The Fairies of Sadieville

by Alex Bledsoe

  “Around here, that’s definitely the truth. But that isn’t all. You better not ever turn your back on one, or they’ll steal your wallet, your watch, and your firstborn.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s what I hear. ‘When you cut a Tufa into ten pieces, you ain’t killed him, you’ve just made ten Tufas,’ is what the miners say.”

  “That’s harsh. And … a little incomprehensible. What exactly does it mean?”

  Quinn leaned close. “It means they aren’t all the way human.”

  “Is that true?”

  He shrugged. “They look human to me. They spend human money, that’s for sure, and that’s all I ask.”

  Ben’s head began to clear, and he knew he was onto something. “What else do you know about them?”

  Quinn thought for a moment. “They’re all musicians. Some sing, some play instruments, but all of them are amazing at it. And…”

  “What?”

  “Well … and this is just pure gossip, so I can’t swear to it, and I haven’t ever seen it happen myself. But they say that if a man gets tangled up with a Tufa woman, then he’s done for.”

  “Hell, that’s true of women everywhere,” Ben said with a laugh.

  “Not like this,” Quinn said seriously. “They say that if a Tufa girl gets tired of you, then you’ll waste away to nothing within a month. She doesn’t just break your heart, she takes a piece of your soul.”

  Ben was about to make another joke, but there was something in the bartender’s voice that stopped him. “Well, damn, Quinn,” he muttered at last. “Hope I don’t run into one of them, then.”

  “Like I said, there aren’t too many here, and I’ve only seen one Tufa girl in the year I’ve been here. As long as you stay away from Needsville, you should be all right.”

  “The town that nobody can find.”

  “I didn’t say ‘nobody’ could find it. Just the people who went looking for it, intending to get into mischief.”

  “Were they usually drunk?”

  “Probably.”

  “I’ve been known to lose my way in that condition, too.”

  “Ain’t we all, my friend.”

  Ben stood, put a fist to his chest as he belched again, and said, “I better get back to work. We have to get started on this picture as soon as possible.”

  “How long does it take to make one?”

  “A day or so, if everyone’s on the ball. This one’s kind of an experiment. My boss wants to see if he can make a good movie using just people who look right, instead of actors. Can you post this sign behind the bar?”

  Quinn looked it over. “I don’t see any harm. Can’t imagine too many people will be interested, though.”

  “Thank you, Quinn. And I appreciate the drink.”

  After he left, Quinn used a hammer and tack to hang the poster. One of the miners who’d entered got up and walked over to look closely at it, then left. His friends continued drinking.

  * * *

  Mrs. Delaney started to enter the front parlor, then stopped in her tracks. She backed silently back into the foyer and peeked around the door frame.

  One of her new Yankee guests, Mr. Arliss, strode around the parlor. He wore his waistcoat, trousers, and bowler hat. In one hand he carried a stack of paper, while with the other, he gestured grandly. Then he cowered, then raged, then laughed. All in absolute silence.

  When he paused for a sip of his coffee, Mrs. Delaney entered with a cheery, “Good morning!”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Delaney,” Richard said cheerfully. “Marvelous coffee, by the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  He grinned knowingly. “I suppose you’re wondering what I’m up to, pacing around like a maniac?”

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, all innocence.

  “I saw you watching.”

  She laughed at herself. “I suppose I’m not very good at sneaking.”

  “For your information, I was rehearsing.”

  “For a play?”

  “For our motion picture. The camera doesn’t record sound, only movement and expression. And it requires a different vocabulary than the stage.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  He smiled at her. He was well aware of just how disarming his smile could be, especially with women. In many ways, it was his greatest talent. “When I perform onstage,” he said patiently, “the audience is far away. The back row can often be hundreds of feet from the stage. So to make sure they know when my character is surprised, I have to project, like this.”

  He stepped back and made an exaggerated, full-body gasp of surprise. She started to laugh, then caught herself.

  “No, it’s quite all right, it is funny when it’s right in front of you. And that, my dear, is where the camera is. So my performance has to be scaled down, like this.”

  He gave a start of surprise, so realistic that Mrs. Delaney looked behind her to see if someone else had entered the room.

  “See? There’s a difference. So rather than rehearsing my lines, as I would for the stage, I’m rehearsing my movements.” He paused for another sip of coffee. “Once I worked for a motion picture director who had a chart of five expressions: happy, sad, angry, afraid, and in love. He would bellow, ‘Number three!’ and the actor would pull expression number three. Luckily for actors like myself, that approach never caught on.”

  “That’s fascinating,” she said sincerely. “I’m sorry for interrupting.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right, ma’am. Tell me, have you seen any of my pictures?”

  “Unfortunately, no. They just opened a picture house here, and it’s been playing Judith of Bethulia every Saturday night for the last six months. I don’t suppose you’re in that one?”

  “No,” he said through a forced smile.

  “Well, I’m sure when this one is ready, it’ll be a huge—”

  The front door opened, and they both turned as a beautiful young woman with long, jet-black hair entered. She wore an old-fashioned high-necked dress that was tattered and patched in places, and at least a size too small for her, and carried a neatly folded stack of sheets. When she saw them, she stopped.

  “Mrs. Delaney,” she said.

  “Hello, Sophronie. You can wait in the kitchen.”

  When the girl had gone, Richard asked with undisguised interest, “Who was that?”

  “Sophronie Conlin. She does drop-off and pickup for the laundry.”

  “She’s very attractive,” he said, still gazing after her.

  “Yes. But I wouldn’t spend time with her if I were you.”

  “Oh?” He returned his attention to her. “And why not?”

  Mrs. Delaney lowered her voice. “She’s a Tufa.”

  Richard lowered his. “What’s that?”

  “It’s like a nigger, except a little more white.”

  Richard frowned. He neither liked nor disliked Negroes; many of those he encountered were first-rate performers, and he always respected talent. The morality of the societal barriers that kept them separate never crossed his mind. “Really?”

  “Yes. The coal company bought this land from her family. They cheated them, of course, and now her father is a miner, and she and her brothers and sisters work where they can.”

  “Goodness.”

  Mrs. Delaney, annoyed, said, “Well, I should return to work myself. Thank you for sharing your insights with me, Mr. Arliss.”

  “Please, ‘Richard.’” He bowed, with a grand sweep of his hat.

  She blushed a little as she left.

  * * *

  As Sean continued up the street, hanging notices wherever he could, he caught the unexpected, sprightly sound of a banjo. A crowd gathered around the front of a small building with a sign that said, SADIEVILLE JAIL. At first he feared it was a lynch mob, but as he drew closer, he realized they were happily clapping along.

  When he reached the edge of the crowd, he heard someone singing:

  Oh, I’m Sh
eriff Brag Bowden, and I sure do want your vote

  I’m a good man and an honest one, with trouble I can cope

  I’ll knock some heads and jail some drunks if that’s what is required

  And I’d appreciate your support so that I can be rehired

  Then the singer began to yodel.

  Sean stood on tiptoe. A man stood on the porch of the little jail building, picking expertly at his banjo. He was short, portly, and about as intimidating as a beach pail even with the sheriff’s badge pinned to his shirt. He rocked back and forth in time to his music, and his yodels filled the air with their ululating keen.

  Sean worked his way closer. When he was almost at the front of the crowd, he saw a little girl dancing on a square piece of wood placed on the muddy ground. The fringe of her dress waved back and forth, and her hard black shoes raised a rapid tattoo of clacks from the board. Sean had seen many tap-dancing acts in Manhattan, but there was something serious and primitive about the way the girl moved, all her attention focused on her feet.

  Sean evaluated her face. It was still smooth and plump, but the beginnings of lines were already there around her mouth. He knew what hard times did to attractive girls, and to see the first traces of it here was both powerful, and heartbreaking. He had to get that face on film.

  And the sheriff! If only movies could talk, he thought bitterly for the millionth time. And sing.

  The dancing girl and the banjo-playing sheriff finished together, and the crowd clapped its approval. The sheriff handed his banjo to a waiting deputy, and stepped down to shake hands like any other politician seeking office. When he got to Sean, he paused and said, “I don’t believe I know you, son. You a newcomer to our fair town?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A company man?”

  “No, sir, I’m here to make a motion picture.” He put a flyer in the sheriff’s hand. “I’ll be talking to people at Mrs. Delaney’s boardinghouse first thing tomorrow morning, and I’d sure like to see you show up with your banjo.”

  The sheriff looked at the flyer, then at Sean, then back at the flyer. No one spoke. At last he said, “Well. Ain’t that purely something. I’ll think about it, young mister…?”

  “Lee. Sean Lee.”

  “Like the general?”

  “Exactly like.”

  “Any relation?”

  “I should be so lucky.”

  The sheriff threw back his head and laughed. The people around them did the same.

  “Y’all come back tomorrow morning for a whole new song,” Sheriff Bowden said to the crowd. “And don’t forget to vote come next week!”

  The crowd broke up, and Sean was about to leave as well when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. “Y’all just hold up a minute, son,” Bowden said. “I’d like a word with you.”

  Sean fought to keep the fear from his face. He’d had bad experiences with law enforcement thugs hired by the Motion Picture Patent Company, Thomas Edison’s attempt to keep the technology of filmmaking under his personal control. He once saw an extra get his arm broken in two places by a group of duly deputized Pinkertons.

  But the sheriff, he quickly realized, was not out to intimidate him; he was, in fact, star struck. “You know, young man, it’s funny that you mention me being in a motion picture, because I’ve seen Judith of Bethulia every Saturday night for longer than I can reckon. That acting thing can’t be that hard, can it?”

  “Not at all,” Sean assured him.

  “And how much money are we talking about here?”

  “Fifty cents a day.”

  “Well, ain’t that something,” Bowden said.

  “Tell me something, Sheriff,” Sean asked. “What’s the best place to meet people, other than right here?”

  “Hell, son, the same two places as everywhere else,” Bowden said with a bighearted laugh. “The church and the saloon.”

  * * *

  The clerk at the train station had been right. The church, nestled at the corner of the lone street and stream beneath a copse of pine trees, was a work in progress. The sides and roof were built, but braces still held up the porch roof, and the windows were just bare rectangles. A sign out front proclaimed it the BLACK CREEK PRIMITIVE BAPTIST CHURCH.

  Sean gazed up at the open door. He’d been raised Catholic, and after narrowly avoiding the attention of his parish priest as a boy, had no use for any church now. Still, he had to assume the sheriff knew his town.

  He climbed the steps and entered the vestibule. He waited while his eyes adjusted to the inner dimness. The pulpit and pews were already placed, but there was no piano or organ to provide music.

  “May I help you, young man?”

  Sean turned. A lean, tall woman stood between him and the door. Backlit against the brightness outside, her face remained hidden, but nothing about her felt friendly.

  “Hi, ma’am, I’m Sean Lee. I’m here in Sadieville to make a motion picture, and I wondered if you’d mind posting one of these where your worshipers might see it, in case any of them are interested.”

  The woman took the poster with a quick, snapping gesture that reminded Sean of a snake striking out. “A motion picture?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m sorry.”

  She handed the poster back to him, then politely pushed past him and went through a door at the back of the sanctuary. He stared after her, then shook his head and left.

  11

  All the seats at the boardinghouse dinner table were filled that evening. In addition to Sean, Ben, and Richard, there was a young married couple dressed in proper East Coast fashion, the two old coal miners from the front porch with black dust still visible where their washcloths had missed their hairlines and ears, and a lone young man who looked unlike a miner, a store clerk, or management. At the head, near the kitchen entrance, sat Mrs. Delaney.

  “So, Mr. Wortham,” she said, “how’s your house coming along? The company doing a good job for you?”

  “According to the foreman, it should be ready in another two weeks,” the young Easterner replied.

  “That’s wonderful. Although, of course, I’ll be sorry to see you both go.”

  “We appreciate your hospitality,” Wortham said. His wife added a polite nod.

  One of the miners spoke up. “Miz Delaney, you got any bologna hid somewhere?”

  “I’ll get you a slice,” she said, and went into the kitchen. She returned moments later with a slice of bologna on a plate, which she served with a fork.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the miner said. He pulled a set of false teeth from his pocket and expertly fitted the bologna into the grooves of his dentures. He popped them into his mouth, bit down, then worked his jaw experimentally. Satisfied, he looked around and saw Sean and Ben watching. “Cheaper’n that denture stuff they sell at the store,” he said with a suddenly toothy grin.

  “And disgusting to do at the dinner table,” Wortham said. “I’ll thank you not to do that again in front of my wife.”

  The miner’s smile faded and he looked down at his plate like a chastened child.

  “Whoa, take it easy,” the odd man out said. His voice was low, melodic, and somehow commanding; suddenly he had everyone’s attention. “If what he does really bothers you, maybe you should pay him more, so he wouldn’t have to do it.”

  Wortham started to snap back, but the other man’s steady, apparently neutral gaze stopped him in mid-word.

  To break the tension, Mrs. Delaney said, “You skinny young Yankees need to eat up. I swan, I can’t imagine how you get up enough energy to walk up and down the stairs on what you eat.”

  “I think we’ll be considerably heavier by the time we leave,” Sean said. Mrs. Delaney laughed.

  “Yankees?” Wortham said with a loud, forced laugh, overcompensating for his earlier outburst. “But you’re not with the Prudence Company, or I’d know you. Where are you two from?”

  “New Jersey,” Sean said. “Ben here grew up in
the Bronx, in New York City. I’m from Maine originally.”

  “I understand you make motion pictures,” Mrs. Wortham said. When her husband glanced at her disapprovingly, she said, “Mrs. Delaney told me.” Then she withdrew into herself like a spooked turtle.

  “Yes, ma’am, we do,” Sean said. “I’ve directed eighteen. And Ben here is a very capable cameraman.”

  “That’s a glorified term for a gofer,” Ben said.

  “‘Gopher?’” Mrs. Wortham repeated. “Like the animal?”

  “No, like ‘go for’ this, ‘go for’ that.”

  “Why don’t all of y’all just go to hell,” the miner with dentures muttered without looking up.

  Wortham made the dishes jump with a slap to the table. “Whoever you are, sir, you will apologize right now. My wife and Mrs. Delaney are both present, and I will not tolerate language like that used in their presence.”

  Wortham’s outrage was genuine, Sean knew, but he was picking the wrong battle. The company man was tall and slender, with the soft pale hands and narrow shoulders of someone who spent his time hunched over ledgers and reports. The miner, if so inclined, could probably snap every one of his bones with his bare hands.

  But the miner, still not looking up, mumbled, “Sorry.”

  “What is your name, sir?” Wortham said, and pulled out a small notepad with a tiny pencil attached.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” the odd man said. “This gentleman’s just tired from working all day.”

  “I have worked all day as well, and yet I can still control my tongue,” Wortham snapped.

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, but pushing a coal cart and pushing a pencil are fairly different things.”

  Sean tried to place the man’s accent. It wasn’t the local one, nor one from the northeast that he’d encountered before. If anything, it was a truly neutral, featureless tone that revealed nothing about its origins.

  Wortham was not calming down. “I’ll have your name, then, sir!”

  “Carding. Tucker Carding.” When Wortham started to write, Carding added, “That’s C-A-R-D-I-N-G.”

  This made Wortham even angrier. “I am quite able to spell, sir! And I resent your implication that what I do is not ‘work.’”