by Juliette Fay
“Now, don’t be like that,” I said softly. “You’re not friendly with Tip. You didn’t owe him anything. I only wondered.”
This seemed to defuse him. “I don’t know what he was up to with your sister, and I really don’t want to know. The only thing that was clear to me was that it was mutual between them. And you think he’s a decent fellow—I trust your judgment.” He looked down at his hand, thumb and pinky wide across the chenille bedspread. Then he sighed and shook his head. “When that guy threatened to drown him in canal muck . . . I thought of my father drowning in molasses, and I wished someone had been there to help him.”
We talked on through the night, and by degrees I pulled my chair over to the bed, and then got into the bed next to him so we could hold hands.
“You could take off your coat, you know.”
“I only have my nightdress on.”
“I’d like to see you in that.”
To me he was the most beautiful thing in the world. I loved him with every molecule of my girlish heart, and wanted nothing more than to lie in his arms.
Your own terms, Gert had said.
“I’d like to take off my coat,” I said. “And I’d like to lie in this bed next to you and know what it feels like to sleep with your arms around me.” I gave him a hard look. “But that’s all. I’m trusting you to respect my wishes.”
His gaze was serious. “I respect your wishes and every single other thing about you.”
It was our first night together. Even now, the thought of it fills me with joy.
The train to Sackets Harbor the next day took us north along Lake Ontario. By then Kit’s crying had slowed to the occasional sniffle, but even that got under Mother’s skin. “If I hear so much as another hiccup out of you,” she muttered, “I won’t be responsible for my actions!”
“But she was the best friend I ever had!”
“You only knew her for a week!”
“Yes, but . . .” Kit turned away to hide the newly formed tears threatening to spill.
The problem was not that Mother didn’t understand; it was that she understood all too well, and didn’t want to be reminded. A week in the company of a like-minded soul, under circumstances that could produce anything from ecstasy to misery, forms a sort of kinship that might take years under normal conditions. Kit had never fit in—quite literally—with girls her own age in Johnson City. Nor had I. Nor, for that matter, had Mother. We had always been just a beat off from our contemporaries.
Gert would’ve had an easy time fitting in, if only she’d cared to. Instead she’d always preferred to fly above the crowd and find excitement a little closer to the sun. Only Nell had ever had easy relationships with girlfriends, but those had been eclipsed years ago, first by her all-encompassing love for Harry, and then by her grief over his loss.
In Sackets Harbor we played the International Order of Odd Fellows Hall, and the name of the theatre is really all I remember, perhaps because it seemed to fit our mood so perfectly. We felt odd. Out of sorts. We were friendly, but made no actual friends.
We collected our pay and traveled north to Clayton, New York, gateway to the Thousand Islands of the St. Lawrence River. The only memorable part of that week was tasting a salad dressing named for the area. I didn’t find it all that enticing. Probably just a passing fad.
We played the Sheldon Opera House in Hamilton, New York, home to Colgate University. It was our first experience with “rah-rah boys”—college men who wait at the stage door and try to get female performers to come out with them. Gert was the main object of their efforts, of course, but even Kit and I had a few tagging after us as we made our way to the hotel each night.
For the first time in my career as a vaudevillian, I found myself bored. The hours between performances seemed to lengthen at each stop, until I was glad when we had to play five shows instead of four. I studied my first aid book and surreptitiously collected more supplies: gauze pads, a small penknife, and a pack of matches for sterilizing. I also returned to Little Women.
When I’d first read it years before, I’d been annoyed with Jo for turning down Laurie’s offer of marriage. He seemed so completely devoted to her, and generally beloved by all the family. He was their version of Harry. But this time, I saw what Miss Alcott had in mind. Laurie wasn’t enough—maybe for Amy, but not for Jo. Jo needed something different.
I became a more reliable postcard writer, keeping Dad apprised of our successes, saying nothing of what had happened in Lyons with Gert. Nor with me. And certainly not with Mother and Mr. O’Sullivan. I still didn’t know what exactly to make of that. Perhaps it was naive of me, but I chose to believe it was an innocent flirtation taken half a step too far. When Dad’s postcards found us, they were upbeat, too, though I could read his loneliness seeping between the lines, and it made me feel even worse about Mother’s indelicate behavior.
I sent cards almost daily to Joe. We’d exchanged schedules before parting, and I tried to keep myself fresh in his mind. Of course, I never knew if they would reach him, and was only certain when he responded with a reference to something I’d said many days before. It paled to ghostlike in contrast to the immediacy and intimacy of our constant companionship in Lyons.
In the first week of May the Tumbling Turners traveled to Oneonta, the largest city on our tour, and then on to Walton, New York, one of the smallest. We were at the end of our nine-week run and there’d been no word from Birnbaum. For all we knew, our time as vaudevillians was over.
On the train ride home, the last stop before Binghamton was Nineveh. Gert sat next to me, looking out the dirty train car windows at the tiny town. I knew that she, more than any of us, dreaded returning to our old lives.
“In the Bible,” I said to distract her, “Nineveh’s a terribly wicked place, and God sends Jonah there to tell them to be good.”
We stared at the tidy little houses. An old man drove a rickety cart down the dusty street. “Doesn’t look wicked to me,” she muttered. “Looks dull as dishwater.”
“Apparently they listened to Jonah,” I joked.
She looked away. “And look where that got them.”
34
GERT
Dancing in Tijuana when I was thirteen—that was my “summer camp.” How else do you think I could keep up with Fred Astaire when I was nineteen?
—Rita Hayworth, actress and dancer
Dad was waiting on the platform, thinning hair whipping in the breeze, looking so hopeful it gave me guilt pangs. My hope was to leave him again as soon as possible. We stepped off the train, and he pulled us into his arms, saying, “Oh, my girls!” with a catch in his voice. Then he looked at Mother, taking her measure. “How are you, Ethel?” he said.
She gazed back at him. “I’m all right, Frank. And you?”
“Better now that you’re home.” He stepped toward her, and she leaned into his arms like she’d been waiting to fall into them since we left. After a brief embrace, they separated. Dad tugged his jacket straight, and Mother adjusted her hat. If I live to be a hundred, I swear I’ll never understand the bond between those two. But what I think isn’t worth the breath it would take to say so, is it? It’s only what they think that matters. I get that now.
“How’s your hand, Dad?” Winnie asked.
He held it out in front of us, and the scars and twists of his fingers were still godawful to look at. Then he clenched his fist. We all gasped. “It works!” said Kit.
“It’s not nearly as good as it was, but I squeeze a rubber ball each day to strengthen it.”
“I’m so happy for you, Dad!” Winnie said, and I’ll be darned if she didn’t get a little teary, too.
“Last week I went back to work,” he told us. “I don’t make as much money as I used to, but with what you’ve earned, if we’re thrifty we’ll be set for a while to come.” He smiled at Kit, Winnie, and me. “I already reregistered you for school. You’re set to go back tomorrow.”
School, for cripes’ sake—as if
I wasn’t miserable enough already.
“Damn it, Frank!” Mother fumed, tossing cold water onto their rare moment of marital bliss. Business as usual. “For all you know, they’re going back on the road again next week!”
“Are they?” he said.
“Not at the moment, but if Birnbaum calls . . .”
He gave her a little pat on the shoulder. “Yes, dear,” he said gently. It’s a funny thing about him. When he gets his way, it’s generally by not fighting her.
The trolley ride to Johnson City was quiet, and it occurred to me that maybe I wasn’t the only miserable sister. Maybe we were all thinking the same thing. With Dad working, and no help from Birnbaum, our vaudeville career was breathing its last.
The house looked even smaller than when we’d left it, if that was possible. We went upstairs to unpack. The baby needed a nap, so I went across the hall to Kit and Winnie’s room, feeling so low I was ready to jump out the window. Of course, it was only one floor up. Probably only break my legs, and then where would I be?
Kit slumped on the bed. “I hate school. Everyone’s so mean.” Her eyes filled. “My muscles are bigger now from the act, and I think I might even be”—she inhaled a sniffle—“taller!”
Winnie sat down, put an arm around her waist, and looked up at her. “But you have a secret now. You’re a vaudevillian, and no one could ever take that away, no matter how mean they are.”
“But what if Mr. Birnbaum never calls and we never get to go back?” she wailed.
Poor kid. I hadn’t really thought about it before, but Kit had it the worst of all of us. At thirteen, she had five long years till she could claim her freedom. I sat down on the other side of her and hooked my arm in hers. The two of them looked at me like I’d suddenly started speaking Swedish or something. “What?” I demanded.
Winnie smiled. “Nothing,” she said, and I felt the hand she’d curled around Kit’s waist reach out to gently pat my back.
It was painful—by which I mean it actually hurt!—to wake up so early in the morning after months of rising at ten or eleven. The three of us trudged to school. Maybe she was just tired or missing Joe, but even Winnie seemed unenthusiastic.
When we walked home that afternoon I told her I wasn’t going back. “I was so bored I was practically ready to take my own life. I’m going to start waitressing full-time.”
“Gert, that’s ridiculous! You’re only a month away from graduating!”
“More like three months away, with all I missed when we were on the road. I’ll never be able to make it all up, so why even try?”
For some reason this made her scorching mad, and she didn’t even speak to me for a couple of blocks. I felt like screaming, There’s nothing I want to do in this world that requires a high school diploma!
But she knew that. It was something else. Something she wanted for her.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
“Do what?”
“All your papers and homework, and I’ll prep you for tests. But you have to promise you’ll go to class and take some notes.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“It just galls me—you’re almost there! I’d do anything to have my graduation in such easy reach.” Her eyes flicked away, the gears of her overactive little mind turning. “Give me half of what you make waitressing, and I’ll get you to graduation if I have to carry you piggyback.”
“Half! Are you out of your mind? I don’t even care about graduating.”
She said nothing, only stared stubbornly at me. And I thought of one thing.
Pigeons.
“One quarter,” I said. “Take it or leave it.”
I admit, the arrangement worked out pretty well. Winnie did her schoolwork and mine, she helped Kit with hers, and got back her job at Lourdes Hospital. I didn’t go back to J. J. Wiley’s—I didn’t want to see Roy—but I did get a job in the dining room of the fancy Arlington Hotel, and took every shift they offered. The two of us were busier than we’d ever been before, which left fewer hours for mooning about our losses.
I wasn’t one to moon anyway. It was more like the ache of a gut wound that wouldn’t quite heal. I wasn’t one to pray, either, but I prayed for him every hour of every day. Looked for him on every street corner. Dreamed or had nightmares about him every night.
My beautiful Tip.
Mother held out a full twenty-four hours before storming over to Mrs. Califano’s to call Birnbaum. When she returned she was spitting nails, and I thought she might punch Dad right in the snoot. “Why in hell didn’t you tell me!” she screeched. “He said he left messages several times!”
“Well, I . . . I wasn’t absolutely certain . . . ,” Dad stammered.
“Of what?”
“If it was him. Mrs. Califano said a man called but she couldn’t remember his name.”
“Oh, Dad!” I groaned. “Who else could it be?”
“I figured, even if it was him, it was just as likely that it was bad news as good,” he sputtered. “Besides, I’m working! You don’t have to do that . . . performing anymore!”
“We like performing!” I said, and looked around at the rest of them. “Don’t we? Is there anyone who wouldn’t go back out on the road right this minute?”
“I would!” said Kit.
“I did enjoy it,” said Nell. She gave Dad an apologetic look. “But I like being home, too.”
All eyes turned to Winnie. “I loved it,” she admitted. “But since we’re here now, I just want to finish out the school year.” She fixed me with a hard look. “I want all of us to finish out the school year.”
“Well, it looks like you’ll have your way,” said Mother. “He couldn’t reach us, so he didn’t book us.” A cry went up from Kit, and even Nell looked unhappy. “He’ll see what he can do, but as he was quick to say, there are no guarantees in life, and in vaudeville, even fewer.”
35
WINNIE
Art is an elastic sort of love.
—Josephine Baker, exotic dancer and singer
I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.
Joe wrote letters instead of postcards, now that he could be sure they’d reach me.
Lucy hasn’t met any friends like Kit, so she gets fussy and irritable. Last week she had a cold, and I had no idea what to do for her. I’m no parent.
Mama is so lonely. In her letters she never complains, and she says she’s proud of me for stepping into Papa’s shoes to take care of the family. But I can feel her sadness. She lost her husband, and now her children are gone, too. What kind of life have I left her with? My father’s garden never got planted because I was on the road. I’m failing at everything.
Only the money keeps me going. I figure if we get small-time gigs for another two years, I can pay off the land and put a little aside so I can go back to playing in local bars for a living. Lucy can finish her schooling. Mama will be happy again, once we’re with her.
Two years. It makes me sick inside to think about it.
If only you could be with me, Winnie. If only I could put my arms around you, and kiss you and talk to you, I could hold on. I could do it forever.
About a week after we got home, I went downstairs in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and smelled smoke.
Fire! I thought, and my mind flashed to the Binghamton Clothing Factory fire, and all those poor girls sewing overalls. I was about to scream for everyone to get out of the house, when I realized it had a very particular odor: not of worldly possessions in flames, but the earthy scent of burning plant matter. I followed it out to the front porch, where Gert sat on one of our traveling trunks, a cigarette dangling from her fingers.
“Where did you get that?” I said, rubbing my eyes. “You don’t smoke.”
She only shrugged. In all likelihood, some young man had offered them as a love token—maybe the better word for it is bait—and she had simply walked off with them.
I should have gone back up to bed: the faintl
y lightening sky announced the approach of dawn. But instead I nudged her over and sat down. She offered me the cigarette, and though I’d never smoked before, I accepted it and took a hesitant drag. It tasted as I always suspected it would—like eating soot—but also something more. Acceptance. Maybe even friendship.
“How’s Joe?”
“Fine.” I handed her back the cigarette. “Bored.”
She shot me a sideways smile. “Lovelorn.”
I smiled back and shrugged. “You ever hear from Tip?”
She shook her head. “He left too fast. Never got a chance to give him our address.” She took a deep drag and blew it high to the wainscoted porch ceiling.
“Wherever he is, he misses you.”
“I’m too busy being mad at the world to miss him.” She stared off over the neighborhood toward Floral Park Cemetery. Then a little smile came to her lips. “I still can’t believe you let those pigeons loose.”
“It kind of surprised me, too.”
“It’s a good thing you did.”
“Why?”
“Because if somebody hadn’t done something like that, I might have had to.” She took another drag. “And it might’ve been a lot worse than setting some stupid birds free.”
She handed me back the cigarette and I puffed inexpertly at it. It wasn’t as bad the second time, though it wasn’t good, either. But it was Gert’s, and I wanted to be part of it.
I blew the smoke into the darkness. “How come you didn’t go back to J. J. Wiley’s?”
She lifted the cigarette from my fingers. “There’s a guy there I don’t want to see.” She took another drag and I could see her deciding how much to tell. “We were together . . . but he got mad when I went on the road.”
“How could he be mad about that? Did he want us to get evicted?”
“He didn’t see it that way. He wanted control.” Her eyes slid toward mine. “Most of them do, you know.”
On Monday, June 2, we’d been home for two weeks and I was feeling very accomplished. Gert’s graduation was on the twenty-second, and I was up to date with all of her assignments, as well as my own. I had even gotten an A-plus-plus on my women’s suffrage paper, though that probably had more to do with my history teacher Miss Darlington’s passion for the movement. She and I had both worn suffrage-white to school the day after the House of Representatives passed the Nineteenth Amendment. If approved by the Senate and ratified by two-thirds of the states, it would ensure that “the right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of sex.” It was thrilling!