Chapter Twelve
Jesse
Jesse let out a frustrated growl as he erased a portion of the latest sketch he’d made of his modified Gordon Jobber. After forcefully blowing the eraser bits off of the paper, he smacked his palm on his desk.
Giuseppe came into the room and leaned against the doorframe.
“Jeez, Jess, you need a break. I only came home an hour ago, and already I can tell that you’re becoming too obsessed.”
“I know, but I wanted to finish it.” Jesse took the paper off of the desk and crunched it into a ball. Chucking it across the room, he said, “I wanted to come up with something good enough for Arthur to prototype soon.”
“Does he have a spot at a machine shop reserved or something?”
“No, but he won’t need one. With his kind of money, he could hire whoever he wants, whenever he wants. I’m sure they’d set every other project aside to make something for him.”
“Must be nice,” Giuseppe sneered.
Jesse bit the inside of his lip to keep himself from blurting out a snide retort. He knew that Arthur was more than a selfish, wealthy snob, but in Giuseppe’s eyes, Arthur was the same as every other member of America’s shoddyocracy.
“Yeah, well,” was all Jesse managed to say instead. He pushed himself to stand. “I should probably catch the streetcar over there now.”
Turning to leave, Jesse let out a sigh. Dammit, he’d really wanted to surprise Arthur with a better version of his creation tonight.
Especially because, once he showed up to Arthur’s mansion in his simple, ready-made suit, he knew that he’d have to contend with feelings of inadequacy over everything else in his life.
Jesse started putting on his overcoat, but when he reached for the buttons, his face fell, his small frown transforming into a scowl.
He’d nearly forgotten that one of the buttons was missing.
Christ Almighty, this was exactly the thing he needed right now—to be reminded of the fact that he was teetering on the brink of homelessness just before leaving for Prairie Avenue.
Because it made complete sense that the only son of one of Chicago’s wealthiest families was about to welcome someone like him—a mere typesetter with half an engineering degree—into his home to share a meal, if not also his bed.
Jesse must have still been wearing a sour expression as he retrieved his hat because Giuseppe came over and offered what was clearly meant to have been a comforting clap on the shoulder.
“From everything you’ve told me so far, it sounds like Arthur really likes you,” Giuseppe said. “Don’t worry so much.”
Letting out a long breath, Jesse reached up to lay his hand atop Giuseppe’s.
“Thanks. You’re right. I know you’re right.”
“You’ll have fun there. I know it.” Giuseppe and Jesse removed their hands. “And later or tomorrow—whenever you come back—I’ll force myself to listen to how beautiful that man’s home is. You can brag about that wealthy beau of yours for as long as you want. How’s that?”
Jesse couldn’t help but smile a little.
“Sounds good.”
Giuseppe snapped his fingers and hurried into the kitchen area. He came back a moment later with a bottle of wine.
“Can’t let you visit one of the mansions on Prairie Avenue without bringing a bottle of Chicago’s best wine,” he said, handing it to Jesse.
Jesse rolled his eyes. “Chicago’s best wine. It cost us one dollar.”
“One dollar and ten cents to be exact.”
“Ah, well, that makes it much fancier.”
“You would know, Jess,” Giuseppe teased.
Jesse reached over and shoved him. Then, he started for the door.
***
Jesse hopped off the streetcar at Indiana and Eighteenth Streets and began heading toward Prairie Avenue. His stomach in knots, he clutched tight to the bottle of wine that he was cradling against his chest and fought forward through a rush of frigid February wind.
When Jesse turned onto Prairie Avenue and caught sight of the first home in the line of mansions—a beautiful stone structure with Romanesque-style arches—he barely suppressed a shudder as a wave of terrible memories crashed over him.
Standing outside Percy’s house in the middle of the night, hoping to surprise him. Percy’s irate and horrified expression when their footman had told him that his friend from school had come for a visit. Percy pulling Jesse toward their carriage house and telling him that it was over.
Closing his eyes, Jesse clenched his teeth and waited for the memories to recede back into the farthest corners of his mind.
Only a few paces later, the images vanished, but the memory of that night left him feeling unsteady, and the solid pavement on which Jesse stood suddenly shifted beneath his feet like sand as he walked.
Jesse continued on to Arthur’s house, bracing himself as more memories of his relationship with Percy began to pummel him.
Gritting his teeth, Jesse waded through the sea of mansions, the wealth of the families within them as powerful and foreboding as the enormous lake next to which their city had been built.
In only a few minutes, Jesse reached Arthur’s house.
He blew out a nervous breath as he looked up at the imposing structure and started toward it.
His nose ran from the oppressive cold. He sniffled a few times as he studied Arthur’s mansion—a looming, three-story Empire-style home with huge columns on either side of the front entryway.
Dear God, it was incredible how wealthy Arthur was.
How a man like him might not have enough money to purchase a spot in the fair outright was beyond Jesse’s comprehension.
It looked like Arthur could have funded the creation of a whole building had he been so inclined.
Jesse swallowed thickly as he raised his hand to knock. Minutes later, Patrick came to the door. Patrick’s eyebrows shot up and Jesse could have sworn that he heard the man whisper some sort of obscenity to himself.
Jesse forced a smile. “Good evening, Mr. Murphy. I’m, uhm, here to see Arthur? Or, sorry, Mr. Hughes.”
“Mr. Hughes is in the middle of—”
Patrick’s reply was cut off by the sound of fast-approaching footsteps. Jesse looked over Patrick’s shoulder to see Arthur hurrying toward them, his shoes tap-tap-tapping the polished hardwood floor as he approached.
“Jesse,” Arthur breathed as he reached the threshold. He pointed outside. “Go wait for me on the walkway. I’ll be right there.”
Abruptly, Patrick shut the door. Murmurs of hushed conversation trickled in through the space between the wood and the frame, but Jesse couldn’t make out the words. Bile began to rise in his throat, the painful memories of his visit to Percy’s home surfacing once more in his mind.
As Jesse headed back toward the walkway, the waves reached their peak, and by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, all of the shame and anguish he felt crashed over him, forcing the oxygen from his lungs.
He placed the bottle of wine by his feet.
Resting his hands on his knees, Jesse shut his eyes and tried to force himself to breathe.
Had Arthur changed his mind?
“Oh, heavens, Jesse,” he heard Arthur say as the man came up behind him. Jesse straightened to stand as Arthur continued. “I’m sorry, but I had the timing mixed up. One of the fair’s organizers is here, so I’m afraid we’ll have to reschedule.”
Jesse’s heart sank. Dammit, he’d spent so much time fretting over this evening for nothing. But Arthur was a busy man. Jesse couldn’t exactly fault him for—
“And I’d have you stay since we’re talking about the print shops right now—in fact, I even mentioned the modified Jobber you’re working on—but I can’t bring some random man—”
“Excuse me, random man?!” Jesse spluttered, Arthur’s statement hitting him like a punch in the stomach.
“No, not random man. That’s not what I meant!” Arthur sighed and touched his fingertips to his forehead. “All I meant was that it wouldn’t look right for me to have someone like you here for the meeting.”
Jesse’s heart about stopped.
Someone like you.
Arthur continued talking. “Firstly, I hadn’t even mentioned to Mr. Russell that you were coming, so that might cause an issue in and of itself.
Secondly, I’d have wanted to prepare him first for your visit for other reasons as well.
I’d have wanted to tell him about your impressive background, for example.
About the engineering program you were enrolled in.
I’d have wanted Mr. Russell to know how irreplaceable you are at Putnam Press.
And, well, I’d have wanted to prepare you for the meeting, too.
I mean, what you’re wearing, it’s not exactly—”
Jesse winced, and Arthur immediately stopped talking, seemingly catching himself.
“I’m not trying to insult you. Really. But that coat isn’t the nicest. And while I’ve seen some of your morning suits—which are lovely, by the way—for a special occasion like this, with such an important person, it would be expected that you wear a nicer evening jacket at the very least.”
Jesse clenched his hands into fists, his palms starting to sweat, even in the cold.
Arthur reached up to rub the back of his neck.
“Anyway, that’s not the point I’m trying to make.
I’m only trying to explain to you why it isn’t the right time for us to see each other here.
In this world—in my world—these little things—specifics like communicating the potential guest list for a formal meeting like this one and what people wear to it—are extremely important.
What if you come by next Thursday instead?
We can still see each other this Saturday, too.
Actually, I’ll come by Putnam early. That way, we can spend some extra time together while you work. ”
Jesse turned away, his heart still hammering from the cacophony of emotions roaring inside him.
He would never really fit into Arthur’s life.
Not permanently. Someday, Arthur would come to his senses and realize that Jesse wasn’t enough for him.
Because, fuck, how could he be enough? Jesse wasn’t from Arthur’s world. He could barely make his rent.
Jesse may have tried to escape the life he’d been born into, but he hadn’t succeeded, had he? Because no matter his profession, no matter his name, it seemed like he’d always be Jesse Wolff—a poor boy from the little neighborhood at the back of the Union Stockyard.
He started toward the sidewalk.
“Jesse,” Arthur whined.
“You want me to leave, so I’m leaving,” Jesse spat.
He waited for Arthur to call out to him, to reassure him that he could stay.
Dammit, how badly he wanted Arthur to tell him that he had made a mistake.
How fervently he wanted Arthur to say that of course Jesse could come inside, if not to sit through the meeting with Mr. Russell, then to warm himself by the fire and to play cards together later in the evening.
But Arthur stayed quiet.
Resentment twisted in Jesse’s stomach. He continued toward the sidewalk, hating both himself and Arthur more with each Goddamned step.
“Wait, Jesse,” Arthur said. Hope fluttered in Jesse’s chest, and he turned. Arthur pressed a few coins into his clammy palm. “Here. For the streetcar. I’ll see you on Saturday. I promise.”
Jesse stared at the money for a few long seconds. He wasn’t sure whether he ought to keep it or throw it or scream. In the end, Jesse shoved it into his pocket and turned away.
As he walked toward one of the main roads, his reality began to shift, the horrible fog of foolish fondness and hurried hope lifting to reveal the horrible truth.
Even though Arthur wasn’t Percy, he was still Arthur Hughes.
And Jesse was so fucking tired of being made to feel like he wasn’t enough.