“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.
Ernest furrowed his brow. The saddest moment was easy. He’d never mentioned his little sister to anyone, not even Fahn, and certainly not Mrs. Irvine. He tried to think of an alternative to telling Maisie the truth, but she sensed his hesitation.
“Whatever it is, just say it. I told you about my father and how he died.”
Ernest sighed. “It’s not a pretty story…”
“That’s the whole point,” Maisie said as the burner fired again, lighting up their world for a brief, warm moment, and the balloon lofted higher, tugging them along, the basket creaking and groaning against the rope anchors.
“It’s my last memory of where I was born,” Ernest said. “When I was five or six years old, I saw something.” He hesitated. “Something terrible.”
“I’ve seen my share of good and bad,” Maisie said.
Ernest shook his head.
“It’s okay, I can take it.” Maisie held his hand.
“My parents…they were never married. And my father had been killed. I barely remember him. So my mother and I were alone, begging, sleeping at the mission home where she used to work.” Ernest paused and then continued. “We were starving to death. And one night, I watched my mother smother my newborn sister.” He watched Maisie’s somber reaction. “That was my saddest moment.”
Maisie closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them.
Ernest struggled to process the ugly details while gazing down on such a beautiful place. His heart felt torn between the two worlds.
“You okay?” Maisie asked.
Ernest nodded and continued. “I remember that my mother always kept herself distant from me. It was like a long goodbye. She knew what was happening around us. Everyone was wasting away, and she was dying. She gave up completely, and that’s when she arranged for me to go on the ship, and then she buried my sister. I never knew when my mother finally died, though I always hoped there might be someone to give her a proper burial. Someone who would put rocks and stones and thorns on her grave to discourage the stray dogs; after all, they were starving too.”
Ernest stopped talking and regarded Maisie, who was listening in silence. But she nodded and chewed her lip and waited for him to continue.
“I don’t know if she sold me or gave me away. But I survived. I made it to America—bouncing from poorhouse to boarding school. No one knew what to do with me; I didn’t fit in anywhere. And eventually I was given away all over again.”
“Right down there,” Maisie said.
Ernest nodded and sighed as though a weight were lifting off his shoulders, floating away like the hot-air balloon. “I guess that ended up being my best moment, even though I didn’t know it at the time.”
Maisie wiped her eyes and blamed the wind. “See—you’ve proved my point.”
“I’ve never told that to anyone,” Ernest said. “I don’t think about those days very often. I try to forget, because sometimes I have bad dreams.”
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the world had fallen into darkness. The lights had been put out to mark the official closing of the fair. The lit buildings, the streetlamps, every bulb, had vanished into pitch black, as if the world below them had fallen away, been swallowed whole. He heard the crowd for a moment, then an aching silence followed by a lone bugler, who played a sad melody.
“You know my secret,” Maisie said. “And now I know yours.”
Ernest sniffled and held his emotions in check as he thought about happier moments—Fahn’s oatmeal cookies, her warm, soft kisses, lying next to Maisie on that soft bed of clover, trading bites of a crisp, sugarcoated apple. He tried to take those new memories and the broken pieces of his heart, rearrange them, somehow mend them together, even as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he strained to find definition in the murky world he was floating in. That’s when he felt Maisie slide closer, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as well. He could feel her warmth through plush, supple layers of fabric. She smelled like perfume and flowers and happiness. Ernest’s heart raced as the gondola drifted and they heard wistful strains wafting up from the crowd below. Fifty thousand people began singing “Auld Lang Syne,” and surrounded by emptiness, gently rocking to the sound of melancholy, Ernest and Maisie sang along in whispers.
He turned as she leaned closer and her arms slipped into a quiet embrace. He felt her hair on his cheek, the softness of her breath as his hands found her waist. He was awed at her touch and what the human heart is capable of feeling—such sadness, such shame, but such acceptance, such joy, all at the same time.
The balloon swayed and he said, “Steady, I’ve got you.”