Bicycle Built for Two (4 page)

“That looks sort of funny, Kate, that black
band.”

Kate turned to grin at Stephanie Margolis,
one of the legion of women hired to sweep up and mop out the
exhibits on a daily basis. “I know it, but it’s better than
black-and-blue marks.”

Stephanie didn’t grin back. “I’m awful sorry
about what happened, Kate. If you need any help, you just come to
me, all right?”

Touched by the offer of generosity from a
woman in Kate’s own low station in life, Kate nevertheless gave
Stephanie the response to offers of help that had become natural to
her. “Thanks, Stephanie, but I’ll be all right. And so will
Ma.”

The older woman smiled at last. “I’m sure
you will. You have heart, Kate, and that’s the important
thing.”

“Thanks, Stephanie.”

Stephanie moved on, plying her broom, and
Kate adjusted the black ribbon, trying to make the velvet strip
cover all the bruises. She gave an internal snort. Why was it, she
wondered, that poor folks like dear old Stephanie offered to help,
and rich folks, like that ass Alex English, offered to kick her in
the butt? “It’s the way of the world,” she muttered.

Giving up on adjusting her black
ribbon—maybe nobody would notice the bruises peeking out from
behind it—she picked up her cymbals and fitted them onto her
fingers. She clanged them during her dance whenever she remembered
to do so.

No expert in the art of the so-called
“genuine native muscle dance,” Kate nevertheless knew how to
perform when she had to. She’d watched Little Egypt often enough,
and practiced long enough, that nobody else knew she was a faker.
They might suspect something this evening, however. She frowned at
her reflection and again fingered the black band. The lights were
dim when she danced. Maybe nobody would notice the bruises.

As a rule, Kate wore a short, strapped top
with beads and tassels dangling therefrom, along with a gauzy skirt
that was split up the side to reveal her left leg—shocking,
that—which was encased in black stockinette ending just above her
knee. Thus, people could occasionally catch a glimpse of her naked
upper thigh if they stared hard enough. She figured they were even
more titillated by the white garters she tied about her thigh to
keep her stockings up. They’d be a darned sight more titillated if
she danced as she’d heard real Egyptian ladies did: Barefoot and
bare-legged. That would call the Purity League down on the fair in
a heartbeat. Alex English would never hear of it. She sniffed at
the thought of the stuffy Alex.

She’d unbraided her hair, and it now waved
over her shoulders, as formerly braided hair will do when left to
its own devices. She wore a metal head ornament that reminded her
of chain mail and that covered the top of her head. Dangly
ornaments depended from the chain mail and jangled around and
banged against her forehead when she was particularly energetic,
which she tried not to be because it hurt to be banged by bangles.
The head piece was so outre as to divert people from her blue
eyes.

Little Egypt herself, who was actually
Syrian and whose real name was Fahreda Mahzar, had once told Kate
in an accent so thick Kate could hardly understand her, that nobody
paid attention to a girl’s face when she was dancing. Kate, who
chose her alliances carefully, believed her.

The saving grace of the outrageous costume,
to her mind, was the sheer scarf she waved around as she danced. It
was probably a provocative item of drape, but Kate used it more to
cover her assets than to reveal them. She was sure Alex English
wouldn’t agree. But, then, he was too proper, too much of a
decorous gentleman, too much a blasted snob, to visit her
performance. Drat the man.

She wished she could stop thinking about
him, but he worried her. A lot.

Alex English, however, was neither here nor
there. She had to prepare for her act, and that dratted black
velvet band around her neck looked stupid. “Oh, who cares?” she
said at last. Better an article of clothing that looked out of
place than a series of black-and-blue finger marks. Besides, she
was pretty sure none of her American dance-watchers would know an
Egyptian costume from one from outer Mongolia or even Mars.

Turning, she picked up her scarf, a pretty
peacock-blue number that shimmered like fish scales in the
electrical lights. The whole effect of her clad as she was, when
combined with those weird bagpipes and drums of the native
musicians, was exotic, to say the least.

The peculiar wailing of the Egyptian music
had irked Kate when she’d first heard it, but she was becoming used
to it. She’d learned, much to her sorrow, that a person could get
used to darned near anything if her livelihood depended on it.
Therefore, she walked from the dressing room to the stage and
waited behind the curtain, tipping winks and grins to the people
working behind the scenes. They all liked her. Kate had made sure
of it.

The bagpipes which, Kate had been told, were
made of goats’ bladders, at last squealed out a familiar tune, the
drummers started whacking on their drums, and Kate took a deep
breath. She was always nervous before she danced, although the
state didn’t last long. Her cue came rattling at her on a drumbeat,
and she whirled out on stage, making sure her scarf did its duty.
Thunderous applause greeted her. Kate didn’t take it personally.
The fools all probably thought she was Little Egypt herself instead
of Little Egypt’s American stand-in.

Kate danced her heart out, as she did every
evening, and left the stage as she’d arrived upon it, in a whirl of
peacock-blue scarf to the sound of cheers and claps and funny,
squealy, Egyptian music. “Phew!” She winked at one of the drummers,
who grinned back at her.

At first, she knew, she’d shocked these men
who took their art so seriously with her free-and-easy ways. Those
guys didn’t know they were from a backward nation. All they knew
was that they were sharing with interested American persons their
culture, which they loved every bit as much as any American loved
his. Kate identified with them strangely. Often she felt as though
she were participating in an American culture with which she had
little, if anything, in common.

She went to the dressing room and took a
glass of water because dancing made her thirsty. She danced twice
on a typical evening, in order to give Little Egypt the opportunity
to have a little supper. Or a lot of supper. Little Egypt was a
meaty dish. She was a lot meatier than Kate, but nobody watching
seemed to mind.

By the time she’d told fortunes all day and
danced half the night away, Kate was always tired. After her second
performance this evening, she was particularly worn out, probably
because of her ordeal the day before and her constant, nagging fear
for her mother’s health. Not to mention the possibility that her
only source of income might be cut off at the whim of that idiot
Alex English. She washed every smidgeon of makeup off and gladly
exchanged her costume and dancing shoes for more comfortable
garb.

Clad in a dark skirt and jacket, white
shirtwaist, and neatly tied ascot, she left the Egyptian Pavilion.
She’d knotted her hair up and plopped a hat on top of it, and
looked like neither Gypsy fortune teller nor Egyptian dancer. Thus
clad, she was seldom recognized by the public she served, which was
the whole point.

Kate was, therefore, startled, when a small
boy ran up to her and shouted, “Miss Kate Finney?”

Taken aback, she said, “Who wants to know?”
which was the question people in her neighborhood always asked
before admitting identity. After all, the person asking might
represent a bill collector or an officer of the law.

The boy said, “Jerry O’Hallahan, but I don’t
really care who you are unless you’re Kate Finney. If you’re Kate
Finney, your brother told me to give you this.” He thrust a grubby
wad of paper at Kate.

At once, Kate’s heart gave a painful spasm.
If one of her brothers was trying to get in touch with her, it
probably meant that something was wrong. Jerry O’Hallahan, the
urchin, held tight to his prize until Kate fished a penny out of
her handbag. “Here, kid. Now get lost.”

The boy saluted smartly, accustomed to such
pleasantries from the gentry, and sauntered off, whistling “Daisy
Bell,” one of the latest popular songs. With trepidation in her
heart, Kate unfolded the paper, which was damp with sweat from
Jerry’s fists.

Her heart sank like a boulder in a pond as
she read the words: “Took Ma to hospital. Come quick. Billy.” She
whispered, “Nuts,” and wished she wasn’t too tough to cry.

She very nearly shrieked when she heard a
voice come to her out of the dark.

“Miss Finney? I need to speak with you.”

Whirling around, she beheld none other than
Alex English. She frowned, sensing more trouble. “What do you
want?”

“To speak with you.” He looked grim.

His looks were nothing compared to the
savagery roiling in Kate’s own bosom. “Yeah? You got a carriage,
Mr. Rich Guy?”

He blinked, obviously surprised by this
reaction. “A—a carriage? Why, yes, but—”

“All right. I’ll talk to you. But it’s going
to be in your carriage, because you’re taking me to the hospital on
Fourth and Grand Oaks.”

Kate wasn’t surprised when Alex’s mouth
opened and closed a few times, making him look like a particularly
elegant variety of the trout family.

But he led her to his carriage, which is what
Kate needed.

# # #

Alex wasn’t quite sure how it had happened,
but not five minutes after he’d spoken to Kate Finney on the
Midway, he was directing his driver to make haste to Saint
Mildred’s Hospital. Although he told himself he didn’t really want
to know, he said, “Are you ill, Miss Finney?”

“No. I’m fine. What do you want to talk to
me about? My morals? My father’s morals? My Aunt Fanny’s
morals.”

Alex frowned. This woman was very difficult
to talk to, perhaps because she seemed to approach all
conversations as a soldier might approach a deadly battle. Her
attitude offended Alex, who had been feeling put-upon ever since
Gil McIntosh told him he was turning into a fussy old man.

“Really, Miss Finney, there’s no need for
such an attitude.”

“No?” She kept glancing nervously out the
window.

Alex got the impression of tremendous energy
trapped in Kate’s small body. He sensed that she’d like to get out
and shove traffic out of her way so that his carriage could make
better time. She was definitely worried. Deciding it might behoove
him to discover the source of her trouble before telling her his
impressions of her so-called “dance,” he muttered, “If there’s
something the matter, Miss Finney, I’d like to know what it is.
Perhaps I could help.”

That got her attention. From staring out the
carriage window, her head whipped around, and she commenced staring
at him. Her scrutiny made Alex uncomfortable even before she
spoke.

“You? Don’t make me laugh.”

After her words smote him, his discomfort
turned into ire. “Now see here, young woman, I don’t understand
your hostility. I only asked a civil question.”

“Yeah? Why do I get the impression you’re
only asking because you think you have to? Sort of a gesture, you
know? Before you kick me in the teeth, you’ll lull me into thinking
you care.”

“Now, really! There’s no call for that sort
of thing.” Why was it that every time he encountered this
woman—which, he realized, had only been twice so far—she outraged
him? What had he ever done to her that he should earn such enmity?
Well, except for questioning the propriety of her working at the
World’s Columbian Exposition.

“No?” She tilted her head and surveyed him
from top to bottom. Alex felt like squirming. He hadn’t felt like
squirming in his entire adult life, and he found the sensation
extremely unpleasant. “Listen, Mr. English, why don’t you tell me
what you want to talk about? If it’s about my father, I can’t help
you. I don’t know where he is. If I’m lucky, they’ve got him locked
up, but I’m not usually lucky.”

Good Lord. Alex had never heard anything
like this before in his whole life. He couldn’t imagine so young a
woman being so hard and cynical. “It’s not about your father. It’s
about you.”

She seemed to slump for no more than an
instant, then straightened her spine again. “Yeah? What about
me?”

Drat the woman. A person would think he was
the one at fault here, when it was she who was the one performing
salacious dances and telling fortunes. Everyone knew
fortune-tellers were no better than criminals.

“I saw your performance this evening.”

“Yeah? Pretty good, aren’t I?”

“For heaven’s sake, Miss Finney! That dance
is scandalous!”

“It’s not scandalous. It’s
Egyptian. How come you’ve never talked to Little Egypt about how
scandalous
she
is? How come you’re telling
me
I’m a hussy?”

“A hussy?” Alex felt himself flush and could
only be glad the carriage was dark inside. “I said no such
thing.”

“You thought it,” Kate said baldly. “And I’m
not.”

“Of course not.” He didn’t believe it. He
thought she was a hussy. The truth smacked him like a blow. Gil’s
accusation taunted him, and he tried to shake it off.

“Listen, Mr. English. I’m only trying to
make a living however I can. It’s not my fault I wasn’t born with a
silver spoon in my mouth, like you were—”

”Now see here—”

”Darn it, listen to me, will you? I work
hard. Very, very hard. And it’s not easy, what I do. I’m trying to
support myself and my mother, and believe me, the world isn’t kind
to women who are trying to support themselves.”

“You ought to get married. That’s what you
should do.” Alex was sure of it. Marriage and motherhood were the
roles established for women, no matter how poorly this present
example of femininity might fill the roles. Until her face set like
granite, he hadn’t believed she could look any harder.