The room fell so silent that Ernest could hear the thrum of the electric lightbulbs flickering overhead, the sound of someone’s stomach gurgling through layers of silk, cotton, and wool, the muffled footfalls of the ladies upstairs, heels on carpet.
Fahn set aside her knife and fork. She delicately wiped her chin. “What do you think, thorny Rose?” she said as she adjusted the wick on the oil lamp in the center of the table, turning a brass knob up and down and making the flame hiss.
Then she asked Ernest to pass the bread.
—
THERE WAS NO doubt in Ernest’s mind that Fahn had set fire to the place. And he didn’t blame her one bit. What he could not allow, though, was for her to work upstairs.
That evening, Ernest stoically manned the front door, greeted the night’s patrons, and gathered the gentlemen’s woolen overcoats, their pearl-handled walking sticks, and their hats for brushing and cleaning. He showed the guests into the grand parlor, where they were welcomed by the ladies and treated to their usual glasses of sparkling wine served on silver platters. They were rich gentlemen, Ernest had seen some of them many times before, but he had stopped caring to remember their names.
“Don’t look so grim,” Professor True said as he sat down at his piano.
“Is it that obvious?”
“It’s election night, so things are bound to be slow around here. But beyond that, if you really want to know the truth, young man…”
Ernest knew the Professor only wanted to help, that he wanted to add some kind of thoughtful, fatherly advice—a verbal salve to ease the outbreak of melancholy caused by Maisie’s departure and Fahn’s return. But Ernest wasn’t in the mood to listen.
“I’m sorry, Professor,” he said as he walked away. “But I’ve got all the truth I can handle right now.”
Ernest returned to the cloakroom wishing his circumstances could change. That’s when the lights went out, quite literally, and he heard the Gibson girls shrieking and hooting in amusement. Ernest stepped into the gloom and saw that the electric chandeliers that lit the foyer and the parlors were all off, and the belt-driven ceiling fans that cooled the building were winding to a halt, squeaking in the darkness. Mrs. Blackwell barked orders to the maids, who fetched candles and matches to light the oil lamps in each room. Meanwhile, Professor True kept playing, barely skipping a beat.
“Well, I guess we know who our new mayor is,” Mrs. Blackwell muttered to Ernest as he opened the blinds to let in the glow of the gaslit street. Councilman Gill had been a vocal critic of Seattle’s Department of Lighting and Water Works, and it seemed as if the upstart utility had shut down their services in protest of his election.
“How long do you think we’ll be without electricity?” Ernest asked.
“Not long,” Mrs. Blackwell said. “Just long enough to make a point, lad.”
Ernest peered out the window and saw that the nearby saloons were emptying drunken patrons into the street, bottles in hand, filling the sidewalks of the Garment District. Traffic came to a halt as coachmen redoubled the grip on their reins, idling their horses as motorcars honked their horns in vain at the electric streetcars, frozen in place beneath a cobweb of power lines. Despite the blackout, people in the neighborhood shouted and cheered, celebrating the victory of Mayor Gill.
“Politics, lad,” Mrs. Blackwell mused. “It’s still mired in the shuffling of people, from one place to another. According to the rumors I heard, Gill’s campaigners trucked in hundreds of unemployed men from Wenatchee, Yakima, and Cle Elum, from wherever they could find them. They boarded them all over the district, then ushered the entire lot to the polls as newly registered voters. Half of ’em probably can’t even read or sign their names properly.”
Ernest stared out into evening, benumbed. The new mayor was now free to harvest the ripe fruit of the open town policy from the wild seeds he’d sown as a councilman. Ernest knew that in all likelihood business would be better in the long run. The bars and taverns would be allowed to stay open all night now, all week long, and bands would be playing, even on Sundays. How it would affect the Tenderloin was anyone’s guess.
Ernest squinted and rubbed his eyes as the electricity flickered and hummed, and the lights came back on. Everyone cheered, and the Gibson girls toasted their customers and one another. That’s when Ernest saw Fahn across the crowded parlor in her black maid’s uniform and apron. But she wore her hair down like the upstairs girls, in a way that made her look older, and she wore the diamond necklace that Maisie had left. She chatted with the guests, then looked over her shoulder, found Ernest, and tried her best to smile.
—
ERNEST STOOD IN the basement, where he liked to go to collect his thoughts. The dank, musty boiler room, with new electrical wires and old groaning pipes, was as far away as he could get and still technically be performing his duties.
I used to be scared of this place, Ernest thought, remembering how he had hated to be alone in such an eerie, cavernous room. Now this was his sanctuary.
He tied his handkerchief, covering his nose and mouth, feeling the warmth of his breath as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Then he found his way to the coal bin and the boiler, which radiated so much heat his forehead began to perspire.
In a fog of frustration, Ernest reached to open the furnace door, forgetting to put on his gloves first. He felt the searing metal handle burn his palm. He cursed and snatched his hand back, gritting his teeth. His fingers felt icy and hot all at once, and his eyes watered with the pain. He sniffled and examined his swelling hand in the dimly lit room, touching his swollen skin where a blister or two would surely appear. Eventually the pain began to subside and with it, a measure of his sadness.
Ernest shook his head at his foolishness and settled onto an old crate. He looked at the marks on his hand and remembered once catching a glimpse of mysterious cuts along Miss Amber’s upper arm, the old scars that she kept hidden by wearing long sleeves. When Ernest had mentioned what he’d seen to Mrs. Blackwell, she’d called those marks the wrinkles of past suffering, but she’d also said that the men at Western Washington Hospital called Amber’s pernicious habit of cutting herself in her youth a partial suicide. The term seemed absurd, but now, with Fahn’s departure and return, he understood how a part of you could perish. As he stared into the radiant heat, watching the flaring embers, he felt how easy it could be to slip from a place of warmth to a place of engulfing fire.
WHISPERS OF CALLIOPE
(1910)
The following Sunday, Ernest stood next to Fahn on the breezy upper passenger deck of the ferry City of Seattle, staring across the murky blue-green waters of Elliott Bay as the vessel steered toward the tidal flats of Duwamish Head and Alki Beach.
In months past, their days off had been spent in the Garment District, strictly below the line, since so many businesses, theaters, and penny arcades were closed on Sunday. But since Mayor Gill’s election a week ago, Luna Park, the Coney Island of the West, was open every day, just like the many bars and taverns across the city. In fact, Ernest had heard the saloon at Luna Park boasted the largest and best-stocked bar in all of Seattle—a fact that probably didn’t sit well with the amusement park’s sleepy West Seattle neighbors.
As the ferry swayed, he strained to hear the faint sound of a roller coaster and the calliope music of a carousel.
“So, young Ernest, what would you like to do first?” Fahn asked as the ferry slowed on its approach. She leaned on his shoulder as the wooden deck gently rocked, the engine idled, and seabirds circled overhead, squawking, swooping, and diving.
Ernest inhaled the salty air.
This.
He imagined wrapping his arms around her.
And this.
As he’d lean down and kiss each cheek, rosy and cool from the breeze.
And finally this.
He pictured himself whispering.
Something to undo the past.