Free Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet by H. P. Wood

dime. In the distance, a brass band plays.
    Kitty pauses at the painted banner. Beneath the lettering is a picture of a chamber orchestra comprised of eerily chipper rats with big, black eyes. She turns to Archie. “Really real rats?”
    â€œThey’re really real, all right. Really dead. Taxidermied rodents with violas and sousaphones, with Schubert playing on a Victrola in the background. Care to see?”
    â€œThe image you’ve painted is plenty.”
    They continue. Kitty stops at a booth with an elaborate display of china settings—a perfectly Victorian sitting room crowded with dinner and salad plates, cups and saucers, sugar bowls and creamers, all painted in demure blue and white. She reads the sign. “Can’t Smash Up Your House? Smash Up Ours! Four balls for five cents!”
    A man in a white suit and straw hat pops his head around the booth. “Afternoon, miss! Care to have a go? Release your frustrations with the modern age!”
    â€œBut…it seems such a waste.”
    â€œDon’t be coy, child.” Archie hands the man a nickel. “Aim for the teapot with Queen Victoria on the front. It’ll do you good.”
    Kitty’s first ball goes low, not even worrying the dishes.
    Archie scoffs. “Surely you’ve more spirit than—”
    She fires her second ball into a serving platter with a picture of Buckingham Palace, which shatters delightfully. The shards take out teacups as they fall, which in turn knock down some dessert plates—a waterfall of destruction.
    Kitty laughs. “What a wonderful sound!”
    â€¢ • •
    Twenty cents later, Kitty’s had her fill of smashing china, so they continue past the Bowery. A crowd has gathered on one corner. “Well, well,” Archie says. “Look who’s here. Come—this you must see.” He elbows his way through the crowd, maneuvering himself and Kitty to the front. “Feast your eyes, Miss Hayward.”
    She looks, then blinks a few times, then looks again. No. Yes. Can’t be. Really?
    In front of Kitty is a young woman of Asian descent in a voluminous black robe, embroidered in gold, with long, wide sleeves. She wears a cylindrical hat wrapped in multicolored ribbons and edged with ivory beads that dangle down her face. Her eyes are closed, her expression one of purest relaxation. Her right hand holds an intricately carved walking stick with a dragon’s head at the top, while her left hand rests serenely in her lap. She sits cross-legged…hovering about three feet off the ground.
    Kitty turns to Archie. “Is she…?”
    â€œI certainly don’t know. Do you think she is?”
    New York audiences are a voluble bunch, but this crowd stands silent, a mixture of awe and disbelief playing across their faces. Finally one brave—or just obnoxious—soul steps forward to run his hand along the space between the girl’s robes and the ground.
    He reports his findings with a shrug. “Ain’t nothin’ under her.”
    People shake their heads and whisper.
    â€œOf course there isn’t,” says a young man. Kitty was so taken with the girl, she hadn’t even noticed she had an assistant nearby. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “in this city of hucksters and frauds, you are the fortunate witnesses of a true act of spiritual majesty. May I present Yeshi Rinpoche, holy priestess of Tibet.”
    â€œHa!” Archie snorts. “Rinpoche, my eye!”
    â€œRinpoche?” Kitty asks.
    â€œA Rinpoche, my dear, is a highly respected teacher of Buddhism.” He takes a step forward. “If this scalawag is a Rinpoche, I’m a llama. The four-legged kind.”
    The levitating girl tilts her head, causing the beads along her face to rattle slightly. Her assistant nods. “I’m sorry,” he says to the crowd, “but we must end our demonstration. Yeshi Rinpoche cannot possibly