alert and alive, her arms encumbered by a baby, her aspect cheery and unguarded. The young woman’s costume is the color of blueberries and impeccably modern with its slender collar and shoulders, its complicated cuffs, each finished, Katherine notices at once, with five royal purple buttons and a crisscross of amber thread. It’s the sort of dress that Anna would have picked out for herself and paraded about in the upstairs hall, anticipating Bennett’s appreciating eye, demanding Katherine’s. The sort of dressthat Katherine herself would never choose, for it requires an innate confidence in one’s own beauty.
“God-awful organ,” the young woman proclaims, as if this were any other day, as if Katherine were not in the high ascent of her own final act, and Katherine nods. “Lottie’s certainly had her fill.” A little out of breath, the color high in her cheeks, the young woman swivels the baby so that Katherine can see the plump face, the ruffled lavender gown. The child has her whole fist pumped into her toothless mouth, the other hand twisted about the young woman’s thick-chained necklace. She has no bonnet on her head, only whorls of soft brown hair. The baby is six months old, Katherine guesses. Maybe nine.
“Yours?” Katherine asks feebly, her mouth dry, her head fizzy. She casts her eyes out over the floor, and sees Bennett caught in the clot of people who have come to see the telegraphs work. He is watching her. He is snagged.
“Heavens, no,” says the young woman. “My niece. My sister’s down there somewhere, lost in Brazil, I imagine. Or Italy. I came up here to scout her out. Lottie thinks it’s time for us to find her mother. Don’t you, Lottie?”
Lottie’s eyes go bigger. The fist remains plunked down in the wet grotto of her mouth.
“Bird’s-eye view from up here,” Katherine says.
“Something like that. I’m Laura, by the way.” She tips forward, for she has no free hand to extend.
“And I’m Katherine.”
“You’re from here? A Philadelphian?”
Katherine nods. “All my life.”
“So you belong here. We’re in from Iowa. Iowa,” Laura repeats, rolling her eyes. “It’s our last night here. Just my sister and me and her daughter. She left her husband at home. Which is good for all of us.”
Laura laughs, and when she does, Lottie drags her fist out of the
O
of her mouth, surprising herself with the whopping, sucking sound.
How close is Bennett?
Katherine wonders.
How far?
Laura turns the baby again and positions her high on her left shoulder, then rotates herself and leans out rather precariously over the rail, scanning the floor below.
Fearless
, Katherine thinks,
like Anna. Alive
. “I wonder where she’s gone to,” she says. “My sister, I mean.”
Katherine turns and peers out, too, over the exhibits, the crowds, the spaces in between—leans far out, like a less cautious person would, and the truth is, she does not see Bennett; the crowd has consumed him. Strange, she thinks, and she doubts herself, doubts the tricks her own mind has played on her since Anna’s dying—the in-and-out of the past, the relentless remorse.
“Look at that bright red hat,” Laura says now. “The one with all the feathers.” Katherine scans the crowd and stops her eyes at the music stand, where five or six women inwheeled chairs have rolled in and a whole phalanx of people press behind. A mass of Chinese men have appeared at the front, their strange hats and black hair stirring a slight commotion, but the biggest commotion arises from the tower of red on the head of a woman who seems, from this distance, to stand some six feet tall.
“I could use a sarsaparilla soda water,” Laura sighs. “I think I’ll miss those most when I’m gone. Not the technology, but the fizz.” She closes her eyes and smiles, as if conjuring the sweet drink. “I will not, however, miss the oysters,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Do you chew them, or just let them slide?”
“God-awful organ,” the young woman proclaims, as if this were any other day, as if Katherine were not in the high ascent of her own final act, and Katherine nods. “Lottie’s certainly had her fill.” A little out of breath, the color high in her cheeks, the young woman swivels the baby so that Katherine can see the plump face, the ruffled lavender gown. The child has her whole fist pumped into her toothless mouth, the other hand twisted about the young woman’s thick-chained necklace. She has no bonnet on her head, only whorls of soft brown hair. The baby is six months old, Katherine guesses. Maybe nine.
“Yours?” Katherine asks feebly, her mouth dry, her head fizzy. She casts her eyes out over the floor, and sees Bennett caught in the clot of people who have come to see the telegraphs work. He is watching her. He is snagged.
“Heavens, no,” says the young woman. “My niece. My sister’s down there somewhere, lost in Brazil, I imagine. Or Italy. I came up here to scout her out. Lottie thinks it’s time for us to find her mother. Don’t you, Lottie?”
Lottie’s eyes go bigger. The fist remains plunked down in the wet grotto of her mouth.
“Bird’s-eye view from up here,” Katherine says.
“Something like that. I’m Laura, by the way.” She tips forward, for she has no free hand to extend.
“And I’m Katherine.”
“You’re from here? A Philadelphian?”
Katherine nods. “All my life.”
“So you belong here. We’re in from Iowa. Iowa,” Laura repeats, rolling her eyes. “It’s our last night here. Just my sister and me and her daughter. She left her husband at home. Which is good for all of us.”
Laura laughs, and when she does, Lottie drags her fist out of the
O
of her mouth, surprising herself with the whopping, sucking sound.
How close is Bennett?
Katherine wonders.
How far?
Laura turns the baby again and positions her high on her left shoulder, then rotates herself and leans out rather precariously over the rail, scanning the floor below.
Fearless
, Katherine thinks,
like Anna. Alive
. “I wonder where she’s gone to,” she says. “My sister, I mean.”
Katherine turns and peers out, too, over the exhibits, the crowds, the spaces in between—leans far out, like a less cautious person would, and the truth is, she does not see Bennett; the crowd has consumed him. Strange, she thinks, and she doubts herself, doubts the tricks her own mind has played on her since Anna’s dying—the in-and-out of the past, the relentless remorse.
“Look at that bright red hat,” Laura says now. “The one with all the feathers.” Katherine scans the crowd and stops her eyes at the music stand, where five or six women inwheeled chairs have rolled in and a whole phalanx of people press behind. A mass of Chinese men have appeared at the front, their strange hats and black hair stirring a slight commotion, but the biggest commotion arises from the tower of red on the head of a woman who seems, from this distance, to stand some six feet tall.
“I could use a sarsaparilla soda water,” Laura sighs. “I think I’ll miss those most when I’m gone. Not the technology, but the fizz.” She closes her eyes and smiles, as if conjuring the sweet drink. “I will not, however, miss the oysters,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Do you chew them, or just let them slide?”