The Book of Speculation: A Novel

I am employed in the diversions, part of a comedic scene that requires me to tumble while bound in a flour sack. I am not yet so good as Mr. Spinacuta. Provided that I do not break my arms, I am confident I shall improve.

Mr. Ricketts is an excellent man to learn business from, Father. I believe all you lack is a proper venue, an arena of your own. I think too that Mr. Ricketts might benefit from your knowledge. He is eloquent, but not half the speaker you are, and though he is confident and skilled in his performance, were he to fall, his enterprise would be unable to continue. You are wise to leave the entertainments to others when your mind is so keen with business matters.

I cannot say I am saddened to hear of Madame Ryzhkova’s departure. While I am certain that you must be dispirited at the loss of her income, I must tell you that she was terrifying. Though it seems foolish to write, I am quite certain that she killed a little frog I once kept. Do not grieve her loss.

I must end this letter, as Mr. Spinacuta insists it is time to rehearse—endless rehearsals. I shall remain at this address until the fall, at which point I will travel to New York and Mr. Ricketts’s second amphitheater. I shall take rooms at Larsten’s Boardinghouse, as I have fond memories of our stay there. Be well, Father.

Your Loving Son,

Zachary

Peabody carefully tucked the letter inside his jacket. He missed his son, but envy stabbed him. Ricketts was the man he might have been had he not fallen at Astley’s. Mindful of the wagon’s rocking, he dipped his quill and began to sketch, first a curve and series of bumps, then a swift straight line. It was a moment before he realized that the thing he was drawing was the wicked-looking creature Benno had pulled from the dead river. He might easily call it a Sea Devil and display it. He toyed with the idea but decided against it, unable to shake the image of dying fish on the riverbank. A disturbing piece of business.

He blew the ink dry on the sketch. The world was changing. Fortunately, he was excellent with reinvention. New potential, he thought. New things make us young again. The Les Ferez idea had come along smartly. He found an empty spot of page and began sketching an elaborate water vessel, replete with rooms and stages, resplendent, yet light enough to float atop a shallow river.

While Peabody sketched and dreamt, the line of wagons followed the crooked road that ran the length of the Catawba. Axles whined and protested, cart doors swelled and stuck, and an uncommon damp settled over the procession as they moved blindly forward into the fog.





25

JULY 23RD


There is little to say about storms in Napawset other than they’re never small, always dangerous, and any theater for the soul that accompanies thunder and lightning is replaced by fear of death by flood or falling tree.

Cursing and grunting, we climb the steps as rain pummels us. Water courses over the bluff, crushing the beach grass as it runs to the shore. Enola drags me by my arm while Doyle jogs behind. “Excellent stuff, man. Excellent,” he crows.

A storm this strong means Hull Road has already flooded, the bend by the school is on its way to being impassable, and anyone who hasn’t left Port is stuck; if they’re bold enough to attempt to leave, the sea of floating cars on Main Street will stop them. We duck into the house.

“We can wait it out here,” I say.

Enola disappears into the kitchen. “Where do you keep the hurricane candles?”

“Cabinets on top of the fridge.” The last half of my answer is lost under a loud groaning. Doyle and I look up. Enola peers around the kitchen door. A dark oval on the living room ceiling pouches out like a pregnant belly, drips of water pooling at its bulging center.

“Shit,” Enola grunts.

Seconds later a stream of rainwater hits the floor with such force that all three of us jump.

What follows is a dance of pots and pans, mixing bowls, mop buckets—things so long unused I’d forgotten they existed—emptying pots as they fill, and anticipating new leaks. We keep it up for an hour or so, rotating emptying and shuffling, until our hands are wrinkled and hair is soaked. Enola looks at me. “We can’t stay here. The ceiling’s going to come down. Simon, it’s time to go.”

In the past I might have gone to the McAvoys’ house and asked to ride it out on their couch. That’s off the table. I would go to the library, but I no longer have keys. Getting a room in Port is out of the question.

“We’ll swing back by Rose’s,” Doyle says, touching Enola’s arm. She pulls away as if stung.

She shakes her head. “Can’t get there if Hull is flooded.”