by Jamie Ford
—
OUTSIDE, A LARGE crowd had gathered at the foot of the Pay Streak on the esplanade near the Lake Union steamboat landing. Maisie pointed out a tall ship in the distance, a replica of the Mayflower that sat at anchor. But fairgoers were more enamored with the passenger in a long canoe that was being paddled ashore. The crowd buzzed with excitement as a handsome young woman was introduced as Miss Columbia, to cheers, wolf whistles, and a chorus of racy catcalls.
Ernest had heard about the lovely Labradorean Inuit who had panicked the house and beaten out a darling Seattle socialite for the title of Queen of the Carnival. He stood on his tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of the dark-haired beauty who wore a sealskin parka and mukluk boots.
The crowd gushed their excitement, but Ernest could hardly see her.
“I’m tired of the exhibits. My brain, it overfloweth,” Maisie moaned. “Let’s go, I want to explore the House Upside Down and ride the Tickler.”
“I’ll catch up with you two later,” Fahn said. “I heard the Eskimo girl is hosting a reception. I have to see this for myself. She got fifty thousand votes. She even won a villa with a nice piece of property—can you imagine?”
Ernest wanted to see this one-woman spectacle as well, but he followed Maisie back to the wilder part of the Pay Streak and then to the carnival rides.
“How were the exhibits?” he asked.
Maisie pretended to yawn. “You know, once you’ve seen an elephant made of apples, one million dollars in gold dust, the world’s largest display of clams, and a tribe of topless natives at the Smithsonian exhibit, you’ve pretty much seen it all. Plus so much bunting everywhere—a sea of red, white, and blue. Madam Flora means well, but I was bored to tears.”
They skipped the carousel and went straight to the roller coaster, where Maisie hung her hat, clutched the hem of her dress, and boarded the first car. Until today, Ernest had never been on anything faster than a merry-go-round. He sat next to her, their legs touching.
“You know, I’m glad it’s just us,” Maisie said, “because three’s a crowd.”
Ernest smiled at the echoed sentiment.
Maisie looked at him as she twirled her hair with her fingers, and he felt his stomach lurch, rise and fall, his heart racing again as he tried to catch his breath.
Then the roller coaster began to move.
STARS, FALLING
(1909)
After waiting in line for what seemed like hours to ride the Ferris Wheel, the Haunted Swing, and the Scenic Railway, Ernest and Maisie split an egg-cream soda at Ezra Meeker’s restaurant. Then they found a meadow alongside Rainier Vista, not far from the bubbling fountain and the gentle waterfalls. They lay down on a cool, soft bed of freshly mowed grass and removed their shoes and socks, wiggling their toes in the warm breeze of an Indian summer. Maisie perched her open parasol on the ground, creating a shady spot to rest their heads as they stretched out, their heads nearly touching as they watched puffy clouds slowly migrating across the blue northwestern sky. They could hear a band playing, and watched as kids joined hands and danced in wide circles within circles, groups spinning in opposite directions. It matched the way Ernest felt inside.
“Fahn is sweet on you, you know,” Maisie said. The words felt almost like an accusation. “At first I thought her obsession was because you’re both—you know, sort of from the same part of the world, but I think she really does find you…interesting. She told me she stole your first kiss—that’s her thing. Just don’t be in a hurry to throw your heart away for the first girl who might want to punch your ticket; true love is wasted at a place like the Tenderloin.”
Ernest didn’t know how to respond. He found himself smitten with both girls, though he wondered if he was anything more than a convenient companion, like a younger brother who happened to share the same roof. He also wondered if either one would care if they weren’t competing with each other.
“I think Fahn likes everyone,” he said. “Most of all, Fahn likes Fahn.”
They both laughed. Then sighed, tired, but comfortable to be together. They enjoyed the moment, the music in the distance, the chirping of nearby birds, and the squawking of Canada geese flying south in a lopsided V-formation.
“Do you remember the look on your face when you first saw me?” Ernest asked. “It was right about here. I’ll never forget the expression you made.”
“I couldn’t help myself. We got all dressed up and came to the fair and didn’t get to go on any of the rides! That was so unfair—unjust. All I knew was that we were here to collect some stupid boy. I remember thinking to myself, What in the world do we need a boy for? We live in a house where rich old codgers come and go and that’s more men than I need in my life as is. But…”
“That’s okay,” Ernest said. “I had no idea in the world what I was in for either. Let’s call it even.” He offered his hand.
“Handshakes are so grown-up.” She shook his hand and then let go. Then she stretched out on the grass again and closed her eyes.
Ernest smelled something sweet and sat up slowly, glanced around, and quietly put on his shoes. He looked down at Maisie, who looked like Sleeping Beauty, her long dress splayed upon the clover.
She spoke without opening her eyes. “And where do you think you’re going?”
“Stay here,” Ernest said. “I’ll be right back.”
When he returned he lay down next to Maisie and asked her to open her eyes as he presented her with the most perfect candied apple that he could find.
She smiled and cocked her head.
Ernest held the apple as she took the first sticky bite.
—
AS THE SUN sank into the waters of Puget Sound and the orange-hued clouds grew dim, everyone from the Tenderloin gathered around the Geyser Basin. Electricity flickered on, lighting building after building. Ernest watched, spellbound, as countless glowing bulbs turned the reflecting pool and the cascading waterfalls into a paradise of glimmering, glittering, yellow and white stars. He held up a hand, momentarily blocking the light, his eyes adjusting. The brightly lit Court of Honor made the fair look like a department store Christmas and Independence Day fireworks rolled into one.
Amid the enthralled crowd, the happy, weary residents of the Garment District exchanged stories about what they’d seen and tasted, waiting in anticipation for the closing of the fair. Ernest’s senses were overwhelmed, his heart full, but like everyone else, he didn’t want to go home.
As he sat on the lip of the fountain, between Maisie and Fahn, arm in arm with both, Ernest had what he believed to be the best idea of the day. He pointed to a captive hot-air balloon that hovered above the fair, a quarter mile up in the sky.
“We should watch the closing ceremony from up there,” he mused.
There was a quiet, appraising moment as the three of them craned their necks and gazed skyward, following the guylines, ropes that trailed up into the night.
“Not on your life,” Fahn said.
“I’ll do it,” Maisie said. “Since when are you scared of anything?”
“The fire escape at the Tenderloin is as high as I’ll go. That contraption must be a thousand feet in the air, in the dark, in the wind. If it came loose, who knows where you’d get carried off to?” Fahn shook her head. “I’m fine right here.”
Ernest and Maisie exchanged glances, then he looked at Fahn. Her expression seemed to say, Be my guest if you’re that crazy.
As they got up to leave, Fahn gave Ernest a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “That’s in case I never see you again, which I’m guessing is about a fifty-fifty chance. If you die, I want your room.” She smiled grimly at both of them.
Ernest and Maisie walked to Pacific Avenue in the direction of the balloon, where they found the ticket booth for the ride. The flight was expensive—fifty cents, twice the price of admission to the fair itself—but they paid nonetheless, while waiting for the balloon to come down as four men in shirtsleeves tugged on ropes, guiding the descent. The
wicker gondola was larger and taller than it looked from below. Ernest watched as the basket settled to the ground and a man opened a small set of wooden double doors and let a couple disembark. They looked exhilarated, joyful as they giggled and clung to each other, grateful to be back on solid footing.
“Next!” the man yelled as he held out his hand for tickets.
Ernest stepped aside and let Maisie hoist her skirt and petticoats and climb in. When she wasn’t looking he reached into his pocket and handed the man his twenty-dollar bill. “Last ride of the night?” Ernest whispered.
The man snatched the money and looked away, muttering. “She’s all yours, kid.”
Ernest stood next to Maisie, peering over the edge of the gondola as the balloon slowly ascended into the darkening sky. He was grateful to be alone with her, but he felt as though his stomach was still on the ground, and he grew light-headed as they drifted into the sky. He drew a deep breath and tasted the cool air. The view was otherworldly.
“Are you okay?” Maisie asked.
“Absolutely,” Ernest lied as he swallowed, feeling his Adam’s apple rise and fall against his collar. He loosened the top button and willed himself to relax, exhaling slowly as the balloon drifted in the breeze.
“You?” he asked, as he gripped the lip of the basket with both hands.
“I’m okay if you’re okay.”
It was as if they were standing on top of snowy Mount Rainier. From this lofty perch Ernest could fully appreciate the circular design of the fairgrounds, the streets and greenbelts, the lighted buildings, beautifully concentric and symmetrical. He could even see the flags, pennants, and banners, all blowing east, atop the cupolas and pavilions. And he could see the long, glimmering reflection of lights on the blue-black waters of Lake Washington to the east and Lake Union to the west. The Metlakatla Indian Band began playing national airs.
Then he heard a gushing roar and felt the radiant heat of the gas burner ten feet above their heads. The man on the ground had tugged a rope and increased the burn, which lit up the entire balloon like an immense glowing lantern. Just as quickly it flickered out, leaving them in the candle-like glow of the pilot light. Ernest welcomed the warmth as the night grew colder and the wind whispered through the wicker gondola. He offered Maisie his jacket, but instead she discovered a quilt in a shelf-compartment and wrapped it around herself. They stood shoulder to shoulder, peering over the edge of the basket at the great big, small world, hundreds of feet below, listening to the distant sound of music and the blaring of horns from incoming ferries.
“Since we might die at any moment, according to Fahn, do you want to know my theory on life?” Maisie asked.
Ernest felt a cold gust rattle the balloon, and he tried not to let his teeth chatter as he quietly wished they were back on the ground. “Tell me,” he said, grateful for any distraction.
“My theory,” Maisie said, “is that the best, worst, happiest, saddest, scariest, and most memorable moments are all connected. Those are the important times, good and bad. The rest is just filler.” She pointed to the balloon. “The rest is nothing but hot air.”
Ernest didn’t quite follow.
“Remember when I first saw you down there? That wasn’t exactly a happy moment for me, or you, but here we are. I have a feeling that we’ll be together for a very, very long time—our moments are tied together.”
Ernest nodded, mentally adding Fahn to the equation.
“So tell me what your worst moment was—the saddest moment of your whole life—and I’ll connect that memory to your best moment,” said Maisie.
Ernest furrowed his brow. The saddest moment was easy. He’d never mentioned his little sister to anyone, not even Fahn, and certainly not Mrs. Irvine. He tried to think of an alternative to telling Maisie the truth, but she sensed his hesitation.
“Whatever it is, just say it. I told you about my father and how he died.”
Ernest sighed. “It’s not a pretty story…”
“That’s the whole point,” Maisie said as the burner fired again, lighting up their world for a brief, warm moment, and the balloon lofted higher, tugging them along, the basket creaking and groaning against the rope anchors.
“It’s my last memory of where I was born,” Ernest said. “When I was five or six years old, I saw something.” He hesitated. “Something terrible.”
“I’ve seen my share of good and bad,” Maisie said.
Ernest shook his head.
“It’s okay, I can take it.” Maisie held his hand.
“My parents…they were never married. And my father had been killed. I barely remember him. So my mother and I were alone, begging, sleeping at the mission home where she used to work.” Ernest paused and then continued. “We were starving to death. And one night, I watched my mother smother my newborn sister.” He watched Maisie’s somber reaction. “That was my saddest moment.”
Maisie closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them.
Ernest struggled to process the ugly details while gazing down on such a beautiful place. His heart felt torn between the two worlds.
“You okay?” Maisie asked.
Ernest nodded and continued. “I remember that my mother always kept herself distant from me. It was like a long goodbye. She knew what was happening around us. Everyone was wasting away, and she was dying. She gave up completely, and that’s when she arranged for me to go on the ship, and then she buried my sister. I never knew when my mother finally died, though I always hoped there might be someone to give her a proper burial. Someone who would put rocks and stones and thorns on her grave to discourage the stray dogs; after all, they were starving too.”
Ernest stopped talking and regarded Maisie, who was listening in silence. But she nodded and chewed her lip and waited for him to continue.
“I don’t know if she sold me or gave me away. But I survived. I made it to America—bouncing from poorhouse to boarding school. No one knew what to do with me; I didn’t fit in anywhere. And eventually I was given away all over again.”
“Right down there,” Maisie said.
Ernest nodded and sighed as though a weight were lifting off his shoulders, floating away like the hot-air balloon. “I guess that ended up being my best moment, even though I didn’t know it at the time.”
Maisie wiped her eyes and blamed the wind. “See—you’ve proved my point.”
“I’ve never told that to anyone,” Ernest said. “I don’t think about those days very often. I try to forget, because sometimes I have bad dreams.”
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the world had fallen into darkness. The lights had been put out to mark the official closing of the fair. The lit buildings, the streetlamps, every bulb, had vanished into pitch black, as if the world below them had fallen away, been swallowed whole. He heard the crowd for a moment, then an aching silence followed by a lone bugler, who played a sad melody.
“You know my secret,” Maisie said. “And now I know yours.”
Ernest sniffled and held his emotions in check as he thought about happier moments—Fahn’s oatmeal cookies, her warm, soft kisses, lying next to Maisie on that soft bed of clover, trading bites of a crisp, sugarcoated apple. He tried to take those new memories and the broken pieces of his heart, rearrange them, somehow mend them together, even as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he strained to find definition in the murky world he was floating in. That’s when he felt Maisie slide closer, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as well. He could feel her warmth through plush, supple layers of fabric. She smelled like perfume and flowers and happiness. Ernest’s heart raced as the gondola drifted and they heard wistful strains wafting up from the crowd below. Fifty thousand people began singing “Auld Lang Syne,” and surrounded by emptiness, gently rocking to the sound of melancholy, Ernest and Maisie sang along in whispers.
He turned as she leaned closer and her arms slipped into a quiet embrace. He felt her hair on his cheek, the softness of her breath as
his hands found her waist. He was awed at her touch and what the human heart is capable of feeling—such sadness, such shame, but such acceptance, such joy, all at the same time.
The balloon swayed and he said, “Steady, I’ve got you.”
“I’ve got you too,” she whispered.
Then he looked down, noticing flickering lights, the city on the horizon. He marveled at the beautiful, challenging world beneath them, so far away, and he thought: I wonder if the best thing any of us can hope for in life is a soft place to land.
He felt Maisie nod as though she knew his thoughts. He held on tighter.
Then the night exploded.
Their ears filled with the booming echoes of cannon reports as fireworks burst all around them. Blooming peonies and chrysanthemums filled the darkness. Starlike shells rose to greet them, flashing like comets, painting the sky with swashes of sparkling, flickering, glowing embers that slowly rained back down in a beautifully arranged marriage of fire and gravity.
Ernest closed his eyes for a moment and could still see the shimmering display. He could hear the rhythmic, booming cadence of explosions in every direction. Then he opened his eyes again, and it was like they were standing in the heart of a snow globe, a blizzard of white-hot stars, as far as the eye could see.
He felt Maisie’s hand on his chest. “See,” she said, smiling in the afterglow, the flashing, waning colors. “This life—your life, my life, the happy memories, the sad stories, the hellos, the goodbyes, you, me, Fahn—everything is connected, always.”
Ernest felt her words more than he heard them. Then he sensed the balloon begin to descend slowly beneath the canopy of pyrotechnics, sinking into the darkness, returning them to Earth.
RUBY CHOW’S
(1962)
I fell for both of them, Ernest typed.
