by Deeanne Gist
“The problem with current sprinklers is threefold.” His voice projected confidence and conviction as he held up three fingers, then ticked off each of his concerns. “The perforated iron piping is prone to clogging from oxidation. The pipes discharge water over the entire building, which often causes more damage than the actual fire. And most important, the current sprinklers are manually activated. This means they can’t be activated at night when so many highly destructive fires occur.”
Members of the crowd murmured, nodding their heads in agreement.
“My system is completely automatic.” Removing a sprinkler head from his coat pocket, he held it aloft. “It’s a valve with deflectors and is set into operation when temperatures reach a predetermined heat level. The solder around this cap melts, then the cap falls off, exposing the diaphragm beneath it.” He pointed to a cap covering the sides and bottom of the sprinkler head. “When the diaphragm is exposed, the pressure causes it to burst, allowing water to gush out and extinguish the fire. As you can see, each sprinkler activates independently according to when the heat level is reached. So the entire building will not be deluged, only the part on fire.”
She glanced about the audience, pleased to see he had captured their full attention.
“Beside me, I have a twelve-by-twelve foot shed. Inside I have strewn the floor with a mass of chips, shavings, tallow, cask shavings, barrels, cotton, and a decrepit old loom, fully threaded.”
Her eyes widened at each subsequent mention of combustible material. How on earth would that tiny spigot put out all that?
“I’ve fitted the shed with water pipes and three of my sprinklers. Once the fire takes hold, I expect the first sprinkler to open within a minute and the entire conflagration to be extinguished within three.”
Skeptical glances were exchanged. Men swapped bills surreptitiously, making bets on the outcome. But the firemen gave one another knowing looks, as if they had no doubt the system would do just as Cullen claimed.
Still, her stomach began to tense. She wished he hadn’t made such an impossible prediction. It would have been better to light the fire, then let the sprinklers do their job in whatever amount of time they needed.
“The contents of the shed have been saturated with paraffin oil,” he continued. “Fire Marshal Murphy, chief of the Fourteenth Battalion of the Chicago fire brigade and in command here at Jackson Park, will light the shed in two places.”
Cullen stepped aside. Murphy, in a white chief’s helmet, struck a match, then tossed it and one other inside two strategically placed openings. Within seconds, huge, dense flames burst forth with a roar.
The crowd stumbled back several yards. The blaze gained complete mastery of the shed, licking its sides and sending up billows of smoke.
Heat stung Della’s face and pressed against her. Holding a handkerchief to her nose, she continued to fall back, along with everyone else. One minute passed.
The fire on one side of the shed began to falter and fade. But the other portions continued to burn. Two minutes passed. Then, three.
Cullen’s brows began to crinkle. His body tensed.
Hose men reached for the nozzle at the end of their reel. They looked to their chief.
The chief held up his hand, stalling his men.
Four minutes. Cullen turned to Murphy and gave him a nod. The brigade opened their hoses and doused the fire.
The crowd stood still and quiet.
Cullen turned to them, his face grave. “I’d like to thank Company Eight for standing at the ready for us.”
A smattering of applause. Money exchanged hands.
“As you can see, their help saved the day. I apologize. I don’t know what happened, but will do a thorough investigation and get back to you as soon as I can.” The color had all but drained from his face. “Thank you for coming.”
Amid murmuring, most of the crowd dispersed and left. A few gentlemen approached Cullen, as did the fire chief. A fireman squeezed Cullen’s shoulder, then joined his comrades as they made sure all hot spots were extinguished.
A woman stood back and to the side. Della kept her distance as well, her heart breaking for him.
CHAPTER
40
Noise bombarded Cullen from every side. The fire brigade’s shovels clinked against buckets as they scooped up the remains of his shed. Railway cars screeched to a stop on the tracks to his left. And voices layered one over the other like bricks building a wall to shut him out.
He tried to pay attention, to hear, to lip-read, but his mind whirled. What had happened? Why hadn’t his sprinklers opened?
It didn’t really matter, though. Not now. He’d failed. Again. And even if he were to do another demonstration successfully, this would be the one they’d remember.
Mr. Ferris shook his head. “I’m pzzld. The design looked as if it shld work. I’m srry it didn’t.”
Cullen concentrated on breathing in and out. “Thank you. And thank you again for those tickets.”
Another man approached. Cullen muddled through the rest of the conversations, nodding, trying to reassure people he would find and correct the problem, but he received only looks of sympathy by way of response. He may as well pack up and go home.
“Something isn’t right,” Vaughn said, leaning on his cane. “You look through the debris very carefully. Let me know what you find.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll do just that.” Cullen spotted Della hanging back. In a rush, he realized he had nothing to offer her. Not even a farm. He might as well—
“I’m sorry, McNamara.” The chief squeezed Cullen’s shoulder. “I was really hoping everything would work out.”
“Thank you for your help, sir. I’m sorry I let you down. I’ll clean this up. I know you and the boys have other things to do.”
“Nonsense. We’ll help you with it.”
“Thank you. I—” He stopped, his train of thought completely shot. For there, not thirty yards away, was Wanda all fancied up in her Sunday blue skirt and shirtwaist.
Waggling her fingers, she headed toward him.
Murphy glanced between the two. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
Cullen gawked at her. “What are you doing here?”
Cocking her head, she propped her hands on her waist. “Now is that any way to greet yer fee-on-say?”
He immediately swung his attention to Della.
She stumbled back, her eyes wide, her lips parting. She looked from him to Wanda, then back to him.
His chest squeezed. He opened his mouth to explain, but what could he say? That yes, Wanda was his fiancée, but he didn’t love her—at least not the way he loved Della? That he’d written Wanda a letter ending the engagement?
He swallowed. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not with Wanda standing right there. He respected her too much, loved her too much to act in such a thoughtless way. So he closed his mouth and said nothing.
Whirling around, Della ran past the blacksmith’s and Westinghouse Company’s offices, her hands holding up her skirts, her hat bobbing from side to side.
Die and be doomed. He looked to see if Wanda had noticed. It would have been hard to miss.
All flirtatiousness had fallen from her stance. In its place were limp arms, a stricken face, and a world of hurt. “What’s goin’ on, Cullen?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Did you get my letter?”
“The letter about ya changin’ yer mind?” Her voice rose. “The letter Thomas Hodge read to me?” She walked up and walloped him as hard as she could with her traveling bag.
The boys shoveling behind him paused for the merest second, then continued.
He stepped to the side, holding his arm out. “Is there any chance we can do this later?”
Her eyes took on a moist sheen as she drew her satchel back again.
He caught it one-handed, then yanked it free from her grasp. “What are you doing here?”
“What do ya think I’m a-doin’ here? Thomas reads me some letter about ho
w ya changed yer mind all of a sudden, outta the big blue sky. That after being together fer fifteen years, ya wanna call it quits. And yer wonderin’ what I’m doin’ here? Didn’t all them books ya read teach ya nothin’?”
“How long have you been calling Hodge by his Christian name?”
She narrowed her eyes. “How long ya been callin’ her by her Christian name?” She pointed in the direction Della had fled.
He wanted to say that was different. He was in love with Della. But now probably wasn’t the best time. “You and I haven’t been together for fifteen years.”
“I was seven when we started, and I’m two-and-twenty now.” She held up her fingers, giving them a quick count while she whispered the numbers, then jerked up her head. “Fifteen. I’m still countin’ fifteen.”
“How long since I asked you to marry me?”
“Now how am I supposed to remember that?”
His anger began to bubble. “I remember. Zero. It’s been zero years because I never asked you, did I?”
She jerked back as if she’d been slapped.
His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. This is just a bad time, is all.”
Tears filled her eyes. “Well, I’m sorry to have called at a bad time. Why don’t ya tell me when a good time is and I’ll see if I can arrange it.”
With every last ounce of control he had, he reined in his temper. “Where are you staying, Wanda?”
“I have no i-deer. I just got off the train this mornin’ and it took me all the live-long day ta find ya in this god-awful city. They wouldn’t even let me through them gates unless I paid ’em fifty cents. Fifty cents. I done told ’em you and me was gettin’ hitched and how exactly were we supposed to do that when yer in here and I’m out there. They congratulated me on our weddin’, then still made me pay.” She blew a strand of hair from her face. “Guess ya cain’t expect much more from a bunch o’ Yankees. Anyway, I figured we’d marry up now and then I’d stay with you.”
He studied her brown eyes. Eyes he knew almost as well as his own—or at least he thought he did. “Are you telling me you came all the way to Chicago alone?”
Lifting her chin, she gave her shoulders a little shake. “I shore did.”
“Do your folks know where you are?”
“I told Thomas ta tell ’em. I give him strict instructions to let me have a good six-hour start.”
Hodge. That idiot. Wait until he got his hands on that sawney.
Dragging a hand through his hair, he handed her the traveling bag and pointed to an empty orange crate. “Sit there and don’t move. I need to clean up my mess over there.”
“Cullen?”
Looking back over his shoulder, he pulled off his jacket.
“I’m sorry yer cowshed burnt down just now. I done told ya before ya left that this was a bad i-deer. Will ya come home now?”
Home. That was a laugh. He didn’t have a home anymore. Yet it wasn’t the farm or the disastrous demonstration or Wanda’s unexpected appearance that weighed most heavily on his mind. It was Della. He couldn’t imagine what she was thinking. He needed to talk to her.
But he couldn’t do that yet.
“It wasn’t a cowshed,” he said, then he folded his jacket and set it aside.
STATUE OF THE REPUBLIC WITH THE PERISTYLE IN BACKGROUND
“Passing the giant golden statue of the Republic, Della turned into the peristyle’s Roman-looking colonnade with its double rows of forty-eight columns, one for each state.”
CHAPTER
41
Della stumbled around the corner and into the Court of Honor, her throat clogged, her eyes burning. She was surrounded by a multitude of people, yet never had she felt so alone.
Tears rose like an incoming tide, but she stemmed them, having no desire to succumb here. She needed somewhere to go, though. Touring the buildings held no appeal, and it was too early to retire to the boardinghouse. Returning at this hour would produce too much curiosity in Mrs. Harvell, and she was in no mood to field questions from that quarter.
Hilda and Maxine would be at some restaurant or other, but she had no appetite and no wish to unburden herself on them. Maxine would be full of I-told-you-sos, and Hilda would be downright crushed.
The elevated railway rumbled above her. She could ride in its electric cars as they circled round the fair, but she’d have to spend twenty cents for each revolution. The gondolas promised escape, but she’d have to disembark after just one pass. The Wooded Island beckoned, but it was out of the question. She had no desire to face its benches. Its statues. Or the rose garden’s pathways occasioned by lovers.
She needed somewhere quiet, somewhere free, and somewhere that didn’t hold memories of him. Of its own volition, her body turned toward the lake. She passed people from every walk of life. A farmer jostled elbows with a banker. Both smiled and apologized. Brothers and sisters from the rural districts skipped side by side in harmony. The high and the low sat together at outdoor café tables beneath covered passageways. Uniformed waiters wove between them balancing piles of plates and glasses.
All the while, her entire world had unraveled.
She walked the length of the Grand Basin only because her legs knew what to do. Gondoliers paddled by, singing ballads to young lovers within their boats. Tuning them out, she focused on the peristyle, its center looking like the Arc de Triomphe.
Almost there, she told herself.
Passing the giant golden statue of the Republic, she turned into the peristyle’s Roman-looking colonnade with its double rows of forty-four columns, one for each state.
PERISTYLE
A young woman squatted down, tucking a young boy into her side. “Look, David. Here’s ours.”
Della didn’t read the name of the state carved at its base. She had no interest in it, nor in finding the one with Pennsylvania’s name. For she didn’t want to inadvertently see North Carolina’s.
Finally, she made it to the pier. The wind off the lake whipped her hat, lifting its brim. She forged ahead, her target in sight. The movable sidewalk traveled around and around in a stretched-out oval from one end of the pier to the other. Its rows of benches, wide enough for four people, reminded her of pews.
MOVABLE SIDEWALK
A ticket taker stopped her from approaching. “Five cents, miss.”
Digging in her chatelaine bag, she pinched a nickel between her fingers, then handed it to him. Lifting a corner of her skirt, she stepped from the stationary platform onto a slow-moving one, then from there onto a swifter one with seats. The benches weren’t crowded, and she managed to claim one all to herself.
Settling onto its wooden slats, she raised her arms, pulled the pins from her hat, then set it on her lap. A brisk breeze blew against her. She closed her eyes, allowing a sense of freedom to overtake her.
And with the freedom came her tears. Silent, quiet, unobtrusive. She made no noise, nor gave away her distress with shaking shoulders. She simply let the tears pour from beneath closed eyes.
Is that any way to greet yer fee-on-say?
The fire chief had been speaking to him, but Cullen’s attention was on the woman. Her simple navy ensemble and straw hat held a country-like charm, as did her accent.
What seared into her consciousness most, though, was Cullen’s expression when he’d turned to Della. No denial of the woman’s claims formed on his lips, only an expression of distress.
A new rush of tears added to the ones already coursing down her cheeks. He was to be married. Had, from all indications, been engaged this entire time. The thought was so repugnant, her stomach began to roil.
Eavesdropping was one of the drawbacks of lip-reading. It wasn’t something she ever did on purpose, just something that happened accidentally. She and Hilda jokingly called it “eyesdropping.” But she hadn’t had to lip-read the young woman’s pronouncement. Her voice had easily carried to Della’s ears.
Is that any way to greet yer fee-on-say?
Someone adhering to the rules wouldn’t have held her close under the guise of protectiveness. Someone adhering to the rules wouldn’t have pulled her into his lap, no matter what the circumstances. Someone adhering to the rules would have told her he was promised to someone else.
Her father was right. Men were devious creatures.
Gulls squawked, reminding her where she was. She drew in a shaky breath, allowing the smell of fish and the sound of waves to soothe her. But she kept her eyes closed, her head down.
Did his fiancée know about Cullen’s hearing? About his lessons? She began to straighten, her eyes slowly opening. Was that the real reason he hadn’t wanted anyone to know about his lip-reading? Because his fiancée might find out?
The sun began to set, putting on a glorious show, but she took no joy in it. Just continued to ride round and round in a circle, always traveling but never arriving anywhere. When she finally stepped off the machine, darkness had long since taken hold, and the emptiness inside her still loomed, pressing against her rib cage, her chest, and her heart.
She pushed back new tears welling up. Whether the woman knew about them or not, Cullen’s lessons were over. Finished. Through.
She told herself to drive him from her mind, to not give him another thought. But she knew it would be a long time before she’d be able to accomplish such a task.
COURT OF HONOR AS VIEWED FROM THE ADMINISTRATION BUILDING
CHAPTER
42