Coralie gazed across the river at a shore she did not recognize, unaware that the white cliffs shining in the dark were called the Palisades. She was not far from the last wild land to the north, but she had no idea of where north was, as she had no idea that the Bronx itself was being remade after the building of the Grand Concourse, modeled on Paris’s Champs-Élysées. Monsters did not carry maps, and when they were lost they had no recourse but to rely on human kindness. Coralie peered through the thickets before her. In secluded patches of Manhattan that had once belonged to the original Dutch landowners, the acreage was still overgrown with ancient stands of hickory, chestnut trees, and black-green elms. Through the shadows, she caught sight of a curl of smoke rising into the dark. She followed it as if it were a beacon, hoping for a hot cup of coffee and a blanket to throw around her shivering body.
Her clothes clung to her as she went on; but even when she was weighed down by her sopping trousers and shirt, she had a swimmer’s easy gait. She swiftly made her way up the slippery bank. Brambles clung to her, but she managed to untangle herself from the stickers. The silence of the night was intoxicating. There were no crickets yet, for the season was still too cold, no peepers, and no birds sang at night. The swamp cabbage that was everywhere had a pungent stink, green and sharp. Just then a dog barked, the sound echoing. All at once Coralie had a rush of panic. What had she been thinking to look for company? What questions might be asked of a young woman swimming in the river in this harsh season? And who was to say there were not criminals camping in these woods, homeless men who would think nothing of attacking her?
Coralie crouched down and narrowed her eyes, peering past the shadows. Through the locust trees she spied the form of a young man at a bonfire, fixing a late supper over the flames. She darted behind the nearly heart-shaped leaves of a linden tree, the better to see who she had come upon. She thought of Whitman. Stranger! if you, passing, meet me, and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you? And yet, as she watched this stranger, she was mute. He was dark, with handsome features, rangy and more than six feet tall. He was sunburnt from his day at the river, and he whistled to himself as he cleaned the fish he’d caught. Something about him moved Coralie in a way she didn’t understand, an almost magnetic pull. She felt alarmed by the thrum of her own pulse. The dog beside the young man was the sort used for fighting. It spied her in the woods and began to bark in earnest.
“Quiet, Mitts,” she heard the man say.
The pit bull terrier looked at his master and considered, but was clearly too high-spirited to obey. The creature bounded into the woods, in her direction. The man let out a shout, but the dog continued on.
Coralie took off running, her breath coming in bursts. She felt a sharp pain below her breastbone as her heart thudded against her ribs. Her father had kept her separate from the public, except for those hours when she was on exhibit. He believed that living wonders could be made common by their association with outsiders, who could not possibly understand them and would most likely take advantage of them and ruin them. “Once you are ruined,” her father had warned, “there’s no way back.”
The dog crashed through the underbrush. Coralie could hear him racing behind her. She did her best to outpace him as she tore through the brambles, but in no time the creature was at her heels. She turned, afraid she might be attacked from behind. Her blood felt hot within her chilled flesh as she steeled herself, ready to be bitten. She knew how red her blood was, how on fire despite how waterlogged she was. The pit bull’s ears and tail were cut to nubs, and he had a compact, muscular body. Coralie expected him to leap at her, foaming at the mouth; instead he wagged his rear end and gazed up at her, utterly foolish and friendly. This was no vicious beast, only man’s best friend.
“Go away,” Coralie whispered.
“Mitts!” the man shouted through the woods. “Damn it! Get back here!”
The dog panted and wagged, sniffing around his quarry, ignoring Coralie’s attempts to urge him away. She waved at him and hissed beneath her breath.
“Mitts, you idiot!” the young man called.
The dog was torn between his great find and his loyalty to his master. In the end he turned and crashed back into the underbrush. Through the fluttering leaves, Coralie could now fully see the man. His face was all angles, with a worried expression and broad, sensitive features. His wide mouth broke into a grin as soon as he spied his dog. “There you are.” He sank down to pet the dog with tenderness, and the beast responded by leaping and licking his master’s face. “Are you aiming to get yourself lost?”