And perhaps worst of all, the White City had grayed. Chicago’s manufacturers were no longer obliged to throttle their smokestacks to preserve the Fair’s shining image, and its pristine gleam had been smudged to an ashy grime.
“Are they just here to play?” asked Dob as a soldier clambered atop the fraying (and dormant) Columbian Fountain.
Neva smiled slightly. “Maybe a little, but they’re mostly here because of the Pullman strike.”
“Because the workers stopped making trains?”
“Essentially.” The truth was more complicated: once the Fair closed, and demand for new Pullman cars declined precipitously, George Pullman had further slashed his employees’ wages while maintaining Pullman Town’s high rents. On May 11, after unsuccessfully appealing to their employer’s conscience, the workers had stopped working. And on June 26, the American Railway Union had refused to handle trains that included Pullman cars, a show of solidarity that disrupted mail delivery nationwide. President Cleveland was not amused—hence the third military occupation of Chicago in twenty years.
Much as Wiley had predicted.
Neva bit her lip, remembering how he’d argued with Derek on their way to visit Mrs. DeBell. Wiley had sounded so sure of himself. But the other anarchists hadn’t been willing to let events take their natural course. If they had, maybe ...
Maybe nothing. Roland and Pieter might have fared better, but Wiley’s fate would have been no different. That was her doing.
She needed to know why, needed to find out what had happened to him—and her.
Whatever it took to understand why she’d butchered a man she’d come to love.
“Do we need to hide?”
Neva dragged her focus back to Dob. The boy was small for his age. He claimed to be twelve, but she’d be surprised if he was eleven yet. And the rags that passed for his clothes made him appear even more waifish—in other words, impossible not to love. It had been such a relief to run into him at the end of winter, a balm for her aching soul.
Except that his reappearance at the Fair meant he was homeless.
“I think hiding’s unnecessary,” she said quietly. “But let’s get you back to your aunt all the same.”
“She’s out,” Dob objected. “Cleaning for someone.”
“Let’s go inside anyway.”
He stole a last glance at the soldiers before nodding reluctantly and following Neva off the promenade and into the desiccated shell of Manufactures and Liberal Arts.
She and the boy had a good view as they crossed the interior bridge to the only stairway in decent repair (the elevators having long since ceased to function). Below them, the acres of exhibits that had dazzled the world had been replaced with the detritus of men, women, and children with nowhere else to go. Ashes of cooking fires. Ragged blankets. Scavenged bits of left-behind displays ... Pinkertons had been hired to guard the transfer of the most valuable items from the Anthropology Building and the Palace of Fine Arts, but not everything had been claimed. Anything of value had already been pawned for food, however. And what remained looked like a child had filled a wheelbarrow with worthless sundries, upended it, and gleefully kicked the resulting pile in all directions.
Neva led Dob down to the section of the floor his aunt had marked out for him and his cousins near the former site of the Yerkes Telescope. The cavernous building was emptier than it had been during the winter. But people still sheltered here. And a particularly tattered man by the name of Kam stood close enough that Neva could hear him stage-whisper something about wanting to see her “chocolate hips” melting on his “white lap.”
Kam’s companions laughed, but she ignored them. She’d already heard worse three times today. “On second thought,” she said to Dob after failing to find any of his brothers, “let’s go to Machinery. You can stay there with me until the soldiers leave.”
“Sure,” he replied eagerly—she’d never let him come with her before. They couldn’t go to the storage room, of course, but she had another refuge.
“Chocolate Hips,” Kam repeated, but louder and more directly. “A word.”
“A no,” she said.
“Not with me—unless you want to.” His companions laughed again as he approached, leering a little more with each step. “The King wants to see you.”
“Why?”
Kam shrugged extravagantly. “He doesn’t tell the likes of us humble peasants.”
With good reason, no doubt. She hadn’t spoken much with the Hobo King recently either—not since April, when so many of the refugees in the fairgrounds, including Dob, had been sick and in need of care. But with the soldiers here, perhaps it would be best to discuss ways to avoid confrontation. “All right,” Neva said. “I’ll be there shortly.”
“Now would be better,” a new voice replied.
Neva turned, confirmed the voice’s owner, and resisted the impulse to strike him. It was easy to keep her emotions in check these days. All she had to do was remember Wiley falling to the blankets, soaking them red and filling the cowry shells’ upturned grooves with blood ... and she was numb again.
“Dob,” she said to the boy, “go back to the promenade and stay there until the soldiers leave. I’ll be there soon.”
“Yes, Miss Neva.” He scurried towards the staircase, obviously eager to resume observing the soldiers.
She watched him leave, then turned back to the new man. “All right, Quill. Let’s go.”
TO AVOID THE SOLDIERS, most of whom still cavorted in the Court of Honor, Quill led her out of Manufactures by the north entrance, then west across the small bridge that connected the U.S. Government Building to Fisheries. Neither was habitable: the search for salvageable scrap was well underway, and both structures had been gutted for steel. The Fair’s organizers had budgeted to recoup half a million dollars by auctioning off reusable materials, even preselling some of its metal to the railroads.
From Fisheries, Neva and Quill crossed to the Wooded Island and then to Horticulture. As they passed the Children’s Building, she shook her head at the number of messages and images scrawled on the structure’s formerly picturesque walls. She saw a few faces withdrawing from broken windows, but the fairgrounds seemed eerily empty. The soldiers’ presence must have sent most everyone into hiding.
The Midway was only a short walk further. Before they reached it, Quill broke his uncharacteristic—yet welcome—silence: “The King’s in a bit of a mood today. I wouldn’t bother him with anything trivial.”
Neva raised her eyebrows. “Like people discussing my ‘chocolate hips?’”
Quill had the grace to blush. “I’m sorry. Kam and his crew are a crude bunch. But it takes men like them to change the world.”
She shrugged. It was possible her former teacher felt badly about his new acolyte’s boorishness. But it was equally likely he’d remembered she’d known the Hobo King before he became his Royal Poorness. Or maybe it was just that Quill was still deathly embarrassed by her refusal of his second drunken advance, which he’d offered—none-too-politely—a few weeks ago.
It was almost a moot point: the King wasn’t in his court.
That much was plain as Neva and Quill walked down what was left of the Midway, its graveled path spotted with weeds, trash, and feces—hopefully all animal. Normally, his Poorness preferred to meet his supplicants in the lowest carriage of the Ferris Wheel. But the soldiers she and Dob had seen break off from the main troop had made a beeline to the Fair’s erstwhile showstopper (now stopped itself). One of the men was climbing the outer rim hand-over-hand to reach the first suspended carriage. Another man lay atop its roof, making a show of sunning himself. The rest ran about like fools behind the confines of the wall that still enclosed the Wheel.
They might as well enjoy themselves while they had the chance. Deconstruction had halted in recent days, no doubt due to labor tensions stemming from the Pullman Strike. But whenever that ended, the remaining pieces would be moved to the Wheel’s new site elsewhere in Ch
icago.
“In here,” Quill murmured as he ducked into the alley between The Street in Cairo and the German Village. Despite his near-whisper, his words were loud in the quiet—as all sounds were now on the nearly deserted Midway.
“The theatre?” asked Neva.
“For today.”
When use of the Ferris Wheel was prevented by bad weather—or frolicking soldiers—the Hobo King often retired to the Egyptian Theatre. Apparently he’d been quite enamored of Little Egypt’s performances there while the Fair ran ... as Wiley had been of hers in the Algerian and Tunisian Village—no. Please, no. Not now.
But the memory lingered until she entered the Egyptian Theatre and saw who sat opposite the Hobo King’s enormous, balding figure: Brin. Dangling her legs over the edge of the stage as if she owned it.
“Still a bit of jam,” the Irishwoman noted with a wink when she saw Neva approaching.
She replied with a sturdy hug. Her rashes barely twinged—they were only faint scars now, vaguely purple, as if from tattoos inked long ago.
“But you’re thinner,” Brin added, returning the embrace. “Too thin.”
Neva waved this off. “I had the flux—still getting over it. Where have you been?”
“Agitating,” the Hobo King answered for her—as usual, he was squeezed into his favorite seat in the front row. “And I must say, she’s quite good at it.”
Despite swirling with questions, Neva remembered herself and turned to pay her respects. “Your Royal Poorness,” she said, making a half-bow.
He snorted. “Stop it. You know that’s all for show.”
It wasn’t, though—not entirely.
When she’d first met him, he’d been Wherrit: the man who’d lost his mind and bloodied himself on the Ferris Wheel. Now, after returning to the fairgrounds to withstand the winter along with so many other homeless, he was the Hobo King, the closest thing to a leader in the Exposition’s husk. And he liked his ceremony—even if he pretended it didn’t apply to Neva because she’d once helped save him from himself.
“The Pullman Strike,” Neva said, turning back to Brin, “you’re organizing that?”
“Helping.” The Irishwoman nodded at the Hobo King. “Came to talk to him, actually, about getting what support we can from those still sheltering here.”
“Won’t be much,” he predicted. “Not with soldiers about.”
“They’ll disperse; just having a lark, is all.”
“Today, maybe, but this has all the makings of another Homestead. And we’ve already said what there is to say about that.” The Hobo King pointed a beefy finger at Neva. “I suppose you have some catching up to do?”
Brin shrugged off her defeat. “I never imagined you’d still be here, but when he said you were ...”
He stood to leave, motioning for Quill—who’d hung back, jaw clenched and face dark—to do the same. “I’ll be in touch.”
“As will we,” Brin said to the Hobo King as he headed towards the theatre’s side entrance. “Thanks for hearing me out.”
“Thank you,” Neva echoed before refocusing on the Irishwoman. “Did you know he was here?”
“Quill? No, but I’m not surprised. He wore out his welcome in Pullman Town pretty fast. Wore out my patience, too. Pulling the same tricks here, is he?”
“Trying to. Wherrit has a pretty firm grip on things.” Neva folded her arms across her chest. “Why didn’t you come earlier? On Chicago Day?”
Brin looked out at the empty seats. “It was a bad day.”
“All the more reason to come!”
“The Pinkertons were thick on the grounds. And after they nabbed Pieter ... I couldn’t risk it.”
“You couldn’t lose yourself in the largest crowd of any non-military event in history? Seven hundred and fifty thousand people?”
Brin turned back to Neva but gazed around her more than at her. “It was too dangerous.”
“Later, then. The next day. The next week. Why didn’t you come later?”
“They were still looking for me.”
Neva shook her head, at herself as much as Brin. This had all happened months ago; there was no reason to get worked up about it now ... But she kept picturing herself lying next to Wiley—in Wiley’s blood—for hours, too weak with shock and grief to move, waiting for one of the anarchists to return and help her. Roland, or Quill, or Pieter would have been difficult to manage. She would have had to make something up.
But Brin would have understood.
“Why didn’t you send word?” asked Neva eventually, in a flatter tone.
Her pause must have allowed Brin to do some thinking of her own—something had changed in her face. “Shame,” she said after another moment.
“Because you didn’t dynamite the Wheel?”
“Because I didn’t try.” Her words were agonized, and the something in her face clarified into self-loathing. “After Wiley’s service, we came back to the Fair, and I thought about what you said—about how blasting the blasted Wheel wouldn’t change anything—and it didn’t feel right. So I left.”
She clenched her fist. “I left Quill, and Roland, and Pieter, left them on their own, without a chance. Then Pieter got himself caught. And Roland went and shot the mayor.”
Neva nearly gave in to the urge to say You left me too. But she’d already carped about that enough, and Brin’s pain seemed genuine. “They’re still in jail?”
“Awaiting trial—in a brick prison. A friend says the doors are heavy wood. Nothing I can mold apart.”
Neva bit her lip. Roland deserved no better, but Pieter had been a good sort. “You’re organizing now, though? Not trying to put your stick babies to work again?”
Brin smiled ruefully. “Just organizing. You and Wiley were right on that count—it’s got a better shot this way.”
Swallowing at the mention of the Boer, Neva finally let herself ask the question most on her mind: “How was his service?”
“Officious. His family’s still in the South African Republic, so it was only guardsmen and some Fair notables. The Commandant said some pretty words when he pinned Wiley with a ‘posthumous medal for extraordinary service rendered to the Exposition.’ That almost made me laugh.”
Neva leaned against the stage and considered asking Brin to confirm that the funeral had been open casket—that she’d actually seen Wiley’s body—but decided against it. Her description suggested nothing had been visibly out of sorts. “I’m sorry I missed it.”
“Wasn’t much to miss.”
“Still.” Neva forced herself to think of something else ... like what it would have been like to dance here, on the stage Little Egypt had made so famous. Probably not that different from dancing in the Algerian Theatre. “So the organizing—you’ve been to Pullman Town?”
“I stay there now and again.”
“Have you seen Derek?”
“A few times. I’m sure he’d love to see you.”
That hurt. She hadn’t seen Derek since the afternoon before Chicago Day, hadn’t even sent word. She knew she should have reached out before now, to let him know she was alive if nothing else, but ... making contact would mean making explanations. And making explanations would mean admitting horrific, unspeakable things.
Perhaps it was time. “Are you headed there now?”
“I can be.”
Neva took a deep breath and pushed herself away from the stage. “All right. Let me take care of a few things, and then I’ll meet you at—what’s the best rail station?” The connection from Pullman Town to the Fair had been discontinued shortly after the latter closed.
“Just find me at the 59th Street entrance. If you’re all right to walk a bit.” Brin gestured at Neva’s leg. “That’s all healed?”
“Good as new. Thank you. I’ll be there in half an hour.” She stepped toward the door she’d come in through.
“Neva?”
When she turned to look back, she found Brin staring at her.
“Why are y
ou still at the Fair?”
She concentrated on sounding casual. “There are people here who need me. Children. I can’t just leave them.”
Brin regarded her a moment longer. “A good reason. I’ll see you at 59th in half an hour.” She sounded just as casual, but unconvinced.
There was no help for that. Not yet. Not until it was time to explain and admit. And since that time required Derek, Neva merely waved at Brin and left the theatre.
NEVA’S FIRST TASK WAS to check on Dob. For once, he was exactly where he was supposed to be: on the promenade of Manufactures and Liberal Arts, peering into the Court of Honor. The soldiers were gone, though, and Dob seemed a bit sullen. But he’d waited for her, as she’d asked.
He was such a good boy.
“Here,” Neva said to him after she’d mussed his hair. From her pocket, she pulled out a short strip of jerky—her wages for sweeping a rich woman’s house earlier that morning—and ignored her stomach’s sense of loss; in the part of her mind that was perpetually hungry these days, she’d already imagined biting into the jerky at least ten times. “Eat this.”
He did so with heartbreaking speed.
“I have to work again. Stay out of trouble until I get back.”
“Yes, Miss Neva.”
Such a good boy.
After leaving him, she went to complete her second task, at Machinery Hall. Almost no one squatted here anymore. The winter had wrought extensive damage to the roof, resulting in downpours onto the empty floor every time it rained, as it had a few days ago. And the few homeless who still shared the building with her were nowhere to be seen.
So Neva didn’t have to hide how she picked the lock to the storage room, bending and extending her finger inside the keyhole as she’d done so many times over the past nine months. And she didn’t have to worry that anyone would see the insects milling about inside, bugs of all shapes and sizes, more than should have been clustered in any one area—she’d have to sleep elsewhere tonight.
She still shut the door behind her, however. Best to be safe. No sense taking chances that someone would overcome their aversion to the pests and wander in, follow the winding corridor of crates, and come on the back area and its contents: a body.
Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1) Page 22