“I’ve always wanted to see you,” she said. “I’ve wondered how this would go, after all this time. But, I’m guessing this meeting is someone else’s doing, isn’t it?”
Ernest looked around, expecting to find Gracie lurking nearby, smiling, giggling, happy or heartbroken, lucid or delusional, he wasn’t sure. But she was nowhere to be found. “Fahn goes by Gracie these days.”
“And she’s still your…wife?”
Ernest drew a deep breath and exhaled, nodding. “Something like that.”
Maisie smiled, but Ernest could feel the disappointment.
“And you’re married again?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m long since widowed,” Maisie said. “Twice over.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. You look beautiful, as you always did. And it’s so wonderful to see you in person. I’ve followed you in the newspaper over the years—the society page might as well be dedicated to you. It’s just that…” Ernest hesitated.
Maisie held his hand. “It’s okay. I’m happy to see you. My secretary said someone called and wanted to meet me here. When I saw your name—honestly, it was like a wish come true. And I thought, Lucky me. Ever since they began construction on the new fairgrounds, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about those days, those nights, and…our precious time together. There was something magical back then, amid that strange world, and I left it all behind.” She squeezed his hand. “I left you behind.”
Ernest noticed that she wore an impressive array of sparkling diamonds, but that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. “We were just kids,” he said. “You’ve grown up just fine. Flora would be so proud. Even Miss Amber would be impressed.”
Maisie nodded slowly and looked around the elegant party, at all the important guests in ball gowns and tuxedos, the vintage champagne, the magnificent view of the city. “I got everything I wanted,” she said. “And nothing that I needed.”
She dabbed a bit of mascara from the corner of her eye. “And look at me now. Throwing a gala and adding your name to the guest list.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“I found your address in the phone book and sent you notes over the last few years,” Maisie said. “But you never wrote back, so I wasn’t sure if you’d actually received them. Or perhaps you were mad at me for leaving. And now look at you—look at us, you’re here and I’m so happy.” Then she let go. “And also so very sad.”
Ernest apologized. “This must be Gracie’s doing. I showed her your postcard. She must have called and set this up,” he said. “She hasn’t been herself for a while. Now she’s reliving the past, maybe trying to rewrite it somehow.”
“Ah,” said Maisie, collecting herself. “Fahn did always think…Anyway, I’d love to see her. Is she here?”
Ernest shook his head as he looked around. “I don’t think so.” He drifted to the lip of the observation railing. He gripped the cold metal, and the breeze took his breath away as he looked down at the spinning carnival rides, the illuminated fountains, the long tendrils of shadow cast by the setting sun as it seemed to melt into the horizon. He noticed a garish swash of neon in the far corner of the fairgrounds as well as a row of flags marking the entrance to the International Plaza.
Then he hugged his dear old friend once more, sad to be leaving, but hopeful as well. “I’m so sorry, but I have to find her. I wouldn’t show up and then run off if it wasn’t important—I think I know where she is.”
“It’s okay,” Maisie said. “Go.”
Ernest kissed her on the cheek. “We’ll talk again soon. I promise.”
SECRETS OF SHOW STREET
(1962)
Ernest took a shortcut through the old Armory building, where he had once gone dancing with Gracie when they were in their twenties. The place had been turned into the Food Circus, and it smelled like fried sausage, fried fish, fried dough, fried everything. He checked the nurses’ station and the dispensary while he was there, just in case, then exited the other side and crossed United Nations Way. Ernest felt the spray and mist from the International Fountain as hundreds of nozzles shot geysers of water into the air in elegant rhythmic patterns that seemed almost hypnotic. In the main courtyard he detoured around a troupe of spinning Russian dancers, and avoided being run over by a honking Fairliner tram and a swarm of Electricabs.
Ernest passed a first aid station and then scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar face, hoping that by some miracle he’d catch a glimpse of Gracie on the move. Then he worked his way through the knots of tourists and passed the enormous Opera House, where an illuminated sign announced that Rod Serling and Ray Bradbury were discussing the future. He passed the Fine Arts Pavilion and the new Playhouse, and finally ended up in the center courtyard of the International Mall, which was bustling with costumed hosts from the Republic of China, Brazil, Denmark, Thailand, Korea, the Philippines, Sweden, the United Arab Republic, Mexico, Canada, Great Britain, and even the city of Berlin. Everything was abuzz except for the Spanish Fiesta Village, which was still closed.
“Where is it, Gracie?” he muttered to himself as he looked for the Japanese Village, which he thought he’d glimpsed from the Space Needle. “Where are you?”
Ernest noticed the Union 76 Skyride passing overhead. The cable car carried fairgoers back and forth above the expo. One little boy even waved. Then Ernest crossed the avenue, searching, until he heard a bawdy saxophone. He followed the curious music until he saw the flashing red neon in the distance and realized there was another place she might be.
Gracie, no.
The glittering lights marked the entrance to Show Street, the scandalous adults-only section of the Century 21 Expo.
Ernest waded through an eager coterie of curious couples, sailors, and college-age boys—thousands of people, all heading in the same direction. He paused to let a group of Lummi dancers parade by in full regalia, singing, drumming, and banging sets of rhythm sticks. He gazed up at the humming neon sign that was occasionally obscured by smoke that smelled like alder wood, cedar, and fresh salmon from the nearby Indian Village. Then he drifted again with the motley tide of people flowing toward the mysterious, nighttime-only corner of the world’s fair.
Ernest kept his eyes peeled—searching for any sign of Gracie as he passed an adults-only wax museum, whose teasing placards stretched his already-ripe imagination. He lingered at the entrance of the busy show hall, where Sid and Marty Krofft were putting on a topless puppet revue—the same routine that Pascual had talked so much about. Ernest kept walking as scalpers worked the margins of the crowd.
The volume of visitors seemed overwhelming, and Ernest wondered if perhaps his hunch was off. But as he debated whether or not to leave, the crowd parted and he saw the entrance to Gracie Hansen’s Night in Paradise, an enormous dinner theater topped by a giant neon apple with a bite missing.
Another Gracie, Ernest thought. Could his be inside the racy revue, with scantily clad showgirls and blue comedians? He didn’t think so—he’d read it had been sold out all week.