He remembered sneering at Kate and not removing his hat when he entered her booth, and he cringed inwardly.
Very well, he’d made a mistake there. He ought to have approached her differently. But how could he have known that she was such a— Firebrand? Outrageous bit of goods? He couldn’t find the precise phrase to describe her. This was due in part to her very unexpectedness. She hadn’t looked cheap and she hadn’t sounded like the product of the slums. Rather, she was fairly short, perhaps five feet, two inches or thereabouts, and as slim as a boy. She had dark brown hair that she’d dressed neatly in braids which, he presumed was a Gypsy style of hair dressing or something. The hairdo made her look like a small girl, not at all like the conniving harpy Alex had assumed her to be.
And spunky? He got angry just thinking about how impertinent she’d been to him. He hadn’t anticipated that quality. He’d expected cringing and crying, not overt belligerence. Gil’s accusation came back and socked him in the jaw. Alex stopped walking and grimaced.
Had he been too hard on the girl? He didn’t like to think so. He liked thinking of himself as a good man, a tolerant one, a man who didn’t judge people without evidence. The fact that he’d judged Kate before he’d met her didn’t sit well with him, and he wondered now if he’d hoped to have his preconception of her confirmed by his visit.
“Dash it.” Alex scuffed the toe of one of his brand-new, hand-sewn, French-calf walking shoes, for which he’d paid the extravagant price of five dollars, and pondered the intricacies of life. Perhaps Gil was right. Perhaps Alex had become the tiniest bit complaisant as his fortune had grown. Maybe he was becoming stodgy. Maybe he was developing into an intolerant man, unwilling to give the Kate Finneys of this world a chance to earn a living. He didn’t like to think that, either.
Lifting his chin and straightening his spine, Alex came to the conclusion that he was being much to hard on himself. It was, after all, his responsibility to see to the wholesomeness of the World’s Columbian Exposition. If the presence on the premises of Kate Finney threatened good taste or public morals, it was his duty to rid the fair of her besmirched presence.
With that in mind, and feeling generous and forgiving, he decided to visit the troubled and troubling Kate again. Perhaps he’d even watch her dance. Maybe he was being too critical of her. If he were to be absolutely honest, he’d have to agree that she wasn’t responsible for her father being a drunkard. However, if Alex discovered that she was a disruptive influence, and if he found her to be a magnet for the kinds of unruly behavior of which neither he nor his fellow Agriculturalists approved, then she’d have to go.
He felt better about himself after that, and his step picked up as he walked toward the Polish Village. He felt the need for a restorative sausage, kraut, and, most particularly, a glass of beer.
# # #
Kate tied a wide black velvet band around her throat and gazed into the mirror, dissatisfied. Darn her father, anyhow. It was bad enough that he refused to shoulder his responsibilities for his family, but to interfere with her efforts on her family’s behalf was too much of him. Not that she expected anything better from that source. He’d always been a louse. She wished he’d fall down drunk in front of a milk wagon someday and get himself run over and killed. But Kate knew he’d never do anything so obliging. Why didn’t justice prevail in this stupid world, was what she wanted to know. It wasn’t fair that her mother was sick and her father, who was as worthless a specimen of humankind as ever lived, thrived.
Philosophical questions only confused her so she chucked them out. She had more important things to do. Getting ready for her dance number, for instance.
“That looks sort of funny, Kate, that black band.”
Kate turned to grin at Stephanie Margolis, one of the legion of women hired to sweep up and mop out the exhibits on a daily basis. “I know it, but it’s better than black-and-blue marks.”
Stephanie didn’t grin back. “I’m awful sorry about what happened, Kate. If you need any help, you just come to me, all right?”
Touched by the offer of generosity from a woman in Kate’s own low station in life, Kate nevertheless gave Stephanie the response to offers of help that had become natural to her. “Thanks, Stephanie, but I’ll be all right. And so will Ma.”
The older woman smiled at last. “I’m sure you will. You have heart, Kate, and that’s the important thing.”
“Thanks, Stephanie.”
Stephanie moved on, plying her broom, and Kate adjusted the black ribbon, trying to make the velvet strip cover all the bruises. She gave an internal snort. Why was it, she wondered, that poor folks like dear old Stephanie offered to help, and rich folks, like that ass Alex English, offered to kick her in the butt? “It’s the way of the world,” she muttered.
Giving up on adjusting her black ribbon—maybe nobody would notice the bruises peeking out from behind it—she picked up her cymbals and fitted them onto her fingers. She clanged them during her dance whenever she remembered to do so.
No expert in the art of the so-called “genuine native muscle dance,” Kate nevertheless knew how to perform when she had to. She’d watched Little Egypt often enough, and practiced long enough, that nobody else knew she was a faker. They might suspect something this evening, however. She frowned at her reflection and again fingered the black band. The lights were dim when she danced. Maybe nobody would notice the bruises.
As a rule, Kate wore a short, strapped top with beads and tassels dangling therefrom, along with a gauzy skirt that was split up the side to reveal her left leg—shocking, that—which was encased in black stockinette ending just above her knee. Thus, people could occasionally catch a glimpse of her naked upper thigh if they stared hard enough. She figured they were even more titillated by the white garters she tied about her thigh to keep her stockings up. They’d be a darned sight more titillated if she danced as she’d heard real Egyptian ladies did: Barefoot and bare-legged. That would call the Purity League down on the fair in a heartbeat. Alex English would never hear of it. She sniffed at the thought of the stuffy Alex.
She’d unbraided her hair, and it now waved over her shoulders, as formerly braided hair will do when left to its own devices. She wore a metal head ornament that reminded her of chain mail and that covered the top of her head. Dangly ornaments depended from the chain mail and jangled around and banged against her forehead when she was particularly energetic, which she tried not to be because it hurt to be banged by bangles. The head piece was so outre as to divert people from her blue eyes.
Little Egypt herself, who was actually Syrian and whose real name was Fahreda Mahzar, had once told Kate in an accent so thick Kate could hardly understand her, that nobody paid attention to a girl’s face when she was dancing. Kate, who chose her alliances carefully, believed her.
The saving grace of the outrageous costume, to her mind, was the sheer scarf she waved around as she danced. It was probably a provocative item of drape, but Kate used it more to cover her assets than to reveal them. She was sure Alex English wouldn’t agree. But, then, he was too proper, too much of a decorous gentleman, too much a blasted snob, to visit her performance. Drat the man.
She wished she could stop thinking about him, but he worried her. A lot.
Alex English, however, was neither here nor there. She had to prepare for her act, and that dratted black velvet band around her neck looked stupid. “Oh, who cares?” she said at last. Better an article of clothing that looked out of place than a series of black-and-blue finger marks. Besides, she was pretty sure none of her American dance-watchers would know an Egyptian costume from one from outer Mongolia or even Mars.
Turning, she picked up her scarf, a pretty peacock-blue number that shimmered like fish scales in the electrical lights. The whole effect of her clad as she was, when combined with those weird bagpipes and drums of the native musicians, was exotic, to say the least.
The peculiar wailing of the Egyptian music had irked Kate when she’d first heard
it, but she was becoming used to it. She’d learned, much to her sorrow, that a person could get used to darned near anything if her livelihood depended on it. Therefore, she walked from the dressing room to the stage and waited behind the curtain, tipping winks and grins to the people working behind the scenes. They all liked her. Kate had made sure of it.
The bagpipes which, Kate had been told, were made of goats’ bladders, at last squealed out a familiar tune, the drummers started whacking on their drums, and Kate took a deep breath. She was always nervous before she danced, although the state didn’t last long. Her cue came rattling at her on a drumbeat, and she whirled out on stage, making sure her scarf did its duty. Thunderous applause greeted her. Kate didn’t take it personally. The fools all probably thought she was Little Egypt herself instead of Little Egypt’s American stand-in.
Kate danced her heart out, as she did every evening, and left the stage as she’d arrived upon it, in a whirl of peacock-blue scarf to the sound of cheers and claps and funny, squealy, Egyptian music. “Phew!” She winked at one of the drummers, who grinned back at her.
At first, she knew, she’d shocked these men who took their art so seriously with her free-and-easy ways. Those guys didn’t know they were from a backward nation. All they knew was that they were sharing with interested American persons their culture, which they loved every bit as much as any American loved his. Kate identified with them strangely. Often she felt as though she were participating in an American culture with which she had little, if anything, in common.
She went to the dressing room and took a glass of water because dancing made her thirsty. She danced twice on a typical evening, in order to give Little Egypt the opportunity to have a little supper. Or a lot of supper. Little Egypt was a meaty dish. She was a lot meatier than Kate, but nobody watching seemed to mind.
By the time she’d told fortunes all day and danced half the night away, Kate was always tired. After her second performance this evening, she was particularly worn out, probably because of her ordeal the day before and her constant, nagging fear for her mother’s health. Not to mention the possibility that her only source of income might be cut off at the whim of that idiot Alex English. She washed every smidgeon of makeup off and gladly exchanged her costume and dancing shoes for more comfortable garb.
Clad in a dark skirt and jacket, white shirtwaist, and neatly tied ascot, she left the Egyptian Pavilion. She’d knotted her hair up and plopped a hat on top of it, and looked like neither Gypsy fortune teller nor Egyptian dancer. Thus clad, she was seldom recognized by the public she served, which was the whole point.
Kate was, therefore, startled, when a small boy ran up to her and shouted, “Miss Kate Finney?”
Taken aback, she said, “Who wants to know?” which was the question people in her neighborhood always asked before admitting identity. After all, the person asking might represent a bill collector or an officer of the law.
The boy said, “Jerry O’Hallahan, but I don’t really care who you are unless you’re Kate Finney. If you’re Kate Finney, your brother told me to give you this.” He thrust a grubby wad of paper at Kate.
At once, Kate’s heart gave a painful spasm. If one of her brothers was trying to get in touch with her, it probably meant that something was wrong. Jerry O’Hallahan, the urchin, held tight to his prize until Kate fished a penny out of her handbag. “Here, kid. Now get lost.”
The boy saluted smartly, accustomed to such pleasantries from the gentry, and sauntered off, whistling “Daisy Bell,” one of the latest popular songs. With trepidation in her heart, Kate unfolded the paper, which was damp with sweat from Jerry’s fists.
Her heart sank like a boulder in a pond as she read the words: “Took Ma to hospital. Come quick. Billy.” She whispered, “Nuts,” and wished she wasn’t too tough to cry.
She very nearly shrieked when she heard a voice come to her out of the dark.
“Miss Finney? I need to speak with you.”
Whirling around, she beheld none other than Alex English. She frowned, sensing more trouble. “What do you want?”
“To speak with you.” He looked grim.
His looks were nothing compared to the savagery roiling in Kate’s own bosom. “Yeah? You got a carriage, Mr. Rich Guy?”
He blinked, obviously surprised by this reaction. “A—a carriage? Why, yes, but—”
“All right. I’ll talk to you. But it’s going to be in your carriage, because you’re taking me to the hospital on Fourth and Grand Oaks.”
Kate wasn’t surprised when Alex’s mouth opened and closed a few times, making him look like a particularly elegant variety of the trout family.
But he led her to his carriage, which is what Kate needed.
# # #
Alex wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but not five minutes after he’d spoken to Kate Finney on the Midway, he was directing his driver to make haste to Saint Mildred’s Hospital. Although he told himself he didn’t really want to know, he said, “Are you ill, Miss Finney?”
“No. I’m fine. What do you want to talk to me about? My morals? My father’s morals? My Aunt Fanny’s morals.”
Alex frowned. This woman was very difficult to talk to, perhaps because she seemed to approach all conversations as a soldier might approach a deadly battle. Her attitude offended Alex, who had been feeling put-upon ever since Gil McIntosh told him he was turning into a fussy old man.
“Really, Miss Finney, there’s no need for such an attitude.”
“No?” She kept glancing nervously out the window.
Alex got the impression of tremendous energy trapped in Kate’s small body. He sensed that she’d like to get out and shove traffic out of her way so that his carriage could make better time. She was definitely worried. Deciding it might behoove him to discover the source of her trouble before telling her his impressions of her so-called “dance,” he muttered, “If there’s something the matter, Miss Finney, I’d like to know what it is. Perhaps I could help.”
That got her attention. From staring out the carriage window, her head whipped around, and she commenced staring at him. Her scrutiny made Alex uncomfortable even before she spoke.
“You? Don’t make me laugh.”
After her words smote him, his discomfort turned into ire. “Now see here, young woman, I don’t understand your hostility. I only asked a civil question.”
“Yeah? Why do I get the impression you’re only asking because you think you have to? Sort of a gesture, you know? Before you kick me in the teeth, you’ll lull me into thinking you care.”
“Now, really! There’s no call for that sort of thing.” Why was it that every time he encountered this woman—which, he realized, had only been twice so far—she outraged him? What had he ever done to her that he should earn such enmity? Well, except for questioning the propriety of her working at the World’s Columbian Exposition.
“No?” She tilted her head and surveyed him from top to bottom. Alex felt like squirming. He hadn’t felt like squirming in his entire adult life, and he found the sensation extremely unpleasant. “Listen, Mr. English, why don’t you tell me what you want to talk about? If it’s about my father, I can’t help you. I don’t know where he is. If I’m lucky, they’ve got him locked up, but I’m not usually lucky.”
Good Lord. Alex had never heard anything like this before in his whole life. He couldn’t imagine so young a woman being so hard and cynical. “It’s not about your father. It’s about you.”
She seemed to slump for no more than an instant, then straightened her spine again. “Yeah? What about me?”
Drat the woman. A person would think he was the one at fault here, when it was she who was the one performing salacious dances and telling fortunes. Everyone knew fortune-tellers were no better than criminals.
“I saw your performance this evening.”
“Yeah? Pretty good, aren’t I?”
“For heaven’s sake, Miss Finney! That dance is scandalous!”
“It’s not scandalous. It’s Egyptian. How come you’ve never talked to Little Egypt about how scandalous she is? How come you’re telling me I’m a hussy?”
“A hussy?” Alex felt himself flush and could only be glad the carriage was dark inside. “I said no such thing.”
“You thought it,” Kate said baldly. “And I’m not.”
“Of course not.” He didn’t believe it. He thought she was a hussy. The truth smacked him like a blow. Gil’s accusation taunted him, and he tried to shake it off.
“Listen, Mr. English. I’m only trying to make a living however I can. It’s not my fault I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, like you were—”
”Now see here—”
”Darn it, listen to me, will you? I work hard. Very, very hard. And it’s not easy, what I do. I’m trying to support myself and my mother, and believe me, the world isn’t kind to women who are trying to support themselves.”
“You ought to get married. That’s what you should do.” Alex was sure of it. Marriage and motherhood were the roles established for women, no matter how poorly this present example of femininity might fill the roles. Until her face set like granite, he hadn’t believed she could look any harder.
“Yeah? My mother got married. See the result?” She yanked at her scarf, and Alex winced when he saw the dark, brutal bruises thus exposed. “Marriage isn’t for me, thanks anyway.”
“You know very well such a—a marriage as—as that is uncommon, Miss Finney.”
“Not where I come from, it isn’t. I’ve got better things in store for my life than marriage, believe me.”
“You sound like a suffragist,” Alex said stiffly. He didn’t hold with woman’s suffrage. What did women know about the world and politics?
“Suffragist, my foot,” Kate scoffed. “I don’t give a hang about suffrage. I don’t have time to think about suffrage. All I’m trying to do is put food on the table. And I won’t let you stop me, if I can help it.”
Bicycle Built for Two Page 3
