CHAPTER THIRTEEN N: THE MAN AT THE FENCE

An older man stopped Nora near the gate and asked whether she was Ruth Bennett’s daughter.
His name was Franklin Webb, and he had operated the snack stand at the exhibition twenty years earlier.
Nora had never heard of him.
“I came because my granddaughter saw the story online,” he said.
“She told me people were finally talking about the workers.”
Nora studied his weathered face.
“Were you there when the fire started?”
“I was selling hot cider outside.”
“Did you see the children?”
“I saw them after they came out.”
Franklin looked toward the west wall.
“One little boy kept asking for his yellow kite.”
“That was Walter,” Nora said.
Franklin nodded.
“I remember.”
He took a folded paper bag from his coat.


Inside was a faded admission ticket with a blue stamp.
“I kept this because my granddaughter likes old things.”
Nora examined the ticket.
The stamp showed a lantern surrounded by stars.
“Why bring it?” she asked.
“Because the ticket says the demonstration began at two.”
Nora looked up.
“What time was the fire?”
“Just after two.”
Franklin pointed toward the building.
“People have been saying Grant Voss arrived in time to lead the children out.”
“Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
Nora felt her pulse quicken.
“Where?”
“At the main entrance.”
“When?”
“After the first children were already outside.”
Nora stared at him.
“Are you certain?”
Franklin considered the question before answering.
“I’m certain I saw him come around the corner after I heard people shouting.”
“Did you see him enter the building?”
“No.”


“Did you see him carry anyone?”
“No.”
Franklin looked embarrassed.
“I wish I could tell you more.”
Nora shook her head.
“That’s enough.”
He looked doubtful.
“Is it?”
“It’s what you saw.”
Franklin nodded slowly.
“I never liked the way the story changed.”
“How did it change?”
“First, people said Grant helped organize the evacuation.”
“Then they said he led the children out.”
“Then they said he went inside alone and carried them all to safety.”
Nora thought of the bronze plaque.
She had read those words so often that they had become part of the town’s landscape.
“Did anyone ask you what happened?”
“A reporter asked me whether I saw Grant at the entrance.”
“What did you say?”
“I said yes.”
Franklin looked toward the stage.
“The next day’s article said I had witnessed his bravery.”
Nora felt the familiar frustration return.
“Would you speak today?”
Franklin shook his head.
“I don’t think I can stand in front of that crowd.”
“Then you don’t have to.”
He looked relieved.
“But if somebody asks me afterward, I’ll tell them exactly what I told you.”
Nora smiled.
“That matters too.”
Franklin folded the ticket and returned it to his coat.
“Your mother bought cider from me that morning,” he said.
Nora looked at him.
“She did?”
“She asked for two cups.”
“Who was the other one for?”
“A little girl who’d lost her gloves.”
Franklin smiled at the memory.
“Your mother said nobody should have cold hands at a winter celebration.”
Nora felt tears gather unexpectedly.
For a moment, the old hall and the crowd disappeared.
She could almost see Ruth carrying two cups of hot cider through the cold air.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
Franklin touched the brim of his cap.
“I’m glad somebody finally asked.”