And their daughter, the one-armed angel, Miss Apollonia!"
And there, popping up perkily between her parents, appeared the cutest girl I ever saw in my life. She had the creamiest, most soft-looking skin, colored like light coffee. She had dark eyes, a dear pleasant face, and an elaborate coiffure of black hair that was complimented by the latest craze in ladies' hair: the lunatic fringe. (Nowadays we call it "bangs") She wore a white get-up with feathers in her hair, and where one of her arms should have been was a little stump.
"Call me Polly!" she yelled prettily, waving her one arm, and her little stump twitched as though it wanted to wave too. I chuckled at it, a deep, burning warmth starting in my heart and spreading all over my body.
And away they went! They really did fly, doing all manner of trapeze stunts, but all I saw was Polly. I wondered if she knew how cute she was. Some women seem to realize their beauty and capitalize on it most keenly, and I always found this supremely unattractive, but Polly just seemed "happy to be there", as I like to say. She was having fun doing what she liked, a dear, unpretentious smile on her face as she went.
After doing trapeze with her parents, Polly went solo on the aerial hoop.
"Zito i Ellada!" she cried, unfurling a huge Greek flag. "Long live Greece!"
Down it fluttered like a great blue and white swan, and then this one-armed angel proceeded to stun everyone (especially me) with how proficiently she could do acrobatics despite her setback. Years and years later, I feel a tender joy whenever I see Ariel doing what her mother used to love. It reminds me of this wonderful moment. She ended her routine by kissing her fingers and giving the crowd a little wave.
Now, if you'd have told me back then that this beautiful Greek girl, with her lovely face and sweet disposition, would one day be my wife and bear me a child, I would have called you unreasonable and crawled away, grumbling, although the longing would have remained. It did that day. I let my eyes linger on Polly for one last moment, and then I crawled back to my cage, where folks like me belonged.
You've been a fool, Al, I told myself miserably. What outcome did you expect? She is not of your world.
The grinding scrape and clatter of the bars locking behind me had never sounded so terrible.
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The Papakonstantinaus were engaged with Coney Island for a month, but I never went to any more of their shows. I couldn't. Seeing Polly made me feel a whole slew of intense, fiery, tortured emotions that would only be intensified by further contact, so I avoided it. I read books, as I always did, in my spare time, but somehow she always found a way to haunt me even there. Every time a hero talked of a beautiful heroine, I saw Polly, regardless of the physical description, and I was so unhappy that I forswore all romantic novels. Only rough tales of cowboys and pirates for me!
In 1883, there was a brand-new book called Treasure Island that was really quite a sensation; everybody who loved books was mad about it.
"Have you read that book?" someone would ask.
"Yes, yes, I have, God bless him!" would come the hearty reply.
I managed to procure a cheap edition, printed small on coarse paper, out of a catalogue. I was interested to see what all the fuss was about. When it arrived I waited for sundown, and then I took it to a well-lit restaurant in the park. I crawled into a corner where my appearance was unlikely to garner much attention, opened the book, and began to read quietly to myself.
"Squire Trelawney, Doctor Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17— and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow Inn, and the brown old seaman, with the sabre-cut, first took up his lodging under our roof..."
I was immediately absorbed into that wonderful story. All around me, waiters waited, smoke curled about in wisps from glowing cigars, floorboards creaked, glasses tinkled, and lewd jokes were cracked, but rather than distract me, all these things contributed to the ambience. I felt like I was really there with the narrator, in the Admiral Benbow Inn. I was so intrigued and pleased that I remained ignorant of a certain one-armed listener, who had seen me reading and sat down beside me.
I was getting to a particularly dramatic moment when a sweet, musical voice piped up.
"Hello."
You can imagine how insane I felt when I looked up into the brown eyes of Apollonia Papakonstantinau, who did not seem embarrassed by her intrusion. There she sat in her glory, in a dress of brown silk, her pleasant face sitting above a cascade of white lace that was pinned with a cameo brooch. Oh! She was even more beautiful up close. I tell you, I almost did the "hyperventilate and fall down" thing.
Before I could even formulate a response, she leaned forward and smiled. Raising her one arm, she brought her fingers to my head and began tracing the paths of my tattoos. Something like electricity tingled all over my body and made my heart pound. What was she...?
"I like your reading," she informed me, still tracing. "But I like your face the best. You're beautiful!"
She thought I was beautiful! I didn't even know what to do. That was too much, too fast! On and on Polly traced, scooting around on her knees to reach the back ones, her perfumed bosom sometimes pressing into my face. About a million thoughts went racing through my numb brain. Some were romantic, some were vaguely sexual, and one suddenly caught my attention.
"Miss...Polly..." I managed to gasp, "Why...? Are you alone? Where are your parents?"
It wasn't exactly the most romantic thing to say, but in those days it wasn't nice for a man and a girl to be alone like this. Touching each other's faces on a restaurant floor was darn near scandalous! She stopped tracing and sat back on her heels, a rather wicked look in her eyes.
"My parents are asleep," confessed Polly, her voice still containing a childish, sing-song lilt. "I like to look at things at night, when no one can follow me. I saw you come in here with your book, so I followed you."
"Why?" I asked. This whole situation was almost dream-like.
"Because your face is beautiful and squiggly!" she said sweetly. "And, and, and...you can read!" Her eyes grew sad. "I can't read. Whenever I try to read, the letters move around and twist themselves in shapes, and so I can't read. I'm an imbecile, you know."
"You? An imbecile?" I cried, shocked that lovely Polly (who thought I was beautiful!) felt this way about herself. "Certainly not! I think you're.." I struggled stupidly with words for a moment, and then I blurted, "I think you're brilliant."
She smiled sadly. "No. I'm a real imbecile. Or maybe I'm just a dummy. You see, they measured up my IQ, and I got a bad mark. And I can't read. Did I tell you that?"
It became clear to me after a bit more talking that Polly really wasn't quite right in the head. Her funny voice wasn't an act; it was genuine, as was her cute goofiness. She tried to read my book, but after a few moments her face tightened in anger as she tried to understand the words. At last she tossed her head aside in disgust and sighed, "It's no use. I'm too much of a dope."
That made me sad, and my heart surged with a longing to make her happy.
"Well," I offered, "It just so happens that Treasure Island is just the book to read aloud. Do you want to listen some more?"
"Oh, yes!" she said eagerly. "Please, Mr..."
"Al," I finished brightly, but then I realized that this was a bit too familiar to be decent. "Well, that's what Dad calls me. My real name is Alfred Fleck."
It felt only right to shake her hand, and so we did.
"And my name is Apollonia Papakonstantinau," she said. "But my Dad calls me Polly."
Without further ado she settled down next to me and listened to the rest of the first chapter, unable to believe my luck and audacity. Suddenly Treasure Island was just that much more excellent. Polly was the perfect listener, cheering when something good happened, giggling when something was funny, and making low sounds in her throat when something serious was going on. So demonstrative was she in her enthusiasm for the story, that I felt like I knew her by the time the first chapter was over.
"Ooh, Alfie!" she cried when I was through, dubbing me with the nickname she'd call me for the rest of her life. There was no getting away from it now. "You read so nice. Can I hear you read more tomorrow? Will you come here again?"
"Yes!" I said excitedly, not thinking it through. "Yes, I will come if you will be here."
Polly said that it was a date and went prancing out the door, causing a few patrons to look after her and then at me, wonderingly. I sat there, stunned, holding my book. Had I really been so audacious as to call this young lady-this aerialist-to a restaurant every night, without her parents knowing of it? To sit with me, a freak? It all felt like a dream.
Oh, but she said I was beautiful! And she called me Alfie! This lovely girl told me that!
So you see, love can make a man very unreasonable.
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I returned to the restaurant, the very same one, the next evening, Treasure Island in hand. Naturally, I was a lot more spruced up than I'd been the other night. As I dragged myself to my corner, careful to dodge footfalls, I felt like I was living in a dream, a novel. Perhaps Polly would not come. Perhaps I had been hallucinating.
Jingle! Jingle! said the the bells on the door, and with a rush of cool air, Polly breezed in. There was her familiar, wonderful face. My chest swelled like a giant balloon. Yes, it was all true! I was so happy that my hands trembled and I could scarcely stammer out a greeting.
"Alfie!" she bubbled, wiggling her stump. "You're so easy to find."
"Oh," I replied stupidly. "I'm glad you came, Polly! You're easy to pick out in a crowd too, you know."
She nodded seriously, gesturing to her stump. "Yes. There aren't many girls who were born with a stump for an arm. But, but, but Alfie, did you know that God ripped it off?"
I blinked. I must have missed that part in the Bible. "Eh?"
"It's true!" she told me. "When I was going to be born, God didn't want me to leave. He loved me. So he grabbed my arm and pulled hard, very hard! But my parents really wanted me. They pulled too. God pulled, they pulled and all at once my arm ripped off. My parents won! So now I have this stump. But it's nice because I look at it and remember that God loves me."
She looked at that stump with genuine pride, then at me.
"God must really love you too, Alfie. Why, just look at what he did to you! He even colored on your face."
That made me laugh. I didn't have the heart to contradict her fantastic story.
"You're right, Polly. I guess we're both very beloved of God!"
"And, and the rest of your friends, too!" she added, referring to the other freaks. "They should put a big sign on where you live that says, Be nice to these people, because God loves them."
Wouldn't that be a nice change. Better luck next life.
"Well, we've got a lot in common, don't we?" I said, opening Treasure Island. I wondered what she'd say if I told her God also made me have shaking fits. Hmm. I decided not to tell. "Both real friends of God, who both love stories! Want to hear more of this one?"
"Yes!" she cheered. "I love books. I think it's just amazing how you get the words to obey you. They don't want me to read them, but I guess you make them sit still!"
"Why, yes," I said. I felt important, even though I didn't have much of a right. "Yes, I do."
Back we went, into that story, the outside world of no consequence. All that mattered was the world of pirates, the adventure, and the warmth of Polly, who came close to me and laid her head upon my shoulder. Sometimes I felt her stump twitch against my arm when something exciting happened. Sometimes I felt her eyelashes flutter. All of it made me desire her more and more.
Al! my conscience cried all the while. Al, you can't allow yourself to become this attached to her. She is not of your world. What would her parents say? What would Dad say? You're setting yourself up for trouble!
"Oh, Alfie," Polly's dreamy voice cut in. "I like you."
And so all my mental protestations held little sway.
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Away we went, Polly and I, through Treasure Island, sometimes doing multiple chapters a night. I told her it was because I wanted to finish the book in a timely manner, but it was really because I wanted to spend lots of time with her. I loved her. It was foolish but it was real.
We went places together. In fact, we went just about everywhere. With Polly sitting prettily atop my hunched back, I crawled to all sorts of nice places. We didn't have Luna Park or anything; electricity wasn't developed yet, but there were always the stars, and of course, the sea. We loved the sea.
"If it weren't so dark and cold I'd get my bathing costume and wade!" cried Polly. She wiggled her little stump and burrowed her toes into the sand.
"No wading for me!" I said. "I'd sooner have a boat."
"I came to America on a giant one!" Polly spread her arm for emphasis. "A great large one called the Persephone. I have to ride boats all the time. I'll have to ride one again soon."
And all at once the tableau of a starry sky over the sea became lonely, cold, desolate. It struck me to the heart. I hadn't thought of that. I hadn't remembered that Polly and her family were a touring group, and that they would eventually leave Coney Island. I looked at the black waves of the Atlantic, stretched before me, and my heart was chilled to think that this vast expanse would soon separate me from Polly. And this was in my day, when telephones didn't exist, and you had to pay through your nose to send a brief message by way of trans-atlantic international telegram. Or you could wait weeks to get a letter somewhere. Either method was insufficient. How could we capture seaside moments like like this in a letter?
Polly seemed to feel my grief, too, for she stopped speaking, a child-like unhappiness darkening her countenance.
"I don't want to leave, Alfie," she said. "I like Coney Island. And I like you most of all. Nobody reads books like you do. And, and, and you don't talk to me like I'm an imbecile."
I couldn't help drawing close to her as she spoke, and then, for the first time in our relationship, I brought her to my neck and hugged her. She had this flowery powdery smell. It made me love her even more.
"I don't want you to go either," I told her, wishing I could delay her departure through the sheer virtue of desire. "You'll come back to Coney eventually, won't you?"
"I s'pose," she replied uncertainly. "But, but, but Alfie, I really don't want to leave at all. Maybe, if our parents meet each other, and, and they talk, and we tell them why..."
Polly's idea was sincere but completely naive. I looked into her watery eyes and tried to think of a way to put it to her that wouldn't be too hurtful. I saw my father's surprised face, declaring me unreasonable for going about secretly with a girl. I saw Apollo and Frances Papakonstantinau's faces, their eyebrows raised and their sensibilities shocked at the notion of their daughter wanting anything to do with a hunchback freak.
"We, we love each other by now, don't we, Alfie?" Polly's little voice intruded desperately upon my turmoil. "In an agape way?"
That confused me. "Eh?"
"In Greek there are three different ways to say love," explained Polly, holding up three fingers. "The first way is eros, and that means a love where you..where you..." Her eyes scrunched, and she whispered, "Where you want to have sex a lot."
I didn't laugh, for that would have hurt her feelings very much, but her innocent sweetness was so precious. (Deep, deep in the secret places in my heart, I fit the eros description pretty well) And then all at once my head began to hurt.
"The next one," she continued, "Is filio, and that means you're someone's friend. But agape is a very, very big love!" She raised her arm and little stump like she was trying to hug a giant ball. "It's the biggest. It means that you love the other person more than anything, no matter what!"
She remained in that big hugging pose for a bit, and then went back on her heels again, looking at me pleadingly. "You understand, Alfie?"
"I do," I replied. My head was beginning to swim. "That's..." It got worse. Now I was feeling icy and weak, and all at once I felt disattached from reality.
"That's what, Alfie?"
Panicking, I grabbed her sleeve and tried to tell her that I was about to have a fit, but I couldn't form the words. My vision twisted and blurred, and then everything went black.
I had no sense of time passing, or even a sensation of darkness or falling, but eventually I felt sand against my cheek and heard whimpering. I stretched and clumsily touched my face. The world came back into focus. I heard the waves, smelled the sea, saw the stars, and when I pulled myself up I saw Polly weeping a distance away. I remembered where I was and what had happened, and I hastened to explain, ashamed of myself. I must have frightened the dickens out of her.
"Polly!" I cried, frightened by the tears that rolled down her cheeks. "Don't cry. I'm alright."
Her poor face was pink and her lips trembled. "Why did you do that, Alfie? Don't do it again!"
I was so humiliated that I wanted to throw myself into the nearby sea, but I gently explained my unfortunate condition to Polly.
"It's my brain," I told her, wiping her eyes. "Sometimes it loses control of itself. It's like I turn into a complete imbecile for a short while, only I can't control anything I do, and I can't hear or see. I only get a brief warning before it hits me. I tried to tell you, but it was too late."
Polly was mystified. "Your brain hurts you?"
I nodded miserably, feeling like a useless invalid. "In a way. I'm very sorry, Polly. I must have really scared you."
"You did scare me," admitted Polly, but she drew close to me again. "Do you feel better now, Alfie?"
"Yes." I actually felt the strange after-shocks of the fit, but I didn't admit it. "I feel awful about all this. I ought to have warned you, or something, but I didn't know what you'd think of me."
"You, you going to get sick again soon?"
I can never tell," I said sadly. "I only get a quick warning."
"Poor Alfie," she murmured sadly, bringing her arm around my shoulder. "But, but. but Alfie, I still have a big love for you, even if your brain hurts you sometimes." She drew back and looked into my eyes, a shy, genuine look illuminating her face. "It's the agape kind. Do, do you love me too?"
I was touched, thrilled, almost to bursting, but I was also terrified. If she loved me, where would we go from here? Why, we'd practically have to marry! And if Polly married me, her career would be over. She'd live in a freakshow for the rest of her life, her former world of money and prestige gone. She'd be Apollonia Fleck, the wife of a hunchbacked, seizure-ridden freak.
She seemed to read my thoughts.
"I mean it, Alfie. I'm not lying. It isn't your fault your brain hurts you, or you look like a bear. You're nice to me, and I love you. Do you love me?"
There was the most marvelous moment where the world around us fell away, and all there was were the stars, the beating of our hearts, and the soft glow of love in Polly's eyes. The seduction was complete. I was disarmed.
"Yes, Polly," It was the truest thing I ever said. "I love you."
"Oh, Alfie!" she breathed exultantly, and, grabbing me, she laid her lips upon mine. Oh, the joy that flooded my soul. I grabbed her back, and we let our first kiss linger for some time. Then Polly put her head down on my shoulder. "I want to stay with you forever."
The obvious difficulties ahead did not enter my mind just yet. I did not think of how shocked both of our respective parents would be, neither of whom knew about our clandestine nighttime meetings, nor the class divide between Polly and I, nor the religious differences, nor anything of that matter. All I knew was that I loved this precious woman desperately, and would do anything for her.
)
(
)
With a week left before Polly was to leave Coney, we had no time to lose. She promised to tell her parents, and I promised to tell Dad. To this very day, I still remember the expression on the man's wrinky face of tattoos as I unfolded my rather incredible (and edited) story. We were having tea at our big old table when I told him.
"Al-fred Fleck!" the astonished old man exclaimed. "If this is a joke, I can assure you that it is not the faintest bit funny."
Miserable squiggles went up my back. "It's not a joke, sir."
He stared at me as though I had come from another planet. "Alfred, I..." He shook his head, as if he could invalidate everything I'd said by sheer will. "This is impossible. You can't...have been really going about with that aerialist girl for three weeks? And her parents! Certainly they'd have an idea of it by now. Alfred, I..."
I said nothing.
"I have never known you to be unreasonable like this before," Dad marveled. "Why, this is completely unlike you."
It was hard to explain the nighttime dreams of love when the sterile light of day was streaming through the windows. "I love her, Dad," I said simply, unable to conjure up anything more eloquent.
Dad's face softened, but he sighed as he reached across the table and grabbed one of my hands.
"Son," he said. "I feel terrible."
"Why?"
"Because of your situation." His eyes became like two sad pools of green in his weathered old face. "Being a freak is a difficult life for a man. Unless you're lucky, you're alone. You latch on to any scrap of love you can get from anybody..."
I was about to say something when suddenly there was a succession of raps upon our door. I had a sinking feeling who it was, and when Dad opened the door my fears were confirmed. Standing imperiously upon our threshold were Apollo and Frances Papakonstantinau, their eyes cold as ice and their posture erect, ready to go on the warpath.
"Are you Mr. Fleck?" Apollo demanded of Dad, and when the man's head nervously bobbed, he went on, "That's your son Alfred over there?"
I caught his steely glare and swallowed. He looked like Polly, but with none of her warmth. I was dead.
"Y-Yes," stammered Dad, weakly inviting them to sit down. "I've just..."
"Listen here, you!" seethed Apollo, marching over and towering over me. "My daughter's just told me you've been seeing her-at night-for three weeks, and now she's babbling all sorts of nonsense about marriage, how she'll killl herself if we take her back to Greece. I have never seen her like this in my life. What have you been doing to her, you scoundrel? Don't dare tell me nothing!"
"Reading!" I cried truthfully. "I was reading in a restaurant one night, and she came in and sat next to me to listen. Every night since then has been the same! I...I think she's wonderful! I'd never take advantage of her!"
Apollo shook his head, a sardonic tone entering his voice. "A man doesn't secretly take a silly girl out to read her storybooks! Don't look at me like an injured saint. Surely you know that my poor Polly is far from intelligent, easily fooled, easily led into all sorts of..."
"I'm telling you that I've been nothing but decent with her!" I declared. "I didn't think she would grow fond of me. I only thought I'd read to her a few times, and then she'd leave, and no harm done!"
"Read to her a few times!" chuckled Apollo savagely. "So that's what they're calling it now!"
Poor Dad was nearly faint with mortification at this insinuation, and frankly, so was I.
Swallowing my fury, I said, as calmly as I could, "I love your daughter very much, and I respect her, too! I know now that I shouldn't have let this secrecy go on, and I do apologize very sincerely, but if you are intent on getting me to admit that I behaved unchaste towards her, you'll leave here disappointed, because I did no such thing."
The man and his wife looked at each other, and then at me, their countenances no less furious.
"Furthermore," I went on, my courage rising, "I don't Polly is unintelligent at all. She may not be able to read, but she is kind, and unselfish, and loving, completely unlike any other woman I've seen. If that is stupidity, then I hope she never gets any smarter. You have a very wonderful daughter. I'd be so pleased to get to love her. I'm a sick, crippled man, to be sure, with only a modest income, but you're not going to find anyone else who's going to love and respect her more."
"Noble sentiments," said Frances, her voice just like Polly's but without the sweetness. "But thus far your behavior has shown little in the way of respect. Did it ever occur to you that all this secrecy is poor manners?"
"Yes," I admitted. "And I apologize. I'm trustworthy, I promise! I can...prove it you."
For a long, terrible moment, it seemed as though they would refuse, but then Apollo nodded slowly. "You want to prove it? Fine. But you will agree to my conditions."
I nodded hurriedly. I'd do what it took! For Polly!
"Condition One! You must be of the same religion as Polly, a Greek Orthodox, and as I'm certain you're not, I expect you to convert and have the appropriate paperwork documented."
I nodded again. Okay, that wasn't too hard.
"Condition Two! Because you are so obviously devoted to Polly, I will expect you to provide her with a wedding band, her wardrobe, and a substantial portion of money to be used on the wedding."
I nodded for a third time, wondering how I was supposed to afford that.
"Condition Three! I am taking Polly back to Greece. We will return this time next year. Provided my daughter has not changed her mind and you have fufilled the first two conditions, I will allow you to be engaged."
I accepted the conditions, although the thought of not seeing Polly for a year made me sad.
"What is your mailing address?" I asked wearily, knowing that at least writing letters would be okay.
Apollo's voice was unrelenting as he unfolded the cruellest condition of all. "Condition Four: You don't talk to her until then."
)
(
)
So you see, the odds were stacked cruelly against me. Change my religion, procure an extravagant amount of money, and yet all that hinged on whether or not Polly remained true. And we couldn't even communicate with other for a whole year! I knew, dollars to doughnuts, that her parents would try to influence her and get her interested in other young Greek men.
The day Polly left for Greece was among the most painful events in my life. There we were, my one-armed angel and I, on the docks, watching the Papakonstantinau's managers take their luggage aboard the Persephone. All around us, life went on, oblivious to our grief.
Polly never looked so dear as she did in that moment, dressed rather appropriately in blue, a little sailor hat atop her hair. Her one arm held her little suitcase.
"I'm going to miss you all the time, Alfie," she quavered, trying to be brave. "I hope you know that, that, that...I'll always love you, and, and I won't forget you."
I could've wept like a little boy. But instead, I promised her, "And I won't forget you. Even if you were to never come back-" That made my eyes tear up-"I still wouldn't forget you, Polly. I love you."
A servant lady quietly interrupted us. "Miss Polly's parents are wondering where she is," she said briskly, but she seemed to really regret her task. "I've got to take her aboard now."
Polly and I looked at each other in despair. This was it. The beginning of a whole year of separation.
"Goodbye, Alfie," she said. She knelt down to my level to embrace me, and we shared an unabashedly passionate kiss that left the servant lady embarassed and me breathless.
"Goodbye, Polly," was all I could manage to say.
And away she went with the maid, looking back at me every few steps. She kept looking at me even once she was on board, and when they put out to sea. We kept looking at each other, oblivious to the confetti and fanfare, until we could not discern the other's face. I then turned away, unable to bear the sight of Polly slowly fading away, and faced a year of incredible challenges.
"Al," my Dad said quietly at dinner. "You know we'll have to tell the others about this."
He was talking about our fellow freaks, but I didn't care. I didn't care about anything when Polly was gone.
"Yes," I replied, pushing my food in meaningless circles, not the faintest bit hungry. That's what life was. A big, meaningless circle.
There was silence in our little home, a sad, desolate silence that lasted for the rest of the meal. It felt as though someone had died. There was that same oppressive feeling of loss, a mental gloom that insisted upon draining away all vestiges of light, perpetually reminding you of what was lost, never allowing you to move on.
"Al," Dad eventually said. "This whole thing is unlike any situation I've ever heard of, but...I've always wanted you to be as happy as earthly possible. I guess what I'm trying to say is that, well, even if this Apollo fellow wants to try and knock you down with his little game, I want to help you win."
He looked seriously at me, and I knew he was making a promise.
"I'll see to it that everyone helps," he continued. "I'll do what I can. To see you married to this dear young lady would be the hallmark of my life. To think that you, my youngest and sickest son, who has already had the cards stacked against him, should have an opportunity like this. Let's make the most of it, Al my boy!"
I crawled over to Dad and hugged him, eyes full of tears and my resolve strengthened. I had an ally.
I suppose I'll write on this later. Ariel is insisting I go to bed.
(Mr. Squelch's entry stops here.)
Mr. Whittington chuckled at Miss Fleck's sudden intrusion into the tale, and saw that the entry was complete. He also saw, glancing up at his clock, that she needed to be escorted back home.
"My Daddy really was a hopeless romantic, wasn't he?" she said on the way back. "And I actually do remember insisting that he go to bed. Ha, ha!"
"I could practically hear your voice saying it," replied Mr. Whittington, still amused. "How is Mr. De Rossi?"
"Oh, he's just lovely." Miss Fleck fluffed her hair and pulled down her cloche, examining herself in a shop window. "I can't tell you how thrilled he was to see me so well-dressed and good-looking. Last time we saw each other, I looked like a trainwreck. Now he says I look like..." Her cheeks pinked-"Lillian Gish."
NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:
1. IMPORTANT: From November 17th-December 1st, "City Of Wonders" is going on a Thanksgiving Break so that I can finish the last chapter of "Freaks Never Die" and get caught up. My church activites are starting to get hectic. Updates will resume again on December 1st.
2. I'll probably also have to take a Christmas break, too, LOL!
3. At my deviant art, (littlelivewire) I have put up a new picture. It's Ariel with her beloved roses. Sometime soon I hope to put up a Squelch picture.
4. Thank you for reading "City of Wonders".
V