"Eddie," he says. "Come down. There's a phone call. I think
something happened to your father."
I AM RUBY."
It suddenly made sense to Eddie, why the woman looked familiar. He
had seen a photograph, somewhere in the back of the repair shop,
among the old manuals and paperwork from the park's initial
ownership.
"The old entrance.. ." Eddie said.
She nodded in satisfaction. The original Ruby Pier entrance had been
something of a landmark, a giant arching structure based on a historic
French temple, with fluted columns and a coved dome at the top. Just
beneath that dome, under which all patrons would pass, was the painted
face of a beautiful woman. This woman. Ruby.
"But that thing was destroyed a long time ago," Eddie said. "There
was a big.. ."
He paused.
"Fire," the old woman said. "Yes. A very big fire." She dropped her
chin, and her eyes looked down through her spectacles, as if she were
reading from her lap.
"It was Independence Day, the Fourth of July—a holiday. Emile loved
holidays. 'Good for business,' he'd say. If Independence Day went well,
the entire summer might go well. So Emile arranged for fireworks. He
brought in a marching band. He even hired extra workers, roustabouts
mostly, just for that weekend.
"But something happened the night before the celebration. It was hot,
even after the sun went down, and a few of the roustabouts chose to
sleep outside, behind the work sheds. They lit a fire in a metal barrel to
roast their food.
"As the night went on, there was drinking and carousing. The workers
got ahold of some of the smaller fireworks. They set them off. The wind
blew. The sparks flew. Everything in those days was made of lathe and
tar... ."