Love and Other Consolation Prizes(50)

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.