“I used to be a contortionist.”
Wiley sucked some water down the wrong pipe and spent several moments coughing it clear. “When you weren’t doing your highwire act?” he managed at last, voice strained. “That ... must have been some show.”
Neva nodded, intent on the Midway again now that he’d stopping choking on her half-truth—she hadn’t expected that much of a reaction.
There were so many people at the Fair already. More than she’d ever seen this early, even on the Fourth of July, when thousands upon thousands had flocked to the lakefront to see the massive fireworks display. If this held, the Exposition would set a new attendance record—the day after murder and fire.
The day after Augie fell.
The day after her life crumpled and burned.
“I heard Quill in the storage room,” she said softly.
“Pardon?” Wiley tugged his mustache.
“What he said about the Ferris Wheel.”
Wiley tugged his mustache again. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Part of me wants to help.”
He blinked.
A line from F. L. Barnett’s chapter in The Reason Why the Colored American Is Not in the World's Columbian Exposition flashed through Neva’s mind: “Theoretically open to all Americans, the Exposition practically is, literally and figuratively, a ‘White City,’ in the building of which the Colored American was allowed no helping hand, and in its glorious success he has no share.”
“We lynched Augie yesterday,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Not truly,” she amended, recalling another section of the pamphlet: Ida B. Wells’ chilling breakdown of how Negroes’ post-slavery advancement had been slowed by white mobs’ penchant for stringing up colored men. “Augie wasn’t innocent—even if what he did wasn’t his fault. But there was no trial.” She jabbed a finger at the people milling about the Midway. “And vultures like them came to see the spectacle. Well, part of me wants to give them something more.”
Wiley leaned back, his face fissured by confusion and disbelief.
Neva leaned forward. “Why not give them something grander than the ashes of a dead Negro and the Cold Storage Building?” she continued. “Why not the Ferris Wheel?” She nodded in its direction. “Or the Midway?” She shoved the paper at Wiley. “Or the whole damn Fair?”
She slumped in her seat again. “Of course, most of me thinks it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Wiley opened and shut his mouth twice without producing any sound. Fortunately for him, two other men changed the subject.
“Your eggs, sir,” the first man—their waiter—said.
“Neva?” the second man asked.
Both men were white. But while the waiter was squat and graying, the second man was dark-haired and well-formed.
That wasn’t why Neva was so glad to see him, though. “Derek!” she cried, standing to reach past the waiter and hug the second man.
“Hello,” Derek said, returning the embrace awkwardly; she was the only colored person in the café. “The theatre said you’d be ... What happened to your face?”
“Insects.” She pulled away and brushed at her sores—they were fading, but not as quickly as she’d like. “That’s the least of it.”
Derek glanced meaningfully at Wiley as the waiter set down two plates and withdrew. “What’s going on?”
She shook her head. “It’s not that.” But she couldn’t make herself explain.
Wiley—doing a fair job of hiding his unease—used her hesitation to introduce himself: “Wiley Claasen, Columbian Guard.” He extended his hand.
Derek took it. “Derek DeBell, Pullman Car designer. I grew up with Neva.”
Wiley raised his eyebrows.
“He’s Mr. DeBell’s son,” she said, finding her voice. “The man I asked Sol to contact?”
“His bastard son,” Derek clarified.
Neva frowned. She’d never understood why he insisted on bringing that up unprompted. Truthful to a fault. “My father fought in Mr. DeBell’s place during the War,” she added, “and after it was over, he retained my father and mother as servants.”
“I see.”
“Do you mind if I have a word with Derek? Alone?”
Wiley mulled this over.
“We can discuss the Ferris Wheel later.”
This gave him further pause. “Ja-nee,” he eventually conceded, “it’s not like I could keep you from running off—we’ve established that much. Please.” He rose and gestured to his seat and then to Derek. “Best eggs at the Fair.”
Neva forced a smile. “That’s kind of you, Wiley, but I’d rather walk. I’ll stop by the theatre when I’m done. And I’ll pay you back for my plate.”
He waved her offer away and sat back down. “It’s fine. I’m hungry enough for two.”
Derek tipped his hat to Wiley before following Neva out of the café. “Tell me,” he said after they’d taken several silent steps down the Midway.
She did, but not quickly, and not in full: the story came out in fits and starts and lacked any mention of bending or anarchists. When she’d finished, Derek, who’d stayed quiet while she struggled to put yesterday’s horrors into words, took her hand and squeezed it.
Neva squeezed back.
“Come on,” he said after contemplating the Ferris Wheel. “Let me take you above all this.”
She only hesitated for a second. Chicago Day wasn’t until next week, and Quill and the others had merely talked about fastening Brin’s stick babies to the Wheel. Surely there was no danger yet? Neva nodded at Derek and followed him to the end of the line.
The wait dragged on, but she didn’t mind. Growing up, Derek had endured almost as much invective from Mrs. DeBell and her natural children, but he’d never taken it out on Augie or her. If anything, he’d been like an older brother—as much as a white boy could be. And he’d always had an even-keeled solidness about him. It helped just to have him nearby.
When their turn finally came, Arthur Johnson, the lone colored Columbian Guard at the Fair, smiled upon recognizing Neva and ushered them into the lowest car. They took their seats as the car’s attendant raised his arms for quiet.
“Welcome, fair
