Love and Other Consolation Prizes(18)
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.