longer.
“He’s just here on some business,” I reassured her. “Something to do with the exposition, probably.” We heard the parlor door close.
“But since Mother died, no one comes to see us, except our family, like you.” Silently I blessed her for calling me family.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Everything’s all right.”
“No, it’s not! We’re in mourning. No one is supposed to come here.” She began to wring her hands together, her knuckles reddening with the pressure. Tenderly I separated her hands by taking them within my own. I couldn’t understand why she was so upset.
“That’s absurd.”
Grace flinched at the sound of her father’s voice raised in anger. Now I remembered Karl Speyer’s name. He was one of the engineer heroes of the power station. Working for the Westinghouse company, headquartered in Pittsburgh, he designed the turbines and generators used in the powerhouses. He was among the men extolled in the newspapers for genius and courage in the harnessing of Niagara.
“Don’t threaten me, Speyer.”
Tom was hesitant and shy no more. All at once, for the first time since I’d met him, I caught a glimmer of another side of him entirely; a side kept out of the drawing rooms and libraries of his private life, the side that must have filled his work life each day, to bring him from where he’d been to where he was now.
Speyer’s voice in response was deep, his words muffled.
“Do you know what they’re talking about?” Grace asked, calmer now.
“No, I don’t.”
“I do,” she said carefully.
“Really? What?”
She gave me a sly smile that I didn’t like. It made her look older than her years. “They’re talking about electricity. About how much electricity—”
“God damn it, Speyer.”
She paused, as if waiting for an echo, and then continued, dreamily, “Sometimes Mama and Papa would fight about electricity. I’d listen to them, just like I’m listening now. Except I’d be in my bedroom and they’d be in the library. Sometimes I’d put my ear to the floor, so I could hear them better. Sometimes Mama would cry.”
I didn’t know that Margaret and Tom fought about Tom’s business. Although I realized I was being foolish, I felt hurt that Margaret had never shared this secret with me. Because of my jealousy, I spoke too hurriedly. “Grace, when people are married they often have disagreements about things. Then they talk about them, and sometimes even cry, and soon they understand each other better. They reach a compromise.”
“You’re wrong. My parents only ever had fights about electricity, and they never made a ‘compromise.’” She dismissed the long word even as she showed pride in being able to use it.
“Electricity seems like an odd thing to fight about.” I was torn, because I wasn’t certain I believed her—especially because Margaret had never mentioned such disagreements to me. Did people really fight about electricity? After a moment’s reflection, the notion seemed absurd. Nonetheless, I wanted to reassure Grace; to find a way to comfort her. “Didn’t your mother want to electrify the house?” I asked gently.
“It wasn’t that. Mama thought Papa was trying to take too much water from Niagara Falls. ‘You won’t be happy until we’re picnicking on the precipice,’ she used to say.” Grace’s imitation of Margaret’s voice was uncanny, even though I’d never heard Margaret speak such a phrase. “I always think about that, because the words make something I learned at school: ‘picnicking on the precipice.’ That’s called—” She glanced at me for help.
“Alliteration.”
“Yes! Alliteration. ‘Picnicking on the precipice.’” She seemed unduly pleased with herself, and I must confess to a touch of anger—the same kind of anger Millicent Talbert must have felt when Grace began to throw snowballs immediately after threatening to kill herself.
The anger led me to a blunder.
“Grace, when people
“He’s just here on some business,” I reassured her. “Something to do with the exposition, probably.” We heard the parlor door close.
“But since Mother died, no one comes to see us, except our family, like you.” Silently I blessed her for calling me family.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Everything’s all right.”
“No, it’s not! We’re in mourning. No one is supposed to come here.” She began to wring her hands together, her knuckles reddening with the pressure. Tenderly I separated her hands by taking them within my own. I couldn’t understand why she was so upset.
“That’s absurd.”
Grace flinched at the sound of her father’s voice raised in anger. Now I remembered Karl Speyer’s name. He was one of the engineer heroes of the power station. Working for the Westinghouse company, headquartered in Pittsburgh, he designed the turbines and generators used in the powerhouses. He was among the men extolled in the newspapers for genius and courage in the harnessing of Niagara.
“Don’t threaten me, Speyer.”
Tom was hesitant and shy no more. All at once, for the first time since I’d met him, I caught a glimmer of another side of him entirely; a side kept out of the drawing rooms and libraries of his private life, the side that must have filled his work life each day, to bring him from where he’d been to where he was now.
Speyer’s voice in response was deep, his words muffled.
“Do you know what they’re talking about?” Grace asked, calmer now.
“No, I don’t.”
“I do,” she said carefully.
“Really? What?”
She gave me a sly smile that I didn’t like. It made her look older than her years. “They’re talking about electricity. About how much electricity—”
“God damn it, Speyer.”
She paused, as if waiting for an echo, and then continued, dreamily, “Sometimes Mama and Papa would fight about electricity. I’d listen to them, just like I’m listening now. Except I’d be in my bedroom and they’d be in the library. Sometimes I’d put my ear to the floor, so I could hear them better. Sometimes Mama would cry.”
I didn’t know that Margaret and Tom fought about Tom’s business. Although I realized I was being foolish, I felt hurt that Margaret had never shared this secret with me. Because of my jealousy, I spoke too hurriedly. “Grace, when people are married they often have disagreements about things. Then they talk about them, and sometimes even cry, and soon they understand each other better. They reach a compromise.”
“You’re wrong. My parents only ever had fights about electricity, and they never made a ‘compromise.’” She dismissed the long word even as she showed pride in being able to use it.
“Electricity seems like an odd thing to fight about.” I was torn, because I wasn’t certain I believed her—especially because Margaret had never mentioned such disagreements to me. Did people really fight about electricity? After a moment’s reflection, the notion seemed absurd. Nonetheless, I wanted to reassure Grace; to find a way to comfort her. “Didn’t your mother want to electrify the house?” I asked gently.
“It wasn’t that. Mama thought Papa was trying to take too much water from Niagara Falls. ‘You won’t be happy until we’re picnicking on the precipice,’ she used to say.” Grace’s imitation of Margaret’s voice was uncanny, even though I’d never heard Margaret speak such a phrase. “I always think about that, because the words make something I learned at school: ‘picnicking on the precipice.’ That’s called—” She glanced at me for help.
“Alliteration.”
“Yes! Alliteration. ‘Picnicking on the precipice.’” She seemed unduly pleased with herself, and I must confess to a touch of anger—the same kind of anger Millicent Talbert must have felt when Grace began to throw snowballs immediately after threatening to kill herself.
The anger led me to a blunder.
“Grace, when people
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