It Happened at the Fair (7 page)

Cullen slipped a hand into his pocket, his fingers brushing across a watch inside. It had been a wedding present from Cullen’s mother, and his father had given it to him before he left.

Pulling it out, he clicked it open and closed. Open and closed. “So you just quit? And moved clear up to Chicago?”

“Yep. ’Bout broke my daddy’s heart.”

Open, closed. Open, closed. “Why Chicago? Why a fireman?”

He grinned. “Chicago was where I ran outta money and got
hngry
. And who wouldn’t wanna be a fireman? There’s nothin’ like conquering a fire or savin’ folks’ lives. It’s a lot more exciting than pushin’ a plow, I can tell you that. What about you? The boys and I have been lookin’ at your
sprinkr
all mornin’.”

Cullen glanced at his booth. It consisted of two free-standing walls joined at the corner and covered with a latticed ceiling. A huge hole had been cut into each wall, revealing pipes and nozzles. Spigots popped through the ceiling. Labels with long descriptions had been glued to various parts.

“It’s nothing, really. Just a device my dad wanted me to display for him.”

“You invented it, though, right?”

Cullen nodded.

“I’m impressed, and kind of surprised. It seems like a mighty funny thing for a
farmr
to do.”

He shrugged. “I’ve always been handy with anything mechanical. For years, folks would bring me everything from broken watches to disabled farm equipment. With the money I earned, I bought a few tools, read a few books, tinkered in the barn, and, well, that’s the result.” He waved a dismissive hand at his exhibit.

John whistled. “Well, show me how it
wrks
.”

Cullen walked him to the booth. He’d barely begun when a couple more men from the booths to his right sauntered over.

John greeted the one closer to him with a slap on the shoulder. “Cullen, this is Frank Garvey of Company Seven, and that there is Ed Bulenberg with
Gnrl
Fire Prevention of Chicago. Boys, this is Cullen McNamara. He made this
sprnklr
here.”

Bulenberg scoffed, his brown hair thin, his expression petulant. “I’ve seen one of these automatic systems before. They’re completely unreliable.”

“Where’d you see one?” Cullen asked.

“In a theater. The thing caught fire and the sprinkler pipes never opened up. A total waste of money.”

Cullen nodded. “They probably oxidized. That’s why I made this one so the fusible joint has no contact with the water until the solder joint severs.”

“Your
sprnklr’s
automatic?” John asked. “It can turn on by itself?”

“It can.” He showed them how it worked.

Bulenberg didn’t outright contradict him, but it was clear the man had a distrust of automatic sprinklers in general and Cullen in particular.

“I don’t know why
vrybdy
thinks they have to come up with a machine to replace jobs only a man can do.” Bulenberg leaned over and spit. “There’s only one way to use a
sprnklr
system. Have somebody turn it on, then wait for the fire brigade to arrive.”

“Nothing will replace the fire brigade.” Cullen looked over the system. “But if the fire is at night or the worker’s away from the sprinkler’s lever, this one’s designed to keep the fire under control until the trucks arrive. Still, those manual ones have worked for years. I’m here only because my father asked me to come.”

A couple of businessmen approached to see John’s escape cage. John stuffed the cotton back in his ear and returned to his equipment, as did Frank and Bulenberg.

For the next five hours, only a dozen people wandered by, three of whom allowed Cullen to explain his system. None were all that interested, though. Once the supper hour had come and gone, not a single person ventured to the back corner of Machinery Hall, interested or not.

Finally, closing time arrived, and one by one, the vast machines were silenced. Picking up his hat, Cullen headed toward the front.

“Wait up, McNamara.”

Cullen turned, allowing John to fall into step beside him.

Yawning, John placed his hands on his head and twisted from side to side. “That was a
lng
day.”

“It sure was.”

“You have any nibbles?”

“Nary a one,” Cullen said. “What about you?”

John shrugged. “We’re not really trying to make sales. We’re just here to show the progress America’s made in firefighting.”

“That must take a lot of pressure off.”

“It does.” John screwed up his face. “You know what I
thnk
you need?”

“What’s that?”

“You need to do a demonstration. You know, build yourself something small—like a shed. Then install your
sprnklrs
, set the shed on fire, and let your system put it out. I bet that would sell you some.”

“You’re probably right,” Cullen replied. “But I can’t imagine the commission granting permission for something like that. Especially with these white palaces as flammable as they are. One stray spark could wipe out half the park.”

“I don’t know about that. You ought to
lk
into it. The least you could get is a no.”

“I suppose.”

John elbowed him and lowered his voice. “Look there. It’s those gals from the Crowne Pen
Cmpny
.”

Cullen scanned the aisle, then saw the women admiring some scarves the textile machines had woven throughout the day.

“If I didn’t know better,” John said, “I’d
thnk
they were waitin’ on us. Or you, anyway. They’ve been eyeing you all night.”

“I doubt that,” he said.

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe you better take another look, my friend.”

Sure enough, one of the blondes spotted him from the corner of her eye, then quickly whispered something to her friends.

“You
wnt
to see if they’d like to go into town?” John asked.

Smiling, Cullen shook his head. “I’m too tired, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, come on. You ate only a boxed supper. You’ve gotta be
hngry
.”

“All the same.”

John gave him a suspicious look. “Don’t tell me you got a
grl
back home or somethin’?”

“Afraid so.”

“Well, I’m
srry
to hear that.” He perked up. “Or maybe I’m not. All the more for me to choose from.” Tipping his hat, he headed toward the women. “See ya,
McNmra
.”

“Goodnight, John.”

Rather than passing by the girls, Cullen cut across an exhibit and over to the next aisle. No sense in borrowing trouble.

OBELISK OUTSIDE MACHINERY HALL

“Vaughn guided him toward the South Canal, where a replica of Central Park’s obelisk sat.”

CHAPTER

6

One week turned into two. Then two into three, and Cullen was no closer to selling a sprinkler system now than he had been when he burned down the cowshed back home. His serious visitors either already used non-automatic sprinklers and couldn’t justify the expense of updating or were distrustful of an unproven system such as his. There had been one man, though, an owner of a cotton-waste warehouse, who’d been intrigued and had come back twice. But he mumbled, and Cullen simply couldn’t hear him. He’d had to ask the man to repeat himself two or three times after each sentence. In the end, the man had thrown up his hands in frustration and gone to Bulenberg’s booth instead.

Ever since, Bulenberg made a habit of standing in the wings, then deftly swept Cullen’s customers to his manual sprinkler exhibit as soon as they left Cullen’s booth.

Gazing into the distance, Cullen now stood beside his exhibit tired, frustrated, and worried. The noise hadn’t let up, and his ears rang so badly, he decided he’d rather put up with cotton seed. At least when he farmed, he was accomplishing something.

He’d written Wanda every night, but he couldn’t say much since she couldn’t read, which meant someone who could would have to read the letters to her. Turned out that someone was none other than Thomas Hodge. Farmer-boy extraordinaire and Wanda’s closest neighbor.

Hodge took great delight in penning her return letters. He inserted his own editorial comments and not-so-subtle barbs, even going so far as to write that the only thing Cullen was worse at than inventing worthless contraptions was romancing a woman.

No wonder it took you so long to set a wedding date, he’d written. Poor Wanda actually yawned through your last letter.

Wanda? Who did he think he was, calling her by her Christian name? Did he call her that to Wanda’s face? And just what did Hodge expect? That he’d spill his heart, only to have Hodge read those words out loud to Wanda? Not likely.

So his letters remained dry and stilted, and Wanda’s had become increasingly so. Was she embarrassed by his lack of flowery words? She’d never expected them before.

He tried not to think about it. There was no point in trying to figure out a woman. They were illogical, inconsistent, confounded creatures, and Cullen didn’t know why God thought He’d been doing Adam a favor.

Yet Wanda’s latest letter had given him something totally unexpected to worry about. Hodge had not-so-casually revealed he’d been in the mercantile when Luther refused to sell to Cullen’s dad on credit. Hodge offered a hollow expression of condolence, then made a point of saying he’d told Wanda he never had that problem.

But none of it made any sense. Cullen didn’t even know his father had been buying supplies on credit. And even if he had been, how could Dad’s credit be used up when he had money stashed away? Cullen fired off a letter home asking about it, but it would be a while before he heard back.

The one bright spot these days was the camaraderie that had developed between John and him. Nothing could get that fellow down. No matter how bad the news on the stock exchange, no matter how slow it was in the Hall, he’d always come up smiling and take a front seat next to the bandwagon. In the evenings, when the Hall was dead and a number of machines had been turned off, he’d regale Cullen with tales of the adventures he’d had once he left farming. Cullen wondered if he’d ever been that carefree.

Maybe. A long time ago. When Mama was alive and sat by the hearth telling him and Dad stories of the days before the War. Or when she’d read Robinson Crusoe and The Three Musketeers to them and answered his endless questions with patience and a smile.

Cullen shook his head. He’d never lacked for questions back then. Did snakes have eyelids? Did the sun have a shadow? How old was the universe? Who thought up math? What are the sun’s rays made of?

He sure did miss those days.

A middle-aged man with a cane walked straight toward him, making direct eye contact. Uncrossing his arms, Cullen slowly straightened.

“How do you do?” The man held out a hand. “I’m Lawrence Vaughn, owner of Vaughn Mutual Insurance Cmpny.”

“Cullen McNamara, of Charlotte, North Carolina.”

Leaning on his cane, Vaughn rested his other arm against a portly belly and studied Cullen’s system through tiny round spectacles without earpieces. His cropped white hair made a ring beneath an expensive derby hat. Cullen would bet there wasn’t much hair, if any, were Vaughn to remove that hat.

Having become more succinct with his presentation, Cullen covered the basics within two minutes.

But then one of the larger printing presses started up and began spitting out newspapers. The noise level increased tenfold.

“Did you vntin ddds?” Vaughn asked.

“I’m sorry?” Cullen said.

“Did you vntin ddds systm, I said?” Vaughn’s shouts were barely audible.

Cullen nodded, hoping he’d asked if Cullen was the inventor.

“As mngr and owner of Vaughn Mtl, I’m alwys tryg to ncurag business owners to adpt the most up-to-date apprts for extngshing fires. Our cmpny has long prtstd against high rates of insurance chrgd by the fire offices—spclly for mll owners.”

Something about insurance rates and up-to-date fire equipment, maybe.

“Do you have any insurance cmpnies offng rdcd prmms to bsnss owners who install your atomtc sprnklr system?”

Something about installation. Since no one had installed his system, he figured the answer was no. “Not yet, sir,” he shouted.