Love and Other Consolation Prizes

by Jamie Ford

  Ernest’s residency at Holy Word lasted until just before the seventh grade, culminating in the year’s fall sponsor review in the school library. Ernest walked into the room and stood at attention before Mrs. Irvine, who remained seated. A servant escort, a slender bald man in a dark suit, lingered behind her.

  “Hello, Ernest dear.” She held a sheaf of papers in her hand that Ernest knew would be his grades and his progress reports, his running tab of merits and the occasional demerit. “My, look how much you’ve grown.”

  Ernest tried not to fidget as he smiled. He hadn’t seen her in a year—he barely knew her—though he was required to write to her each month with an update of his progress. She never wrote back, except for a general holiday greeting. Nevertheless, he was grateful for her patronage and knew he owed her a tremendous debt.

  Mrs. Irvine waved the papers about with a flourish. “I’m so proud of you, young man. You’ve come so far in just a few years here among the other boys.” She beamed as she dabbed at the corner of her eye with a gloved fingertip.

  The routine always made Ernest miss his mother. He also felt homesick, which was confounding because he’d never had a real home, ever.

  “Tell me,” Mrs. Irvine asked, “what’s been the highlight of your summer? Did you enjoy the boat races and the sailing lessons? What about the salmon bake on Alki Beach? And are you excited for middle school?”

  Ernest nodded politely. He didn’t want to disappoint her by sharing that he’d been excluded from all those school outings. Instead he’d spent his time here—in the library with the other scholarship children, who had become his friends and outcast confidants, reading, studying, learning for hours on end, sometimes out of curiosity, but other times out of sheer boredom. It didn’t matter what the truth was, really, because Ernest’s answers were always well rehearsed. A school counselor wrote down recommended responses for Ernest a week before Mrs. Irvine’s visit and had him practice them. He used to think that the script was to help with his English, but now that he spoke almost as well as the other students, Ernest realized the performance was something else.

  “I wonder, Master Ernest…” Mrs. Irvine cleared her throat as she set the papers aside and accepted a cup of tea from a school secretary. She blew on the steaming liquid and took a sip, then handed the cup to the bald man in the dark suit, who added sugar and a slice of lemon. “What would you think about working here? Perhaps after the eighth grade I can arrange to have you join the custodial staff. With enough hard work and dedication, you might work your way up to head groundskeeper. Would you like that?”

  Ernest found himself nodding, agreeing out of habit, even as he thought how much that would be like graduating to perpetual detention. The other kids talked about high school, and one day continuing their studies at Seattle College, but Ernest had been told that no women or colored students were allowed. He hadn’t bothered asking about Orientals.

  “Thank you,” Ernest said as he continued standing at attention, trying to remember what he’d been instructed to say. He was flustered with frustration and disappointment, and the words all seemed so pointless. He continued, “I’m very happy at this fine boarding school. My education and moral upbringing are…” He paused. “Vital to my future, no matter what that future might…”

  Mrs. Irvine smiled and sipped her tea again, nodding her approval to the servant and Ernest. “Continue,” she said.

  “My future…” Ernest thought about his morning routine serving the other kids, who were never grateful, the monotony of always being on the outside looking in. He wished he could attend a public school with normal children, go to a real home in the evening. He was grateful for a full belly and a warm bed, content to learn, even if he had to sit in the back of the class, where he often struggled to see the blackboard and the second-class kids were never called on. But it got to the point where most had stopped trying, stopped raising their hands. To the teachers they were invisible, tolerated, but not encouraged to hope for the same things as the other kids.

  “My future…” Ernest’s words drifted off the scripted page he’d memorized. He swallowed and said, “Mrs. Irvine, I’m so very appreciative of all you have done for me.” He felt his disappointment turn to frustration. “I was wondering…”

  “Anything,” the elegant woman stated. “Just ask.”

  Ernest breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He smiled and felt emboldened, if only for a fanciful moment. “Well, ma’am, I was wondering…” Ernest looked at his shoes. Then he looked up again. “Do you think I could leave this place? Perhaps go to another school, or even back to Dow’s Landing? I’m not looking for an easy way out, I’d be happy to sell papers on the street corner after school, to wash dishes someplace for room and board. I don’t expect anyone to adopt me proper. I was just thinking that I might have greater opportunities someplace else. I don’t suppose…”

  It looked as though Mrs. Irvine had bit into her lemon.

  “You don’t want to stay here?” she asked with a frown, cocking her head. “This is the most expensive school in five states, I’ve been paying your tuition…”

  “It’s a wonderful school.” Ernest hoped his face wouldn’t reveal the truth. “It’s just that there’s a great big world out there, I think I could be happier…”

  “Happiness is a state of mind, not something you’ll find on a map,” she snapped. Then her servant refreshed her tea and leaned in, whispering in her ear.

  Ernest watched as they stood up and stepped into the hall. Through the open doorway Ernest saw a passing administrator join the conversation. The man and Mrs. Irvine bickered for a moment, talking back and forth. Then the administrator snapped his fingers and called to a secretary, who brought him a newspaper. They pointed to an article on the front page and nodded as they came to some agreement.

  Ernest noticed how Mrs. Irvine’s countenance softened. Her eyes widened. She actually smiled as she came back in, but she didn’t sit. She allowed the bald man to help her with her fur coat.

  “I have a better idea, young man,” she said. “Something that might suit your desire to leave my care and also fulfill a pressing need for a civic organization that I belong to.”

  Ernest was relieved, but also confused.

  “How do you feel about the world’s fair?” Mrs. Irvine asked. “The great big Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition that everyone is talking about. I know all of you boys are probably dying to go. I’ve been and it’s breathtaking. And there’s a unique opportunity coming up, one you would be perfectly suited for.”

  Ernest could hardly believe his good fortune. He’d been reading about the AYP for weeks in the newspaper. Most of the boys had been several times, but the scholarship students rarely left the grounds. Mrs. Irvine must have seen the answer in his eyes as he practically bounced up and down with excitement.

  “Perfect then.” She beamed. “I’ll take you one week hence, for your birthday—you’ll be my most special guest. Oh, and pack your things,” she said with a wave of her gloved hand. “Because when I take you, young man, you won’t be coming back.”

  HEALTHY BOY, FREE

  (1909)

  Ernest Young was told three things by Mrs. Irvine on his twelfth birthday: that he would finally be given to a good home, that he would see the president of the United States (albeit from a distance), and that his legal name was now, in fact, Ernest Young.

  The first was a surprise. He’d long since given up hope for any sort of adoptive family, especially since he wasn’t Chinese enough for an Asian family and wasn’t white enough for a Caucasian home. It was true that he didn’t look particularly Oriental, but he appeared different enough that no one would want him.

  So when Mrs. Irvine told him all this on the way to the fair, Ernest had naturally been skeptical about the part involving “a good home.” The whole thing, particularly the part about being adopted—seemed too good to be real. How had this possibility materialized so suddenly? First a carriage ride—something he’d rarely e
xperienced—and now this strange revelation.

  All week long he’d puzzled over Mrs. Irvine’s parting words—where would he be going after she took him to the fair? He’d worried about being sent to a poor farm, or back to the Indian school; the best he’d hoped for was perhaps being allowed to run away with a circus—and even that was a wistful fantasy, because to tell the truth, a permanent home had always been beyond the grasp of his hopeful imagination. So with each mile, he watched the city roll by and kept waiting for the grim truth to present itself, like in the gothic fairy tales he’d read—the older, unvarnished versions, where Cinderella’s stepsisters had cut off their heels with a hatchet and chopped off their toes in hopes of fitting their feet into the glass slipper. Or where the Pied Piper hadn’t been paid for ridding the hamlet of rats and so he returned and took away all the village children, drowning them in a river.

  The second thing—seeing President Taft—was exciting, sure, but not so much more than seeing the Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition, where the nation’s commander in chief would be appearing. Ernest had spent months yearning to visit the AYP—Seattle’s world’s fair. He’d listened with palpable envy as the other boys returned to the dormitory on Saturday evenings, recounting tales of animal shows and carnival rides. But as Ernest arrived and followed Mrs. Irvine through the boisterous crowd at the south entrance, past all the things he’d daydreamed about—the Fairy Gorge Tickler, the Aero Plunge, and the Dizzle Dazzle—the glittery, sparkling, splendorous, musical reality was far better than the stories he’d heard or the newspaper photos he’d seen. Ernest had eagerly read the daily reviews in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. He’d weighed the possibilities and knew that there was no way the twenty-seventh president could compare to the Hindoo Mystery, the dog eaters of the Igorrotte Village, or Red Men’s Day, when hundreds had participated in a mock battle between Indians and militiamen. Ernest read that someone had died during the reenactment, shot at close range with a wax-tipped blank. He didn’t know who had been killed, but he secretly hoped that the unfortunate fellow was a soldier; Ernest had always had to wear a feather when the kids played cowboys and Indians back at Holy Word Academy. And being a onetime resident of the Tulalip school, he was partial to the plight of underdogs in general, and noble savages in particular.

  The last thing he’d been told was the least surprising of all. Ernest had never forgotten his ah-ma and the Chinese name his mother had once inscribed in the book of families at the small Buddhist temple in their village near Toisan. Yet in the years since he’d arrived in Washington, he’d often seen his name written as Ernest Young. The fact that it was now official was somewhat confusing, but his new English name wasn’t.

  As Mrs. Irvine guided him toward Klondike Circle, he watched a lost helium balloon careen upward, sailing above the newly planted trees—pindrow firs and digger pines, and beyond the gondola ride and the swaying cable that split the blue sky in half. That’s how he felt—soaring inside, but sharply divided between the past and the present, between his origin and his destination, caught between joy and the unknown. Still, he couldn’t help smiling as he inhaled a rainbow of scents and aromas, and his heart beat faster. He imagined the future, along with the sharp crispness of Hires root beer, waffle sandwiches, crispy and hot, and endless skeins of silky, cottony, fairy floss. Mrs. Irvine even bought a small bag and gave him a bite, which was sweet and lighter than air.

  This must be what Heaven is like, Ernest thought, as he looked around. Everyone seemed accepted here—embraced by the collective thrill of the moment, as if the future were one endless possibility. Heaven? No—this must be what love feels like.

  The idea popped into his head unbidden; Ernest didn’t have much experience with affairs of the heart. His mother had once loved him, of course, as had, he believed, the girls on the ship—albeit briefly. Other than that, though, love was still a mystery.

  As he walked, Ernest practically begged Mrs. Irvine to stop at the Eskimo Village, but evidently she had other plans. She relentlessly parted the crowd like an icebreaker through a polar sea. And when he lagged behind, gawking at the Forestry Building, she took him by the arm and guided him to a perch atop the highest step of the newly built Women’s Building. This was where the crowd was gathering to hear President Taft speak. From there Ernest had a commanding view of the reflecting pool and thousands of visitors milling about expectantly, toting parasols, small American flags, and the occasional whirligig, lazily spinning in the cool September breeze. Mixed in with the rabble were entire companies of infantrymen in russet-colored uniforms. They looked more like soldiers on leave, less intimidating than the mounted cavalry, who pushed through the multitudes wearing steel Brodie helmets and tight spiral puttees, their rifles slung across their chests at the ready.

  “Since President McKinley was killed at the Pan-American Expo in Buffalo, the current administration is taking no chances,” Mrs. Irvine pointed out as she clutched her purse and checked the time on her silver wristwatch.

  Ernest gazed at the surrounding buildings, looking for a sign of the president and his entourage, as Mrs. Irvine exchanged pleasantries with those around them. The ladies talked of their hope that the fair would finally cleanse the city of its notorious reputation, using words like putrescence and degradation, feculence and corruption. That’s when Ernest realized he was the only male present, a standout among the matrons of the Seattle Women’s Suffrage Association. He fidgeted with the buttons on his coat as he wondered if he’d be going home with one of the older, prune-faced ladies who smelled like mothballs and liniment. He looked around for someone younger.

  He noticed the women appraising him. They smiled politely and whispered, “Is that him? Is that the boy?” and “My, he’s so tall, what is he?” or “Quite handsome, actually, like George Primrose without the makeup.”

  “Where are you from?” one of the women asked.

  Ernest looked at Mrs. Irvine, whose expression seemed to say go on.

  “Um…I grew up near Green Lake,” Ernest said, though he wasn’t sure if that was the correct answer. “The Holy Word Academy, I guess.”

  “No, dear,” the woman said. “Where are you really from?”

  Mrs. Irvine jumped in. “He came over on a boat from the Far East, but he’s only half Oriental. His father was European, and young Ernest speaks English marvelously. And although he’s not a Mongoloid, he’s not a Caucasoid either. He’s…unique.”

  Embarrassed, Ernest fussed with a loose button and turned toward the marble columns of the massive Government Building across the parkway. He distracted himself with the gentle splashing of the Geyser Basin. He could see the pristine rows of cascading waterfalls and the mirrored reflection of Mount Rainier in the stillness of the outer reflecting pool. He marveled at the crowd—a bonanza of derby hats and bow ties, and a parade of women, who tilted forward in their corsets as though running a race, but were slowed by their hobble skirts, doting endlessly on their mantles and tea jackets. The men strolled at the gentle pace set by the ladies at their arms, and everyone seemed to move in slow motion.

  That’s when Ernest noticed one nearby face, then two, then a dozen more. All of them were staring in his direction—not just in his direction, directly at him. Bewildered, Ernest looked over his shoulder and saw the ladies continuing their conversation, showing each other their tickets. The tickets weren’t just for admission into the fair but were for something else. Ernest looked up at the yellow and purple flag atop the building, then down to his trousers. He wondered if his buttons might have come undone.

  He turned around and found himself facing Mrs. Irvine. She put her hands on his shoulders and whispered in his ear, “They’re all here for you, young man—such a marvelous thing! They’ve all come out today, rain or shine, to see you—to find out who has the special ticket. To find out who the lucky winner is. Isn’t this exciting?”

  Special ticket? Ernest furrowed his brow and blinked, once, twice. Ever since the AYP had opened, on the first of J
une, there had been a raffle each day. Today was no exception, and the raffle winner would be selected after President Taft’s speech. In fact, Taft himself would draw the winning ticket. Ernest remembered that on Anaconda Day the delegation from Butte, Montana, had given away five thousand copper ingots. On Yakima Day, visitors had won barrels of apples and cruets of cider vinegar. And on Agriculture Day, someone had won a milking shorthorn.

  But today is President’s Day, Ernest thought. What could they possibly give away on…? Ernest felt his unalloyed joy, his excitement, plummet into the pit of his stomach.

  He remembered. This is also Washington Children’s Home Day.

  “Someone is taking you home with them,” Mrs. Irvine said with glee. “I bet you never thought you’d find a real home, but wishes sometimes do come true.”

  He turned toward the crowd and realized that everyone was staring at him—thirty thousand people, smiling, laughing, pointing—all of them waiting as Mrs. Irvine’s words echoed in his mind, They’re all here for you. Then he noticed the ticket holders. They stood out among the masses, hundreds of them, checking and double-checking their numbers, waving their tickets in the air, fanning themselves with the small slabs of printed cardboard.

  “I’m…the prize,” Ernest whispered. Those three words hung in the air like that lost helium balloon. I’m to be given away. I belong to one of the ticket holders. Everyone’s here for the spectacle, for me, and the president, of course.

  As a drum major struck up the band in front of the Government Building, Ernest glanced back at Mrs. Irvine, who was smiling, adjusting her President’s Day ribbon. Soldiers and policemen marched by, creating a brief reverential mood, until a collective cheer, a full-hearted roar, swept through the crowd.

  Ernest watched, too numb from shock to feel awestruck, as ladies curtsied at the sight of President Taft’s unmistakably large frame and wide handlebar mustache. Ernest stared into the crowd and wondered what stranger would be taking him away, and to what end, for what purpose? He heard the audience cheer as the president descended the steps of the Government Building in a black tuxedo with long flowing tails and a top hat. One peculiar woman, with a shimmering peacock feather in her gold-colored boater hat, merely smiled and placed a cigarette in her mouth as he approached. Ernest watched in silence, somewhat shocked as the Big Lub himself paused, fished out a silver lighter, and lit the rolled tobacco at the end of her dangling holder. He offered a hearty grin and then continued shaking hands and kissing babies on his way to the bandstand, where he gave a rousing speech in his high-pitched, South Midland voice, about something Ernest barely understood and quickly forgot.