The Underground River

by Martha Conway

  “I thought about asking Captain Cushing to move Mr. Niffen and me here; it’s the biggest room next to his—next to the captain’s, I mean. But I have been so busy attending to everything that Helena would normally do . . . well, someone had to step in, and I am by far the most useful person on board; you will soon see how much I’m called on to do, and with so much on my hands, I just haven’t had the chance. But the room is much too large for you—for one person, I mean. Of course, you haven’t unpacked yet.”

  “No,” I said putting down my carryall. My stomach rose with my words and I sat down on the thin mattress. A wave of heat seemed to enshroud my body, followed by a run of cold shivers. I had always felt perfectly fine on the Moselle, but that had been a much larger ship. The Floating Theatre, which was light enough to be jolted about with every wave, lurched in the current, and my stomach swayed in the opposite direction. I waited for Mrs. Niffen to leave so I could lie down, but she just stood in the doorway looking around.

  “It would take Mr. Niffen and me no time at all to change.”

  “To change what?”

  “To change rooms.”

  “Where would you go?”

  She looked at me with her little pink rodent eyes and made a deliberate frown. Then she noticed my hand over my stomach. “Are you sick? Now, don’t tell me . . .” She shook her head but at the same time seemed a little bit pleased. “That would put the Captain off. Shall I fetch him?”

  Alpha. Beta. Gamma. Delta. “I’m fine,” I said. I stood up to demonstrate. A mistake, but I tried to pay no attention to my stomach.

  She folded her arms and noticed something on the floor. “Goodness, here’s Mr. Niffen’s lure box—what he loaned to Miss Helena. I’d forgotten about that!” She picked up a small scratched box with a metal handle. “I’ll just take it back with me. Oh, and this little jug. Helena once told me I could have it.” She picked up a few more objects—a candlesnuffer, a pair of gloves, a book—claiming either that I wouldn’t need them or that they were hers, and sometimes claiming both. Her face, looking around the room, wore an expression very like the one I’d seen on traders down at the wharf as they assessed the contents of open barrels. Meanwhile my stomach rose and flattened as the boat bounced along. I saw Mrs. Niffen eyeing the bedsheets but I could say nothing. For a moment I thought I would be sick. I leaned against the wall and swallowed the strong acidic taste that rose in my mouth.

  “I bought these in Wheeling,” Mrs. Niffen said, gathering the sheets up. Then she took the pillowcase off the pillow. When I saw her looking at the folded cot blanket, however, I sat down on it to prevent her from taking that, too.

  “Well!” she said. “I suppose I could let you borrow that until you can buy your own. But now what to do about Helena’s trunks with all of her costumes and such? If I had a free hand I would go through them.” She had no free hands. “I think there are a few items in there for Oliver. That’s Leo’s dog. Goes on stage, you know. Really, I ought to keep the trunks in my own room. Let me just fetch Mr. Niffen to carry them.”

  I swallowed. “No,” I said carefully. “Don’t.”

  “Oh, but you wouldn’t know what to do with them.”

  “Don’t,” I said again.

  She cleared her throat in a growly way. “Well . . .”

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Niffen,” I told her.

  Her eyes rested on my hand, which was again over my stomach, and I pulled it away.

  “Bell for breakfast should be soon, now that we’re off. If you want any,” she added with another half-satisfied frown. What I wanted was to lie down, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me unwell, or risking the chance that she might call Hugo and inform him that I could not possibly take a job on a boat. My independence would be over before it had properly begun. But at last she left the room without bothering to close the door behind her, and I listened to the clip of her boots going down the guard.

  In spite of my stomach, however, I was now curious about Helena’s costumes, so instead of lying down I carefully lowered myself to the floor and opened the smaller of the two trunks. In it I found a top shelf of handkerchiefs and shirtwaists and necklaces that made me believe this was Helena’s private trunk. I found the costumes along with some outdoor gear—fishing rods and tackle—in the second, larger trunk: unremarkable dresses, a couple of old-fashioned dress coats with half-sewn trimming, a few waistcoats and breeches that had been altered and were partially sewn up, and a white apron trimmed with insufficient ribbon.

  “Helena carried a few of the costume dresses with her on the Moselle, since she wasn’t sure what she’d sing. That’s what she usually did.”

  Hugo was standing at the open door with his straw hat in his hand. He came in and picked up a garment I’d set aside, an afternoon jacket with one sleeve coming loose.

  “My sister was not much of a seamstress,” he said, looking at the sleeve. “Too impatient, I expect. Well!” He put the jacket back down. “I’ve come to see how you’re doing.” His voice sounded formal and loud, more commanding than welcoming, but his words were kind enough. “We’re a small troupe, but we think of ourselves as family. For three months, at least. Anything you need, you let me know.”

  “I’ll need some more thread if I’m to repair these costumes. Most of them will have to be completely resewn.”

  “Surely it’s not as bad as that.”

  “Oh, yes it is, it’s very bad. They’re very poorly sewn. What’s more, they have no sense of time or place, they might all be from the same period. There’s nothing here to distinguish them. I’m surprised that you used them on a stage.”

  His voice got gruffer. “Costumes aren’t all that important. Helena used to say all we need to do is give the audience the idea of the thing. It’s up to the actors to do the rest.”

  “Not important? Of course costumes are important! You want to give an accurate rendition.” The boat leaned suddenly portside and my stomach tightened. “If you give me a list of what you’ll be performing, I can get a better sense of what is needed.”

  “I don’t have time to write out a list! I have a boat to run and a new actor to train!”

  “I’ll sit in on one of your rehearsals then and see for myself.”

  “No good. Closed rehearsals,” Hugo snapped. I looked up at him. His face was red and his English accent had become very pronounced. “Bother the costumes. My sister did an altogether fine job with them. She worked very hard.”

  “But—” I started to get up from the floor and had more trouble than I had anticipated. I leaned forward to put my hand on the bed before I sat down on it. For a moment or two I looked at my knees, willing myself not to be sick.

  “What we need more immediately are tickets and show posters. You know how to make those up?” Before I could start up my Greek, he said, “Good. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  He was angry. I wasn’t sure why. The bell rang out for breakfast just as he turned to leave.

  “And find some ginger to put under your tongue,” he said. “If you’re no good on a boat, you’ll soon be off mine.”

  When he was gone, I lay down on the sheetless cot without bothering to take off my shoes, and I brought my knees up to my chest. Although my arms were cold, my face was hot. I could hear loud talk as people walked along the guard to the dining room, and, closer at hand, herring gulls called out like the squeaks of a fast-rocking rocking chair, hya-hya-hya-hya, marking their territory or looking for mates. I tipped myself up off the cot and got myself over to the drop bucket and was sick in it. Then I went back to the cot and closed my eyes. Helena’s room smelled like kerosene and damp wood and ashes. My room, I reminded myself.

  • • •

  When I woke up later, the sun was streaming through the open porch door and onto my bed, making an angled design like a carpenter’s square. Looking out the window, I saw that we were tied up at a small cove studded with branchy maple trees and tall weeds. I didn’t know if I felt better because I had sl
ept or because the boat was no longer moving, but I went along to the kitchen galley anyway to see if I could get that ginger Hugo had suggested.

  Cook was a red-faced man with stringy salt-and-pepper hair. I never learned his true name, since everyone just called him Cook. When he wasn’t at his stove, he was sleeping; he had no stateroom of his own but kept a hammock strung up in the galley, and that’s where I found him.

  Swinging himself out of it, he told me, “Up too early for a full night’s sleep, getting breakfast for Captain and the others what are moving the boat. I nap when I can.”

  He found a withered hunk of ginger, sliced off a piece with a knife as big as a cat, and handed it to me.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked.

  “Rehearsal. Can’t you hear?”

  We both looked at the door as if that would improve our hearing, and then I turned my good ear toward it. After a moment I could make out muffled voices from below.

  “Hugo asked me to make the tickets for the show. How do I do that?” I asked, holding the slightly slimy ginger slice with my thumb and forefinger. Now that I had it I found I didn’t want it.

  Cook nodded at it. “Go on, pop it in,” he said.

  He couldn’t help me with the tickets. I went back outside, but before I got to my room I pitched the ginger over the side of the boat. As I did so, I noticed the poleman, Leo, who was sitting on a canvas chair on the bank, holding a fishing line. A small dog sat next to him, and that gave me an idea. I went into my room and looked through Helena’s costume trunk for a piece of leftover silk, and then I drew out a pattern on some muslin and pinned the silk on top. Measure twice, cut once. Audiences love animals on the stage with little clothes on them, and I thought I could make a neck ruffle for the dog. Oliver, Mrs. Niffen had called him. Once I had the pattern, I could sew a small ruffle in less time than it takes to milk a cow.

  It felt good to have a needle in my hand. When it was finished I made a shirttail hem—a thin hem folded twice over—and then I spread the ruffle on my lap, pinching the pleats up with my fingertips. I was pleased with it.

  As I came off the boat, Leo did not look at me, but I had the feeling he knew I was coming, and the little dog turned his head. The smell of fish and mud rose in the air as the river licked at the bank.

  “Is this Oliver?” I asked, although obviously it was. I held out my hand to him. He was black with little white and gray spots along his back, and short upright ears. He turned his nose from me. There was nothing on my hand of interest.

  “I’m May Bedloe,” I said to Leo, standing up again. “I’ve made Oliver a ruffle.”

  “A ruffle? Is that so?”

  “For the stage. I heard he performs?”

  Leo stood from the chair and pulled out something that looked like a glistening green string from his fish bucket.

  “Sit,” Leo said. Oliver sat. “Up.” Oliver jumped. “Up, up, up.” Oliver jumped and rotated in a circle at the same time. His tail curled over his back like a fingernail cutting.

  Leo gave him the piece of fish gut. “Catahoula leopard dog on one side. Other side pure mutt.”

  “Do you think I could try this on him?” I asked, holding up the ruffle. “I want to get a measurement so I can put the ties right.”

  I wrapped the ruffle around Oliver’s thick neck, folded the ends back, and pinned where the ties should go. Then I said without looking at Leo, “Captain Cushing wants me to see to the tickets. But I don’t know how to do that.”

  “Hunh,” Leo said.

  “Do you know where I might find an old one? Something I can copy?”

  “An old ticket? No, I don’t. Miss Helena did those in the office.”

  “How did she do them?”

  “Well, now, I don’t know.”

  Oliver barked once to get our attention. The ruffle sagged a little to the right as he sat back on his haunches. Leo laughed. “He do look cute.”

  “Was it something like this?” I drew out of my pocket a piece of paper I had worked on before coming down the stairs. It was about the size and shape of a one-dollar bill but a little bit shorter, and I’d drawn a curlicue border around its edge. In the middle I’d printed “Admit One.”

  Leo took it from me and held it up to his eyes. “I don’t think there was this little pattern round the sides. Also, she wrote more.”

  “What did she write?”

  Leo turned the paper over to its blank side, and with my pencil drew a squiggle on the upper left corner and a squiggle in the middle. Along the bottom edge he drew a long squiggle in an unbroken line from end to end.

  “Something like that,” he said.

  The squiggles represented words. I realized he didn’t know how to write, nor read either probably.

  “You’re sure there was no decoration?” All the tickets I’d seen sported some pattern or maybe a little emblem of the theater, like a long black hat. But they were printed up in cities, not written out by hand.

  “Miss Helena didn’t have time for all that.”

  “Do you know where she got her paper?”

  “Office, probably.” He tilted his head in that direction.

  • • •

  The ticket office was not locked, and once my eyes adjusted to the light I saw that the space was not unlike a mop closet. A desk was built out from the ticket window, and underneath it were some shelves where I found a book of blank paper and several jars of ink but no quills. These proved to be in a box on the floor, next to the cash box.

  Arranging the paper and ink on the desk in front of me, I sat down on the high stool and took my shawl from my shoulders and covered my lap with it. Then I set to work. With Leo’s example in hand, I wrote the tickets like this:

  Tonight, after sunset 20 cents

  ADMIT ONE

  Come to see some river entertainment—music and comedy and song

  The theater was directly behind the ticket office, and as I dipped my pen in the ink I could hear Hugo shouting at the actors. I did not take this to mean that they were an untalented group, however. Directors shout for emphasis, Comfort told me when she first started acting, and I learned to turn my bad ear toward any director approaching me.

  “Every moment you are on stage, you want something,” Hugo was shouting at some poor player. “The moment you stop wanting, the audience loses interest.”

  It occurred to me that if Hugo was facing the stage, which he would be if the actors were rehearsing, I could sit on the risers in the back and he wouldn’t see me. Closed rehearsal, he had said, but I needed to get some idea of the costumes. I’d made only ten or twelve tickets so far, but I thought I could both write out tickets and watch rehearsal if I was careful with the ink.

  “What is it you want in this scene?” Hugo was shouting as I unlatched the door between the office and the auditorium. Then: “No, don’t tell me, I’m asking for your sake, it’s for you!”

  A few figures were up on the stage and Hugo, as I’d expected, had his back to the seats. I quickly went up to the top riser, where I set down the ink and paper and placed the quill box on my lap to write on. Hugo walked backwards a few steps to the front-row bench and put one foot upon it, leaning forward.

  “Right, then. Go on,” he said.

  When the players started up, I could tell at once what they were rehearsing: the buck basket scene from The Merry Wives of Windsor, a favorite at that time. Thaddeus stood with his leg thrust forward, and he stuck his chin out as he spoke.

  “. . . but I love thee,” he said, “none but thee; and thou deservest it.”

  Liddy: “Do not betray me, sir. I fear you love Mistress Page.”

  Thaddeus: “Thou mightst as well say I love to walk by the Counter-gate . . . which . . . which is . . . line?”

  “Which is as hateful to me . . .” Hugo prompted.

  Thaddeus: “Which is as hateful to me as the reek of lime.”

  Hugo: “The reek of a lime-kiln!”

  Thaddeus swept his hand forward. “W
hich is as hateful to me as the reek of a lime-kiln.”

  “Stop!” Hugo shouted. He jumped up on the front bench and stood on it. “Stop! All of you, listen to this—this is important. Come out here, come out!” Mrs. Niffen came out from the wings, followed by a young girl with a spindly brown braid down her back and four male actors whom I hadn’t met, though I recognized a couple of them as ones who had helped move the boat. The shortest actor had a cap on his head marking him as a boy, but, other than that, no one wore a scrap of what might be taken as costume.

  “Your voices, all of them, are terrible,” Hugo told them. “Have none of you ever learned the importance of breathing? Have I not spoken about this before?”

  A short silence.

  “Pinky?” Hugo asked the short actor.

  “I can’t—I don’t recall that you have,” Pinky answered.

  “You must breathe from your back! That’s the secret!”

  “Your back?” Liddy asked.

  “Yes, yes, your back; there’s room in the back. Think of the back of your ribs and reach for the air there!”

  All eight players looked at him, waiting for some further explanation.

  “What do you mean, Captain?” Pinky finally asked.

  “Inhale! Deep breath! All the way from your back!” Hugo shouted. “Like this.” He jumped off the bench and onto the stage with so much energy it seemed to escape from every part of his body at once. Then he spread his legs like a warrior and turned so that I had a view of his profile.

  “Percy Hotspur from Henry the Fourth. He’s just been given a mortal wound and he’s dying. Imagine a man breathing his last.”

  He took a long breath that seemed to pull him in several directions. “O Harry,” he began, “thou hast robb’d me of my youth!” He said the next few lines in the same breath, and then he inhaled and opened his arms. “O, I could prophesy, but that the earthy and cold hand of death lies on my tongue”—another breath—“no, Percy, thou art dust . . .”