hold sixty people each. To see them moving up there in the night air was beyond anything.
“They say the axle on that thing is forty-five footacross,” Granddad explained. “The largest single hunk of steel ever forged.” But he spoke in a hushed and strangely respectful voice.
“We ain’t a-going to ride it tonight, are we?” Buster asked. Whenever he was scared, his grammar got worse.
“I thought you was hungry,” said Granddad to spare him.
In front of a place called Old Vienna people ate out in the open. A waiter was settling us around a table when Aunt Euterpe leapt up like she’d sat on an anthill. “Girls, don’t look!” she shrieked, reaching for our eyes.
My land, I thought. Did somebody fall off the Ferris wheel? Naturally, we looked. Just across the Midway was a vast cardboard place with minarets. It was called A Street in Cairo. A big sign offered camel rides, if you can imagine wanting to do that. It was a popular spot. Throngs were going inside.
“Papa!” Aunt Euterpe said. “We can’t stay here. We must leave at once.”
Granddad hunkered down in his chair. “I don’t budge till I bin fed and watered.” But now he too was looking over at A Street in Cairo. “Is this where that girl called Little Egypt does her dance?” he inquired.
Aunt Euterpe crumpled. A musical clatter of bells wafted across the Midway. Four women wearing veils far thinner than Aunt Euterpe’s—and very little else—capered on a stage and did a dance like you never saw. Theyflung their hips to the four winds, and there were bells on their toes.
Aunt Euterpe was near tears, and Granddad was all eyes. “Hecka-tee,” he whispered.
* * *
We had us a good supper at the Old Vienna, though Granddad warned us not to order the bratwurst.
“Chicago’s a meat-packin’ town,” he explained, “and once in a while a workin’ man will fall into the grinder and come out as links of prime smoked sausage.”
Lottie swallowed hard.
But we made a hearty meal out of sauerbraten, sour potato salad, and vinegared cucumbers. Over our heads the terrible wheel creaked. Across the Midway dancing girls writhed like serpents. It liked to kill Aunt Euterpe, but Lottie told her, “Aunty, they’re doing Salome’s dance of the seven veils. It’s from the Bible. Eat your supper.”
In time Aunt Euterpe licked her platter clean like she couldn’t remember her last square meal. Maybe she couldn’t. We all ate like thrashers, Granddad missing his mouth several times from watching the dancers.
They didn’t let Little Egypt out on the stage. To see her dance, you had to pay and go inside. They charged you every time you turned around at the fair. They just about charged you to breathe.
We hadn’t eaten this late in our lives, and we were full to the gills when we left Old Vienna. The Midway wasseven-eighths of a mile long, and we’d only traversed half of it. The crowds swept us along by a big pink-lit structure called The Columbian Theater.
Buster bounced and pointed up. “Granddad! You brought Lillian!”
To our wondering eyes a big sign over the theater spelled out in electric bulbs:
I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t beyond Granddad to bring his horse to Chicago. He’d brought Tip. But nobody would call Granddad’s old gray mare the toast of America. Aunt Euterpe snatched at Lottie and me.
Granddad stared open-mouthed up at the sign. Over the din of the crowd I could swear I heard him whisper, “My prayers is answered.”
We got it sorted out. Lillian Russell—the real one—was a woman, an actress. Admiring her, Granddad had named his horse for her. It was the kind of thing he’d do.
“Papa!” Aunt Euterpe barked. “Don’t think of taking these children to see that woman!” Aunt Euterpe’s patience hung by a thread.
Granddad rounded on her. “Would it mark ’em forlife to see the prettiest gal and the sweetest singer in the United States?”
“She paints her face!” Aunt Euterpe
“They say the axle on that thing is forty-five footacross,” Granddad explained. “The largest single hunk of steel ever forged.” But he spoke in a hushed and strangely respectful voice.
“We ain’t a-going to ride it tonight, are we?” Buster asked. Whenever he was scared, his grammar got worse.
“I thought you was hungry,” said Granddad to spare him.
In front of a place called Old Vienna people ate out in the open. A waiter was settling us around a table when Aunt Euterpe leapt up like she’d sat on an anthill. “Girls, don’t look!” she shrieked, reaching for our eyes.
My land, I thought. Did somebody fall off the Ferris wheel? Naturally, we looked. Just across the Midway was a vast cardboard place with minarets. It was called A Street in Cairo. A big sign offered camel rides, if you can imagine wanting to do that. It was a popular spot. Throngs were going inside.
“Papa!” Aunt Euterpe said. “We can’t stay here. We must leave at once.”
Granddad hunkered down in his chair. “I don’t budge till I bin fed and watered.” But now he too was looking over at A Street in Cairo. “Is this where that girl called Little Egypt does her dance?” he inquired.
Aunt Euterpe crumpled. A musical clatter of bells wafted across the Midway. Four women wearing veils far thinner than Aunt Euterpe’s—and very little else—capered on a stage and did a dance like you never saw. Theyflung their hips to the four winds, and there were bells on their toes.
Aunt Euterpe was near tears, and Granddad was all eyes. “Hecka-tee,” he whispered.
* * *
We had us a good supper at the Old Vienna, though Granddad warned us not to order the bratwurst.
“Chicago’s a meat-packin’ town,” he explained, “and once in a while a workin’ man will fall into the grinder and come out as links of prime smoked sausage.”
Lottie swallowed hard.
But we made a hearty meal out of sauerbraten, sour potato salad, and vinegared cucumbers. Over our heads the terrible wheel creaked. Across the Midway dancing girls writhed like serpents. It liked to kill Aunt Euterpe, but Lottie told her, “Aunty, they’re doing Salome’s dance of the seven veils. It’s from the Bible. Eat your supper.”
In time Aunt Euterpe licked her platter clean like she couldn’t remember her last square meal. Maybe she couldn’t. We all ate like thrashers, Granddad missing his mouth several times from watching the dancers.
They didn’t let Little Egypt out on the stage. To see her dance, you had to pay and go inside. They charged you every time you turned around at the fair. They just about charged you to breathe.
We hadn’t eaten this late in our lives, and we were full to the gills when we left Old Vienna. The Midway wasseven-eighths of a mile long, and we’d only traversed half of it. The crowds swept us along by a big pink-lit structure called The Columbian Theater.
Buster bounced and pointed up. “Granddad! You brought Lillian!”
To our wondering eyes a big sign over the theater spelled out in electric bulbs:
I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t beyond Granddad to bring his horse to Chicago. He’d brought Tip. But nobody would call Granddad’s old gray mare the toast of America. Aunt Euterpe snatched at Lottie and me.
Granddad stared open-mouthed up at the sign. Over the din of the crowd I could swear I heard him whisper, “My prayers is answered.”
We got it sorted out. Lillian Russell—the real one—was a woman, an actress. Admiring her, Granddad had named his horse for her. It was the kind of thing he’d do.
“Papa!” Aunt Euterpe barked. “Don’t think of taking these children to see that woman!” Aunt Euterpe’s patience hung by a thread.
Granddad rounded on her. “Would it mark ’em forlife to see the prettiest gal and the sweetest singer in the United States?”
“She paints her face!” Aunt Euterpe
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