It Happened at the Fair: A Novel

by Deeanne Gist

  She looked up at the ceiling. “How tall does cotton get?”

  “About up to here.” He raised his hand.

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  She frowned. “That doesn’t prove anything. I bet lots of North Carolina boys have seen a cotton field.”

  Shaking his head, he pushed down his sleeve, then stalled as a thought occurred to him. A thought so disquieting, he almost dismissed it out of hand. Almost.

  “There is one way I could prove it.” He lifted his gaze to hers, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “But I’d have to remove my shirt.”

  She pushed herself against the back of the bench. “I don’t need to see any more of your muscles. Besides, that wouldn’t prove anything.”

  “What if you could see the white lines where my suspenders lie when I plow with my shirt off? Only a farmer would have markings like that.”

  She hugged herself with her arms, her eyes darting from one thing to another. Her leg began to bounce up and down. “You’re just saying that because you know I would never, ever ask a man to do such a thing. It would, I’d, my father would die of a heart attack if I gave you permission to do that, and you know it. So you’re hoping I’ll just say I believe you without making you prove it.”

  He said nothing. Just stared at her.

  She glanced at his chest, then back up at him.

  He didn’t flinch or look away, but hoped to high heaven she’d take his word on it. Removing his shirt was the last thing on earth he wanted to do. What would Wanda say? How would he ever be able to justify something like that to her or even to his own conscience?

  Please, God, he thought. Don’t let her ask me to take off my shirt. Let her believe me.

  Covering her face with her hands, she went very still.

  Was she praying? Please, let her be praying. ’Cause if she was praying, surely God would tell her not to ask him. Surely He’d make her believe him.

  Finally, she lowered her arms, grabbed her knees, and looked him square in the eye. “Prove it.”

  CHAPTER

  15

  This was her father’s fault. All of it. If he hadn’t filled her with the fear of God and made her read all those articles and told her all those horrible stories, she wouldn’t be sitting here, in the entry hall of Harvell House, asking a man she’d known for what amounted to three days to take off his shirt.

  She could not believe this was happening. She’d agonized about it all evening, ever since she’d run away from him. What if, just what if, he was telling the truth? What if he really was a farmer who was going deaf and whose eyes swelled up every time he went in the fields? Because if he was and she refused to help him, what on earth would she say when one day she stood before the Almighty and He asked her why she’d turned away one of His very own?

  Then, just about the time she’d convinced herself to go back and apologize, she stopped and asked what if, just what if, he wasn’t telling the truth? What if he wasn’t a farmer and he wasn’t going deaf and he had wicked designs on her person? What then? According to her father, terrible, awful, horrendous things that weren’t even worthy of being verbalized would happen to her.

  So she needed to know, once and for all, if Cullen McNamara was a farmer. Because if he was telling the truth about that, then he was most likely telling the truth about everything else. And what better way to prove it than with sun marks from long hours in the field?

  And what better way for a wicked, immoral man to trick her into believing him than to ask her to do something no decent, God-fearing woman on the face of the planet would ever do? She was so mortified, she almost hoped he was wicked, because then she’d be justified in the asking.

  But if he wasn’t, if he really was a farmer going deaf, how in the world would she ever look him in the eye again?

  Prove it. Her words hung in the air like the suspended wooden sign outside Harvell House, flapping in the wind.

  He reached for his tie, seesawing it back and forth until it loosened. His eyes were trained on hers, begging her to stop him. To halt this nonsense.

  The question was, Why? Because he was as mortified as she, or because he was a perverse, despicable degenerate?

  She pressed her lips together. Prove it, Mr. McNamara, she thought. You’re going to have to prove it.

  He grabbed one end of the silk tie and pulled, the swish of its release loud in the empty hall. Lifting his chin, he removed his collar and set it on the bench beside his tie.

  Next came the suspenders. They weren’t black, like her father’s, but red. Red like a wicked man would wear. A tremor went down her back. She’d have to get ready to yell. If there weren’t some very clear, very visible suspender marks, she needed to scream her head off the minute he removed that shirt.

  He hooked one suspender with his thumb and pulled it down, then did the same with the other. They lay like wilted flower stems on either side of his hips. There was nothing left now but the buttons.

  He used only one hand. She always used two when she undid her buttons.

  His hands were big. And rough. Rough enough to scratch her when he held them over her mouth. She reached up and touched the chapped places around her lips.

  His hand stalled, then continued pushing button after button through the holes with quick flicks. When he’d undone all the ones above his trousers, he leaned onto his left hip and pulled out the tail of his shirt, then leaned on his right and did the same. His shirt parted the least little bit, giving her glimpses of his undershirt.

  Every fiber in her being screamed to have him stop. To close her eyes and just take him at his word. But whoever heard of a farmer who swelled up like that? It was unfathomable.

  He released the final button and whisked off his shirt.

  His arms were huge, powerful. Even without his flexing them. And his chest. Land sakes. Every dip and swell was clearly defined beneath the tight cotton undershirt.

  Her mouth went dry. “Wait.”

  He let out a slow sigh of relief.

  She stood. “I’m going to stand on the steps. And if you don’t have the markings you’ve claimed you do, I just want you to know, I’ll bring this house down with my screams. Don’t think I won’t.”

  “Oh, I believe you, Adelaide. I have no doubt you’d do just that.”

  She lifted her chin. “My name is Miss Wentworth.”

  “That may be, but I think it’s fair to say we’re way past the formalities.”

  With much more bravado than she was feeling, she crossed the entry hall and went halfway up the first flight of steps before turning around.

  Pushing himself up by his knees, he walked to the foot of the stairs. “Are you going to be able to see me from there? Because if it’s too dark and you can’t see and you let out a holler, we’re going to have a lot of explaining to do. And it’ll be you who takes the worst of it. My hand will get slapped, but you—you’ll be thrown out on the street and will, in all likelihood, lose your job.”

  The thought of her job and the reaction of her fellow teachers and landlady hadn’t even occurred to her. If he didn’t have the markings and she screamed, how on earth would she explain why he was half-naked?

  “It’s not too late to change your mind,” he said.

  It was the wrong thing to say. Straightening her spine, she narrowed her eyes. “Do not try to intimidate me, Mr. McNamara.”

  Shaking his head, he rubbed his neck. “You may as well call me Cullen. Now, can you see me or not?”

  “I think I can.” She moistened her lips. “Yes, I’m fairly certain I can.”

  Turning, he retrieved the lantern and set it at his feet. “I’m going to take off my undershirt, then I’m going to lift up the lantern right quick so you can see. So don’t start screaming until you give yourself a chance to have a good look. All right?”

  She gave a quick nod. Her legs were trembling, her pulse was thrumming, and her stomach felt downright ill.

  He pulled his undershirt out from h
is pants, the muscles in his arms flexing and shifting. Then he crossed his arms in front of him, grabbed the hem of his undershirt and pulled it up and over. Before she had a chance to see anything, he whisked up the lantern, holding it high.

  Blood rushed through her veins. He was magnificent. As beautifully formed as any sculpture on the entire grounds of the fair. She squeezed the stair rail. Would his chest have the same texture as his arms? For his skin was different from hers. Not coarse exactly, nor was it smooth. Just . . . different.

  She took a step down.

  He took a step back. “Can you not see?”

  Oh, she could see. She could see just fine. Dark hairs dotted his sun-kissed chest, and two white stripes traveled from his shoulders to his waist as if they’d been painted there by God.

  “Miss Wentworth?”

  She couldn’t breathe.

  “Adelaide?” His voice held a note of panic. “Please tell me you can see. They’re on my back too.” He spun around.

  Her lips parted. The width of his shoulders was at least twice the width of his waist. And all his muscles shifted when he lifted the lantern higher.

  He looked over his shoulder. “Can you see them?”

  She could see exactly where they intersected, then split again.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He lowered the lantern. His shoulders relaxed. He slowly turned around.

  Still, she didn’t move.

  “Adelaide?” His voice had dropped, a hint of warning in it.

  She pulled her gaze from his chest to his eyes. But she couldn’t see them, not with the lantern hanging down by his legs.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow evening for your lesson,” she said.

  He gave a nod.

  She scratched the stair rail with her finger. “How are your eyes?”

  “Much better.”

  “They looked as though the swelling had gone down quite a bit. It was hardly even noticeable, in fact.”

  “Yes. This was nothing.”

  “Do they sting?”

  “They’ll be completely back to normal by morning.”

  “I’m glad.” Turning, she went up one step, then paused. “No one calls me Adelaide anymore.”

  He said nothing.

  “Della. They call me Della.”

  Not a sound.

  She looked over her shoulder. “Good night, Cullen.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Good night, Della.”

  USS ILLINOIS EXHIBIT

  “Moored to its landing, as if it had just arrived from a long battle, was the USS Illinois, apparently afloat. But nothing at the World’s Fair was what it appeared to be.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  The hour before the park opened was Cullen’s favorite, but he had only about twenty more minutes before Machinery Hall started its machines. And he’d have to be there when it did—even if every visitor nodded politely, then stopped at Bulenberg’s display and listened as he launched into an extensive discourse on the merits of manual sprinkler systems and the evils of automatic ones. Each presentation culminated with a dramatic pull of a lever, at which point his sprinklers would open up—though, of course, no water came out. Cullen had nothing so showy in his presentation, for the only thing that could open his spigots was an actual fire.

  A brisk breeze off Lake Michigan’s shoreline ruffled his newspaper. Tucking his watch back into his pocket, he readjusted himself on the bench and scanned the generous sweep of smooth promenade sloping down to the water’s edge. An egret flew inches above the lake, its reflection distorted by the rippling surface.

  Beyond it, a curved pier extended into the water. Moored to its landing, as if it had just arrived from a long battle, was the USS Illinois, apparently afloat. But nothing at the World’s Fair was what it appeared to be. In reality, the Illinois was no more than a brick battleship resting on a substantial foundation of piling and heavy timbers.

  USS ILLINOIS EXHIBIT

  Still, he’d have given anything to have toured its berth deck and afterdeck, its main deck, search lights, and battery of guns. Instead, he’d had to suffer through a tailors’ exhibit, with murals depicting every form of dress attire from Adam and Eve on up to today’s modern styles, a Belgian exhibit with dainty shawls, lace curtains, and dress goods, and a French exhibit where an entire wedding party of wax figures showed off the latest in bridal fashions.

  It would have been the perfect time to bring up Wanda. But he wasn’t at the fair to reveal his personal business to his lip-reading instructor. He was at the fair to sell sprinkler systems and keep the farm afloat. In order to do that, he needed to be able to communicate with the buyers. To soothe their fears about trying something new. To convince them his way was better than Bulenberg’s. And to keep any other roadblocks—like going deaf—from entering the equation.

  Just yesterday, Vaughn had stopped by to check on his progress—not only on the sprinklers but on his lip-reading. The insurance man had a vested interest in Cullen’s success. The more clients he won, the more policyholders Vaughn had the potential of winning as well. So Cullen had put as positive a spin on it as he could. But the fact was, he needed to accelerate the pace of his lessons, even if it meant going to a shoe exhibit. A shoe exhibit.

  For hours Della had exclaimed over shoes of alligator skin, buffalo, and horsehide. Wooden shoes, spiked shoes, and shoes with upturned toes. Velvet-lined shoes, scented shoes, and dainty shoes with a ridiculous number of buttons.

  When they’d finally seen all the shoes and he thought they could leave, she began to examine a wall with hundreds of watercolors depicting every style of footwear worn by every blasted race for the last three to four thousand years.

  He sighed. The only thing worse than studying all those exhibits was studying her lips. Yet she’d been a ruthless taskmaster, insisting he do just that. It was, after all, why he’d been accompanying her.

  His progress had been painfully slow. Though she’d taught him shapes for all the vowel families and one of the consonant families, he was a long way from mastering them. Mouth movements, it turned out, were very minute actions—some more minute than others.

  So much depended on whether speakers were facing him, facing away, or looking to the side. Whether their lips were thick or thin. Whether they had mustaches, beards, or both. Whether they were from the North or the South. Or even from America.

  With women, he had to be particularly careful. It made them uncomfortable if he stared at their mouths for any length of time—except for Della, of course.

  Still, after the fiasco in the entry hall, he’d done his level best to think of her as nothing more than his teacher, a nonperson almost. When he was with her, he kept plenty of space between them, touched her only if absolutely necessary, and limited his conversation, as much as he could, to nods, yeses, and ahems.

  That worked fine when they were together. But he found himself thinking about her much too often when they were apart. Last week, John had caught him grinning for no apparent reason. Cullen had had to come up with a quick explanation or face telling John what he was really smiling about—Della and the way she’d taught her dog to talk.

  He felt a smile tug at his mouth even now. Who’d ever heard of such a thing? And she’d been so expressive, her face changing as if she were an actress on the stage. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Facial expressions were a crucial part of communicating with the deaf. But he still found himself charmed by it.

  A heron waded into the shallow surf just a few yards away. It jabbed its beak into the water, then pulled up a fish. He envied the bird and wished his meals were as easy to come by. It had been quite an adjustment to forgo his noon meal. Even Alice’s bean kettle soup was starting to sound good. But if things were as bad as the papers claimed, he’d need to continue to save every coin he had.

  He glanced at the headlines again. The Erie Railroad had gone belly-up, the Milwaukee Bank had suspended trading, and the New York Stock Exchange was
threatening to close. Three more sizable railroad companies were barely hanging on. And forty-eight banks had failed in the last two weeks—forty of them in the South.

  He rubbed his mouth. John still pestered him about setting some kind of shed on fire, then letting his sprinklers put it out. But a demonstration like that would cost money. Money he couldn’t afford to spend. Yet he had to do something. If he didn’t, he risked the merchant back home calling in his father’s debt. And with the bank holding their mortgage, there wouldn’t be a thing they could do about it.

  There were already two million Americans out of work, with nowhere to go. He didn’t want his family adding to their numbers. He wasn’t even sure how many systems he needed to sell, though. It all depended on the size of the building and if it was a new or existing one.

  He gazed out over the limitless water. In the far distance, one of the fair’s whale-back steamers began to plough in his direction, its deck black with people. People coming to see this City of Delight, when all the while, the rest of the country was facing the worst depression it had ever seen.

  MACHINERY HALL, CENTER AISLE

  “A glove-making machine converted tanned hide into pairs of buttoned kid gloves, all stitched, perfumed, and packed.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  Della couldn’t believe the noise level in Machinery Hall. How did Cullen stand it? She began her trek toward the back left-hand corner, hoping she’d be able to find him within this monstrosity.

  MACHINERY HALL, INTERIOR

  She wished she had blinders on. Every exhibit beckoned like a siren’s call. Finally, she could stand it no longer. A loom weaving two dozen silk ribbons drew her. Its finished fabrics passed to an apparatus winding them into rolls. A woman darted between machines, stopping at one, correcting a fault, then setting it back in motion amid an endless array of threads.