The Ringmaster's Wife by Kristy Cambron Page B

hooted and hollered. The Ferris wheel had been halted, but still the patrons shouted in jubilation. Still others, like her, seemed concerned by the growing plume of thick smoke choking out the blue sky overhead.
    “But why are they cheering?”
    “Poor fools.” John shook his head. “They don’t know it’s real.”
    Mable glanced around and saw that he was right. The faces in the crowd weren’t painted with fear. Instead, she witnessed only a sense of gaiety. There were smiles. Laughter even. Fathers stood with children hoisted on their shoulders. Mothers cradled little ones in their arms, watching the phenomenon all along the Midway.
    “They think it’s a planned spectacle,” he said, pointing to the plume of black smoke rising above the trees. “With something as grand as all this, how could they think otherwise?”
    “But it’s not planned . . .”
    “No,” he confirmed, and took hold of her hand. His fingers laced with hers, covering her palm in unexpected warmth. “This is most certainly not a part of the show.”
    She looked from the smoke-filled sky to meet his gaze. “What do we do?”
    “It’s all right, Mable.” John kept his eyes locked with hers. “Trust me. I’ll not let go of you.”
    Mable believed him. Even as an explosion rocked the ground beneath their feet. As the crowd’s mood changed from excitement to agitation. As a strong breeze blew the pungent smell of electricity and burning wood to wash in over the lot of them—she kept her eyes fixed on his.
    “Come on,” he whispered so only she could hear, and squeezed her hand. “We’ve got to go.”
    He eased them in at a quick pace, following the throngs of people.
    The masses flowed toward the colossal Cold Storage Building. And then, in a rush, Mable’s heart lurched in her chest. The building had erupted into a tower of smoke and flames licking at the sky, painting their glorious White City in a wall of fire.
    “But the fire . . .” Her heart raced. “All the children in the crowd.”
    “I’ve been around accidents of this sort before,” he said, his voice steady and strong. “See the fire wagons? Both the Chicago companies and the World’s Fair Fire Department already have boats spraying canal water to douse the flames. They’ll have it under control in no time. Even though the crowd doesn’t seem as concerned as they should be, they’ll see to the safety of the crowds. And trust the parents to take the children in care.”
    “But they don’t know . . . They don’t think it’s real.”
    “They will soon enough.”
    Mable couldn’t decide what was more unexpected that afternoon: the sight of flames reaching up to graze the clouds, or the vision of this man who was so collected in the face of uncertainty.
    “But how do you know they’ll get things under control?” Mable searched him, her eyes taking in the depths of his.
    He seemed to want to say something, but didn’t. Just kept the strong hold to her fingertips.
    “I’d best see you back to the café,” he said, and began pulling her along with him. “You’ll be safer if you’re not in the middle of a mob of frightened onlookers.”
    Frightened onlookers? But she was one of them.
    Mable scarcely remembered the way they threaded through the crowd, sidestepping scores of fairgoers who’d gathered to watch the show from across the canal. They sped down the Midway, John leading them on with purpose. And when they reached the canal at the Café de la Marine’s etched glass doors, he bowed, thanked her, and quickly disappeared into the sea of bowler hats around them.

    It wasn’t until days later—when the smoke had faded and the building lay in charred ruins—that the fair returned to normal. The city mourned more than a dozen brave firefighters and three unfortunate fairgoers who lost their lives that day. And with every day that passed after it, Mable tried not to think about the events of that afternoon. She fought the urge to look up every time