Horns honking, automobiles edged around the outskirts of Forest Park, jammed between wagons and horse drawn carriages. The foot traffic was no better, forming human chains of six to eight across the lawn for blocks and blocks, awaiting the gates to open for the World’s Fair–and here I was, ready to jump out of my skin. I was supposed to be in there for the preview and Mags was nowhere in sight. She’d gone off to find our press passes an hour ago and hadn’t returned.
For weeks, I’d dreamt of being in St. Louis with the other reporters from around the world, of interviewing foreign dignitaries, walking through the sandstone palaces and color lit fountains. The preview was long underway, and I was a half of kilometer away, surrounded by fancy ladies in spring bonnets, chatting away with their gents.
“Miss Neimi, Anna Liisa Neimi,” a deep voice called. I looked up into two blue eyes staring me down. A man with a press pass pinned to his lapel was handing another one to me.
“Your friend,” he said, “Margaret?” He tipped his bowler. “She told me to give it to you.” His chestnut brown hair was parted in the middle, giving him a professorial air. I pinned the badge over my right breast, taking in his angular face and hard jutting chin. How had a complete stranger found me packed in this crowd? Before I had a chance to thank him, he sharply turned towards the gate and started to elbow his way through. With a quick jerk of his head, he glanced back. “Are you coming or not?”
I struggled to keep up, but it was hardly a walk in the park. This stranger who had popped out of nowhere was trampling over and through the dense cadre of visitors, cutting in as if they weren’t even there. How did he expect me to do that?
He threw me another irritated look. I wasn’t sure whether to be amused or not, but what the heck. I couldn’t wait to get inside those walls of the fair either. I squeezed around the group of women and children as best as I was able until I was close enough to touch his sleeve.
“Who are you?”
“When I left to find my photographer, Margaret told me I couldn’t miss you,” he said.
“Yes, but who are you?”
“Frank Bradshaw.” He stopped jockeying through the line and gave me a quick once over. “I’m a reporter with the New York World.” Then, he turned to continue his stride only to bang into someone else’s shoulder. If he minded where he stepped or on whom, it didn’t show. Staring ahead, he said, “The press was admitted hours ago. This isn’t just any exhibition, girl. It’s the 1904 World’s Fair–the first of the century. Don’t you care that you’re late?”
I didn’t need him to remind me. This was my first international assignment. It was the only time that I’d covered a story outside of Winnipeg for that matter. The Exposition was about to open to the public in an hour or so, and all I’d done so far was waste time. With a surge of determination, I did my best to keep up without knocking into a parasol or being poked by one.
“How did you find me?”
“The red hair crammed into that bird’s nest.” He was referring to my mother’s good black feather hat, my most cherished possession. “Margaret,” he added, narrowing his eyes. “Said you had amber colored hair–more like fire engine red, I’d say, but I figured out who you were, anyway. Do you work for the same socialist rag?”
I faced him with a proud smile. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
He ignored my answer, and pointed to the entrance. The ostentatious seventy foot archway loomed a block ahead like a big advertisement, shaped as the Liberty Bell, but painted like Christmas with bright pine green and cherry colors. A crash of cymbals sounded, and a band struck up Stars and Stripes Forever. Even though the music was being played inside the gates, half the city could hear it through the carbon microphones being debuted at the opening. I had to get in. John Philip Souza, the March King himself, was the band leader. I was missing everything.
Together, we pushed and angled through the crowds. He grumbled something under his breath about wishing he was covering real news, and then blurted out something about Russia and Japan.
“Do you mean the Russo-Japanese War,” I asked with piqued interest. Could this blowhard actually be interested in anything other than being rude? I had closely followed the bloody battles in the newspaper, myself. The two countries were fighting over land that belonged to China. It was a startling example of imperialism at its worst. “Would you rather be reporting on the war in Manchuria?”
Frank grunted something, and it was just as well that I couldn’t understand him. He blasted us through another knot of people, and then another, again and again. In no time, we reached the street by the front of the line. Finally coming to a halt, he said, “And here we are.”
“Yes, chivalry has no bounds,” I mocked, but he donned his hat with a playful wave, apparently clueless as to what I meant.
“In case you’re wondering, I met Margaret when I covered the labor strike in Pennsylvania last year. She hasn’t stopped talking to my friend since I introduced them this morning.”
I hadn’t actually thought about how he knew anyone, but the way his jaw tightened certainly caught my attention. I did a double take: he was jealous. This charmer had a crush on Mags! I genuinely smiled for the first time, warmed by his misery. “Who’s your friend?”
“Charles Madsen, he’s with the St. Louis Post. We worked together until I was transferred to the New York office.”
“Mags is pretty, isn’t she?” I meant to tease, but when he turned red, I felt a twinge of sympathy instead. “Sorry. Mags does get carried away sometimes.”
All business again, he faced the entrance with a purposeful nod, and marched us to the guards at the gate. We showed our passes to enter. “Most of the reporters are in the front plaza,” he said. “You shouldn’t have any problem finding her.”
Ready to go in, he stood in place, taking me in as if he was seeing me for the first time. A bit unhinged, I turned to go, but he offered his arm. “I don’t need any help from here,” I said, but he led me under the arch.
“The press has a side door on the east end.” He pointed left. “Over that way, a quarter of a mile or so. Use it from here on in.”
I gave another slight nod, keenly aware that he’d finally released me. Abruptly, he turned towards the crowd, ending our conversation. With a sigh of relief, I stepped across the courtyard, only to trip over a loose stone. Before I could break my fall, Frank caught me and I fell into his arms.
“Prone to accidents too?” he smiled, but his eyes bored into mine. Slowly, he brought me back to my feet. Startled by the heat of his breath on my cheek, I shyly tried to glance away. I couldn’t. Instead, I was drawn in by the dark glint in his eyes. “Gotta find Pegsley,” he said and bolted off. “Damn fool photographer–never around when you need him.”
I took a hard swallow: And good day to you too, sir. I wiped the sweat off my upper lip, straightened my hat, and took hold. If only my heart would stop racing.