Coming Up Roses (14 page)

“
They call it sashimi. I’m not sure
it’s altogether raw. I guess they treat it somehow. They eat a lot
of rice in Japan, too.”

“
Oh, sort of like they do in China?” At
least she knew that much.

“
Right. Rice is a staple for a lot of
countries.”

What was a
staple
? Mud puddles. Here was another word for
Annie, Rose guessed. In spite of her resolve not to, she felt
stupid. She only nodded as they walked up to a lovely
building.

“
I suppose we should have gone to the
Moorish palace after that lunch, but I thought you’d be interested
in Japan. They have lots of earthquakes there, and volcanoes.
There’s a photograph of a volcano erupting.”

“
My goodness. It’s sounds interesting.”
If all she had to do was look at photographs and so forth, maybe
she wouldn’t be expected to know too many words. As long as she
didn’t have to read anything aloud, she’d probably survive. She
could read to herself pretty well now if she was given time to
decipher the hard words, but she still wasn’t comfortable reading
aloud, although she practiced every evening. Annie would assign
Rose some pages, and she’d listen and embroider while Rose read
them to her. She was getting better. Annie told her so every day.
She’d die of embarrassment if she had to read aloud in front of
H.L. May, however.

“
The Japanese have a very stylized
artistic style, too. I think you’ll enjoy it. It’s really different
from ours.”

“
I’m sure.” She didn’t know what that
meant, either. Stylized? Was that an art term? Rose wanted to be in
the stable with Fairy and Betsy, who never expected her to know
unusual words.

She was beginning to get itchy. She’d agreed,
after all, to accompany H.L. May today because he said he was going
to interview her. There had been neither hide nor hair of an
interview that she could see thus far, although the day had been
enjoyable except for the word issue.

That’s what worried her the most. Not the big
words; the enjoyment.

She had a gnawing, itching, irritating
feeling in her innermost being that, in the long run, it would be
better for her if she found nothing whatever about H.L. May or his
company enjoyable. He was, after all, a well-educated, big-city,
newspaper reporter who wrote entire sentences for a living, for
heaven’s sake, and she was an undereducated booby.

He’d find her out pretty soon; there
was probably no way to avoid it. And then he’d look down on her.
Laugh at her. He might even tell the world, through his position at
the
Globe
, that in reality
Wind Dancer was a only dumb cluck from Kansas.

Rose didn’t think she could abide being
ridiculed in print. It was difficult enough for her to know inside
herself that she was uneducated. Reading banner headlines
proclaiming her stupidity would be completely mortifying.

Not, of course, that any article about her
would be headline news, but it would feel like it to her. Although
the serenity of the Japanese pavilion appealed to her jumbled
emotions, Rose decided it was time to tackle some pertinent
questions and get some solid answers. She cleared her throat.

“
What’s up?” H.L., who appeared relaxed
and happy and absolutely at home, smiled at her.

His smile gave her a palpitation in the chest
region, and her skin heated up. This was getting ridiculous, and
she despised herself. That being the case, she spoke in a more
severe tone than was perhaps necessary. “I had believed you wished
to interview me, Mr. May. Don’t you think it’s time to get
started?”

He lifted one of his eyebrows, the result of
which was to give him an ironical expression that did nothing for
Rose’s peace of mind. “You in a hurry or something? I thought you
didn’t have to perform again until tonight.”

“
I don’t. However, I like to have some
time to compose my thoughts before a show, and I have to prepare
Fairy.”

“
Fairy’s your horse? That’s the one you
rode last night, isn’t it?”

“
Yes. She’s the one.” What was with
this
it
nonsense? Rose didn’t
like thinking of her horses as its, and she would have scowled at
him, but she was afraid of seeing his handsome face sneering at her
again.

Not that he’d actually sneered, but he’d
looked mighty teasing, and she didn’t think she could tolerate
another one of those looks without blushing and stammering, and
that would be horrid. She gazed stonily at a magnificent landscape,
framed and hung on the wall in front of her.

The artist’s rendering of the cherry trees,
spring-like weather, and peaceful river appealed to Rose. She’d
never seen a painting like it.

Hmmm. Maybe the way the artist had used his
brush was what Mr. May had meant when he’d said the artwork was
stylized. Rose would have to ask Annie. She’d like to ask H.L. May,
but didn’t want to appear any more dim-witted in front of him than
absolutely necessary.

“
I’m sorry you’re in such an all-fired
hurry, Miss Gilhooley.” He didn’t sound sorry. He never sounded
sorry, blast him. “But I do believe I mentioned yesterday that my
articles were going to be akin to sketches of you discovering the
fair.”

She frowned at the glorious painting. “I
suppose so. Is that what you’re doing now? Taking mental notes of
my reactions to things?”

“
Exactly. I’ll also be asking you some
questions.”

“
I see. Well, I think you’d better
start asking, because I’m going to have to go back to the Wild West
pretty soon.”

“
Right.” H.L. pulled out the gold
pocket watch Rose had seen earlier, flipped open the case, and
gazed at the dial.

He sounded peeved, which Rose resented. She
lifted her chin defiantly and told herself that she was well within
her rights to demand that this disturbing man get down to business.
After all, she was no wealthy society dame who could loll around
all day taking in fairs and Japanese exhibits and stylized
paintings. She had a job of work to do, no matter how out of the
ordinary it was, and she aimed to continue doing it to the best of
her ability. That’s what Colonel Cody was paying her for, and
that’s what she planned to deliver.

“
Okay.” He snapped his watch shut and
slipped it into his watch pocket. He sounded cheerful
again.

His relative good mood surprised Rose, who’d
been preparing for another battle. In truth, his attitude took the
wind out of her sails, and she didn’t know what to do with the fire
she’d been storing up to fling at him. He was a most perverse
individual, and she thought it was unfair of him to spring moods on
her.

“
So, let’s start our interview, then,”
he went on, oblivious to her unsettled nerves. “What do you think
of this painting? Have you ever seen anything like it
before?”

Rose squinted up at him for almost thirty
seconds as she mulled over his question and tried to determine if
he meant it as it stood, or if it might somehow contain a subtle
meaning that he’d ferret out and attack her with later. Although
she thought hard, she couldn’t come up with any way in which an
honest answer on her part might be used against her, so she gave
him one.

“
I think it’s beautiful. And no, I’ve
never seen anything like it. Is all Japanese art like this?” She
gestured at the painting, moving her fingers to indicate the
intricate brush strokes and the way in which the artist had
depicted the movement of water and the glory of the cherry
blossoms, not to mention the bushes, which were all quite trim and
neat looking. None of the bushes Rose had seen growing in American
meadows had ever looked so tidy.

“
Yup. It’s very stylized.”

Aha! So that was what stylized meant! Rose
felt a leap of triumph, although she figured it was silly of her to
do so.

“
However, I once interviewed a sailor
who went to Japan with Commodore Perry, and he told me that some of
the Japanese countryside actually looks pretty much like this.
Evidently, the gardeners there don’t believe in letting stuff grow
naturally, but clip the shrubs and plants around temples and other
buildings into strictly controlled shapes.”

“
My goodness. It’s hard to imagine
plants and shrubs really looking like those,” Rose ventured, hoping
her hesitant comment wouldn’t be thought idiotic.

“
I agree. It would be interesting to
see in person, wouldn’t it?”

Thank God. Relief washed through Rose.
Because she feared if she spoke now, she’d spoil the effect of her
last comment, she didn’t, but only nodded.

After another moment spent contemplating what
appeared to Rose to be a Japanese mania for tidiness—although it
made for lovely pictures—H.L. said, “Say, as long as you have to
get back to work, why don’t we take in the Ferris Wheel again. That
way you can see the Exposition and Chicago in the daylight. I
promised you a daylight view.”

“
Oh, I’d like that!” Rose
exclaimed.

H.L. laughed.

“
What? What are you laughing at?” Rose
worried that she’d done something idiotic by inadvertently
demonstrating her eagerness to experience the Ferris Wheel again.
Was one supposed to conceal one’s enjoyment and eagerness? Was that
what sophisticated people did?

“
Don’t worry, Miss Gilhooley. I’m not
laughing at you.”

That was a mercy Rose hadn’t expected.

“
It’s only that the Ferris Wheel is
already the most popular attraction in the entire Exposition.
You’ve just proved to me that even ladies who are star attractions
in their own right are, in this respect, like all the other ladies
who visit the fair.”

For some reason, that didn’t make Rose feel
appreciably better about herself.

Chapter Eight

And thus it has been proved beyond a doubt
to this reporter that even the most well-traveled and famous of
performers are, at heart, only human. Wind Dancer: Bareback Rider
Extraordinaire is as fond of Mr. Ferris’s new innovation as a
seamstress from the South Side.

H.L. sat back in his chair and stared at the
words he’d just typed on his brand-new Underwood Invisible Writing
Machine. He liked it—the article, that is. The citizens of Chicago
would like it, too; he was sure of it.

Would Rose like it? He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t
written anything she should object to, but she was a prickly little
thing. An adorable, prickly little thing. He grinned at the page
before him, remembering their ride in the Ferris Wheel.

He’d just heaved a huge sigh when Grover
Haley, his editor, walked by, smelling of spirits as he always did,
and with a fat cigar stuck in his mouth. Good old Haley. He was one
of the old-timers—gruff, cynical, literate, and jaded—and H.L.
honored him for it. He was the sort of guy H.L. wanted to be in
another twenty or thirty years. Maybe forty.

H.L. didn’t want to rush anything.

“
Your story ready yet, May?” Haley
stopped behind H.L.’s chair and peered over his shoulder. Taking
the cigar from his mouth, he exhaled a cloud of smoke that blended
with the whiskey fumes, creating an incense H.L. would forever
associate with newspapers.

“
Yup. Right here.” He ripped the sheet
out of the typewriter.
Real
reporters never turned the platen to remove their stories.
Doing so would defy tradition. He picked up the rest of the pages
of his story, patted them together, and handed them over. “There
you go.”

“
Good. We’ve got to get this baby to
bed. Took you long enough.”

H.L. shrugged. He knew Haley only said things
like that because it was an editor’s job. Sam, who had looked up
from his own typewriter, grinned at him, and H.L. tipped him a
wink.

“
You’re going to do more of these,
aren’t you?” Haley barked. “Folks are eating them up.”

“
Absolutely.” H.L. felt the deep sense
of satisfaction that came from knowing he was going to get to do
what he wanted to do and get paid for it for the next ten or twenty
days—or more.

Hell, the fair was going to last until
October; maybe he could do a story a week until it closed. God
bless the Columbian Exposition. And God bless little Rose Ellen
Gilhooley. H.L. could hardly wait to take her to the Fine Arts and
Liberal Arts buildings. She’d probably been to museums in Europe,
but H.L. imagined her art education was scanty at best.

How old had she been when she’d joined the
Wild West? Sixteen? Hell, she couldn’t have acquired much education
in sixteen years. While Buffalo Bill was a great fellow by all
reports, H.L. would bet he didn’t provide any schooling for his
cast and crew. H.L. had discovered within himself a deep longing to
show Rose Gilhooley things, to feed her thirst for knowledge, if
she had one. He might be imagining he’d detected one in her,
although he doubted it. He wanted to present the world to her even
as he presented her to the world.

Sitting back in his swivel chair, H.L.
clasped his hands behind his head, clumped his feet on his desk,
and thought about what marvels he aimed to pursue with Rose next.
He wanted to learn the story of her childhood and youth. Rather, he
wanted to learn the story of her youth before the Wild West. He
supposed he could look up Buffalo Bill’s performance schedule for
six years and find out the story of her years after he’d hired
her.

Was she ready to open up to him yet? Frowning
into the almost-empty press room, and feeling vaguely comforted by
the muffled clunk-clunk of the printing presses that seeped through
from the basement print room, he considered the matter.