Fall Down Seven. C. E. Edmonson

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      Chicago presented the biggest surprise. We had to change trains, and that meant no more Amos to protect us. I remember Mom thanking him on the last day. She’d risen to bow formally, and for once I wasn’t embarrassed.

      “You’ve done us a great service,” she said, her speech as formal as her posture. “I know good deeds are their own reward, but I’ll remember you in my prayers. Thank you.”

      “Well, ma’am, you’re quite welcome. But if you don’t mind, I’m not all that big on bowin’. Bowin’ ain’t somethin’ most Americans do. Not since we got rid of King George.”

      He turned to go, but the Whizz stopped him with a question. “Is it always this cold out?”

      “Cold? It ain’t cold today. Fact we’re havin’ a warm spell. Temperature’s gonna most likely touch on fifty-five this afternoon.” Amos hesitated for a second. “Where you folks from?”

      “Hawaii.”

      Amos shook his head. “Time to adjust your attitude, son. You won’t be seein’ no palm trees for a long time.”

      We pulled into Union Station at one o’clock in the afternoon, four hours before our train to New York was scheduled to depart. Four hours out in the open after four days hidden behind a closed door? Not a happy prospect.

      “What do you think’s gonna happen?” the Whizz asked several times. “What do you think’s gonna happen to us?”

      In fact, nothing happened. Though scurrying passengers swirled around us—hundreds of them as we walked up the ramp—we didn’t draw more than a curious glance. I’d only begun to register the relief when we entered the main waiting room, and I stopped in my tracks. I was in the biggest, grandest room I’d ever seen, and I reacted as any young girl might. The ceiling was rounded like the inside of a barrel, and it had to be thirty feet above my head. Giant columns, more than a dozen of them, rose to support an intricately carved ledge. The marble floors were actually pink, something I’d never seen before. But most of all, the waiting room was enormous—big enough, I believe, to contain my old middle school on Oahu.

      I don’t know how long we stood there—even Mom was impressed—but the other passengers began to grumble as they flowed past us. We were blocking their way.

      Mom led us around and between the rows of benches to a framed map on the wall, with the words: THINGS TO DO IN CHICAGO. She searched the map for a moment, then traced a route between Union Station and Marshall Field’s department store, a walk of about a mile.

      “We need coats,” Mom told us. “And we have four hours to get them. Come, let’s go.”

      We rented a locker in the terminal and left our suitcases inside. Just as well, because if we’d taken them along, I would have emptied them to cover myself with every garment I owned. Chicago is called the Windy City, and it definitely lived up to its reputation that afternoon. The gusts sliced through our light clothing and pushed against our chests like restraining hands. We had to lean forward as we walked every step against what seemed to me an all-out gale.

      The Whizz looked at me, his mouth turned down, his eyes wide with alarm. That’s one of the problems with being an optimist: you’re constantly disappointed.

      “Wow,” he said. “Wow.”

      I assumed my brother was talking about the cold, but he might have been referring to the many skyscrapers we passed, buildings reaching fifty and sixty stories into the sky. Massive, monstrous buildings. I’d never seen anything like them, not outside of magazines, and I was impressed enough to admit I was definitely a small-town hick. My head swiveled back and forth like the windshield wiper on a car.

      Marshall Field’s, only five stories high, wasn’t a skyscraper, but when we went through the door I was still enthralled. And not only by the heat. The center of the building was completely open, from the marble floor to a mosaic ceiling made of glass that reflected colors so bright they dazzled my eyes. Balconies supported by thick, square columns surrounded each of the store’s many shopping levels. It was a long way down from the upper level.

      But it wasn’t too far for the Whizz. His equilibrium recovered, he made a beeline for the railing the minute the elevator doors opened.

      Mom stopped him. “Charles Junior.”

      The Whizz skidded to a halt and turned. “Mom?”

      “You’re not at home. Behave yourself.”

      Mom’s reminder sobered me up. No, we weren’t at home, and we weren’t likely to return home for a long time. I took charge of the Whizz—my role as I understood it—and guided him through the fitting process.

      He finally drew the line after slipping into his fourth coat. “C’mon, Emiko.”

      “You want to be cold?”

      “I want to go home where it’s warm.”

      Out of the mouths of babes. The Whizz had said what we were all thinking. But going home wasn’t an option, and we all knew it. The comment was simply ignored.

      We left the store wearing our new wool coats, our new hats, and our new gloves. Though still shockingly foreign, the cold and the wind were at least bearable now. And spring was coming, followed by summer. Maybe there was good reason for my brother’s optimism. An Asian family we passed—mother, father, grandmother, and three children—wore no badges. They might have been Chinese or Thai or Filipino. They might even have been Japanese.