“He’s named most of them already,” Arthur admitted. “But I know he’s still searching for a few more.”
“Hasn’t he chosen a printing shop or two by now?”
Arthur clenched his teeth. So, his father knew (or at least suspected) that several other print shops had already been chosen. He was only asking Arthur so that he could, once again, take the opportunity to insult him, his tone insinuating that his son would never be featured with the prestigious print shops that Mr. Burnham and others had picked over the past couple of weeks—ones like Mergenthaler Linotype Company or Campbell Printing Press and Manufacturing Company, both of which were located in New York. But Arthur knew for afactthat one from Chicago still hadn’t been selected. Surely the fair’s organizers weren’t about to overlooktheir fine city, not when the fair was to take place inside the city itself. Arthur still had a chance. He was certain of it.
“Yes, he has,” Arthur said, a fake smile stretching across his face. “But there’s still time.”
“Not much of it,” his father said. “It’s January.”
“I know what Goddamned month it is,” Arthur wanted to spit.
Instead, he laughed and said, “I like to think that Mr. Burnham is saving the best for last.”
Warren Hughes hummed and took a sip of his wine. He followed it with a sip of water so that he wouldn’t stain his teeth—one of many unspoken rules that Arthur never managed to follow.
“It’s certainly commendable that you’ve somehow held onto your optimism,” the man said. “Despite having suffered so many... misfortunes over the years.”
Doubtlessly, Arthur’s father was referring to two of Arthur’s early business ventures, the first being the purchase of a machine shop that had been contracted to manufacture Gordon’s Alligator Jobbers, which, unfortunately, had then been swiftly replaced by Gordon’s newer models (predictably, the switchover then caused the manufacturing plant to flounder and fail), and the second being the purchase of a steel mill that had been on its last legs (it had, unfortunately, crumbled financially only a couple of months later, and Arthur had been forced to close it shortly thereafter).
Still, Arthur was prepared to take the insult in stride.
But then, his father muttered, “Some of which were of your own making.”
And Arthur nearly choked on his own spittle. Everyone else at the table stilled. Charlotte froze mid-sip of her water. Emma paused with her fork in front of her open mouth. Arthur’s mother’s eyes simply flew wide in horror while the rest of her body turned to stone.
Had his father just insinuated that Emma was amisfortune?
Emma may have been conceived out of wedlock, but she wasnota misfortune. Anger seized Arthur by the throat, blocking him from blurting out a response, which was, in truth, a blessing. Because whatever he might have said, it would have been too harsh, too biting, toobluntto have been spewed forth in mixed company. Or, hell, to have even been said to his father in private, especially since he still couldn’t seem to stop himself from yearning for that metaphorical pat on the head rather than the near constant criticism.
Blood boiling in his veins, Arthur pushed himself to stand. His father resumed eating his pork. On the way to the kitchen, Arthur could see that Emma and his mother had unfrozen themselves. Poor Emma had probably only reacted in shock because everyone else had. At least, that was Arthur’s hope. He wasn’t sure whether Emma had figured out that her parents weren’t ever meant to have wed so young, but he hoped not, for her sake.
As Arthur made his way to the kitchen, he heard someone else stand up from the table, the legs of their chair making a screeching sound on the hardwood.
He snatched the wine bottle from the worktable and continued into the three-season back room, which was, of course, freezing cold in the wintertime. He knew he could stand it though, thanks to the red-hot indignation still burning in his veins. Arthur ripped out the barely secured wine cork with his teeth and spat it onto the floor. He took a swig straight from the bottle and purposefully swished the wine around in his mouth before swallowing.
“Arthur?” a voice said from behind him.
It was Charlotte. Of course it was. Who else would have followed him?
“I need a minute,” he said, wincing from the misplaced irritation in his voice. “Please.”
“I thought you might like some company.”
Arthur took a breath, then exhaled slowly. Charlotte ought to return to the table. He needn’t make his parents think thatshewas a “misfortune,” too. Not that they thought very much of her as things stood now. Still, Warren and Joanna Hughes tolerated Charlotte well enough.
“Charlotte,” Arthur sighed wearily. “I’ll be fine.”
Arthur turned, and Charlotte tentatively held up a glass of water that she’d brought with her. Arthur shook his head.
“But your teeth...” she started to say, making a sour expression.
“I know.”
Determined to make a point, Arthur took one more long pull from the wine bottle, swished the red liquid back and forth in his mouth, raising his eyebrows a few times in rapid succession while he coated his teeth with the wine, and swallowed. Then, he bared his teeth. Charlotte shook her head, a pitying look on her face, though there was a hint of a simpering smile there as well. Seeing it helped.
“I think I’m starting to feel better,” Arthur said. “I can feel my rage... cooling.”
“Well, itiscold out here,” she teased through a shiver. “Perhaps we should return to the table?”
