It Happened at the Fair: A Novel Read online

  Rousing herself, she continued down the pathway. A woman staggered out of the Agricultural Building, squinted into the light, and propped a hand on her waist. “Well, of all the confounded messes. Whoever planned this fair made it so whenever you come out of a building, you ain’t anywhere nearer anything in particular.”

  Her husband pulled a Rand McNally map of the fair from his coat, and the two began to puzzle over it. Della could certainly sympathize. She’d become lost in the Court of Honor alone. No telling how many times she would turn herself around before the fair’s closing date.

  Then she remembered Mr. McNamara would be with her much of that time. Perhaps he had a better sense of direction than she did.

  Just past the obelisk, a crowd converged on a set of wooden stairs like sand in an hourglass, all heading for the elevated railroad that ran throughout the grounds. She skirted around them, then glanced up at the four-car train screeching to a halt and rattling the scaffolding supporting it.

  ELEVATED ELECTRIC TRAIN

  She paused for a closer look. No cloud of smoke, nor any of the familiar chug and belch of a steam engine.

  She studied the crisscross of cables above it.

  “Marvelous,” a man close by breathed.

  And indeed it was marvelous. The train was powered by electricity.

  Shaking her head, she hurried on, holding her breath so as not to smell the cattle, horses, swine, and sheep in the Livestock Exhibit and gave no pause for Germany’s outdoor exhibit. Blooker’s was straight ahead.

  The clumsy old tower was a replica of a long-standing Holland windmill built at the beginning of the century. But instead of grinding meal, the giant blades now powered a chocolate grater. Just thinking about it made her mouth water.

  BLOOKER’S DUTCH COCOA MILL

  Pushing open the large wooden door, she waited a moment to let her eyes adjust. A rich chocolate aroma enveloped her, along with warmth from the cheery fire. She removed her gloves and unbuttoned her double-breasted jacket. Mr. McNamara had yet to see her.

  His coat lay draped over an empty chair beside him. His hat rested on its seat. He conversed with a rosy-cheeked Dutch maiden wearing wooden shoes and a gaudy dress. With one hand she balanced a tray of cups of steaming cocoa. Her other hand rested on a cocked hip. Throwing back her head, she laughed at something he said.

  Della zeroed in on her lips.

  “I am named after my mudder. Trudel . . .”

  Della couldn’t read her last name—something Dutch that started with a z and ended with a p.

  “Strudel?” he asked.

  Again the girl burst into giggles. “Nee, nee. Not Strudel, Trudel.”

  Mr. McNamara smiled, putting into play his laugh lines and dimples. The girl was so captivated her tray began to tilt.

  Reaching up, he steadied it.

  “May I guide you to a table, miss?” A Dutch maiden dressed in the same manner as Trudel curtseyed to Della.

  “Yes, please. My party is right over there.”

  Their approach captured Mr. McNamara’s attention. He rose, his smile broadening. Trudel eyed her with interest.

  “Miss Wentworth, you came. Allow me to take your coat.”

  Tucking her gloves into her pocket, she turned her back. His fingers slipped inside the shoulders of her jacket, then slid it down her arms.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  He held out her chair. “The lady would like a cup, please, Miss Zonderkop.”

  Trudel placed the cocoa on the table and moved on while he pushed in the chair. Draping her coat on top of his, he took the seat to Della’s right.

  “Have you been here long?” she asked.

  “Not very.”

  “Well, I hope the wait hasn’t been too boring.”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “Not at all. I did discover Blooker’s has reproduced not just this tower but also the miller’s living quarters as well. It’s right through there.”

  Taking a sip of cocoa, she glanced toward the open door he indicated. “Perhaps that could be our first stop.”

  He stilled. “Then you’ll do it? You’ll give me the lessons?”

  “I suppose so.”

  He glanced at the door. “Where are the other teachers?”

  “They respectfully declined. They didn’t want to spend the entire summer and fall tutoring you, I’m afraid.”

  He picked at a snag in the table. “Learning to lip-read really will take that long, then? The entire five months remaining?”

  “It’ll take much more than that, but this will at least give you a start.” Truth was, she wasn’t completely sure how to go about the lessons. Should she give him an overview or just start at the beginning? “How far we advance will depend on how quick a study you are. Shall I give you a little test?”

  He straightened. “A test?”

  “Just to see how much lip-reading you already do.”

  He glanced about the room. “Whose lips should I try to read?”

  “Mine.”

  “But I can hear you.”

  She smiled. “I’m going to mouth some sentences. You will be awarded five points for each one you read correctly. Ready?”

  He nodded.

  What time is it?

  He stared at her mouth, studying it. And continued to study it long after she’d finished the sentence.

  “Mr. McNamara?”

  He looked up.

  “Do you know what I said?”

  “Oh! Um, no. I . . . say it again.” He returned his attention to her mouth.

  Where are you going?

  “Where are you going.”

  “Good. Five points. Here’s the next one. Let me help you with that.”

  Again, an intense stare. An examination, really. As if he were trying to commit the formation of her lips to memory.

  She sighed. “You’re trying too hard, I think. Just relax.”

  He gave her a look of complete bafflement.

  Her heart softened. “It’s all right. That was probably too long a sentence anyway. Try this one. It’s over there.”

  He slid his chair back a bit.

  “Do you have trouble seeing up close?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “It’s okay. Please don’t be distressed. I’m going to add a bit of sound this time. Not much, just a tiny bit. All right?”

  Clearing his throat, he wiped his hands against his trousers. “No, no. Don’t do that. I was . . . distracted. That’s all. I’m ready now.”

  She didn’t argue, but added the slightest sound to her sentence. “Please sit down.”

  “Please sit down.”

  “Excellent.” She squeezed his arm.

  He jerked it back.

  Embarrassment flooded her. She hadn’t meant to touch him. It was simply habit. Touch was one of the main sources of communication with the deaf. And since the children she taught lived at school with no vacations or visits home, she found they craved the hugs, love, and touches a mother would give.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He swallowed. “No, I am. I was, um, concentrating. It startled me, is all.”

  “I’ll not do it again.”

  “Yes, no.” He closed his eyes. “How many points do I have?”

  “Ten.”

  “Out of how many?”

  Goodness, did he have trouble with math as well? “Twenty-five.”

  “Let’s do some more.”

  She took a sip of cocoa, though it had cooled considerably. “Just a few more, then.”

  He nodded.

  Won’t you come in?

  “Won’t you come in.”

  “Very good. Fifteen points.”

  I had a very nice time.

  He snapped his gaze to hers. “I had a very nice time.”

  His tone had deepened. She smoothed the napkin on her lap. She hadn’t meant it literally.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  I’ll have to leave soon.

&nbs
p; “You do?” he asked.

  She smiled. “No. There are fifty questions in this battery of exams. None of them mean anything. They’re just for me to assess your skill level.”

  “I see. Are we going to go through all fifty?”

  “Not today. Now, what did I say?”

  “That you’d have to leave soon.”

  Close enough. “I’d like a cup of coffee.”

  “I don’t know. ‘I’d like’ were the first two words.”

  “That’s right. Try this one. Where do you live?”

  “On a farm just west of Charlotte.”

  “You’re a farmer?”

  “Yes.”

  “How strange. You don’t look like a farmer.”

  He gave a small smile. “I left my overalls at home.”

  Smiling back, she folded her hands in her lap. “I see. Now try to remember these aren’t real questions. You’re simply to repeat what I say.”

  “Sorry. I keep forgetting.”

  “It’s okay. One more. I’d like to go out for lunch.”

  “You’d like to go out for lunch.”

  “No.” She sighed. “I’d like to go out for lunch.”

  “That’s what I meant. I just . . .”

  She placed her napkin on the table. “Well, I think that’s enough for now.”

  “How many points did I get?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Out of how many?”

  “Fifty-five.”

  Pausing, he looked to the corner of the room, then returned his attention to her. “That’s only sixty or so percent. A failing mark.”

  So he could do math. “It’s all right. That means you have nowhere to go but up.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I bet your students love you.”

  Touching the watch pinned to her shirtwaist, she rubbed it between her fingers. No one had ever said that to her before. Her students were still young and learning to speak. Every word was a challenge. Compliments were not something they thought of or expended any energy on. Her director was overworked and had no time for such niceties.

  “I couldn’t really say.” The thought filled her with warmth, though. “I certainly love them.”

  “I imagine you do.” A long lock of his hair had escaped its Brilliantine and curved down against his cheek. “Shall we go see how millers lived in 1806?”

  She glanced at the door leading to an old-fashioned parlor, sitting room, and kitchen. “I’d love to.”

  COLONNADE OF THE FORESTRY BUILDING

  “Darkness had set in, leaving only moonlight and street lanterns to guide them to a set of benches facing the water.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  The cool outdoor air felt good against Cullen’s hot skin. Staring at a woman’s lips for extended periods of time was going to take some getting used to. They’d left Blooker’s, passed the other windmills on exhibit, and now strolled along the South Pond in the direction of Lake Michigan.

  “Have you been to see the Cliff Dwellers yet?” Miss Wentworth pointed to a giant cliff of red rock.

  “I haven’t. It almost looks as if Colorado imported an entire mountain for the exhibit, though, doesn’t it?”

  “It does.” She paused, then pressed a gloved fist to her mouth, her eyes widening in delight.

  “What?”

  Look, she mouthed.

  He scanned the mountain-like structure but found nothing to warrant her reaction. Huts with windows and doors had been carved into the sandstone, duplicating an ancient city of the Mancos Cañon Indians. Out front two gray donkeys brayed and squealed, swishing their skinny tails.

  Finally, he spotted a group of nuns in full habit climbing over a high, treacherous trail. “An adventurous bunch. Are you a hiker, Miss Wentworth?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never done it before.”

  She was a city girl. He’d forgotten. “Would you like to give it a try?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You don’t sound too convinced.”

  She studied the rocky footpath. “My ankle is fully recovered, but I’m not sure it’s up for a hike just yet.”

  Nodding, he tipped his hat to a group of ladies going the opposite direction. “You be sure to tell me if you need a rest.”

  “Oh, no. I’m enjoying the evening air very much, thank you.”

  All the same, he slowed their pace. They passed a crude log cabin displaying a moonshiner’s still from Kentucky, which had been captured by revenue officers. A cider-like vinegary smell clung to the air.

  MOONSHINER’S CABIN

  “So how is it a girl from Philadelphia ends up being a teacher of the deaf?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to be one.”

  “Your entire life? From the day you were born?”

  “Well, no.” She wrinkled her nose. “I guess since I was about ten or so.”

  The scent of fresh bread replaced that of sour mash whiskey. A country maid in her best bib and tucker stepped from a French bakery, reminding him of home. Of Wanda. He wondered what she would have thought of nuns climbing a mountain of rocks.

  “What happened when you were ten?” he asked, pulling himself back to the conversation.

  “A family with a deaf child moved in next door to us. She used to sit beneath a tree and watch the rest of us race around the garden. So one day I went over, placed my straw hat on the ground, and scratched H-A-T in the dirt. From there we progressed to full-blown lessons complete with flash cards.”

  A smile tugged at his mouth. “And did it work?”

  “It did.” Her brows furrowed. “But that fall, she became ill, and the family moved away. So I began teaching my dog instead.”

  Missing a step, he gave her a sharp glance. “Your dog?”

  “Yes. I checked out every library book on sound that I could. I studied how people use their lips, tongue, and voice box. I learned how ears are able to hear. And then I tested it out on my dog.”

  They were walking past an inspiring reproduction of the Ruins of Yucatan, right down to walls covered with vegetation and stones that had “toppled off,” but he found himself much more intrigued with the woman beside him.

  “Your dog?” he asked again.

  She nodded. “First I taught her to bark for food, then growl. Once she became really good at it, I stuck my hand in her mouth and pressed on her throat—in different places, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Each place I pressed made a different sound. And before long Gypsy was able to say, ‘How are you, Grandmamma?’ ”

  His smile grew wide. “Your dog can say, ‘How are you, Grandmamma?’ ”

  She gave him a sheepish look. “Well, it sounds more like, ‘Ow-ah-oo, gamama.’ ”

  He laughed. He couldn’t help it. But instead of being offended, she returned his smile. Two dimples blossomed on her cheeks, the one on the right quite a bit deeper than the one on the left.

  Since their destination was the Forestry Building, he took her elbow and cut between the Anthropological and Dairy Buildings. He’d expected an unpleasant odor from that last quarter, but as it advertised a restaurant inside, he assumed the building held dairy products and machines, not the actual cows.

  Finally, they reached the Forestry Building. Tucked in the southernmost corner of the fair, it fronted Lake Michigan and attracted a much thinner crowd.

  FORESTRY BUILDING

  He took a deep breath, absorbing the sound of tiny waves thrumming the embankment and the slightest scent of fish floating on the breeze.

  “The building isn’t covered with the white . . . what do they call it?” she asked.

  “Staff. It’s a kind of glorified plaster of paris. And you’re right. There aren’t even any nails or metal in this one. The entire thing is built of wood and held together with wooden pins.”

  “It’s a wonderful change,” she said, her smile once more intact.

  He assisted her onto a two-story veranda, its g
iant pillars formed by tree trunks grouped in threes.

  “Look, the bark’s still on the trunks.” She pointed to one grouping, then noticed a plaque attached to its centermost trunk. “And they’ve listed each type of tree with the place it came from. These are from Missouri.”

  “What are they?” he asked.

  White oosh, she mouthed.

  “White . . . ash?”

  “White oak. A person puckers their lips when they make a long o. Like this.” She made a small round opening with her mouth. “Ooooo. Ooooooak. Now you say it so you can see what it feels like.”

  “Oak.”

  “Did you feel yourself pucker?”

  This was not going to work. “What about u? What shape is it?”

  “Same one. See? Union. Cucumber. Universe.”

  “And the e?”

  “That’s a smiler. Eat. East. Teeth. But I start with the puckers—long o, long u, and double o.”

  “What’s wrong with the smilers? Can’t we start with those?”

  “No. The puckers are always first because they’re easiest to spot in the middle and at the end of a word.”

  “How long before we can move to the smilers?”

  “That depends on you. The quicker you learn to pucker, the sooner we can move ahead.”

  Suppressing a groan, he led her inside. Numerous states and several countries showed off specimens from their forests. Minnesota displayed a block of cottonwood hewn from the first tree planted in Minneapolis. Washington’s booth held a mammoth disk of cedar that twenty people could stand on at once.

  He hesitated a bit before the section reserved for his home state of North Carolina. As a boy he used to roam the countryside and come home with swollen eyes and throat. It had been filled with almost every variety of evergreen and deciduous tree displayed in the booth. Still, he followed her in. A few minutes shouldn’t hurt him any.

  “Oh look, Mr. McNamara.” Removing one glove, Miss Wentworth beckoned him, then ran her hand along a settee woven of branches and knots. “It’s been varnished, but is otherwise entirely natural.”

  RHODODENDRON SETTEE

  “It looks like rhododendron limbs. They bloom just in time to celebrate the Fourth of July and in every color you could imagine.”