It Happened at the Fair: A Novel

by Deeanne Gist

  Cullen opened a low gate. Flowering honeysuckles trailed along its borders, releasing a new medley of sweet odors. But it was the perfume of roses, now strong, now faint, that captured her attention. Grass-bordered paths brought them closer and closer, and then she could see them. A wall of velvet color. The garlanded fence of roses stood a good eight feet high.

  They slipped inside its labyrinthal design and came upon little trees covered with red and pink varieties. Low showy bushes held dozens of yellow ones, deep golden hues at their hearts. Some roses tumbled about recklessly and some leaned against little sticks, holding up one pristine blossom. There were other flowers too, but the roses upstaged them all.

  Cullen led her to a bench. “Will this be all right? We’ll be hidden from view unless someone comes right up on us.”

  She looked around. It was a dead end in the labyrinth. Roses, grass, and cool earth surrounded them. Slices of sunbeams slipped through openings of the garlanded fence, dappling her with warmth.

  “It’s lovely.” Smoothing her skirt beneath her, she took in her surroundings. She loved roses. It was the scent she kept in her satchet, the scent she dabbed behind her ears, the scent she washed her body with.

  By degrees, her attention was drawn from the brilliance of nature’s bounty to the splendor of the man beside her. His long legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, toes gently tapping. He slouched back, one elbow on the armrest, one elbow on the back of the bench, his arm dangling between them.

  “Cullen?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “How is it that a farmer decides to invent an automatic fire sprinkler?”

  He gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulder. “Too many hours behind the plow with nothing else to think of, I suppose.”

  Several yards away, a brown songbird bathed itself in a gurgling fountain.

  “Oh, I understand how you might have thought of the system,” she said. “But very few people take their dreams and turn them into reality.”

  “I’d have been a lot better off leaving it in the dream phase.”

  Tilting her head, she studied him. His face gave no clue as to what he meant.

  “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  He squinted into the distance. “Because it’s true.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “So give me the short version.”

  He blew out a puff of air. “I drew up the schematics when I was eighteen or thereabouts. Once the harvest was in and winter came, I began experimenting. Built a prototype. Installed it in our cowshed. Set it on fire—and the whole thing burned to the ground.”

  Her eyes widened. “Did your parents know you were going to do that? Were the cows inside?”

  Drawing up his mouth in disgust, he shook his head. “It was my dad’s idea. He’s always given me more credit than I deserve. We hauled everything out, including the cows, then put a torch to it. So stupid.”

  She slowly straightened. “Is that the same system you have in Machinery Hall?”

  He gave her an exasperated look. “Of course not.”

  Raising a brow, she waited, but he offered no more. Barely suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, she folded her hands in her lap. “Then where did the one in Machinery Hall come from?”

  “I made it.”

  “I’m aware of that.” She tapped her thumbs together. “I’m wondering what you did between the cowshed and Machinery Hall.”

  A slight smile touched his mouth. “It was a simpler time back then. Farming was booming and had been for fifteen years. So Dad wanted to hire some fellows and send me off to Boston where many of the best inventors and scientists lived.” A distant quacking of ducks filtered through their wall of roses.

  “I refused, of course,” he said. “I’d go only if I could pay for it.”

  “And did you?”

  He nodded. “I had this steam engine I’d built. I made money going from farm to farm threshing clover, hauling loads, cutting cornstalks, sawing wood, grinding feed, and whatever else they’d pay me for, all with the help of my steam engine.”

  “And then you went to Boston?” she asked.

  “And then I went to Boston.”

  She smiled. “And you experienced marvelous success, then brought your product to the World’s Fair.” It was a statement more than a question.

  “I failed miserably and returned home by year’s end with my tail tucked between my legs.”

  Her lips parted. “What happened?”

  “I made a bargain with a piano-factory owner. If he’d let me sleep in his basement, I’d install my system in his factory.”

  “Did something happen?” She bit her lip. “Did his factory burn down?”

  “Not right away. His factory had my second attempt at a sprinkler system. Since then, I’ve improved on it even more. Much more.”

  “In what way?”

  “In every way. My third attempt consisted of a perforated distributor with a brass cap soldered over it, but it wasn’t very sensitive because the fusible joint had contact with the water inside. So then I made a similar one, but the distributor was a rotating slotted arrangement. My last attempt is the one I have now. I hollowed the base to separate the solder joint from direct contact with the water inside and changed the pipe connect to a male half-inch thread.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about, but for the first time he began to show animation in his face. He was still slouched on the bench. Still had his elbow on the back of the bench with his arm hanging between them. Still had his ankles crossed. But the toes of his shoes tapped each other with a rapid beat and his face had come to life.

  “Did you reinstall it in the piano factory?” she asked.

  “I’d planned to, but before I could, I accidentally started a fire with my chemicals. It quickly spread. The sprinkler system—which by then I’d discovered had problems—didn’t work. The whole thing burned to the ground.”

  She took a quick breath. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, praise God. But he lost everything. His entire inventory.”

  Two birds played chase by the fountain, diving, then soaring, then wheeling to the left.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Not as sorry as I am. Anyway, he sent me packing. I went back to farming and have been there ever since.”

  “What about the new system? Did you ever install it anywhere?”

  With a pained look, he shook his head. “Only some sheds I’d tested it on in Boston.”

  “It worked, though.”

  “Like a beauty.”

  During the entire tale, he’d hardly looked at her.

  She’d hardly taken her eyes off him.

  Smoothing up the hair at the nape of her neck, she faced forward. The toes of his boots continued to tap. With each movement, his thighs shifted ever so slightly. She gave them a surreptitious look. They were huge. Almost the size of her waist.

  Images of his body bared from the trousers up again flooded her mind. The breadth of his shoulders, the bulges along his chest, the flatness of his stomach, the mountain of muscle when he’d flexed his arm.

  She’d relived those moments a thousand times. When she broke her fast. When she told the children stories of knights and princes. When she slipped under her covers at night.

  Neither of them spoke of it. Ever. Both acted as if it had never happened. The only measurable change was the use of their Christian names.

  Did he think of those moments the way she did? Did he think of her at all other than as a means to an end?

  If he did, he never gave her any indication of it. He touched her only if she needed assistance, then immediately released her. He never stood closer than he should. His fingers never brushed her accidentally. He never watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

  Yet she was attuned to his every move, subtle or otherwise. She thought of him constantly. She looked forward to their evenings with great anticipatio
n. She took extra care with her toilette.

  All for naught. Even now, he didn’t fully extend his arm on the bench, nor did his trousers touch so much as a smidgen of her skirt.

  She turned her head and looked at him. How could he not feel the undertow? It was as if the gravitational pull had moved from the center of the earth to the center of him.

  Yet she could do nothing. Only men had the privilege of acting on their feelings. Females had to wait. And wait. And wait. And then it seemed as if the only men who did act on their feelings were the ones who were the least appealing to her.

  Just once, she wished she were a man. What freedom. What luxury. What fun. For if she were allowed the privileges of a man, she’d take his hand and bring it to her lips.

  Of a sudden, his toes stopped tapping. His body tensed. With deliberate casualness, he removed his elbow from the bench and drew his feet in.

  She continued to stare. She might not have the freedom to act on her feelings, but she could do her best to prod him along.

  Clearing his throat, he sat up, then rested his elbows on his knees.

  Still, she stared.

  He clapped his hands together, the sound loud in the quiet of the garden. “So what’s the first thing you’d like to show me?”

  You’d be quite surprised, she thought.

  He took a cautious glance at her over his shoulder. “Would you like me to go through my alphabet?”

  She snapped together her first two fingers and her thumb.

  He slowly sat up. “Does that mean no?” He snapped his fingers and thumb together.

  With a nod of her head, she made one knocking gesture with her fist.

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “And yes.” He knocked in the air.

  “Only once.” She demonstrated. “You knock only once when you say yes, and your fist is in the a position.”

  He tried it.

  “Very good. Let’s do it again.” She held one palm up and brought four fingers from her other hand down onto it. “Again.”

  “No, yes, again.” He did the signs perfectly.

  “That’s right.” She resituated herself on the bench. “Now, I’m going to teach you some vocabulary words, then we’ll make some sentences with them.”

  Within half an hour, he could use the language of signs to say many of the basics, including, Hello. It’s nice to meet you. My name is C-U-L-L-E-N. What’s your name?

  “This is much easier than reading lips,” he said.

  “Yes, but you must remember not to use it in public.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Now you say something.” She put her hands in her lap.

  What do you do?

  I’m a teacher.

  He gave a quick shake of his head. “I understood ‘teach.’ What was that last thing you did?”

  “It’s the sign for person. You’d be far more familiar with the way men gesture when they refer to females.” She drew an hourglass with her hands. “In the language of signs, you do the same thing for person, but without all the curves. Just two straight lines.” She demonstrated.

  One side of his mouth curved up. “I like this one a lot better.” He made an hourglass.

  She raised a brow. “That’s not a real sign. This is female.” She touched her thumb to her chin then brought down her hand. “But we digress. ‘Teacher’ is what I was signing. Teach, then person.”

  His smile grew. He signed, You-are-my-teach and an hourglass.

  Her cheeks warmed. Her mind went blank. She couldn’t think of one new gesture to show him. “That’s probably enough for now.”

  Placing his fingers near his lips, he moved them forward and down in her direction, as if he were blowing her a kiss. Thank you.

  She gave a slight nod.

  His face sobered. “I mean that. I’ll be very careful with this knowledge.”

  A restless bird chirped from one of the vines, its green leaves softly stirring in the faint evening air.

  Thank you, she signed.

  A loose pink rose tumbled toward him. Instinctively, he swooped it up, then cradled it in his palm and examined it with a startled expression. Looking up, he extended it out to her.

  She cupped her hands. Placing one of his below hers, he rolled the flower into her hands, barely shaking off the curled petal of the fullest-blown rose in all the garden.

  CHAPTER

  19

  Don’t think about her, he chanted to himself.

  Shucking off his clothes, he prepared for bed, then stood in front of the mirror. His suspender lines were fading but still visible. Pushing aside all other thoughts, he went through the puckers, smilers, and wides, then the pinchers, lip biters, and lifters three times each. He tried not to notice her handwriting or to think he was touching something she’d touched first.

  Determinedly, he shifted his thoughts to Wanda. Sitting in bed, he wrote a long letter to her about the buildings, the exhibits, the statues, and the people. He told her about the wax figures in bridal attire, the tailors who’d taken credit for Adam’s and Eve’s leafy coverings, and the shoe with turtles’ claws protruding from its toes. He told her of his concern over the struggling economy and how a great many of the exhibitors were having trouble enticing customers, not just him.

  He went through her two most recent letters and marked out all of Hodge’s comments, then reread the letters without them. They offered lukewarm responses to what he’d seen at the fair, and then her frustration with his father for making Cullen go in the first place. She told of a neighbor whose farm had been taken away by the bank, then blithely went on about things she’d done to prepare for their wedding.

  Last, she brought up the smokehouse. Nothing overt that Hodge would be able to detect, but certainly enough for Cullen to read between the lines.

  I went to the smokehouse today to fetch some bacon fer Ma. I lingered there, letting my eyes look at all that meat. It smelt mighty good. So strong. Made me light-headed fer a minute. Whenever I play hide-and-seek with the youngins, that’s where I go. It’s my hidin’ place. Especially at night.

  Then, as with every other letter that had passed between them, she ended it with her devotion to him and her deep, undying love.

  Closing his eyes, he placed it against his nose. But there was no flowery scent, nothing that might bring images of her to mind. Of course, the only scent she wore was that of lye soap. But even that would have provided him a bit of comfort. Folding the parchment in half, he re-creased the edge and slipped it into the sturdy envelope.

  Guilt hovered along the periphery of his mind. Something had happened tonight on that bench with Della. Something strong and elemental that he needed to avoid at all costs. He placed his head in his hands. He loved the signs. Couldn’t wait to learn more. But that island, that garden, that tucked-away bench was a dangerous place. Especially with the way he’d been feeling.

  Tucking Wanda’s letter beneath his pillow, he blew out his candle and slid his feet under the covers. Lord willing, he’d dream about her instead of the woman who’d infiltrated every corner of his mind during the day and, more recently, during the night.

  CHAPTER

  20

  Cullen’s height allowed him to see over the heads of the crowd as Dr. Jastrow, in the name of psychology, administered various tests on Helen Keller. The laboratory-like room held a variety of instruments, books, tablets, and charts. The tolerant young lady stood at the front of the room and made no complaints when Dr. Jastrow applied instruments to measure the sensitivity of her fingers and palm, had her feel a series of wires and rank them in order from roughest to smoothest, and had her speak Longfellow’s “Psalm of Life” as rapidly as possible with her fingers, which fascinated Cullen.

  But what captivated him most was the method by which she “listened” to Dr. Jastrow’s instructions. She arranged her hand against his face in a way that somehow allowed her to feel his words. Yet an explanation of this was never given. The scientist was way too busy scribbli
ng notes about the results of his tests.

  When Miss Keller had completed her sign recitation, Dr. Jastrow announced she had formed nearly seven letters per second, undoubtedly the utmost capacity for any sign reader to read.

  The crowd clapped in approval, and Miss Keller immediately smiled. Cullen realized with some amazement that she’d felt the vibrations of the applause.

  Leaning down, he whispered to Della, “Were you able to follow along as she signed Longfellow’s ‘Psalm’?”

  “It was very fast. If I hadn’t been familiar with it, I’d have struggled, I’m sure.”

  Her hat was larger than what she normally wore and matched a white, lacy gown he’d not seen before. Rows of tiny ruffles graced her upper sleeves, then formed a V-shape across her chest. With every movement, every breath, they gave a subtle flutter. Beneath them, the gown hugged her waist and hips, much like the hourglass shape he’d made with his hands.

  The crowd began to chatter as they waited for the next test.

  “Is that a new gown?” he asked.

  She glanced up, surprise and pleasure touching her face. “It’s not new. I’ve just been saving it for the warmer weather.”

  “It’s very becoming.” And it was. So different from her typical skirt and shirtwaist. Made him think of the seaside, laughing children, and elegant women.

  The crowd quieted as Dr. Jastrow made his concluding remarks.

  “Before we dismiss, we have another distinguished guest I’d like to briefly introduce you to. Considering he is best known for inventing the telephone, you might not be aware he is also a long time advocate for the deaf. Please welcome Dr. Alexander Graham Bell.”

  Exclamations and applause accompanied Dr. Bell’s approach. Shaped much like a cracker barrel, he stepped to the front and tugged on his vest. A head of puffed-up white hair matched a large white beard.

  “Thank you.” He told of his delight with Helen Keller, briefly spoke of his deaf wife, then revealed his grave concerns about the use of sign language. Last, he mentioned his course for teachers of the deaf at the Boston University School of Oratory.