When President Taft was done speaking, the band played “Hail to the Chief,” but the crowd stayed put, cheering and shouting. Ernest watched the man whom Teddy Roosevelt had called Ol’ Puzzlehead bask in his hard-fought presidential glory, but Ernest knew full well that the patrons of the fair were merely waiting for yet another prize to be raffled off.
He overheard one of the women behind him. “Heavens! The gossip and rumors have run amok,” she said. “People have been saying that the boy must be colored—others that he’s an heir to a great fortune. The Seattle Star even speculated that the prize was actually a dwarf dressed up as a boy and that the whole affair was a practical joke. Can you believe that?” The other ladies laughed and kept murmuring.
But as Ernest watched President Taft remove his cuff link, push up the dark sleeve of his long-tailed tuxedo jacket, and reach into an enormous birdcage tumbler of ticket stubs, he knew this wasn’t a prank. The AYP had one-upped the raffled livestock and barrels of produce given away at fairs in Buffalo and San Francisco.
Ernest held his breath, and for a moment the snare drums sounded like the rattle of gunfire, the thunderous bass became the booming of cannons, the sousaphones blared—lonely boat horns, echoing on the surface of cold, black water. He blinked and saw his mother among all the spectators, a skeleton in a mandarin dress and yellow shoes, touching her heart, slowly waving goodbye. Ernest ached inside, reaching out to her, stepping toward her as she vanished into the crowd, which fell silent.
This is everything you ever wanted for me, Ernest thought.
He exhaled and blinked again as a timpani rolled to a crescendo and the president drew a single, random, destiny-changing, fate-defying bit of paper. He handed it to a man who was introduced as Superintendent L. J. Covington, who announced through a squelching microphone that “whoever has the matching ticket can immediately claim today’s prize as their very own—handsome and dark, clever and strong, donated by the Washington Children’s Receiving Home, a healthy boy. Free to a good family!”
Half the audience cheered and the other half laughed or gasped in amazement. There were even a few jeers.
“Can he sing and dance too?” a man yelled. “Does he do magic tricks?”
“I’ll take a girl who can cook!” another man heckled.
“I need a boy with a strong back,” a woman shouted.
“Get on with it!” someone snapped, as the crowd grew restless.
The superintendent raised his arms along with the other half of the winning ticket, which slowly subdued the crowd. He read the numbers into the microphone: 0-9-2-5-7-5. Silence, then the losing ticket holders collectively groaned as chatter spread through the audience. Ernest searched the crowd for someone, anyone to come forward—to shout and holler, to wave his or her hat in the air. But no one appeared. And his mother was gone, forever. Ernest felt utterly alone in a gathering of fashionable strangers.
The superintendent read the numbers again, but now in a tone that seemed more pleading than celebratory, and again, was answered with silence. Then came stirs of confusion, groans of disappointment, and eventually apathy as the president began his exit and the crowd started to disperse, off to the next amusement.
Ernest felt his fear and anxiety dissipate, along with his expectations. He shook his head. It had been terrifying that his fate would be determined by something so random as a raffle, but without his even realizing it, in these few moments, his heart had somehow conjured a glimmer of hope. He’d dared to dream and now suddenly felt like yesterday’s news, last week’s trivia. After seeing so many children come and go from Dow’s Landing, or parents visiting their sons at Holy Word, he’d never allowed himself to aspire for the life the others had, but now his heart had briefly inflated, then burst like a balloon, leaving an aching cavity inside his chest. He rubbed his eyes and swallowed what small pride he had as he realized there would be no winner today, just a solitary loser. He exhaled, long and slow, wiping a tear, as the sun found its usual hiding place among the Seattle rain clouds and the municipal band played the “Seattle Victory March.” In a fog, he watched the president wave to the crowd once more as his delegation was escorted away. Even for free, as a raffle prize, he was utterly unwanted.
Maybe it was all a joke, Ernest thought. A stunt put on by the newspapers. He hung his head and cursed himself.
Mrs. Irvine looked confused, frustrated. She beckoned him to join her, and he slowly descended the steps toward the fountain. They reached the square, where they were confronted by another group of women. To Ernest they seemed younger, hardier, and rowdier, but they were as finely appointed, as well-heeled as the stout, cotton-haired matrons of the Woman’s Building. They seemed more colorful in dress and manner—literally, because of the makeup they wore. Ernest watched as a strawberry-haired woman with a plunging neckline tucked a pinch of snuff between her cheek and gum and spat the tobacco residue at the feet of Mrs. Irvine. Then the vanguard of ladies parted as the woman Ernest had seen from afar swept to the forefront. She was the woman whose cigarette the president had stopped to light. She looked to be the junior of Mrs. Irvine by at least ten years, maybe twenty. She brushed back the plume of the blue and green feather in her hat and then fingered her necklace. The cigarette was still smoking, dangling in the holder that bounced up and down in the corner of her mouth as she spoke.
“Hello, Ida.” The strange woman held up a thick stack of tickets. “How’s your husband?” She puckered her lips and then smiled, showing her back teeth. “We haven’t seen him in our parlor in a while. Let him know that he’s always welcome.”
“Florence.” Mrs. Irvine nodded a curt greeting and gave the woman an icy stare. “Only you would have the nerve to ask the president of the United States to light your cigarette when you know they’ve been outlawed for two years. You just made him an accomplice.”
“You’re right,” the woman named Florence replied. “We’re now partners in a crime that no one in the world cares about—but you. Half the judges smoke in their chambers, my dear. Trust me.” She smiled again. “I would know. And what else have you foisted upon the good people of Seattle? Let’s see, it’s now illegal for a woman to wear pants in public, saloons must be open to public viewing—oh, and tipping of any kind is no longer allowed within the city limits. My, how you love your rules.”
Mrs. Irvine pointed to the tickets. “And the rules for the raffle very clearly said, to a good home. Not a place for a good time.” She crossed her arms and scrunched her lips as though she had just tasted something bitter.
Florence spread the tickets like a fan and waved them in front of her face, feigning coyness, if only for a moment. She blinked over the tops of the cardboard stubs and then revealed a stern countenance. She sorted out the ticket with the winning numbers and then held it up for all to see. “It took us a while to find the right one; after all, we have so many. But, as you can see, I’m here now to claim my prize. We both have the same intentions, Ida dear, we just have different methods of getting what we want…”
“Don’t you dare compare me to…”