“I’ve got you too,” she whispered.
Then he looked down, noticing flickering lights, the city on the horizon. He marveled at the beautiful, challenging world beneath them, so far away, and he thought: I wonder if the best thing any of us can hope for in life is a soft place to land.
He felt Maisie nod as though she knew his thoughts. He held on tighter.
Then the night exploded.
Their ears filled with the booming echoes of cannon reports as fireworks burst all around them. Blooming peonies and chrysanthemums filled the darkness. Starlike shells rose to greet them, flashing like comets, painting the sky with swashes of sparkling, flickering, glowing embers that slowly rained back down in a beautifully arranged marriage of fire and gravity.
Ernest closed his eyes for a moment and could still see the shimmering display. He could hear the rhythmic, booming cadence of explosions in every direction. Then he opened his eyes again, and it was like they were standing in the heart of a snow globe, a blizzard of white-hot stars, as far as the eye could see.
He felt Maisie’s hand on his chest. “See,” she said, smiling in the afterglow, the flashing, waning colors. “This life—your life, my life, the happy memories, the sad stories, the hellos, the goodbyes, you, me, Fahn—everything is connected, always.”
Ernest felt her words more than he heard them. Then he sensed the balloon begin to descend slowly beneath the canopy of pyrotechnics, sinking into the darkness, returning them to Earth.
RUBY CHOW’S
(1962)
I fell for both of them, Ernest typed.
He left the paper in the typewriter like a loaded gun with the safety off, an unlocked cage with something big moving around inside, a lit fuse. Then he grabbed his coat and hat, and headed up the street to Ruby Chow’s to meet his family.
As he walked, Ernest thought about his dear wife—but he also thought about Madam Flora, Professor True, and the other girl he’d been with on that magical day. He wondered what her life must be like now.
He remembered a night a few days after the closing of the fair, all those years ago. He’d climbed out onto the fourth-story escapeway of the Tenderloin, up to the roof, and shared a cigarette with Fahn. They’d taken turns watching through a telescope mounted on a wooden tripod as the sky above the lake was lit up with explosions from a reenactment of both the Boston Tea Party and the sinking of the HMS Gaspee, a spectacular that had been sponsored by a wealthy shipwright a week after the closing ceremonies of the AYP.
Fahn and he hadn’t been up nearly high enough to see the ship’s burning masts fall, but they’d been able to see dozens of shells vault into the dark sky and rain down. He’d seen the flashes, heard the cannons and the grand explosion when the ship burned to the waterline. A cache of black powder ignited in a thunderous eruption that sent pieces of the flaming vessel through the air and rattled windows for miles.
Ernest remembered hearing those on neighboring rooftops who had watched the show shouting “Huzzah!” Then the Wagner Band had begun playing somewhere in the distance, followed by the fierce wail of the Clan Fraser Highland Pipers.
“I wish I could have seen that before it went off,” Ernest had said.
“You did,” Fahn had replied. “The ship they just blew up was redecorated for tonight’s extravaganza. We all saw her laid at anchor at the fair, remember?”
“What ship?” Ernest had cocked his head, confused.
Fahn had flicked her cigarette butt to the pavement below.
“That was the Mayflower.”
—
ERNEST ARRIVED AT Ruby Chow’s, with its gabled roof and round, pagoda entrance, and savored the comforting smell of freshly roasted duck, the sound of cast-iron woks banging in the kitchen. Inside, he found Juju and Gracie seated beneath an enormous paper lantern, next to an ensconced Buddha, who looked out benignly over their table.
Juju kissed Ernest on the cheek and said, “Ah, you made it.” Then she excused herself to make the rounds. He didn’t know who the people at the adjacent tables were, though a few seemed familiar—perhaps he’d seen them on television or on billboards. Ernest knew that Ruby’s was a favorite hangout for businessmen and politicians, so while he was mildly annoyed that his daughter was constantly working, he also marveled, immensely proud of how easily she traveled in such lofty circles.
Ernest sat down next to his wife. “Hello, Gracious.”
She lit up when he called her that. She smiled and said, “Ernest.”
“Our daughter certainly is a busy bee, isn’t she?” He examined Gracie’s curious, childlike expression, hoping for any kind of confirmation that she remembered who he really was or the life they’d once had together. He’d spent these past three years mourning, adapting to a new, benign form of normal. Some married couples his age had separate beds, or slept in separate rooms. He and Gracie lived separate lives.
“Are you happy that Hanny is home?” Ernest asked.
“Oh yes.” Gracie nodded as she slowly looked about the room.
“And you know that she’s bringing someone special to dinner? Someone she wants you to meet.” Ernest hesitated and looked around. “I’ve met him. Juju met him. He’s a decent gentleman, and a lawyer too.”
Gracie said nothing. One of the older bow-tied waiters came by and exchanged pleasantries as he poured tea with one hand and whipped out a silver lighter and lit Ernest’s cigarette with the other—two hands, two separate synchronized motions.
Ernest saw that the lighter featured an engraving of the Space Needle.
“Do you remember much about the AYP?” Ernest asked Gracie, as he noticed the menu featured a special lobster dish in honor of the new world’s fair.
She nodded again.
“Do you remember our friend from those days?” Ernest probed.
Gracie smiled, almost imperceptibly, and sighed. “I’ve been looking for her.”
“You have?” Ernest asked, playing along.
Gracie furrowed her brow as she scanned the room again, going from person to person, face to face. “Where has she…been hiding?”
Ernest shrugged. A part of him knew he shouldn’t ask whether she remembered people from the Tenderloin, but another part was dying to know how many of Gracie’s memories remained. How much could he—should he—hope for? Dr. Luke had stabilized her condition, cured her with antibiotics, a miracle in a bottle. But he said the damage done was irreversible. Gracie wouldn’t go back to the way she used to be, although he also said that her brain might eventually find different ways to remember.
Ernest had often talked with her about their marriage—hoping she would remember him, but he’d never once asked her about her childhood. He figured that, like everything else, those memories were lost forever. But as she smiled he asked, “Do you recall our early days together? The three of us, all those years ago?”
Gracie hesitated, pausing, searching. Then Hanny and Rich walked into the restaurant amid fanfare from the staff—excited compliments about how much Hanny had grown and how beautiful she was. They all wanted to hear about Las Vegas, the celebrities she’d met, run-ins with famous mobsters, and if she really worked topless. They also gushed about how tall and handsome her gentleman friend was. Hanny showed off her engagement ring, and the hostesses squealed.
Ernest watched as Gracie stared at Rich. “That’s Mr. Wonderful,” he said. “He’s not a bad guy once you get to know him, I suppose. Unfortunately, I don’t know him very well.”
Gracie nodded again and patted Ernest’s arm.