Cassandra paused. “You mean Mr. Edison turning on his electric grid? Frankly, Molls, I don’t think we’d be able to avoid it. His men have been installing those light poles all over the city for weeks. We’d see it from here.”
“I know,” Molly said, hardly able to keep the excitement from her voice. “But wouldn’t it be a thrill to be there and see him throw the switch?”
“Whatever you want, dear,” Cassandra muttered. She went back to hammering, noticeably louder than before.
“Easy, Mother,” Molly warned. She didn’t want a repeat of the Crumpled Clock Episode two weeks earlier. “Just remember, soon it’s not gonna matter whether the Guild lets you in. Once the world sees your inventions, you’ll be just as big and famous as those guys. Oh! And I have just the thing to remind us.” She squeezed past piles of tools and shuffled through an envelope of papers by her bed until she found a photograph she’d clipped from the newspaper weeks ago.
The picture had originally shown Alexander Graham Bell and Thomas Edison shaking hands with other Guildsmen lined up behind them. But Molly had drawn a picture of her mother over Edison, Cassandra’s long black dress and high-piled bun neatly covering up Edison’s checkered suit and derby. Molly had sketched her mother into that scene because Cassandra Pepper deserved to be in these news articles as much as any Guildsman.
She’d also drawn an eye patch and pirate hat on Bell, because why not?
Molly used her last bit of gum to stick this creatively altered photo in the window, where it was illuminated by the afternoon sun. “Eight days, Mother.” Molly grabbed two cans of paint. “Eight days and you will upstage all of them.”
And then, Molly added to herself, we can stop living pickle-to-pickle and start changing the world.
2
Dreams Take Flight
MOLLY HADN’T ALWAYS been her mother’s assistant. There was a time when her father, Nathaniel Pepper, had been Cassandra’s right hand, her biggest supporter—and all while on his way to becoming the Pickle King of New York City. People from all over the neighborhood would stop by Pepper’s Pickles not just for a jar of Hungarian Half-Sours, but also for a laugh or an “Oho!” or a “You don’t say!” because Nathaniel Pepper was a man who knew how to tell a good story.
But that was before the tuberculosis. Before the sallow cheeks, the coughing jags, the customers who refused to make eye contact even as they apologized for taking their business elsewhere. It was before the rain-soaked funeral, at which Molly angrily counted the mourners and decided there weren’t nearly enough.
Afterward, Molly did what she could to ease the burden on her mother. She told herself not to be sad as Cassandra sold her beloved clamps and wrenches at the pawnshop, and not to be scared as her only remaining parent stood night after night in their apartment doorway arguing with black-suited bank men. She taught herself to cook beans and eggs, and to fall asleep without hearing the next chapter of her bedtime book. She swept and straightened, and made a corny pun whenever she saw the telltale glint of a teardrop in her mother’s eye. But eventually, the Peppers had to admit they could no longer afford rent on both an apartment and a store. That was when Molly quit school and took over business at the pickle shop. She did it because dusting and joke-telling weren’t bringing back the joyful mother she’d always loved. And because her usual As and Bs had already begun turning into distracted Cs and Ds. But mostly, she did it because she vividly remembered the night, many years earlier, when Nathaniel Pepper had promised his beloved Cassandra she would never have to give up on her dream—and Molly refused to let her father become a liar.
Tired, sweaty, and just a tad dizzy from the paint fumes, Molly dipped a thin brush into the royal blue and raised it to the bow of the boat. She paused. “Before I do this,” she said gently, “are we a hundred percent sure about the name?”
“Icarus Chariot?” Cassandra asked, accidentally drawing a purple stream down her nose as she scratched an itch. “What’s wrong with it? In Greek mythology, Icarus was the first human to fly.”
“He was also the first human to crash,” Molly said. “Is that the connection we want people to make with your flying machine?”
Cassandra shook her head. “Our flying machine will redeem the name of Icarus. Icarus was a dreamer. He thought big, Molls. He didn’t take no for an answer.”
“And it killed him.”
“Not this time! This time, Icarus will soar. ‘Icarus’ it will be.” She stepped away to view her creation from a distance. “Although now I’m not sure about the ‘chariot’ part.”
Cassandra Pepper’s flying vehicle looked like a boat, except its “sails” stretched out horizontally to either side. Four non-matching chairs were arranged in a circle, facing outward from the mast they encircled. The front-most seat featured foot pedals, which, when cranked, powered a small combustion engine that, in turn, operated a propeller atop the mast. Once in the air, the pilot could steer the vehicle with two tall levers that raised and lowered the wings. During their demonstration tomorrow, Cassandra would be in the pilot’s chair, but Molly would get to ride in the rear seat, waving down to the gawking members of the Planning & Preparatory Committee, who would be shouting things like, “How is this brilliant woman not a member of the Guild?” and “How is she not running the Guild?” and “I bet that girl in the back deserves a lot of the credit!”
Molly finished painting ICARUS CHARIOT on the side of the vehicle and plopped her brush back into the can. Tomorrow, she’d get to experience true human flight. But for now, they had the exciting evening activity of watching paint dry. “Might as well take off the parts that aren’t wet,” Molly said. They planned to borrow the cucumber deliveryman’s wagon in the morning to haul the disassembled chariot uptown to show the committee how easily it could be put together. Molly unlocked the right wing from its casing.
“Actually, Molls,” Cassandra said with a devilish gleam in her eye. “I think you should try it out first.”
Molly stared, perplexed.
“I feel bad you weren’t there to see me make liftoff last week,” Cassandra continued. “So I want you to be our pilot for the committee tomorrow.”
Molly didn’t know what to say. Her mother never let her do any of the important stuff. “Wow, um, thank you. But . . . I don’t think I know how.”
“You’ve heard me talk it out a gazillion times. It’s easy,” Cassandra scoffed. “Give it a try now. Don’t look at me like that—not through the roof or anything! Just a few inches, so you know you can get it off the ground.”
On the one hand, this sounded to Molly like a wholly inadvisable idea, but on the other hand—flying machine! She flashed a licorice-blackened smile at her mother and leapt into the pilot’s seat. Not having inherited her mother’s height, she had to stretch a bit to reach the pedals, but she was ready. And then came a knock at the door.
Cassandra scurried to toss a tarp over the Icarus Chariot, while Molly, grumbling, hopped down and opened the door a crack. “We’re closed,” she said to the stumpy man outside.
“But it’s only 6:20,” the man said, checking his pocket watch. “And the sign says—”
Molly grabbed her paintbrush, reached her arm outside, and slapped a swath of blue across the posted business hours.
“Says nothing,” she said.
The man frowned. “But I want some pickles.”
Molly turned to Cassandra. “Pickle me!”
Cassandra plucked three fat dills from a jar and tossed them across the room to Molly. She caught two of them.
“Here.” Molly shoved the wet pickles into the man’s hand. “Five cents.”
“Is there . . . something I can put them in?”
“Try your mouth. That’s what most people do.” Molly plucked a nickel from the man’s coin purse and slammed the door. She then opened it again and added, “Thank you, don’t forget Pepper’s for all your pickle needs!”
“Hurry, Molls,” urged her mother. “I want to see you do this!”
Molly climbed onto the chariot just in time for another knock. “Aargh!”
“Stay, dear,” said Cassandra. She cracked the door.
“Hello,” said a man’s voice. “I thought you were closed, but then I saw that man get—”
Cassandra picked up the pickle her daughter had missed, slapped it into the man’s hand, and opened her palm for payment. “You, pickle. Me, nickel.”
“Um . . . but,” the man stammered. “This isn’t what I want—”
“Keep it, it was on the floor anyway.” Cassandra slammed the door and turned back to Molly. “Okay, pedal fast! Because apparently all of Manhattan has chosen this very moment to have a pickle craving.”
Molly pumped her legs until she heard the pop and rumble of the engine kicking over.
“Faster, Molls, faster!”
Molly pedaled harder. Puffs of smoke sputtered behind her as the rotor began spinning rapidly. Soon, a breeze was stirred up within the store. The vehicle began to feel unsteady beneath her—was she rising? She pushed harder and the breeze became a genuine wind. The pages of newsprint on the windows began to flutter, and several tore free, leaving open spots through which the street was visible. Molly panicked. She was using her mother’s top secret invention in clear view of everyone. In her underwear.
“Shut it down, Molls!” Cassandra grasped frantically at flying papers. “Pedal backward!”
But Molly’s feet slipped from the pedals and the motor continued to churn. Trying to regain her footing, she grabbed the tall levers to her sides—and both wings flapped upward. The right wing—which Molly had unlatched—flew off completely. Twelve feet of wooden pole and stretched canvas crashed behind the counter, spilling a whole line of pickle jars. Molly finally managed to pedal backward and the whirring engine wound down.
All was silent, save the plip-plip of dripping brine. “Well,” Cassandra eventually said, “I would call that a semi-successful test run.”
“Semi-successful?” Molly sputtered. Her mother’s optimism only frustrated her further. To Molly, this was a full-fledged disaster. And it was her full-fledged fault. She was never meant to be an inventor’s assistant. She didn’t feel at ease with machines the way her mother did; carpentry and engineering didn’t come naturally to her. Her mother deserved better.
“Well, you know how to work the pedals,” Cassandra said, mopping up pickle juice with handfuls of newspaper.
“Mother, I didn’t properly re-clamp the wing, and now look! We’ll lose hours cleaning up this mess, I’ve got to re-cover the windows, the paint’s already scuffed, the wing looks broken, and we’ve only got till tomorrow! How could this get any—” There was a knock at the door. “Flaming flapjacks!” Molly leapt from the lopsided aircraft and threw open the door. “We’re closed!”
The postman, quivering slightly, passed a handful of mail to the red-faced girl. Molly slammed the door, then reopened it. “Thank you, don’t forget pickles for all your Pepper needs!”
She flipped through the envelopes. A bill from the cucumber farm, a bill from the salt deliveryman, a bill from the glassblower for the jars Molly had just broken. And one letter in a glossy envelope sealed with a globe-shaped wax stamp.
“It’s from the World’s Fair Committee!” Molly shouted. She tore open the envelope and ran to join her mother in a vinegary puddle behind the counter.
Dear Mrs. Nathaniel Pepper,
This letter is to inform you there is no need to visit our offices tomorrow for a demonstration of your “work.” The Inventors’ Guild has reclaimed the exhibition space for which you intended to be considered.
Cordially yours,
Ulysses S. Grant
Chairman, World’s Fair Planning & Preparatory Committee
“Oh my,” Cassandra said. “That’s . . . the president’s autograph!”
Molly shot her mother an incredulous glare.
“Okay, former president,” Cassandra said.
“Mother,” Molly said sharply. “Have you read the letter?”
“Not yet. I always read the signature first so I know what kind of voice to use in my head.” Cassandra scanned the body of the note. “Why? Is it— What! Unbelievable! Unfair! Un . . . Un . . . Un-everything!”
“They can’t do this to you!” Molly returned. She marched around the messy store, her cheeks hot and her fists clenched. “They promised you a chance, and now they’re not even going to look at your inventions? They can’t get away with that!”
She expected her mother to join in, but Cassandra only took a seat on the edge of the Icarus Chariot and put her head in her hands. Oh, no, Molly thought. Her mother was going back to the Dark, Sad Place.
“Mother, we won’t stand for this,” she said.
“That’s why I’m sitting.” Cassandra looked up at her daughter and sighed. “I had so much celebrating planned for us. I was going to take you for ice-cream floats. And chocolates. And maybe some of that corn candy you were mentioning.”
“Candy corn.”
“Sure, that too. And books, Molls. I was going to take you to Zimiles Booksellers and let you pick out as many books as we could afford with all that money we were going to make.” She looked up. “I was going to buy us tickets to that show with that Italian actor you’re always mentioning.”
“Sergio Vittorini?” Molly asked with a flicker of hope, as if it might still actually happen. “The Man of a Thousand and Twelve Faces?”
“That’s the one,” Cassandra said. “A thousand and twelve faces. It’s very impressive. Though oddly specific. Oh, and you and I were going to go to the Brooklyn Bridge parade!”
For her entire life, Molly had watched the massive bridge come into being, marveling as—bit by bit, over months and years—immense granite towers rose up from the swells of the East River and steel-cable webs were stretched from the shores of Manhattan to the neighboring city of Brooklyn. In two days, the bridge was finally going to be opened to the public with a gala ceremony that included fireworks and a parade led by President Chester A. Arthur (whose fabulous winglike sideburns were among Molly’s favorite things ever).
Cassandra’s head dropped again. “Oh, Molls. I thought I’d be able to do all those things, because I thought I was finally going to get my chance. All I’ve ever needed was a chance.”
“The fireworks are free,” Molly said as a silver lining. “We can still see those.” She sat down next to her mother on the side of the Icarus. The whole vehicle tipped over. “I guess I’ll get the mop,” she said, and pulled herself from a pool of blue paint on the floor.
3
Great Moments in Bad Ideas
MOLLY WATCHED HER mother mournfully toss the detachable parts of her flying machine into a pile and then struggle back into her long, stifling dress (because, as Cassandra said, “What’s the sense of staying in your undergarments when there’s no work to do?”). But they’d bounced back from defeats before. Cassandra’s entire career was one long list of rejections: the manager at Haughwout’s Fashionable Emporium who insisted—without a demonstration—that no one would buy her Bread Loaf Slice-ifier; the registrar at Columbia College who laughed away the mere thought of her attending an engineering class; the dozens of clerks at Inventors’ Guild Hall who pointed her to the door the moment she said she wasn’t there for a tour. Yet she never stopped creating.
“Why do you do it, Mother? Your inventions?”
Cassandra, slumped at her worktable, shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” Molly said sternly.
“Then why are you asking me?”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Cassandra huffed. “Because we’re living in the Age of Invention,” she said flatly, reciting the line like a bored child forced to memorize a poem for school. “A time of progress and innovation, where any one person’s blip of ingenuity may be the spark that changes the world.” She sat up, passion returning to her voice. “Yet half the population is too busy dusting windowsills and boi
ling roasts and wiping baby bottoms to devote more than a few seconds to anything creative. I have been blessed with a family that has given me time, and I will use it to pass on that gift to others, to create time-sparing devices that provide the nation’s housekeepers and child-minders and such with the ability to exercise their own inventiveness. That is how I will change the world.”
Cassandra stood up, hand on her heart, and Molly applauded.
“Excellent speech, Mother. Very inspiring! Although I’m pretty sure people don’t boil roasts—that’s why they’re called roasts. Not boils.”
“And that is why you’re the cook in the family,” Cassandra replied.
Molly might not be the world’s best inventor’s assistant, but world’s best daughter? That was something she could aim for. “Peppers never quit. Father always said it, you always used to say it, let’s not forget it.” She began squeezing back into her button-down frock. “So, what’s our next step? Do you think we have any hope of changing the Planning Committee’s mind?”
“Not if it means going up against the Guild,” Cassandra said. “They’re the real mayors of this town. What the Guild wants, the Guild gets.”
“But why does the Guild even want that exhibition spot?”
“Who knows? I can’t imagine that man in the shellac has recovered well enough in one day. Maybe they’re giving Edison two spots.”
Molly looked at the few newspaper pages still dangling from gooey strands in the window. “Everything the Guild does is big news,” she said, an idea striking her. “Let’s see what the Sun can tell us.” She wrapped a pickle in wax paper and ran outside.
“You’d better hurry,” Cassandra called to her. “I’m pretty sure it’s beginning to set.”
“Not the sun I was talking about,” Molly shouted back. “But I’m gonna hurry anyway!”
Molly was hit by the thickness of the air the moment she stepped outside. The stench of horse manure wasn’t as strong as usual—a sign that the city had been working to clean its streets before the World’s Fair. But what the air lacked in animal stink, it made up for in human body odor. Many tourists had arrived in advance of the Fair to attend the Brooklyn Bridge ceremony. Molly rushed through the crowds and rounded the corner onto Bleecker Street, where a stocky kid in a newsboy cap was stepping down from an apple crate and shoving a small stack of papers under his arm.
A Dastardly Plot Page 2