by Lynn Austin
I had managed to hold my tongue by imagining what my real mother would be like, and how she would handle my courtship to a bore like Herman Beckett. I convinced myself that any gentleman Mother picked out for me would be infinitely more exciting than Herman.
The more Maude had hovered over me, the more determined I became to find my real mother—even if it was the last thing I ever did. Once I found her, I would convince her to come back to Lockport to live with Father and me. Wouldn’t Maude O’Neill be surprised when she invited herself to my welcome home reception and met the real Mrs. John Jacob Hayes?
Of course, I hadn’t told Father that I intended to find my mother or he never would have allowed me to go to Chicago. I didn’t inform Grandmother of my true plans either.
I wiggled in place, trying to make myself comfortable on the hard train seat, willing the whistle to blow and the train to hurry up and steam out of the station. I sensed Father’s worried gaze on me through the window, and I feared that at any moment he would change his mind and charge onto the train to yank me off. It had required prodigious efforts of persuasion on my part before he allowed this trip in the first place. And he had nearly postponed it when no one could be found to accompany me on the train.
“A woman needs a gentleman to watch over her,” he’d fussed. “Her husband or father or brother …”
“What for?” I had asked him. “I can watch out for myself well enough.”
“It just isn’t right. Who will handle your trunk and so forth? And what if there’s a problem? You wouldn’t know what to do.”
“I know everything I need to know. I’ll board the train in Lockport, sit in my seat—watched over by a very competent conductor—and get off at Union Depot, where Grandmother will be waiting for me. What could go wrong? Besides, the world is on the brink of a brand-new era, Father. We’re about to enter the twentieth century, and young ladies are being allowed a bit more freedom. After all, I am twenty years old.”
I’m not sure if I truly convinced him or if I simply wore him out. Either way, I was pleased when he’d finally consented and purchased my train ticket. I was slightly less pleased when he agreed to Herman Beckett’s request to meet me in Chicago later in the month so he could take me to see the Columbian Exposition, accompanied by his married sister. I doubted if I ever could convince a man as unimaginative as Herman to help me find my mother. Besides, Herman’s mother was Maude’s friend, and they were certain to gossip about my activities in Chicago.
At last the train lurched forward and began to move. I risked a final glance out of the window and saw Maude cheerily waving her handkerchief as if I were a soldier leaving for the battlefield. Father looked very worried and sorry he had ever agreed to let me go. Little Horrid stuck out his tongue at me. I resisted the temptation to return the gesture.
As soon as the beige limestone train station was out of sight, I heaved a sigh of relief. Madame Beauchamps would have been appalled.
I was leaving Lockport, Illinois, behind and speeding toward Chicago. I felt like pinching myself to see if I was dreaming. I was riding the train into the city—alone! For the first time in my life I felt like an adult. I closed my eyes and imagined that I was running away. I had already decided that if I couldn’t prevent Father’s wedding, I wouldn’t return home. After all, Father had lied to me—all these years!
It didn’t take long for the view of flat, monotonous prairie land to bore me. I wondered if God had run out of ideas after creating the mountain ranges and the mighty Mississippi River and had nodded off when He was supposed to be designing the middle portion of America. Was Illinois the result of an unfortunate catnap? Or perhaps, in a gesture of beneficence, the Almighty had delegated the task to a less imaginative underling. If so, I hoped the underling had been fired for his lack of creativity.
As I continued to gaze at the uninspiring terrain, I tried to think of it as a symbol of the larger journey on which I had embarked. Our literature teacher had labored to interest us in things like symbolism and similes, but I confess such imagery bored me when compared to the graphic, lurid details I read about in Ruth’s Illustrated Police News. But maybe it would help to think of my journey as symbolic: I was leaving my boring life behind along with the terrain and embarking on an exciting new life in Chicago.
To be honest, my stomach churned quite unpleasantly whenever I thought about what might lie ahead. Many of those shocking True Crime Stories I used to read had taken place in cities like Chicago, and I was keenly aware of the dangers that might await a young woman such as myself.
Eventually I grew tired of trying to dredge up symbolism from a boring view and I pulled a book from my satchel, settling back to read. I had barely begun the first chapter when I felt the train’s momentum begin to slow, and a few minutes later we made a brief stop at the train station in Lemont. The village held little interest for me, but I spotted an intriguing traveling salesman—more commonly referred to as a drummer—waiting to board the train with his suitcase full of wares. I guessed his age to be about the same as Herman Beckett’s, but the similarities began and ended right there. Herman dressed like an undertaker’s assistant, while this man’s unbecoming suit was as garish as a circus clown’s, sewn from cheesy plaid material that sagged at the knees and had been worn to a shine on the elbows and rump.
I would have described him as good-looking if his smile wasn’t so phony or his hair so slicked-back with Macassar oil that it reflected light. I watched him climb aboard and search for his seat, and he seemed to have absorbed the greasy oil through his scalp until it lubricated him from within. His movements were so smooth that he glided when he walked, as if his bones were as pliable as cheese. A dime novel would have described him as “a slippery character.”
I thought him wonderfully dangerous! Everyone warned innocent girls such as myself to stay far away from unsavory men like him. In fact, he was exactly the type of man that my father had worried about when I’d embarked on this trip. In short, the drummer fascinated me.
His restless eyes roved all around the passenger car as if searching for a hidden compartment or a clue to a mystery, and I saw his gaze slide over me a few times, lingering a trifle too long to be proper. I immediately looked away, pretending to read, but I confess that my heart raced with excitement.
He spoke in a very loud voice to the conductor and the other passengers—who seemed reluctant to converse with him. He laughed much too loudly. Once the train resumed its journey, he couldn’t seem to settle down, stirring restlessly as if unable to sit still, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He opened his newspaper and began to read, making such a racket that the rustling pages sounded like a forest fire. He finally put the crumpled pages down again. He shifted the position of his sample case three times, opening it briefly to glance inside before stowing it beneath his seat again. At length, he removed a cigar from inside his jacket and left the coach.
I wondered if his unease was caused by a guilty conscience.What crime might he have committed to make him so unsettled? Murder? I must try to look for bloodstains beneath his fingernails when he returned. Theft? It seemed unlikely since he’d boarded the train with no luggage except his sample case. But diamonds were small—might he be a jewel thief?
Ten minutes later the drummer returned from the smoking car, bringing the aroma of cigars with him. I made the mistake of watching him glide down the aisle, and when he saw me he nodded in an overly familiar way. His manners were exceedingly improper and much too forward. His smile was what Madame Beauchamps had called a “candelabra grin.”
“Never overdo your enthusiasm, girls, especially with members of the opposite sex. A slender taper of light is all that one needs to send forth. Be mysterious and enigmatic.” Ruth and I had practiced our enigmatic smiles in front of a mirror every night until we could no longer suppress our giggles.
I quickly looked away from the salesman’s frank gaze, but once again, a thrill of excitement shivered through me. His crime must be adultery. H
e had what the romance novels referred to as “charisma.” He probably knocked on weak-willed women’s doors with his suitcase full of samples and sidled his way into their parlors … and their affections.
I didn’t dare look up again. Instead, I rummaged through my satchel, pretending to search for something, and spotted my mother’s address. I had tiptoed into Father’s office while he was at work and found the divorce papers, then carefully copied down the address printed beneath Mother’s signature. Tears filled my eyes at the memory of her flamboyant signature. It wasn’t the handwriting of an invalid, but of a woman who was very much alive. And healthy enough to be a mother to me.
“She abandoned us,” my father had said. The more I pondered the truth of her desertion, the smaller and more worthless I felt. No one discarded a treasure, did they? Only worthless things were left behind. Before I could stop them, my tears began to fall.
“Are you in distress, miss?”
I looked up to find the drummer hovering in the aisle beside my seat. My heart began to race, outpacing the train.
“I-I seem to have something in my eye,” I lied, quickly applying my handkerchief. Lies must be a family trait.
“Want me to have a look and see if I can fish it out?”
“Um … no, thank you.” The last thing I needed was a mysterious man gazing deeply into my eyes. I stole a quick glance at his face and saw that his eyes were as flashy as the rest of him, their color such a bright, clear shade of blue that they made me thirsty.
“My name’s Silas—Silas McClure.” He held out his hand for me to shake, evidently unaware that a gentleman always waited for a lady to offer her hand first—if at all. I couldn’t be rude and leave it hanging in midair, so I briefly grasped his fingertips for a dainty shake.
“Violet Hayes.” I hated my name the moment I spoke it. Violet. It sounded old-fashioned and as limp as velvet. I longed for a more dramatic name and decided that I would change it when I arrived in Chicago. I would introduce myself as Athena or Artemesia or maybe Anastasia. “How do you do, Mr. McClure?”
“I do just fine… . Say, don’t tell me, let me guess—I’ll wager you’re going to Chicago to see the fair. Am I right?”
“Um … yes. Are you going as well?”
“I’ve already seen it—three times, in fact. But I’m going again, first chance I get.” He propped one foot on the seat that faced mine and folded his arms on his raised knee. “The fair is really swell. I could give you some pointers—what to see and what’s a waste of time—if you want me to.”
Before I could reply, he dropped his leg and slid into the seat facing me, perching on the very edge so that our knees were practically touching. His manners were outrageous! I imagined Madame Beauchamps flapping her hands as if shooing away pigeons and saying, “No, no, no, Miss Hayes! You must never, never accept advances from such a creature.” Anyone unsavory was a creature to Madame B.
But in the next moment, I found myself wondering whether to believe Madame or not. If my father had lied to me my entire life, why should I obey anything else I’d been taught? Anger swelled inside me, making it difficult to speak. I had felt it growing in strength since the night I’d first learned about Maude and about my mother, slowly rising and expanding like bread dough in a warming oven. The more I thought about the wedding, the deplorable stepchildren, and my father’s lies, the more I wanted to punch something the way Mrs. Hutchins punched the rising bread dough so she could shape it into loaves.
The safe cocoon in which I’d been wrapped all my life suddenly felt suffocating. Madame had taught me to be a proper young lady, demure and sedate, but beneath the surface I longed to fly as freely as a butterfly, to do something bold and daring. I scooped up my satchel and placed it on my lap to make room for Mr. McClure on the seat beside me. I even patted the cushion lightly, beckoning him to sit there.
“I would love to hear all about the fair. But please, tell me all about yourself first, Mr. McClure.”
“Well, I’m a drummer, as you can probably guess,” he said, dropping into the seat. “I sell Dr. Dean’s Blood Builder—a nutritive tonic.”
“Is it really made from blood?”
“No,” he said, laughing. “Our specially patented formula is made from the highest-quality beef extract, fortified with iron and celery root. If you’re suffering from extreme exhaustion, brain fatigue, debility of any kind, blood disorders, or anemia, our Blood Builder will enrich your blood and help your body throw off accumulated humors of all kinds. It’s guaranteed to stimulate digestion and improve blood flow, or we’ll give you your money back. Why, we have testimonials from thousands of satisfied customers, people who’ve suffered all sorts of maladies from nervous exhaustion and weakness to general debilitation. You can find inferior goods anywhere, these days—at twice the price of our tonic, I might add. But only Dr. Dean’s Blood Builder offers a thirty-day money-back guarantee. You should try it, Miss Hayes. I’ll wager you’ll feel renewed, or I’ll refund your money.”
“Your presentation is quite convincing, Mr. McClure. Do you use the tonic yourself?”
“Of course.”
He did appear unusually healthy and robust, and so filled with energy that he could scarcely stay in his seat. Hoards of army ants might have been crawling up his pant legs. I wasn’t sure I wanted to have that much vigor. I imagined it would feel quite uncomfortable to be so energetic—and completely unladylike.
“Do you enjoy the life of a traveling salesman, Mr. McClure?”
“Oh, I love riding the rails. There’s a new adventure around every corner. I could never stand being a clerk, cooped up in an office all day.”
I thought of Herman Beckett.
“And you mentioned the fair—did you find it as exciting as you had hoped?”
“Oh, boy! And then some! Make sure you ride Mr. Ferris’ wheel when you go. What a thrill! I happened to be there on the day they gave it the very first test run. They had only attached the first six cars, you see, and nobody had ever ridden it before. It wasn’t even open to the public yet, and nobody knew if passengers would even live through the experience. But Mr. Ferris’ wife volunteered to be the first one to try it, and she climbed into the first car like she was going for a Sunday afternoon carriage ride. Well, when we saw her going up in the air, the whole crowd of us pushed forward to get onboard the second car— even though the wheel’s operators were hollering at us to get back.”
“How did you know it was safe if it had never carried passengers before? Weren’t you frightened?”
“I was having too much fun to be scared. Although I did have second thoughts for a moment when a bunch of loose nuts and bolts started showering down on us like hailstones. And the gears made a terrible racket at first, crunching and grinding like they were about to give out. But then the car started climbing, up and up, until I had the best view I wager I’ll ever see.” He gazed into the distance as if seeing it all over again.
“You can see the whole fair from up there, Miss Hayes, all laid out like a little toy village. Lake Michigan is in the distance, and the skyline of the city … Well, it takes your breath clean away. As soon as I reached the bottom and stepped off, I wanted to get right back on and ride it all over again. Everyone else had the same idea, and there was a huge rush to get on board—even though the wheel wasn’t officially open. Like I said, they had only attached the first six cars at the time. But I managed to squeeze my way forward and go for a second ride—and I would have jumped on and gone around a third time, but the men operating it finally said that if any more people forced their way on board, they’d run us up to the top and leave us there for the night. That wheel is one of the Seven Wonders of the World—or are there eight wonders? I forget … Anyhow, nothing like it has ever been attempted before.”
“It sounds exhilarating!” I wondered if Herman Beckett would dare to go for a ride. I made up my mind that I would ride the wheel, with or without him. “You should have been an explorer, Mr. McClure!”
His daring proved so contagious that in the next moment I found myself asking, “If you could choose, would you rather perish in a terrible cataclysm such as a train wreck or a collapsing Ferris wheel and die amid twisted iron and splintered wood, hearing the screams of trapped and suffering humanity—or would you prefer to die a long, slow death at home in your bed, your body growing ever thinner, your breath leaving you in painful gasps?”
His eyes widened, slightly, and I saw him lean almost imperceptibly away from me. “You have quite an imagination, Miss Hayes.”
I was too caught up in my own drama to notice that I had shocked him. “I think I would rather die quickly and spectacularly,” I said. “If I were given the choice.”
“Would you, now? Well … let’s hope today isn’t the day. Anyhow, it looks like we’re getting close to the city.” He nodded his glossy head toward the window where the view of the prairie had changed to one of factories and warehouses and the backs of buildings. While we had been conversing, the brilliant sky had gradually dimmed to a dull gray, like tarnish on fine silver, and the air had taken on the unmistakable odor of the stockyards.
“May I ask, Miss Hayes—if I’m not being too pushy—would you consider going to the fair with me the next time I’m in Chicago? I’d love to show you around.”
“I would enjoy that very much.” Father would be scandalized, but I didn’t care. I gave Silas McClure an encouraging smile, but he seemed to be waiting for something more. “Was there anything else you wanted to ask, Mr. McClure?”
“I’ll need to know where you’re staying, Miss Hayes.”
“Oh, how silly of me.” He gave me one of his calling cards, and I copied down Grandmother’s address for him on the back of it. Then the conductor entered the car, toddling down the aisle, punching tickets. Mr. McClure returned to his seat and his suitcase full of tonic as the train slowed. My heart raced with anticipation as I glimpsed Chicago’s towering buildings.
