The Nightingale of Atlantic City (Steampunk Short Story)

2

At sixteen years old, I had to find work to help my father out. By day I worked at a cotton mill with my old man, and at night, I was a bar back at the snazziest restaurant in town, the Lighthouse.

Back then, the turnout was more low-key. If you had the money to dine there, you could actually get a table on a Saturday night without booking months in advance. Before installing the luxurious red carpets from India, the restaurant had hardwood floors. The chandeliers used candles instead of oil lanterns. The polished gold bistro tables and chairs were the same, but children were still allowed inside. Little girls could play with the fringe on the seats.

Cathy was a tender young woman with expressive brown eyes. Her hair was as dark as a raven's wing, and she kept it pinned in a chignon with elegant finger waves rippling across her head. She wore a thaumatrope on a long chain. On one side of the pendant was a black bird, and on the other, a cage. When the pendant twirled it created an optical illusion of the bird in its cage. She often fidgeted with the necklace, coiling the chain around her fingers, flicking the charm. I loved to watch her right up to the moment she caught me staring.

When she wasn't onstage, Cathy was a troublemaker. She was a little bit older than me, but a child at heart. I would do whatever she wanted when she tugged my sleeve, smiling and whining until I agreed to her terms. I had a good thing going at the Lighthouse, and she made it her mission to get me to abandon my post and wreak havoc with her on the boardwalk.

"Tell Mr. Avery you have something really disgusting so that he won't ask any questions," she suggested one day. "Tell him you have the trots."

"I can't," I said, aghast to hear those words coming out of a lady's mouth. Cathy giggled and then made a desperately adorable pout. Unable to refuse her, I slithered into my manager's office. Sweating and dizzy with nervosa, I shifted my weight and tried to remember to breathe. I had never played hooky in my life, much less lied to my employer.

"Excuse me, sir," I said. "I am in a bad way."

"What?" Mr. Avery asked, his sharp features growing sharper. I cleared my throat and reduced my voice to a whisper.

"I have the trots," I said. My employer arched his handlebar mustache with a sneer. "You know, runny bottom. Loose stool. It's volcanic, sir." Mr. Avery scrunched up his nose and shooed me with his hands.

"Away with you, boy. If you're not back tomorrow, I'll find some new kitchen scum. Now scram!" I turned away from him and bounded down the corridor to the back door of the restaurant. Miss Cathy Vicaris stood waiting for me, stifling her laughter with both hands.

"I can't believe you did that!" she burst out laughing when we got outside. "Away with you boy!" she snarled, imitating Avery's nasal tone.

"Avery will be calling me boy 'til I'm thirty. But he's not as bad as the foremen at the factory. They call me milady."

"Why on earth would they call you that?"

"Someone said that I laughed like a girl. The nickname stuck after that."

"I think it's cute to call you boy. Can I call you boy?"

"You?" I chuckled. "You can call me whatever you want."

"Boy," she addressed me. "Do you like cotton candy?"

"I've never had it before."

"Never? Come on!" She rushed to the nearest snack cart and tossed the vendor a coin. The man dipped a paper cone into a twirling machine that spun sugar around the paper. Feathery pink tendrils caught on one another until he lifted a pretty cloud and handed it to Cathy.

She pinched off a piece for me.

"Go on, boy. Eat it!" I worried that it would feel like putting actual cotton in my mouth. The thought made my stomach turn, but I shoveled it in and felt the wisps of pink sugar melt into little grains on my tongue. It was the best thing I'd ever tasted.

We were madly happy together. We would jump the fence and sneak onto the merry-go-round, riding our favorite brass animals without paying a cent. Once the operator caught us and in a rage, he forgot to stop the ride before giving chase. Cathy grabbed my hand and we dashed through the menagerie of automated creatures, ducking under dinosaur bellies as they ascended on their poles, weaving between copper-plated turtles and ostriches that flapped their metallic feathers. We leapt onto the back of a turtle and flew to freedom on the other side of the fence.