Free Among the Wonderful by Stacy Carlson

only thing it’s going to cause are riots and more illegal —”
    “The only thing that’ll stop the Irish is cholera,” said the peanut-eater. They laughed.
    “Cholera didn’t stop you, did it, Colin?” the other boy said.
    “No, sir. I wasn’t going back to Dublin just because of some trifling disease, was I?”
    I stole looks over my shoulder as I walked farther on but the friends had not looked up. Now I was disappointed, and angry at myself for it. I paced down the other side of the gallery, where two raggedy children squealed and pointed at me.
    “The only reason Colin didn’t lose his job” — the boy was waving his umbrella as I approached them again — “is because he already had money. Harper doesn’t care where you were born, as long as you’ve got it.”
    “I don’t care what you say. This platform will never —” and then, finally, they saw me. “Well! At least someone can see the portraits they’ve hung up so high,” said the woman.
    The boy with the umbrella straightened, off guard for only an instant before he tipped his hat and gave a little bow. “Good morning, miss.”
    I nodded, suddenly overcome. By what? Something thatmade the natural distance between us stretch threefold. I tried to smile. Was this simple shyness, the same thing I would feel if I could look them straight in the eye?
    “You weren’t here last Saturday, were you?” the boy went on. I shook my head. “You do work here, miss?”
    “Yes. I’ve just arrived.” All of them nodded. I took a step back. “From Canada.”
    “We
adore
Canada,” said the woman. “I’m Elizabeth Crawford. Welcome to New York.”
    “Thank you.”
    I said my name and wanted to say more but I blushed like a girl. Why? For what? I could easily have stopped, asked or told them something. Anything. Easily. Instead, I was grateful for my assigned task and I moved on.

Nine
    After three hours I returned to my room. No one was monitoring my movements, so who would care if I left the public sphere for a while, to rest a little and then take my lunch? I had the annoying sensation that someone
was
observing me as I made my rounds, but this was the result, undoubtedly, of the myriad eyes of museum visitors.
    When I reached the hall on the fifth floor, I saw an open door two doors beyond mine. It wouldn’t kill me to be neighborly, would it?
    It was a bigger apartment than mine, and a carpet with a distracting geometric design dominated it. Several suitcases filled with clothes were strewn about the place. I wondered what would appear as a feminine voice grew louder, but the woman who appeared from a small adjoining room appeared normal on first glance. She stopped when she saw me. She had never seen someone as tall as me. How could she be here, moving into
this
museum, and still be surprised? We looked at each other. Her mouth opened slightly. Her eyes:
How dare you frighten me?
She didn’t speak.
    “I’m Ana Swift.” I held my ground. People find my hands monstrous and I never offer to touch others, so I kept them at my sides.
    We were the same age. Hers was a narrow face, smooth and curved like a cake of soap worn down in the middle. Eyes set high and close under trembling black curls. A small mouth my presence had soured.
    “Are you a new one? You must be.” The woman didn’t come closer. “They’re coming like a
plague
, for goodness’ sake.” Her eyes darted uncontrollably. Behind her were full bookcases and velvet chairs. They appeared to have been living there for some time, and yet there was no outward sign of her purpose in a museum of curiosities, unless she was an acrobat or had another invisible talent. But she didn’t have that look about her. She was a woman with
things:
tablecloths, porcelain, and a portrait on the wall. “They didn’t tell me this would happen.”
    “That what would happen?”
    “Mama —” A girl with a ridiculous blue satin bow around her head entered the room behind the woman. “Oh!”