The Fairies of Sadieville

by Alex Bledsoe

  The miner stood up, tossed his napkin onto his plate, and glared at Wortham. Sean had never seen such contempt, and fear, in a man’s eyes. The miner said, “Yeah, you work moving numbers around so all the money goes to people like you, who sit in padded chairs and smoke big cigars while people like me work ourselves to death.” He began to cough, a deep-chested rattle that quickly got away from him, forcing him to lean on the chair back until the fit passed.

  When it did, he stood back up and said, “You wouldn’t last half a shift of real work, Mr. High-and-Mighty Company Man.” Before the red-faced Wortham could respond, the miner strode out of the house. His friend got up and followed.

  “Who was he? Who?” Wortham demanded of the remaining diners.

  Mrs. Delaney turned to Wortham, her eyes flaring with anger. “Mr. Wortham,” she said seriously, “you may in fact be a high power in the Prudence Company, but in this house, you are simply another guest. Those men pay to stay here just as you do, and if you can’t be civil, then perhaps you should find other accommodations until your house is finished.”

  His wife reached over and took his hand. His face still red, Mr. Wortham choked out, “I beg your pardon, ma’am. It was bad manners of me to make a scene at your table.”

  “It certainly was,” Mrs. Delaney agreed.

  Wortham pulled his wife to her feet. “Come along, Phyllida.” Without waiting for a reply, he led her out of the room and up the stairs, his feet loud on the wooden steps.

  Mrs. Delaney shook her head. “Every time that happens, I swear I’m not going to take in another company man.”

  “Does this happen a lot?” Ben asked.

  “Whenever management and labor get together.” She sighed.

  “I’m afraid it’s mostly my fault,” Carding said as he stood. “I’d hoped to calm things down, but I only made them worse.”

  “One man’s rudeness is never another man’s fault, Mr. Carding.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, but I think I’ve done enough damage tonight. Thank you for a lovely dinner.” He nodded at the others and headed for the door.

  When he heard the front door close, Sean asked, “Who was that?”

  “Mr. Carding? He eats dinner here a couple of times a week.”

  “What does he do the rest of the time?” Ben asked.

  Mrs. Delaney frowned. “You know, I’m not sure he’s ever mentioned it. I don’t think he works for the company, but I’m honestly not sure.”

  “Isn’t that odd?”

  She shrugged. “It takes all kinds. Maybe he’s a Pinkerton.”

  Sean’s stomach plummeted. “They have Pinkertons here?”

  “Who do you think keeps the miners in line when they talk about striking?”

  When she’d gone into the kitchen, Ben said, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “If the Pinkertons are here—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Sean, grow a backbone. The Pinkertons here work for the mining company, not Edison.”

  “But if they get word—”

  “We’ll be gone before they do.”

  Sean forced his panic down. He turned to Richard. “What do you think?”

  “I think Ben is right,” Richard said. “You should grow a backbone.”

  * * *

  As they got ready for bed in the room they shared—Richard had insisted on a private one—Sean and Ben heard Wortham through the wall berating his wife. “Do you not recall your station before I married you? You were barely above these cretinous miners! I gave you status, position, and all the accouterments of society! In return, I expect your total obedience to me, and your support for my career.”

  “Wow,” Ben said, fluffing the pillow on his narrow single bed. “What an asshole. If my dad talked to my mom like that, he’d have been singing soprano by the next morning.”

  In the pause, they heard Mrs. Wortham’s soft voice, but could not make out the words. But they had no trouble making out the sound of the slap that followed.

  “I don’t like that man,” Ben said.

  “Neither do I,” Sean agreed. His bed was near the open window, and the breeze was welcome. “But it’s none of our business, remember. We’re here to do our job quickly, and get out as soon as possible.”

  “Still worried about the Pinkertons?”

  “If you’d ever had a run-in with them, Ben, you would be, too.”

  “I did, once. When I was a kid, I was a messenger between nickelodeons, and one guy paid me to bring the films to his lab so he could copy them before I delivered them. Somehow the Pinkertons got onto him, and I walked in on them while they were teaching him a lesson.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I walked back out real fast. One of them tried to chase me, but I knew that part of the city too well.”

  The door slammed on the other room, and heavy feet stomped down the stairs. In the silence that followed, they heard soft sobs through the walls.

  “Should we say something?” Ben asked.

  “What could we say?” Sean said. “‘Sorry you married a jerk’?”

  Mrs. Wortham had stopped crying by the time Sean and Ben turned in. In the relative silence, Ben asked quietly, “Hey, have you ever heard of some people called the Tufa?”

  “I think somebody mentioned it today. Is that the family name?”

  “No, it’s like, their tribe.”

  “So they’re Indians?”

  “No, they’re … hell, I don’t know exactly. Bartender was telling me about them this morning when I was hanging flyers.”

  “You went to a bar in the morning?”

  “To hang up flyers. Don’t be so judgmental.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “There must be some reason you brought it up.”

  “They sound really strange and interesting. I don’t know, I was just thinking that any people who other people talk about that way…”

  “What way?”

  “Like they’re … magical, or something.”

  “Magical.”

  “I don’t know another word to describe it. Anyway, if they’re as strange as people say, maybe we want to put them in the picture.”

  “Well, sure. I mean, if any come in to the auditions. How would I know them if they did?”

  “They all have perfect teeth.”

  “Perfect teeth?”

  “That’s what the man said.”

  Then they were silent. Ben drifted off to sleep, but Sean continued to stare at the ceiling, wondering about the coming day’s auditions. He listened for Mrs. Wortham, but heard no more sobbing. Her husband had not returned home by the time Sean finally fell asleep.

  12

  As she refilled Sean’s coffee cup, Mrs. Delaney said, “My goodness, you boys are popular.”

  Sean looked up from his plate. He was the first one up, and although he’d insisted she wait for the others, she was just as insistent that he have his breakfast now. She won. “How so?” he asked.

  “There’s a dozen people waiting outside to talk to you.”

  “I guess they saw our posters.”

  “Are you really going to put just regular people in your picture?”

  “If they’ve got the right look.”

  “They’ll have to be mighty handsome to appear with Mr. Arliss.”

  “He would agree with you,” Sean said.

  “I would indeed,” Richard said as he entered, Ben right behind him. As always, the actor was dressed impeccably, and the part in his hair was straight and fixed with pomade. He placed his bowler on an empty chair and took the seat next to it.

  “Mrs. Delaney says people are already lining up,” Sean said.

  “Then we shouldn’t keep them waiting. A cup of coffee, my dear, and an apple, if you have one.”

  “It’s early in the year for apples, I’m afraid. The biscuits are fresh from the oven, though.”

  “That sounds lovely,” he said, and took one from the basket.
>
  “So Mr. Lee,” Mrs. Delaney said, “if you don’t mind my asking, are you planning to pay these people to be in your picture?”

  “We are. Fifty cents a day.”

  “American money, or company scrip?”

  “American money. Silver quarters.”

  “That explains the turnout. I just hope you can handle them.”

  “What do you mean?” Richard asked.

  “A lot of these people would knife their mothers for two cash dollars.”

  Ben finally spoke. “Including the Tufa?”

  Mrs. Delaney started. Then she forced a laugh. “Lord a’mercy, Mr. Hubbard, who told you about them?”

  “I heard about them yesterday, when I was putting up flyers.”

  “Well, you’d best give them a wide berth, although I can’t imagine any of them wanting to be in a picture. They’re a strange people, and they keep to themselves.”

  “Strange how?” Sean asked.

  “Oh, they’re supposedly thieves, cutthroats, and witches. They say a Tufa truth is worse than a Christian lie.”

  Sean nodded. “I see. Well, thanks for the warning.” He looked at Ben, who shrugged.

  * * *

  Just before nine, Sean and Ben set up the front parlor for their auditions. Ben assembled the tripod and camera, although he loaded no film; Sean could pretend to film people, to see how they responded. If they froze up, he’d know they weren’t suitable, no matter how perfect their faces might be.

  Richard remained in the kitchen, sipping coffee and watching through the open door. He was naturally curious who his director would cast opposite him, but wouldn’t offer an opinion unless asked. That way he could avoid any blame if things went as thoroughly wrong as he expected from this mingling of trained professionals and rank amateurs.

  By the time they were ready, over thirty people waited outside the boardinghouse. They milled about in the tree-shaded yard and crowded onto the porch. They talked among themselves, smoked, and checked watches. A few played banjos or harmonicas, and the distinctive twang of a jaw harp joined in. Most were men, as freshly scrubbed as they were able to get, and clad in their best clothes. The women had the sharp, angular faces of the mountains, even the ones with matronly forms. None of them had that eager, innocent look Ben saw on big-city actors about to audition. These people never expected to get good news.

  Ben said loudly, “All right, form a single line here. We’ll talk to each of you individually.”

  They had a loose scenario for their film: two families battling over moonshine territories, with star-crossed lovers and interloping revenue agents. It was a plot that had been used a thousand times, but it had never been filmed in the actual mountains where it was set.

  “Send in the first one,” Sean called.

  Ben opened the door for a man who looked to be in his forties, wearing a shirt and tie. He’d slicked down his hair, but a few greasy strands still tumbled into his face. He stopped in front of Sean, eyes cast to the floor.

  “I’m Sean Lee. I’m a motion picture director from New Jersey. What’s your name?”

  “Hiram. Hiram Rusk.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  Sean knew hard work aged people, but this was extreme. “You ever seen a motion picture, Hiram?”

  “Nossir.”

  “But you know what they are?”

  “Well, if the name’s right, it’s a picture that moves, ain’t it?”

  “It’s more than that. It’s a way of telling a story. It’s like a play.”

  “I seen a play once’t. At Sunday school, back in Kentucky. All about the disciples finding Jesus’s tomb opened up.”

  “If I tell you to pretend you feel something, can you do it?”

  “I reckon.”

  “Okay, show me your sad face.”

  The corners of his mouth turned down a little.

  “Now your happy face.”

  He smiled, revealing gaps in his teeth. The smile was entirely mechanical, a rictus rather than an actual expression. Sean felt a wave of pity for the man, but not such a big wave that he would hire him.

  “Thank you, Hiram. We’ll be in touch if we need you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lee.”

  He shuffled out. Sean called, “Next!”

  * * *

  It took most of the morning, but Sean eventually had a list of seven people who met his criteria, five men and two women. But he still needed an ingénue, the one who would appear opposite Richard. She had to be, he knew, the kind of girl that men want to love and women want to protect. It was a hard thing to find even in Manhattan.

  And then she walked in.

  She had the fresh beauty of a girl just past the bloom into womanhood. Jet-black hair fell past her shoulders and framed her sharp, perfect features. She wore a simple dress that hinted at an exquisite figure.

  “Hello,” Ben said, and stood. “Please come in.”

  “Oh, I ain’t here for the show,” the girl said. “I’m just picking up Miz Delaney’s laundry.”

  Sean blinked. “You’re not auditioning?”

  “Naw.” She laughed. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  As she walked out of the parlor, Sean motioned Ben over. “Go get her.”

  “Why? She doesn’t want—”

  “I don’t care. She looks perfect, and I want to talk to her some more.”

  Ben sighed, shook his head, and followed the girl.

  He found her talking to Richard in the kitchen. She listened, rapt, as he finished one of his theater stories.

  “… so when she saw the mouse, she jumped up on the sink, still in just her towel. The sink pulled out of the wall, and water went everywhere. Her screaming brought the stage manager, who took one look at the scene and said, ‘What have I told you actresses about peeing in the sink?’”

  The girl giggled almost uncontrollably. Ben waited until she’d calmed down. She wiped the corners of her eyes and said, “That’s pitiful. Is that true?”

  “I swear on my mother’s eventual grave.” Then Richard turned to Ben. “Yes, Benjamin?”

  “Sean would like to see the young lady for a moment.”

  “I told him I wasn’t here to audy-ation,” she said.

  “He understands that, but he’d still like to talk to you.”

  She thought it over. “Well, for a minute. I have to get back to work.”

  She followed him into the parlor. Sean was already on his feet, and extended his hand to her. “Hello, I’m Sean Lee. I’m a film director.”

  “Sophronie Conlin,” she said. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “‘Sophronie.’ That’s an unusual name. Where did it come from?”

  “My mama and papa. That’s where they usually come from in these parts. They do it differently where you come from?”

  Sean smiled. “The exact same way. Tell me, Sophronie, have you ever seen a motion picture?”

  “No. But I’ve heard about them. A friend of mine told me about seeing one about Samson.”

  “Have you ever done any acting?”

  She laughed a little, looked up as she mustered her thoughts, and finally said, “Only when I need to get shed of a boy.”

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  “More’n it used to before they opened Sadieville.”

  Suddenly Sean realized that not only did the girl have all her teeth, but that they were white, straight, and perfect. After a morning filled with partial or missing teeth, it was like seeing the sun after a storm. “So you didn’t come in with the mine, then?”

  “Oh, no. We been here a long time. Look, if you don’t mind, I have to pick up Mrs. Delaney’s washing and take it back to—”

  “I’m sorry, let me get right to the point, then. I think you’d be perfect for the picture we’re making, but I’d like to see how you handle yourself in front of the camera.”

  “I already got a job.”

  “I’ll pay you fifty cent
s a day. Real money, not scrip.”

  “Will you, now,” she said thoughtfully, suddenly looking much older and shrewder than her years.

  “I will. Does your job pay that much?”

  “Not likely.” She nodded at the tripod beside him. “Is that the camera?”

  “It is.” He make a show of adjusting the tripod head, focusing, and getting into position at the viewfinder. “Can you make a sad face?”

  Nothing changed at first. Then her expression fell, and her eyes grew heavy with tears. Astonished, Sean forgot to turn the handle. But Sophronie didn’t notice.

  Then she sang, softly and with all the sadness in the world:

  Can’t never go back, don’t have the will

  Can’t never go back …

  “Cut,” Sean gasped. He and Ben were speechless, and Richard stood in the kitchen doorway, his mouth open.

  She looked up, and as if nothing had happened, said, “What does ‘cut’ mean?”

  “It’s what we say when we stop filming.”

  She smiled shyly. “So how did I do?”

  “Oh, you did fine.”

  “That was magnificent,” Richard said, striding into the room. “Absolutely astounding. And you say you’ve never acted before?”

  “Nossir, I ain’t.”

  “If you don’t offer her the job,” Richard said to Sean, “then I’ll have lost all faith in you as a director.”

  “Wait a minute, now,” she said. “I don’t even know what this pitcher you’re making is going to be about. I might not care to be involved.”

  “If you take the job,” Sean said, “You’ll be playing a young woman who’s in love with a young man from a rival family.”

  “Sounds a little like ‘Blackjack Davy.’”

  “Is that a story?”

  “Yes, but we tell it with a song. Who’s going to be acting the young man?”

  “I will,” Richard said.

  She smiled. “Well, that’s plumb nice to hear. You seem like a gentleman.”

  “You try to run away together,” Sean continued, “but a revenue man forces you to betray your families to him.”

  “Ooh, that sounds exciting. I’ve known me a couple of revenue men. When do we start?”

  “The day after tomorrow at first light.”

  “I reckon I’ll do it, then.” With that, she turned and walked back toward the kitchen.