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On their first day off, Bridget surprised Sophie.
“Today, I will show you the real Coney Island.”
The early May sky was a brilliant blue. Sophie gasped, putting one hand to her mouth at the sight of the Chute the Chutes, a ride taking people in a boat to the top of a ramp, and sending them careening down towards the sea, and soaking them with waves as they plunged into a pool of water at the base.
“We’re going to ride this?” Sophie asked with dismay.
“Among other things,” Bridget chuckled.
By nightfall, Sophie was exhausted from what felt like miles of walking between Dreamland and Steeplechase and Luna Park. The air smelled of freshly popped corn and boiled peanuts, along with sweet clouds of cotton candy and taffy. The cries of barkers filled the air around them, uniting like cricket songs floating across the night, pleading and teasing passersby who tried to ignore them. Lights flickered on until millions of them ignited the edge of every building, roofline, and street corner. Hundreds of people from all walks of life strolled along the sidewalks and streets. Between the buildings and attractions, Sophie glimpsed the ocean and people wading in the water, dark as ink. They clung to rope lines strung between tall posts topped with electric lights illuminating the white stripes on their swimsuits and dressed.
“Come see the man with three legs!” a barker, dressed in a red and white striped coat, called.
“Meet Jolly Betty, the fattest woman in the world! You won’t believe your eyes!” called another.
A marquee invited people inside an attraction recreating Robert Peary’s expedition to the North Pole. Others invited crowds to ride the Loop-de-Loop and Drop-the-Dip, and to race metal horses in a Steeplechase. A gondola ride recreated the French Riviera, and a sunken, enchanted garden enticed couples to find a private corner where they might steal a kiss. Storefronts displayed signs tempting hungry crowds to taste briny, salty seafood at old-fashioned clambakes. Others opened their doors and let the ragtime music within pour into the streets to woo tourists to dance to the newest beats. And for those who were worn out from the day, there were plenty of places to stay like the Manhattan Beach Hotel, which proclaimed the most comfortable beds and softest pillows on the island. The less shiny the hotels and side streets, the louder the barkers became. Rouge-cheeked and scantily clad women gathered in clusters of two or three, their dresses revealing more leg than Sophie had ever seen except in her bath.
“Sophie,” a voice said in the darkness as they rounded the corner to head toward home.
Bridget grabbed her arm, pulling her away from the shadowy figure.
“Achille. Remember?” the man said, stepping into the light. “I’d hoped to see you again.”
“We’re on our way home,” Bridget snapped, her eyes narrowing.
Sophie’s legs felt leaden. She’d hoped to never see him again, yet here he was. She wanted to walk away, but the weight of her still-raw trauma rooted her legs and rendered her motionless.
“Let’s go,” Bridget urged.
“If you ask me, she looks old enough to make her own decisions,” Achille said, his voice thick and serpentine. He pulled Sophie toward him and put his arm around her shoulders.
Sophie gasped, panic slicing through her. Even the worst of the young men on Ludlow Street never acted like this. At least never toward her or her sisters.
Bridget gasped. “You are too forward, sir.”
“Am I?” he gloated.
“Is there a problem here?” a voice said behind them.
“George!” Bridget exclaimed, her face brightening.
A man with sandy hair, large, expressive eyes, and a kind but chiseled face appeared at her side, along with a second man with gentle, obsidian eyes, clean-shaven, a square jaw, and wavy, raven hair. She thought Solomon was a big man, but George and his friend dwarfed him, not to mention Achille. Bridget had told her George was strapping, and indeed the strength required for working the ropes at the big top showed in his hulking biceps.
“Bridget.” George tipped his derby hat at her, then turned to Achille. “You have manure to shovel somewhere, don’t you?”
Achille let go of Sophie, put his thumbs through the belt loops of his pants, and lifted his chin. “I was just getting to know this young lady who is new to the island.”
“The only thing you need to know is that you’re not welcome here.” George edged closer to him, his imposing size making Achille look Moe-sized. He brushed imaginary filth off Achille’s shoulders. “Now git!”
They all jumped at George’s fierce bellow, all but Achille who stood his ground, eyes unmoving as he stared George down. He turned to Sophie and performed an exaggerated bow. “Ma’am. Don’t worry, you have not seen the last of me.”
Chills ran down Sophie’s back.
“She has if I have anything to do with it,” George warned.
Achille sauntered away and waved his arm dismissively as he went.
“See what I mean? Trouble,” Bridget shook her head.
“He is in charge of all the animal waste,” George said. “A good place for him. He is a known womanizer. Breaks more than hearts, if you know what I mean. Now c’mon, we’ll walk you both back.”
“Wait,” the second man said looking from George to Sophie and back again. “Would you mind introducing me?”
“Of course. How rude of me,” George said, a helpless expression on his face as he turned to Bridget and shrugged. “Um...could you help a couple of sorry saps out with your friend here?”
Bridged laughed, her distressed countenance relaxing. “George, Nick, this is Sophie. She’s the girl I told you about, George. My new roommate and a nursery maid for Dr. Couney. Sophie, this is George and his friend Nick, one of the Volensky acrobats.”
“Ma’am,” the two men said in unison, removing their flat caps and bending respectfully toward Sophie.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Sophie said, her voice wavering from the remaining panic Achille had evoked.
The four of them walked back to the residential street behind the incubator exhibit. Thriving spring lawns and gardens burgeoned beautifully this spring evening, the maple, honey locust, and pear trees budding chartreuse against the brownstones. The sweet fragrance of viburnum hung in the air, white balls of flowers in full bloom on the bushes lining the outside of homes like the Couneys and others belonging to ringmasters and shop owners. If it weren’t for the echoes of screams and laughter from the rides, Sophie would hardly know of the amusement park just beyond the rooftops.
As they approached the dorms, an impossibly large woman shuffled toward them. She was moaning. As they moved closer, they saw she was weeping.
“Help me,” she moaned, her face in a twist of distress. “Please, can you help me?”
“Betty?” George said, brow raised with surprise.
Sophie recognized her then as Jolly Betty from the fat lady exhibit. Rolls of creamy, porcelain flesh, accentuated by bright red lipstick on her Cupid’s bow lips hung from her arms, pooled around her ankles, her cheeks, her neck.
“There is fluid, and it ain’t urine, streaming down my legs,” said Betty, wincing with pain. “And I am cramping something fierce. You are the closest thing to a doctor around.”
“Let’s get you inside,” Bridget hooked her arm under one of Betty’s, then turned to George. “I am sorry—I’ll have to see you later. But...can you run and fetch Dr. Couney?” There was a lilt to her voice as if she was trying to hide her concern from Betty.
“Of course,” he said, tipping his cap at them before dashing down the street, Nick at his side.
No wonder she likes him so, Sophie thought as she grabbed hold of Betty’s other arm. She forced back a gag at the smell of unbathed skin. They helped Betty up the back steps to the incubator exhibit, and once inside, found Dinah rocking and feeding one of the babies.
“What on earth?” Dinah said.
“She’s hurting bad,” explained Bridget. “But she’s not sure why.”
Betty wasn’t the first performer who had come to the exhibit for medical attention seeking the expertise of the nurses, but also because of the likelihood of a hospital turning them away.
Dinah got up and put the baby in her incubator, swaddled her tight, and shut the lid. She ensured everything was in order and working before turning back to the threesome.
“Over here, Betty,” Dinah pointed to an empty cot against the wall where tired mothers sometimes lay with their babies during visits. “Let’s see what we can do for you.”
Betty groaned in agony. “Oh, it hurts... please... do something.”
The cot was too narrow for her, so Sophie and Bridget gathered blankets and sheets and made a makeshift space on the floor.
By this time, Betty was writhing and moaning even more.
“Betty,” Bridget said, kneeling at her side. “Look at me. Take some deep breaths. Could you be pregnant?”