“Told them? How?”
“I sent in an application fer ya.”
The headache that had danced along the edges of Cullen’s skull began to make inroads. “You can’t read or write well enough to do that.”
Dad shrugged. “Got me some hlp from the preacher.”
Cullen started to rub his forehead, then stopped when he encountered tender skin. “And why would you do a fool thing like that?”
“Watch yer mouth.”
“I want to know why, Dad.”
He leaned his chair back on two legs. “I found the World’s Fair ad for exhibitors underneath yer mattress last spring when I took it outside fer Alice to beat clean.”
Moisture began to collect on Cullen’s neck and hairline. “So what? The entire world’s been reading about the fair since it was awarded to Chicago in ’90.”
“The entire world ain’t hiding it under their mattress.”
“I wasn’t hiding it. I just, I don’t know, didn’t have anyplace else to put it.” Even to his own ears, his excuse sounded feeble. “Besides, I forgot all about it.”
“I looked at it again when I got hm today. Its edges are frayed and it’s been opened and closed so many times the paper is splittin’ along the creases.”
Cullen placed his arms on both sides of his bowl. “Look, Dad. I’m a farmer, just like you. Just like Granddad. And just like Great-Granddaddy before him. A little boy who mourned the loss of his mother rigged up that stupid thing.”
“A little boy who became a man overnight.”
“It’s nothing but a toy.”
“Ya spent years perfectin’ it.”
Cullen fisted his hands. “And it didn’t help one iota when I spent heaven knows how much of your harvest money installing it in the cowshed. The thing still burned straight to the ground and very nearly caught the barn on fire.”
“Ya fixed that when ya added them fusible joints.”
Cullen slammed his fist, rattling the dishware and causing Alice to start. “I’m not going to the World’s Fair, Dad. I appreciate the gesture. I know your intentions are good. But I’m not going. Especially not now. It’s the planting season, for crying out loud.”
Dad’s chair thumped to the ground. “Don’t ya thnk I know what time o’ year it is? I may not read so well, but I can sure tell the difference in the seasons.”
Closing his eyes, Cullen tried to calm himself. But his pulse was ticking, his breath was coming in spurts, and the prickles behind his eyes had turned into hammers. “You’re missing the point. I meant no insult.”
“Then at least give me enough credit to see when a fella ain’t cut out for farmin’. Look at ya. Ya can’t see in the spring. Ya can’t breathe in the summer. And ya can’t hrdly stay standing during the harvest. Never have, never will. You know it. I know it. And yer mama certainly knew it. Why do ya thnk she spent so much time givin’ you all that book learnin’? So you could hide ads under yer mattress while ya killed yourself in the cotton fields?”
Cullen surged to his feet. Dad made it to his just as fast.
Alice rapped her spoon on the table. “Sit down. Both of ya. I spent all day on this soup, and if ya don’t eat every last bit, I’m gonna make nothin’ but mush for a month of Sundays.”
A bird preparing for nightfall landed on the windowsill, pecked at the curtains, then took off with a chirp. One of the dogs out front barked, the others responding in kind.
The tension eased from Dad’s shoulders. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Alice. We’ll be glad to sit down. Cullen, tuck yer napkin in.”
He sat, stuffed his napkin in his collar, then shoveled mouthful after mouthful of the soup into his mouth. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could escape to his room. He was reading The Farmer’s Encyclopedia and had just gotten to the section on tongueless plows.
He could feel Dad’s gaze but refused to acknowledge it. Swallowing was an effort, though. He cursed himself for even saving that ad. He didn’t know why he had. He certainly didn’t expect anyone to ever find out about it.
Heat began to rise up his neck. Had Dad told Luther about the ad? Did the whole county know about it?
Dad cleared his throat. “Luther said the folks runnin’ the fair turned away all but a third o’ the applicants. That to be chosen is not only a grt honor for ya but for all o’ Mecklenburg County.”
He kept his head down. “I’m not going.”
“I’m asking ya, son. Fer me.”
Dropping his spoon in the bowl, Cullen whipped up the envelope, yanked out the letter and shook it open. He skimmed it, quickly finding what he was looking for, then held it up for his dad. “Did Luther mention exhibitors are responsible for the cost of transporting, handling, arranging, and removing their exhibits?”
“He did. He also said them fair folks weren’t chargin’ ya fer the space.”
“Even still, do you have any idea how much it will cost just to transport the equipment?”
Dad scratched his chin beneath his beard. “Seein’ as the railroad will let ya carry a hundred pounds fer free, I reckon it shouldn’t cost ya nothin’.”
“Nothing but the packing crates, the fare to and from, my room for six months, my meals for six months, a suit that fits, city boots, extraneous expenses, and who knows what else.”
Dad raised his brows. “Since ya seem to know so much about it, maybe ya oughta be tellin’ me how much it costs.”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, I do. Somewheres around three hundred dollars.”
Alice took a quick breath.
“Then why are we even discussing this?”
“Because I already paid it.”
Alice whipped her head toward Dad.
“Paid it?” Cullen’s body flashed hot, then cold. “Are you out of your mind? No. That’s, that’s . . . crazy.”
“Well, it’s all arranged. Marty down at the train station took care of it fer me.”
“Where did you even get that kind of money?” It wasn’t his business, and under normal circumstances, he’d never have had the gall to ask. But these weren’t normal circumstances.
“I had a little tucked away from when the cash was rollin’ in back in ’90 and ’91.”
“A little?” Cullen’s lungs quit working. Try as he might, only a quiver of air would go through his pipes. “That’s a whole year’s harvest,” he rasped. “It’s way too much. And you know it. Especially with cotton prices as shaky as they are right now.”
“Pshaw. We’re fine.”
Alice pushed back from the table, her expression tight, her movements jerky.
Cullen grabbed the napkin from his neck. “Well, I’m not going. You’ll have to tell them you changed your mind.”
Dad took a deep breath. “Life’s an unsure thing, son. You know that firsthand. Sometimes, ya just got to rch out and grab it, right by the tail.”
“What about the crop?”
“Dewey’s boys said they’d hire on.”
Cullen’s jaw slackened. “You’ve already asked them?”
“Ayup.”
“What about Wanda? We’re supposed to get married.”
Dad studied him. “Ya set a date?”
“Well, no, but we’re going to. And it’ll be sooner rather than later.”
Dad folded his napkin in half, then in half again. “Forever’s a long time. A few months on the front end or the back end won’t make much difference.”
“We’re not talking about a few months. We’re talking half a year. We’re talking the planting, the weeding, and half the harvesting. We’re talking clear to November.”
Dad hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. “I know how long the fair runs.”
His nostrils flared. “What if I went all the way up there and nobody wanted it?”
“Then ya can co
me on home and be a frmr. You’ll be no worse off than ya are now.”
“You’ll be three hundred dollars poorer! The economy is in a mess, and farming is as unreliable as a woman’s watch. I had no idea you even had a cushion like that. The last thing you want to do is spend it on something so frivolous.” He paused. “I can’t take it, Dad. It’s too much. I’d never forgive myself if it was all for nothing.”
“I’m gifting it to ya.”
Alice slammed a coffee pot onto the stove.
“I’m gifting it right back,” Cullen said.
Dad dragged a hand down his face. It had been a long time since the two of them butted heads.
“I know you mean well, Dad, but children are always saying stupid things. Things like, ‘I want to be a sheriff when I grow up’ or ‘I want be the president’ or”—he lowered his voice—“ ‘I want to be an inventor.’ It means nothing. It’s silly talk.”
“Not if that’s what they’re destined to be.”
Feeling all the bluster leave him, he allowed his shoulders to slump and played his final card. “I’m going deaf, Dad. Even if I managed to find investors, once they learn I can’t hear like a normal person and that I belong in an asylum, they’ll withdraw their offers.”
Alice twisted around, her face stricken, her hands crinkling her apron.
Dad’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tensed. “Yer not goin’ deaf and ya don’t belong in a madhouse. So maybe you have a lttl trouble hearing every single word a fella utters. Ya get by just fine.”
“When things are nice and quiet I do, but it’s getting worse. Especially if there are other—”
Dad held up his palm, effectively stopping him. “Madhouses are fer crazy people. There’s nothing wrong with yer think box. You’re more book smart than over half the county.”
“Nobody cares about book smarts once they find out there’s something wrong with you. Just look at Ophelia Ashford. She went blind after staring at the sun and her parents shipped her off to Blackwell’s lickety-split.”
“Miss Ashford’s parents are the ones who should be locked up, not her. But quit changing the subject. I’ve already wired them folks up in Chicago and accepted their invite. I’ve found ya a boardin’ house and paid fer yer room—nonrefundable, nontransferable. I’m not asking ya anymore. I’m telling ya. It’s why yer mother learned ya. You may be able to let all her hard work—her life’s work—go fer nothing, but I’m not.” Lifting up one hip, he pulled a ticket and a bulging envelope from his pocket, then slid them across the table. “Yer gettin’ on the Richmond & Danville in one week’s time. Yer goin’ to Chicago. Yer stayin’ at a boardin’ house called Harvell. And yer gonna give this thing a chance. The best chance it’s ever had. I’ll see ya in November.”
The anger simmering inside began to bubble again. He could not believe this. Swiping up the ticket, the money, and the letter, he stood. “Fine. I’ll go. And I’ll fail, like I always do. Then I’ll come back and we can put this thing to bed once and for all.”
We hope you enjoyed this excerpt of It Happened at the Fair by Deeanne Gist.
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It Happened at the Fair
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With over half a million books sold, Deeanne Gist has rocketed up bestseller lists and garnered rave reviews with her very fun, very original historical and contemporary novels. Add to this four RITA nominations, two consecutive Christy Awards, and a growing loyal fan base, and you’ve got one recipe for success. Deeanne has a background in education and journalism and a degree from Texas A&M. Her credits include People, Parents, and Parenting magazines. She lives in Houston, Texas, with her husband of thirty years, and has four grown children.
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ISBN: 978-1-4767-2656-4
Deeanne Gist, Tempest in the White City
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