Then the ferry blared its horn and interrupted his daydreaming.
“The Canals of Venice sound nice,” he said as she took his arm and they joined the crowds and the horses that disembarked from the ferry. They took their time and strolled the mossy boardwalk toward Seattle’s own Midway Plaisance, past freshly painted sandwich boards advertising LaSousa’s Minstrel Band, a Water Carnival, and Madame Schelle the Lion Tamer. They both smirked at the word madame.
Ernest enjoyed the comforting echoes of their visit to the fair. Even some of the attractions were the same, including the hot-air balloon. And he’d also heard that Luna Park was in the process of relocating the Fairy Gorge Tickler, which they had purchased to bolster their own special assortment of thrill rides: the Chute-the-Chutes, the Joy Wheel, the Cave of Mystery, and the enormous Figure Eight Roller Coaster, which was advertised as being a half mile high.
As Ernest squinted up at the wooden framework from across the amusement park, he could tell that the rumored height was an exaggeration, though the loud screams of the riders told everyone within earshot that the ride was high enough.
Ernest pulled Fahn aside to let a clown with a tremendous purple wig walk by; the clown pulled a pig in a tiny Studebaker. Then they boarded a long black gondola and floated through the park’s Venetian canals, past string musicians in black tuxedos and a woman in a lofted wig who sang in Italian. Ernest sat back in the red leather seat, warm from the afternoon sun, and wrapped his arm around Fahn’s shoulder the way the couples in the other boats did. As they drifted, Fahn talked about how much she missed Maisie. Ernest felt the same emptiness. He didn’t really believe it—nor did he think Fahn did—but they both agreed that their friend was probably better off. They told themselves that no one could make the Mayflower do anything she didn’t want to do. And as the gondola finally drifted to a stop, they were helped out of the boat.
Fahn brightened as she pointed to a ride off in the distance. “Look, a carousel.”
Ernest heard the pipe organ and chased after her as she ran toward the menagerie of painted horses. They slowed, and she climbed aboard, where she wended her way through a forest of animals—mares mostly, but also bears, buffalo, and even a striped tiger covered in glass jewels. Ernest caught up to her as the previous riders were stepping off and men and women, some still in their Sunday finery, boarded the carousel. He climbed atop a black stallion with a tail made from real horsehair as Fahn sat facing him, sidesaddle, legs crossed, on a matching steed, the lace fringe of her simple yellow dress cresting just below her knees. Ernest paid the operator a dime for the both of them and held on to the striped pole as the music played and the roundabout began to move. As they spun in merry circles, their mounts rising and falling, Fahn’s figure was dappled and reflected a thousand times in the mirrored mosaic at the center of the ride. To Ernest she looked like a girl again, a happy teenager, cheeks flushed with joy, hair pulled back in a bow. And in that moment—that perfect, breathtaking minute, he felt so lucky. He opened his mouth to speak when she looked down at her feet and he saw that her childlike smile had vanished.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
She didn’t say anything as the festive music continued to play and the world of Luna Park orbited past their field of vision. That’s when Ernest saw people in uniforms. No one in particular, a group of men, sailors. There were plenty such men to be found on a sunny day. They were pointing to an exhibit where a bear was drinking from a baby bottle. Then one of them glanced over and tipped his cap and leered.
When Ernest turned back, Fahn’s horse was empty. He glimpsed a blur of yellow as the carousel kept spinning. He jumped off and orbited the ride until he found the direction he’d seen Fahn running. As he slipped through the oncoming crowd, he caught another glimpse of her dress and realized she was heading back toward the ferry landing. When he caught up to her near the entrance, she was standing still, staring at the ground, her shoulders rising and falling as she caught her breath.
To Ernest she looked like a rock as a river of people flowed around her. He smiled wanly at the children who passed, laughing.
He took her hand and tried to look into her downcast eyes. “We don’t have to leave so soon,” he said. “Why don’t we just take a break, grab a lemonade and go for a walk?”
Her eyes darted as she glanced up at him and then out toward the ferry, which arrived every thirty minutes. “I’m sorry, Ernest. I know we just got here, but I can’t stay. I don’t think I belong here…”
Ernest didn’t know what he could say to make things better. She had all the confidence in the world within the confines of the Tenderloin, but out here, in the sunshine…“I don’t belong anywhere.” He shrugged. “But here I am.”
She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “I was hoping to tell you in a better way. But Mrs. Blackwell sent a telegram to Miss Amber, care of the Great Northern Railway. She told her about how Maisie had left and how I’d come back.”
Ernest imagined the mixed reactions to those bits of news.
“She got a reply this morning,” Fahn said. “Amber didn’t mention Maisie at all. But she insisted that if I stayed at the Tenderloin, I would have to earn my keep by working upstairs. I know I once told everyone I wanted—”
“You don’t have to,” Ernest said. “Surely, Mrs. Blackwell—”
“I won’t put her job at risk.”
Fahn pulled her hat down lower, shading her eyes. “I’ll manage somehow. Let’s just go home.” She walked out of the park toward the incoming ferry.
Before Ernest could argue or convince her otherwise, he heard the steam whistle blaring from the inbound vessel. And then he heard the peculiar, yet unmistakable strains of collective voices, singing. The song wasn’t from one of the operatic divas featured at the amusement park but was coming from a choir that had assembled on the forecastle of the ferry West Seattle. Even from a distance Ernest recognized the dour countenances of ministers in black robes and ladies bearing signs condemning drinking on the Sabbath. Evidently Mayor Gill’s opponents, the Mothers of Virtue and a sister group, the Forces of Decency, hadn’t been willing to submit. The election had stirred up the hornets’ nest.
Fahn buried her face in her hands.
“Follow me.” Ernest took her arm and spirited her across the parkway to a nearby trolley platform for Seattle Electric Railway’s Alki line. He hastily bought tickets and they boarded the car just in time. He sat Fahn with her back toward the ferry. The protesters disembarked and they began their parade into the amusement park as the trolley rolled away. He held on while they cruised down toward the tidal flats and across the muddy trestles of a bridge that would take them in the direction of home.
—
AFTER SWITCHING TROLLEYS on Spokane Street, they glided back into Pioneer Square. Ernest took Fahn’s hand and helped her off at the platform nearest to the Garment District. She looked tired—not just tired, but lost in shadow.
Ernest couldn’t bear to go back to the Tenderloin in that moment.