by Deeanne Gist
“It’s too dangerous,” he said. “I’ll not risk any more injury. We need to wait until it’s light.”
Much of the volunteer help tapered off after that day, but Cullen reported to the disaster site at first light morning after morning. He’d been working from can-see to can’t-see his entire life, much of that time with closed airways and swollen eyes. He figured that pretty well qualified him for the job.
“Don’t you have an exhibit to man?” the chief had asked. “Seems to me after a big fire like this, you’d garner a lot of interest in that sprinkler of yours.”
Whether the chief was right or not, Cullen would never know, because for now, he knew the support these men needed. As much as he’d wanted to help with the mill fire, he couldn’t fathom having to wonder if the bones he uncovered were those of his beloved mother. Yet in a way, that’s what these men had been asked to do, and he wouldn’t leave it to them alone. It was his one opportunity to pay tribute to those who had done this task for him so many years ago. If it meant a missed opportunity in Machinery Hall, so be it.
Still, the task was the most difficult he’d ever faced. Yet as is often the case, an unexpected blessing came with it. He became close to a fraternity of men who risked their lives every day for people they’d never met and would likely never see again. And though Cullen wasn’t one of them, they welcomed him into their brotherhood nonetheless.
“Della, Hilda, and Maxine held exhibitor passes, yet they stood in line and purchased daily admission tickets to the fair.”
ROLLING CHAIR
CHAPTER
25
Della, Hilda, and Maxine held exhibitor passes, yet they stood in line and purchased daily admission tickets to the fair, for today had been designated as a memorial for the men who perished in the fire. As part of Firemen’s Sunday, all receipts at the gates were to be added to an ongoing relief fund for the families of the victims.
ADMISSION TICKET
Della had reverted to touring the fair with her coworkers ever since Cullen began volunteering at the disaster site. She wondered if the men would take a break from their labors today or if they’d continue to work. Either way, Cullen had not made any attempt to take up his lessons again. He’d slipped a note under her door saying he didn’t know how long cleanup would take and he’d let her know when they were finished.
“Was there anything in particular you two planned to see?” Della asked, the constant clicking of the turnstile sounding like a watchman’s rattle.
Hilda consulted her notes, her body listing from side to side, her ankles swollen from all the touring she’d done over the past couple of months. Her white hair and labored steps reminded Della of how old her friend was. Funny, but Della had never thought of Hilda as old. But then she’d never done much socializing with her either. Not here, nor at home.
“I believe we’d agreed to eat at the Roof Garden in the Woman’s Building, didn’t we?” Hilda tucked her notes back into her reticule. “A large percentage of their proceeds today are to be added to the relief fund.”
“Yes, you’re quite right,” Maxine agreed, her black hair carefully tucked inside an old-fashioned snood.
Della cleared her throat. “If it’s all right, I’d like to stop by one of the firehouses and pay my respects. Do we have time to work that in, do you think?”
Maxine shrugged, her black gown stark against her fair skin. “It’s too early for supper just yet, so what if we do that first? Do you know where one is?”
“There are several,” Della answered. “But I’d like to go to the one by the Government Building.”
“What’s so special about that one?” Hilda asked.
Della hesitated. She hated to bring up Cullen. It had become a sore spot between her and Maxine. Her coworker felt Cullen was taking advantage of Della by not paying her, and, worse, Maxine had made some not-so-subtle admonishments about how late Della stayed out every night with a strange man. But then, anyone who stayed out past eight o’clock was “up to no good” by Maxine’s standard.
Still, she’d done nothing wrong. “One of the men who perished was a friend of the man I tutor,” Della answered. “His name was Mr. Ransom, and he was a member of the company that works out of that particular firehouse.”
Maxine flattened her lips. “Not your ‘pupil’ again.”
“Oh, hush.” Hilda tapped Maxine’s arm with her fan. “For heaven’s sake, he just might be our Della’s Prince Charming. Then what will you say to our girl after all the disagreeable things you’ve said about him?”
Della felt herself flush. She wasn’t sure which was worse. Maxine’s disapproval or Hilda’s romantic inclinations. Thank goodness they didn’t know Cullen was staying at Harvell House. Nor did they even know his name. He was an early riser and had long since left before she and the others even made it down to breakfast. And since she and Cullen were usually the last to arrive, her coworkers had never met him, nor had they made the connection between his name on the nightly list and hers.
Maxine lifted her chin. “Well, I for one am glad you’ve come to your senses about him and started spending your time with us. As you well know, I have disliked the way he abused your sense of goodwill. Imagine. All those lessons and not a dime to show for it.”
She sighed. She hadn’t told them why she and Cullen were taking a break, only that they were. “It’s only temporary. I plan to complete what we started in very short order.”
“Well, of course you will.” Hilda gave her a conspiratorial wink.
Maxine pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “I wish you wouldn’t. It’s unseemly.”
“Nonsense.” Hilda dabbed her neck with a black handkerchief. “It’s the most natural thing in the world.”
While the women continued to belabor the point, Della directed them toward Fire and Guard Station One. An afternoon thunderstorm had emptied the park and left the serene beauty of the fair beneath a somber pall. The gay banners above the White City’s domes hung limp at half-mast. Crepe dripped in drooping festoons across the buildings, emitting a less-than-pleasant odor.
Picking their way over mud as gray as paint and nearly as sticky, they skirted the lagoon. Deserted gondolas bobbed in protected nooks, their bronzed masters lolling under canopies and singing soft operatic tunes of their homeland. The occasional visitor strolled about statues and monuments as if wandering through a graveyard, their silence contagious. Even the poppies turned their weeping faces to the ground.
When they finally arrived at the firehouse, a brisk wind from the west flapped the crepe draped across its oversized door. Dark streamers hung on all the apparatus inside. A roughened helmet rested atop the hook-and-ladder’s seat, causing Della to miss a step as she wondered if it belonged to the man who’d tossed his helmet from the burning tower. The wagon’s horse gave a long blow, shaking black and white rosettes fastened to its harness.
The guard station held a mere fraction of the company, since most of its members had perished during the ordeal. She’d heard it was not uncommon for survivors of such tragedies to struggle with guilt for having survived when they were no more worthy than the fallen men. She wished she could take their pain and bear it herself, but the most she could do was pray for the men and offer her heartfelt sympathy.
A fireman approached. His cheeks were hollow, his brown hair flat, his eyes as black as the scarf tied over his fatigue uniform. “Thank you for coming.”
She swallowed. “I’m so sorry for your losses.”
His red-rimmed eyes took on a sheen. “Thank you.”
“The rain won’t stop people from coming.” Hilda patted his arm with affection.
As if affirming her pronouncement, the wind lapped up the remaining clouds, pushing them out over the lake. Sun burst through in splendid radiance, casting its rays on the White City.
They conversed for a few more minutes, offered their condolences to the other firemen, then dropped donations into a box.
The visit put an
end to the gentle bickering between Hilda and Maxine and greatly curbed their usual bent for gossiping.
Within an hour, the turnstiles at every entrance brought in people by the pairs, then by tens, and finally by flocks until guests stacked up against the pay gates.
On the Wooded Island, drenched ducks came out from the protection of the bushes. Peacocks spread their feathers in the sun to dry.
After supper on the roof of the Woman’s Building, they made their way to the ruins of the Cold Storage Building. The dark mass lay in tangled confusion among the white temples around it, its high beauty of six days ago nothing more than a surreal memory. The smell of scorched timbers mixed with the aroma of rain.
Some men labored with shovels, others with gloved hands. Della scanned them, easily spotting Cullen, though he didn’t see her. She was somewhat surprised to see him in shirtsleeves and denims. He looked so different. Only once had she seen him without a jacket. But this was neither the time nor the place to ruminate about that.
She couldn’t help but note, however, how the early evening sun silhouetted his handsome physique as he bent over, grasped a shovel low, scooped up a load of ashes, then carried them to a garbage cart.
Somewhere in those ashes and embers were Mr. Ransom’s remains and those of countless others. According to the papers, only a few bodies had been recovered so far. The reason, they said, was that the explosion—caused by large amounts of ammonia stored within the building—left no traces of the victims it had claimed. She couldn’t imagine the horror of the task Cullen and the other men faced.
After depositing his load in the cart, Cullen turned and saw her. His steps slowed, then halted altogether. He was on the opposite side of the rubble, and out of respect for the dead, no one was talking. To hail him or even wave would have been inappropriate. And truth be told, she didn’t want Maxine to meet him. For once she did, his name would jump off the list of boarders and she’d never hear the end of it.
Still, she wished she could at least greet him. Ask him how he was holding up. Tell him he needn’t worry about practicing his words right now. Tell him she missed him.
She knew of a way. She had but to hold her hands next to her waist and make some subtle movements. But to do so was forbidden. So she simply held his gaze, wondering what he was thinking and if he missed her too.
Blowing into a handkerchief, Hilda sniffled. “Are the two of you ready?”
Della forced her attention to her friend. “Whenever you are.”
“Then let’s go,” Maxine said, her voice somber.
Della glanced back, but Cullen had already returned to the rubble, his focus on his work.
She strolled to the Court of Honor alongside Hilda and Maxine feeling bereft and somehow abandoned. They gathered about the Music Hall’s outdoor pavilion. Under the lull of fountains and the lash of waves against the sea wall, musicians played home melodies, moving hymns, and “The Vacant Chair.”
At concert’s end, the fountains flashed crimson, a reminder of the fire’s fury, then purple—the color of royalty, dignity, and heroes.
Someone in the crowd began to sing “Amazing Grace,” his tenor voice pure and true. Della, Hilda, Maxine, and the others added their voices until all five verses had been sung a capella. After the last refrain, silence descended.
Gulls wheeled along the shoreline, their squawks drowning out the fountain’s raindrops. The moon made an early appearance in the still-lit sky. The faint rumble of distant machinery assured that life would go on.
GOVERNMENT BUILDING
“Cullen exited the Government Building in his denims and sat on the top step of the wide, marble-like entrance.”
CHAPTER
26
Two weeks after the fire, Cullen received another letter from home. He exited the Government Building in his denims and sat on the top step of the wide, marble-like entrance. Dad hadn’t paid the principal on his merchant credit for two years, and had racked up a total debt of six hundred dollars, not two hundred. So his interest rate had jumped to fifty percent. Fifty percent.
GOVERNMENT BUILDING
And if that weren’t bad enough, he had lied about the cushion. There was no cushion. Not now, not ever. The three hundred dollars he gave to Cullen was part of that thousand he’d borrowed. And now it was gone. Used to pay Mrs. Harvell and the rest of Cullen’s fair expenses. The only money they would have would be the three to four hundred dollars from the crop.
But outgoing, they’d have their mounting merchant debt, plus interest, plus the mortgage, plus seed and supplies, plus property taxes, plus the Dewey boys Dad had hired, plus extraneous expenses.
Propping his elbows on his knees, Cullen pressed the butts of his hands against his forehead. He needed to make at least six hundred dollars. How the devil would he do that when he’d not had so much as a nibble in almost three months, even with Vaughn’s carrot?
He supposed he could go back home and hire on at one of the mills, but it would take almost three years to earn six hundred dollars, and that didn’t include living expenses—not to mention the duress his body would be put under in those closed-up, fiber-filled mills. No, he’d write back and have Dad see if the Building and Loan would float them for one more year. If they said no . . . he didn’t even want to think about that. Instead, he’d once again concentrate on selling some sprinklers and selling them now.
Pushing himself up off the steps, he headed toward the disaster site to tell the boys he needed to return to Machinery Hall. It’d be a good while before the site was completely cleared, but they had recovered as many bodies as they were going to and were now working in a rotation of shifts between the ruins and the fire stations. They would understand that saving the farm needed to take precedence.
Cleaning up the debris had allowed him plenty of time to think. Too much time. He was stunned and not a little concerned at how often his thoughts drifted to Della. At how much he missed their lessons. At how much he missed her.
With a determined effort, he redirected his attention to John and the fire. And the more he considered it, the surer he was. His sprinkler would have put out the fire in the cupola, alleviating any reason for John and his battalion to have even climbed up there. A manual sprinkler system wouldn’t have worked, for in order to turn it on, someone would have needed to climb those stairs.
Same thing for the fire beneath, which had triggered the explosion. If it had been subdued immediately, the explosion might never have happened.
Entering Machinery Hall, Cullen admitted it felt good to be back in his suit and it felt good to have a plan of attack. John had asked him to do a demonstration from the first day they met. And by all that was holy, he was going to do one. If folks could see how his system worked, then maybe they wouldn’t be so skeptical.
First item on the agenda was to write to the fair’s director-general. He suspected it would take a good deal of persuasion to convince the commission he needed to set a shed on fire in the middle of the fair grounds, but he was determined.
As he approached his booth, his steps slowed. Someone else stood where John was supposed to be. It wasn’t any of the boys from the brigade, but instead a tall, gangly man with thinning hair and a receding hairline. As different from John as you could possibly get.
Emotion clogged his throat.
“Mr. McNamara.” One of the women with the Crowne Pen Company stepped from behind her counter. “We heard you were helping with the aftermath of the fire.” Her eyes watered. “I’m so sorry for your loss. John spoke of you often.”
She’d used John’s Christian name. This must have been the woman John had referred to. The one he’d pointed out that long-ago day as being someone “mighty special” and more recently as one whom he was becoming quite serious about. He racked his brain, but could not for the life of him remember her name.
“Thank you, Miss . . . ?”
“Carpenter. Greta Carpenter.” She had a classic beauty, like paintings of the Madonna.
Disregarding protocol, he slipped his hand into hers and left it there. “I’m so very glad to meet you. John spoke of you with great warmth and admiration.”
Her lips trembled. “And I of him.”
“I’m so sorry. We will all miss him.”
“Yes, and thank you.” She touched two fingers to the corners of her eyes.
A machine behind them began to transform solid bars of steel into wire netting.
He glanced at it. “I’d best head on to my booth.”
She gave his hand a long squeeze. “Good luck with your sprnklrs. John thought they were a wonderful invention.”
Swallowing, he nodded. “Thank you, Miss Carpenter.”
ILLUMINATION SHOW
“From all parts, a chorus of oohs and ahhs came forth. Below, gondoliers bent to their oars, each stroke breaking the Basin’s reflections into a thousand glistening fragments.”
CHAPTER
27
Allowing Della to go first, Cullen followed her through the massive portal of the grandiose Manufactures Building. They’d spend a good deal of time on tonight’s lesson in order to leave room for the premiere of the fair’s illumination show. Dr. Bell had given Della two tickets for the Otis elevator, running to the highest roof promenade in the world, and she’d decided she wanted to use them tonight so they could watch the show from there.
“We’d better get moving,” he said, “or we’ll be late. The elevator is in the center aisle on the northern side.”
Every booth they passed was a work of art. Gilded domes, glittering minarets, mosques, palaces, kiosks, and pavilions all produced a magical miniature city roofed in with a dome of glass. Instead of aisles, it held avenues complete with electric lampposts. Laid out like a grid, the roads divided the rectangular edifice into four quadrants. People strolled along each avenue, adding to the profusion of sound, color, and movement.
