Another saloon attraction: the display of two corpses of outlaws shot by a posse of angry citizens. Attached to the poster was a photo of the coffins, propped upright against a clapboard wall below a sign that read THE BIG NUGGET. The bodies were roped in, wrists tied across their stomachs, rifles wedged at their sides. Four bartenders posed smiling and proud next to the coffins, invigorated by their proximity to infamous death. Ray had that right.
A few minutes later she unfolded a poster that gave her a hard tick in her chest, the charge of excitement that always came with a possible breakthrough.
THE WILD MAN
RECENTLY CAPTURED IN THE JUNGLES OF BORNEO!.
HALF MAN & HALF BEAST,
HE IS ENTIRELY COVERED IN HAIR & EATS ONLY RAW MEAT!
SPECTATORS ARE REQUESTED TO STAND WELL CLEAR OF HIS CAGE
AS HE IS SAVAGE & HIGHLY DANGEROUS IF PROVOKED.
THE SEVEN WONDERS FREAK SHOW, MARKET STREET
ONLY 25 ADMISSION!
She fanned through the materials and snatched up another poster that featured a drawing of a furry, apelike thing hunkered over a beef joint. But reading the attached clippings, she saw it was just Oofty Goofty, a well-known eccentric of the period whom she'd encountered in her history books. The oddball entrepreneur and would-be actor had covered himself with tar stuck full of horsehair. His brief stint at the freak show had ended when he got so sick that he was taken to a hospital, where doctors went to great lengths to remove the suffocating coating. Later, he made his living in the streets and saloons as a professional masochist: For a dime, men could punch and kick him as hard as they liked, for a quarter beat him with their canes, or for fifty cents use the baseball bat Oofty Goofty carried for the purpose. He took pride in displaying no discomfort and made a living that way for years. Finally the famous boxer John L. Sullivan hit him too hard with a pool cue, after which Oofty Goofty retired with a damaged spine.
She went on to the next file, troubled by Oofty Goofty. Why would someone choose such a career, and why would so many people be willing to pay to inflict pain on such a pitiful creature? There were aspects of human nature she could not manage to empathize with.
"I don't mean to be discouraging," Ray said. "But if he was the child of Hans and Lydia Schweitzer, we won't find him in this kind of material."
Earlier, they had discussed the photo in the rolltop desk and brainstormed on ways Lydia Jackson's connection to Hans and the house could guide them.
"Why not?"
"Typical wealthy or at least up-and-coming Victorians would've hidden him away from public view. It was pretty common with deformed or psychologically troubled kids. Another of the paradoxes of the Victorian mind-set—half of society laboring to conceal things they considered 'unsavory,' half laboring to exploit and sensationalize them. It would explain why he was found in the basement."
Cree could easily envision the scenario: Hans and Lydia married and had a badly deformed baby that miraculously survived into adulthood. Maybe he was severely retarded or behaviorally impaired, prone to hurting himself or others, so Hans built a room in the basement where the child could be kept both safe and out of sight. After the quake, still wanting to hide their secret shame, Hans personally repaired the house, sealed up the brickwork chamber, and tried to forget. Later, they sold the house and moved away, and no one ever knew until Hernandez and his crew knocked down that well-built wall and started finding bones.
Ray was right: If the wolfman was their child, he wouldn't have shown up as a Barbary Coast entertainment. On the other hand, Cree decided, it increased the likelihood that he'd appear in medical records or family papers that she might eventually track down.
Ray finished the box he'd been working on, shoved it aside, stood scratching the back of his neck as he pored over the master catalog. "I want to follow up on my ideas for a different tack here. You up for finishing Oddities on your own?"
"Sure. Only two more boxes."
Ray wrestled several new cartons from the back of the room, while Cree plugged away at Oddities.
Last night, putting her hand to Ray's face had changed the energy between them. Her spontaneous touch had surprised him and spun him suddenly out of his rage and frustration. It was clearly something he needed. Of course it was. She had helped him clean up the kitchen and figure out a temporary way to lock the outer door for the night. Afterward, they had sat for a long time in the living room, Cree on the couch, Ray in the big chair, sipping fizzy water, talking. She had pleaded with him not to retaliate against Bert, if that was who had broken in, and had promised she would confront him. Later still, their talk had drifted on to other things as they'd both wearied, with the odd intimacy of relative strangers alone together in the early morning hours. She had stirred from a near-drowse on his couch at almost three in the morning. Ray had fallen asleep in his chair, and she'd had to wake him to see her out.
Today it was a lot easier to be around Ray. He was proving to be a smart researcher, quick to see possibilities and connections, and his presence made her more hopeful they'd find something useful. They shared a familiarity, some slight trust of the other's words or thoughts that came of having talked about things that matter. Even his body language had changed: He made no effort to keep the bad side of his face from view, and the immediate result of his lack of self-consciousness was that Cree stopped noticing the scarring. She wondered if they'd ever attain the level of trust where she could mention that.
The Medical files were easily as strange as the Oddities. Like everywhere else in the Victorian era, San Francisco was enthralled by an explosion of "scientific" potions and cures, quack diets and exercise regimens, bizarre technologies that promised cures for gout, consumption, alcoholism, chronic masturbation. Sanitoriums abounded where people could receive the latest treatments, often with the aid of fantastic machines. New "facts" about human anatomy and behavior were discovered daily and promised remedies for every disease, discomfort, and character failing. It was the era of laudanum, paregoric and cocaine, arsenic and leeches, water cures and electric shocks and magnetic stimulation. Cree's pulse picked up when she came across a collection of doctors' case studies of abnormalities and medical curiosities, including a meticulously illustrated tract on the dissection of a pair of stillborn Siamese twins.
By two o'clock, they had found nothing on a wolflike man, an ape-man, wildman, or werewolf, and Cree had started to think ahead to the meeting she'd arranged with Uncle Bert, a confrontation that promised to be difficult. She straightened and was about to tell Ray she'd had it for the day, but he spoke first.
"I've got something."
"Oh?"
Ray toed one of the boxes at his feet. "It's from the Religion files. Which are not much—obviously, it wasn't a priority for our fun-loving ancestral Payson. What there is mainly relates to mission work in the Barbary Coast. This is from May 1906, about a month after the quake—a program for a joint memorial service they gave for church members who died in the quake."
He was studying a black-bordered page with a flowery cross at the top. It started with some somber religious text and ended with a list of seven names. Cree followed his finger to an entry near the bottom:
Lydia Jackson Schweitzer,
beloved wife of Hans Heinrich Schweitzer,
faithful member of the congregation of Good Savior Church,
and devoted servant of Our Lord at Merciful Shepherd Mission.
B. June 6,1860, Oakland, California.
Cree was surprised at her reaction. Her first emotion was one of loss or sorrow, the knowledge that the beguiling, familiar woman in the photo was dead. But of course she would have to be by now.
"How in the world did you spot that?" she asked.
"Pure luck. I was thinking of the different responses people might have had. Um, the compassion thing." His eyes met hers, momentarily shy as a deer's. "So I thought I'd try the Religion category for a while. The name just . . . jumped out at me."
They quickly searched t
he rest of the Religion files together, but found nothing else even remotely relevant. They straightened their aching backs and thought about it.
"Does this tell us anything useful?" Cree wondered aloud. "The name of the church, the mission—we might chase those down. Could Lydia have encountered the wolfman in her charitable work?"
Ray was nodding, frowning. "Maybe. But it tells us one thing for sure. The wolfman wasn't Lydia's child. She didn't have any children."
Disappointed, Cree had to admit he was right. Lydia wasn't listed as anybody's beloved mother, as some of the other women on the list were. More important was her birth date: Lydia had been born in 1860, and despite the paradoxical teeth and palate, Skobold insisted the wolfman had been born around 1866. Meaning she'd have been only six, give or take a couple of years, when the wolfman was born.
One possible connection gained, another lost, Cree thought. It seemed less likely that Lydia would provide the link they needed. How long would it take to find the line, the strand, that would lead them to the wolfman?
IV
THE STRANGER AMONG US
39
FRIDAY, JUNE 2 1 , 1889
MOMENTS AGO, WHEN I crept into the pantry, I was startled to see a squirrel on the table, eagerly exploring among the jars and boxes of foodstuffs. It scrambled immediately for the window and vanished outside, and that brought a different kind of shock: The window was open. I shut it immediately and did not see marks of any tool on the sash or sill, and it is possible that I myself left it open, or more likely Cook, who can be absentminded. But instantly all my worst fears came rushing home again, that Percy or some hireling had come prowling and had pried the window and crept about our house last night. This possibility has left me trembling again, full of doubts and dire fears.
Perhaps it is the shock I needed, for my resolve has been fickle and fleeting. Last night, after my work at the mission was done, I asked Darby to take me to the linens warehouse, and I even dismounted and went through the door. But once I had entered the darkness, it did not seem a possible thing, to scurry fearfully through those shadows and smells to a sister who might have betrayed me, or who might again be entertaining her beau when I arrived. I hovered there only briefly before returning to Darby and the carriage. "Our business was mercifully short tonight, Darby," I told him. "Let's both go home."
But I am aware that each day I procrastinate I am in greater danger of exposure. Percy will certainly come, and unless I have pre-empted him the consequences can only be disastrous.
There is still no more word of the wolf-man, not even rumor. Perhaps he will never be seen again, and will vanish as mysteriously as he arrived among us, yet another person swallowed whole by the Barbary Coast and gone forever. If so, I fear we will have lost a great opportunity to learn from him, who must have a remarkable tale to tell.
TUESDAY, JUNE 24, 1889
Last night I did muster the courage to go to Margaret's. I was frustrated in this attempt, and in my journey through the streets I witnessed something terrible that has only sharpened my fears and yearnings for resolution.
The intervening time has put me out of practice for this covert race, and my trepidation at what I might discover of her had put me in a state of highest anxiety. Every small thing startled me, all out of proportion. At one point, as I paused in an alley to let a brawling group make its way past, I glanced up to see a face, only inches from my own. I recoiled as if Hell's demons had attacked me, hands up to ward them, but it was only an old woman, haggard and ghost-pale, peering from her lightless window. She pointed accusingly at me and made a round O with her toothless mouth, and I fled from her in horror. I am sure she could not see who or what I was, with my face shadowed in the hood of my cloak.
I came round the corner a block from Margaret's place but stopped when it appeared there was some commotion. There were men milling in the street, several with torches that put the others in flickering light and gave them long shadows. From their shouts and agitated movements, I understood that a confrontation of some sort was occurring. In a moment, I heard the sound of breaking glass and saw a large pane fall away from a storefront window and shatter on the pavement. Most of the men clambered quickly through the dark opening. Their torches lit the interior in a fitful and terrible way, and from inside came shouts and a woman's scream. In another moment the door burst open and the men emerged again, dragging two people, aiming kicks at them and striking them with sticks. In the wild gyre of torchlight it seemed truly a scene from Hell, and when I saw the figures on the ground feebly trying to protect themselves, heard the blows strike their flesh, I could not help but cry out. Involuntarily, I stepped into the street and found myself among a scattering of others who had gathered to observe. I stood for half a minute with these strangers, afraid to intervene, unable to leave.
Closer, I heard the foreign tones in the victims' pleas and knew that they were Celestials. The men in the street continued kicking and striking them, while inside others were running rampant, smashing furniture and ripping cloth, throwing household things through the window. From the curses and warnings of the men, I understood that these Celestials had recently rented the storefront to start some enterprise. It is only barely outside the accepted margins of Chinatown, yet they had unknowingly crossed an invisible, unwritten line and were now being shown that moving in among Whites was an intolerable transgression. The White landlord would be next, the men shouted.
It appeared to be a husband and wife who were being beaten, and I was certain they would be killed. Yet I could not decide what to do, for I know a mob in its frenzy will turn on anything that opposes it. The police, I thought, someone must go to the police! I turned to a large man standing not far from me to implore him to go find the authorities, and was stunned to see his cap and uniform and the billy at his belt! He stood at his ease, watching this outrage with a look of bland satisfaction.
"You must do something!" I told him stupidly. "They will be killed!"
The policeman looked at me as if I were a madwoman, then immediately grew angry. "You'd best go about your business, Ruby. Go back to your cow yard and do an honest night's work." With that, he turned me around and rudely pushed me so that I stumbled away. I was outraged that he would put his hand upon me, and I whirled to accost him, but his back was already to me. He idly twirled his billy as he watched the awful sport that entertained him so.
I slunk away to linger out of view for a short time, breathless, listening to the shouts and the sounds of blows and splintering glass and wood, then beat a retreat back to Darby.
So another day has passed and I have neither confronted my sister nor revealed my sordid truths to my husband, nor otherwise dealt with the enormity of the problem that faces me. Instead, it only seems to have compounded and grown, water building behind a dam.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 26, 1889
Yesterday I could not help myself and crossed words with Rev. Wallace. It was an unwise thing to do, for he is not tolerant of dissenting views and my argumentativeness will likely be held against me should an accounting be taken of my behavior. Perhaps I made this mistake because I am so worn from worry, but I did in honesty disagree with him and for once would not bite my tongue. I cannot help but think he would now be a more tolerant person if, over the years, those who found themselves at variance with his opinion had expressed their own views with more conviction.
We do not see him every day, as other church business preoccupies him, so a visit is occasion for much solemnity and piety at the mission. Deacon Skinner stopped by as well, and I was most glad to see him, for though he is also solemn, he seems somehow a counterbalance to Rev. Wallace, quick and wiry where Wallace is slow and blocky, bright of eye where Wallace only grave and dignified. Deacon Skinner's wise, narrow, dry face cannot hide his humor, and his words often seem to reveal an ironical intent, so well woven into his phrasing that it requires some wit to perceive.
Neither of them witnessed much of interest; it was a slow afternoon at the
mission, and the little bell over our front door jangled only seldom. It is our custom to have a prayer circle and then discussion of Scriptural principles as the dinner hour approaches, but today we had only one petitioner, an old man whom we know only as Billy, who is innocent of a single tooth in his head and infinitely accommodating of religious instruction if it is followed by a good meal. Without any other audience, we of the mission began an informal discussion of spiritual things.
Our topic had been forgiveness. We forgive because Jesus enjoined us to turn the other cheek, even to forgive those who persecute us; it is in this way, Deacon Skinner has explained, that we hope to forgo another cycle of hurting, to stall the great wheel that otherwise turns forever round with one injury begetting another and so drives the engines of war and cruelty.
Yet we also know that there is a Hell, and that God the Father judges all but forgives only some. Since all are sinners, and born that way, how does He determine who is forgiven, who is punished for eternity? (In my impious moments, I think that when he dies, Rev. Wallace will be employed to assist God with making these judgments, for he has had such long experience at it. Indeed, he resembles God so closely, with his full, gray beard, hawk's beak nose, thundercloud brows, that were God to wish a respite from the effort of judgment, Rev. Wallace could stand in for Him and no one would be the wiser.)
I asked Rev. Wallace for clarification of this point: How does God know which sinners to admit to Heaven, and which to banish to Hell? For it has long confused me, and I have struggled with it in my own conscience: Ought I to forgive Margaret? Can I forgive Percy, for example, or the men who beat that husband and wife in the street? I am not certain I can; but if I could, could not God? If I did, but God did not, would God consider me a sinner—for forgiving? Or is all forgiveness His instrument, put into our weak hands?