Paint the Wind

by Cathy Cash Spellman

  "I still dream a few dreams, too, you know, Chance. In my fantasies I see myself as the greatest painter ever to render the West on canvas. I see my name as the one on everybody's lips when they think of Indians. But here I am with a string of pack mules, living on beans and sourdough. I seem to remember you telling me when we started prospecting, it would take two years at the most to get me to art school." Hart smiled good-naturedly. "Just how long ago was that, now?"

  "Don't you worry, bro. We're both going places, you'll see. I'm never wrong when I get a hunch and I'm always lucky."

  "You weren't so lucky last night in that poker game."

  Chance winced a little, then chuckled. "That little bastard must have sold his soul to the devil for those last three aces—they had no business being where he could get his hands on them." Like all true gamblers, he was affable in losing as well as winning. "I got luckier later."

  Hart had seen his brother leave the gaming tables with a girl named Jane, whose athletic prowess and enthusiasm for the male anatomy were legendary in the Gulch.

  "You're lucky all right, lucky you can still ride a horse this morning."

  Chance laughed outright. "You're just trying to distract me from my fantasies. But I'm feeling too full of piss and vinegar to be dissuaded today."

  He nudged his horse forward with a light touch of spur.

  "You'll see, bro," he called to Hart over his shoulder as he pushed the horse into a heartier lope, for the ground had finally leveled. "I intend to have it all!"

  It wasn't long after that they hit it big and Hart had reason to remember his brother's prophetic words.

  Chapter 46

  "I'm cold, Mommy," Aurora said hoarsely: Her throat sounded scratchy again, and Fancy reached automatically to feel her daughter's head. Then she pulled the little girl onto her lap and cradled her against the chill of the unheated railroad car. The train seats were agonizingly uncomfortable; Fancy tried to adjust her back to less of a cramp, but the child's added weight made it impossible. She sighed resolutely and patted Aurora's back, wrapping her with the folds of her own coat. Sleep would have to wait a little longer.

  "Don't get sick, baby," she whispered, squeezing Aurora close. "I just don't know what I'll do if you get sick again."

  "I'm cold, Mommy," the child repeated listlessly.

  The train clickety-clicked in the endless, icy dark and Fancy stared hopelessly out the window. Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Philadelphia... and all those wretched nonentities in between. All those freezing trains by night, after an exhausting day of rehearsal, plus two performances, all those boardinghouse keepers she paid extra to mind Aurora while she worked—if she didn't get a break soon, she didn't know how much more either one of them could bear. The life of a prospector was no harder or less rewarding than the life of an actress. Christ almighty, by the time she made it big she'd have paid her dues in blood.

  "Miss Deverell's performance was honed in the provinces, and it shows," the review in Cincinnati said brutally. What the hell did the critic think Cincinnati was, if not provincial? Fancy's belly tightened, hurt and anger sizzled in her gut; she threw the newspaper into the basket. Criticism hurt, God damn it... it undermined creativity and put the skids to confidence. And what were critics anyway, but fringe people, living on other people's sweat and talent, hovering at the edges of an actor's soul, picking it to death like carrion birds. If you can't fly, kill the ones who do. She glimpsed her face in the makeup mirror and saw there nothing but rage. That was good... more useful than hurt. She dabbed the last of the greasepaint onto her cheeks and headed out to face the audience. She'd just have to work harder, learn more, that was all.

  Fancy tipped up her chin defiantly and decided not to hear the catcalls as she walked onstage. If you let an audience smell blood, they'd tear your heart out.

  I am so afraid, Fancy thought, staring out the boardinghouse window into the darkness, forlorn and weary. What if this is all there ever is for us? She glanced at the small sleeping Aurora in the swaybacked bed and rubbed her own arms against the bitter cold.

  Nights were the worst times... fear grew fierce and vengeful in the dark. Hopelessness swelled and festered, nothing ever found its solution until morning streaked across the sky. But sometimes by then, a bone-chilling fear of the future had already undermined her. How do you go on believing in yourself when no one else does? There were actors with the repertory company who were in their sixties, still grateful for a few weeks steady work. She'd slit her wrists before she'd face a lifetime of this misery and degradation—she would make it big or die in the attempt, there could be no middle ground for Fancy.

  She pushed the hunger down, down beneath her fear. There'd been money enough to pay for only one supper tonight, so she'd told Aurora she wasn't hungry enough to eat. Now the pangs of emptiness gnawed at her like an echo of all the other emptiness in her life.

  Fancy took the tiny music box from its hiding place in her trunk and wound it up, letting the harplike music fill the empty dark with solace. She cried silently and softly, hugging the box to her breast, so as not to wake Aurora. After a very long time, she crept back into bed and fell into a troubled slumber.

  The theatre manager leered at the beautiful young actress behind his wet cigar and Fancy's stomach lurched. He never came near without brushing her breast or rump, putting his arm around her, his ugly breath close enough to nauseate. She pulled back hastily; she'd grown used to fending off men with more hands than brains.

  "What're you saving it for, little lady?" Harvey laughed. "I'm as good as the likes of you can get."

  "In your dreams, you troll!" she replied spitefully; this kind of living was beginning to fray her nerves and make her fight back. There was little room on the road for civility.

  "I could help you if you'd just get off that high horse, Deverell. Make life nicer for you and that kid of yours, while you're here in town." Fancy snapped her head in his direction.

  "I'm a married woman, Mr. Armstrong. That should be made apparent by the fact that I have both a child and a wedding ring."

  "Rings can be bought at the corner store, and as for that little by-blow of yours—"

  Fancy slapped his face with enough force to make her fingers numb.

  "You bastard, don't you dare speak that way about my daughter... you're nothing but a petty tyrant, trading on your tiny speck of power to make everyone's life miserable." There were too many men like Harvey Armstrong in the theatre; it attracted them like flies to honey. She said a few other things too.

  When Fancy finished the performance, a pink slip was in the envelope along with her pay. She dropped it onto the dressing table as if it were dirty, and tucked the needed money into the bosom of her corset. Armstrong could only keep her from performing for the two days she'd be in Chicago, then the company would move on and she would work again. This wasn't the first time she'd encountered the likes of him.

  "Harvey's a mean son of a bitch, honey," Maisie called out as Fancy passed by her dressing room. The blowsy blonde always played ladies of easy virtue and Fancy suspected it was typecasting; she stuck her head out the door and caught hold of Fancy's arm. "You know, honey, it might be near time for you to stop bein' so uppity with these guys, just so life won't be so hard on you. This is the third time you've gotten docked because you wouldn't play footsie with some bum like Harvey. And you know it ain't gonna stop, Fancy. Men are men, rich or poor they all want the same thing from us. Maybe your life would get easier if you'd start puttin' out."

  Fancy shook her head wearily. "I'd willingly starve before I'd consort with the likes of Harvey, by God I would, Maisie. But I'm sure as hell beginning to see why a woman needs a protector. You can bet your last dollar it wouldn't be worth my while to put out for anybody who couldn't do me a lot more good than that nobody!"

  Maisie inclined her head for a closer look at Fancy; her untidy blond curls had dark roots, but she was a sweet person, beneath the warpaint. She'd baby-sat with Aurora on more than one o
ccasion.

  "You're probably right about that, doll. It's too late for me by now, I'm used merchandise, but you still look brand-new. With a little help from somebody rich and powerful, you might just be able to make the big time."

  "I think I've got to do it soon, Maisie," Fancy replied, sounding discouraged. "I'm afraid my strength is petering out."

  She kissed Maisie on the cheek and went back to the boardinghouse, thinking hard about the conversation. If you have to sell your soul, you'd best get one hell of a good price for it.

  "You're not paying attention!" four-year-old Aurora scolded.

  "Yes, I am, darling. Mommy's just a little tired tonight."

  "I've been waiting for you all day, Mommy, just so you could play with me." The child was growing more and more possessive.

  "And I've been playing with you ever since I got home, sweetheart. We've played cards and I've read you stories and now we're playing dolls..."

  "But you aren't paying attention, and you didn't play with me at all while you ate dinner."

  "For heaven's sake, Aurora! All I ate was some cheese and crackers. It couldn't have taken me more than four minutes, start to finish." Oh, what was the use of arguing with the child, the truth was that with children you could stand on your head or hang from a hook and it was never, ever enough for them.

  Fancy's head hurt and her throat was raw from too many performances without respite. Methodically, she picked up the doll again and started to undo its homemade dress. Her tired fingers fumbled the task and a button popped off.

  "Oh, Mommy, now look what you've done!" Aurora wailed. "You've spoiled my dolly."

  Fancy threw the doll to the floor distractedly, fighting tears of frustration and fatigue.

  "For God's sake, Aurora, I haven't ruined anything! I'm the one who made that dress for your dolly and I can damn well fix the button." She bit her underlip to keep from saying more; it wasn't Aurora's fault that she was tired and they were poor and Fancy was damned near the end of her rope. She forced herself to pick up the doll and begin again.

  "Why are you crying, Mommy?" the child asked accusingly, as if her mother had no right to frailty.

  "I'm not crying, darling, I just have something in my eye." Aurora deserved only the best that life could offer, and if it killed Fancy, that was exactly what she'd give the child.

  The actress clutched the flyer she'd been handed:

  Notice to Performers

  You are hereby warned that your act must be free of vulgarity and coarseness.

  Such words as Liar, Slob, Son of a Gun, Devil, Sucker, Damn, and all others unfit for the ears of ladies and children, will provoke discharge, if used.

  Ladies' and children's ears heard plenty worse than those words in life, Fancy thought, but she knew that a man named Tony Pastor in New York was behind this move to clean up vaudeville. He had the right idea, too, for his reforms were beginning to move variety shows into legitimate theatres. Maybe he could be the answer to her prayers.

  They were "breaking the jump" from St. Paul to Cleveland with a week of night-stands in tiny towns best left unnamed. Room too dark, too cold, too warm, too small... the steam rattles, the chambermaid sings or weeps, the bed sags, the bugs bite. Slobbering drunks, noisy musicians, snoring neighbors, tasteless food, steamer trunks lugged up three flights of stairs... she hoped this one would be an "easy jump." She was tired, and the current role she played was grueling. The last two theatres had had no drawing room sets, only farmhouse kitchens, so her role had had to be hastily rewritten and rememorized.

  It was time to show the hinterlands a clean pair of heels; she was ready as she'd ever be to try to make her mark where it counted, and if she didn't try soon, she was liable to become used up and bitter, like so many of the has-beens or never-beens she'd met on the road.

  What she needed was Broadway, that was clear as crystal. Big-time booking agents, big-time impresarios, roles that did justice to her gifts, could change this never-ending drudgery into hope again. She still loved the theatre passionately, even if the theatre didn't currently reciprocate. It would. When she got to New York at the end of this tour, she would stay there and make her stand. It felt like a lifetime since she and Aurora had left Denver; there'd been more than enough hardship and plenty of practice.

  Tony Pastor was the man of the moment, according to all the actors' scuttlebutt along the jumps. He was the one she'd see when she got to New York, if she had to take all her clothes off and audition naked to get his attention.

  Fancy looked in the mirror and grimaced. She'd be better off naked than in these hand-me-downs—she'd have to have one good audition dress, at least. Maybe there'd be enough money to buy some decent fabric in the next town; working on the dress would fill the long, lonely nights between here and New York with tangible evidence of the future. She picked up Harper's Weekly from the dressing table and began to search for news of what the prosperous were wearing these days, and hoped that it wouldn't be too complicated for her meager dressmaking skills to duplicate.

  Chapter 47

  Mr. Pastor was Italian, there was no mistaking that. His elegant black mustache and hair made him look foreign as an opera star; his bearing was almost military and he had the look of a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

  Everyone in the New York booking agencies said he was a showman par excellence, and that his effort to raise vaudeville to the level of legitimate theatre was making him rich. He'd priced the seats in his spanking new 14th Street theatre at a dollar and a half, and he'd banished the crude or vulgar from his performances, so that women, for whom variety had always been considered too daring, could see his shows. Fine artists with well-known names were appearing at Tony Pastor's, and Fancy breathed a sigh of pleasure when she saw how scrupulously clean, even pretty, the premises were. If she could get a job at Pastor's, she might be noticed by those who counted. She hoped her dress could bear scrutiny, without looking too homemade; she'd copied a Paris original that sported the newest modified bustle.

  "What can you do, kid?" Tony Pastor demanded as he looked her over with a skilled eye.

  "I sing and dance, Mr. Pastor, and I have an excellent Shakespearean repertoire. I've done repertory, and have two dozen roles at my fingertips."

  "Sure, sure, kid, just like everybody else in New York. But what do you do that's special? Just yours, you know? Like nobody else in the whole frigging world could do it as good as you."

  The question rocked Fancy, for in that split second she understood why she hadn't yet succeeded—she had copied others, never once breaking ground of her own. Thunderstruck, she cast about in her mind frantically for something she understood better than anyone else. Anxiety pounded in her ears, she could not let this chance escape her; there was only enough money in her purse for one week's rent. You will transmute pain into art and they will hear the truth in your voice, Magda's words broke through her agitation.

  "I've suffered gravely, Mr. Pastor," Fancy answered, and the dignity of the reply caught the showman off guard. "I understand heartache. I can make people cry."

  He looked at her with renewed interest, and more than a little amusement.

  "You think that's a good thing to be able to do, kid? Make people cry? Convince me."

  "Life's hard, Mr. Pastor, I don't think anyone escapes unscathed. My sorrow is like a tuning fork for other people's sorrow. When I sing or recite or act, they vibrate... because I know the truth and so do they."

  Tony Pastor settled back in his newly purchased red plush seat. This one didn't sound like the others, didn't look like them either.

  "So make me cry, kid," he said, settling deeply into the chair and steepling his hands in front of his lips.

  Fancy pulled off her gloves and set her hat aside, diversions to provide time to think... she would sing first, then recite.

  "Do you know 'Father, Dear Father, Come Home with Me Now'?" she asked the piano player, and he nodded. "In the key of G, please." And then she sang... or rather, Ton
y Pastor told his wife that night, she became the brokenhearted child who begged her father to return from the bar to her dying mother's side. Her great dark eyes filled with courageous, desperate tears, she became every lost child who has ever begged for what she needs for salvation, only to be denied. Tony Pastor was startled to find, as the haunting notes died in Fancy's throat, that there was genuine moisture in his own eyes. He saw the piano player wipe his face surreptitiously with his handkerchief, and he knew in his heart that he had found a potential winner.

  Fancy recited then, and the impresario tried to fathom what it was she did that set her apart. She was a waif, of course... a fragile, exquisite waif who could break your heart with a glance of those expressive eyes—but she was more than that, for there was bravery and defiance in her desperation. She was young as the frailest orphan, and old, in knowledge of the wicked ways in which the world can rob you of your dreams. She was frail and mighty; like a willow the storm might bend but not break, or the sparrow who outlives the winter. She was enduring, and oh, the painful knowledge in that face, in the subtle gestures of her hands and the language of her small body. How could one so young know so much of loss? he wondered. How could she communicate it so intensely?

  Fancy, on the other side of the footlights, knew she was home at last, for she had finally grown into her gift—her rare and special talent that was like no other. Could this be what Magda had meant by her soul's purpose? She didn't even have to see the tears in the men's eyes, or notice that the cleaning woman was standing propped against her mop, tears streaming down her weathered face, to know she had the job.

  Chapter 48

  Fancy was happy at Tony Pastor's, but it was only the first step on the ladder. At least she was finally in New York, where she could learn how the climb could be accomplished. You needed a manager or impresario to break into Broadway, everybody said so. You could do variety or burlesque or road shows without one, but to make it to the Big Time you needed a manager who had access to the theatre owners and the "angels" who backed the new plays. The trouble was that the best managers chose their own clients from the endless stream of hopefuls, and in order to reach the important producers you had to be represented by one of a tiny handful of men, who wielded unconscionable power.