The Tumbling Turner Sisters

by Juliette Fay

  “I’m just tired.” She forced a yawn. “We got up so early.”

  “Too tired for the man of your dreams? Sounds like trouble in the tunnel of love to me.”

  “We’re fine,” she insisted

  “Then there’s only one other explanation.” My pride flared up. “Babysitting.”

  She sighed. “Well, you have to admit, your temper’s been hotter than usual.”

  “With good reason!”

  “Not this morning with Archie. That boy was afraid for his life.”

  “He looked like he might faint.” I chuckled. “It was kind of funny.”

  She tried to stay stern, but couldn’t keep it up. “He almost wet himself,” she snickered.

  “If he can’t handle tough talk, he’s not long for vaudeville. Probably won’t amount to much anyway. He’s too polite. And that cleft in his chin is so big you could park a car in it.”

  Winnie burst out laughing. “He could be a chauffeur! Comes with his own parking spot!”

  We laughed so loudly the girls woke up.

  “Go back to sleep,” I hissed. “It’s the middle of the night, for goodness’ sake!”

  We waited for them to drift off again. Winnie was quiet, but I knew she wasn’t asleep.

  “Know what really makes me mad?” It was hard to say out loud, but I had to get it off my chest somehow. “That I’ll never know if he’s okay. He’s somewhere out in this wide, Negro-hating world, and he could be dead already. But I’ll never know. I’ll worry the rest of my life about a man who may or may not even be alive.”

  “If anyone can take care of himself, it’s Tip. He knows how to stay away from trouble.”

  “He didn’t stay away from me, and I’m probably the biggest trouble he ever met.”

  “You listen to me, this time,” she said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You just loved him, and he’ll carry that with him forever. People’s hatred put him in danger, not your love.”

  It was the sweetest, truest thing anyone could have said, and it eased the burden of my guilt just enough to make it almost bearable.

  “I asked him once if he was the jealous type,” I told her. “You know what he said? He said, “Gertie, I’m like a little brown bear in the Arctic—an easy target. I can’t afford the luxury of jealousy. I can barely afford the luxury of keeping my black hide squarely covering my bones. It’s no time for acting large.’ ”

  “But he didn’t act small, either,” Winnie insisted. “Remember how he wouldn’t black up in Wellsville? And he made friends with us, even though he knew the risk.”

  “That’s true,” I murmured.

  “And when those men were saying terrible things in Lyons, he just kept dancing. He wouldn’t stop until the curtains were pulled. He’s about the bravest man I’ve ever met,” she said. “He may not be entirely free to do as he pleases, but no one can say he acts small, Gert. No one.”

  She was right, and I felt the flicker of courage in my own heart burn a little brighter. “Maybe I could live large enough for two,” I said.

  She gazed at me, her little face serious as a judge. “If anyone can, Gertie, it’s you.”

  37

  WINNIE

  I’ll make a prediction with my eyes open: that a woman can and will be elected if she is qualified and gets enough votes.

  —Gracie Allen, actress and comedian

  “Will you look at this?” said Joe at breakfast the next morning, flicking the back of his hand against the Geneva Daily News. “There’s an article about Gert!” He handed me the folded paper and pointed to the bottom-right corner. Nell and Gert peered over my shoulder.

  FIGHT BETWEEN LADY PERFORMERS CAUSED BY BISCUIT

  The article was a bit silly, making Gert and Marie out to be longtime rivals attempting to end each other’s careers. It said Marie had engaged the assistance of an “ardent fan” to pelt Gert with eggs. However, the young man in question, purportedly a fine upstanding member of the Hobart College Glee Club, felt eggs would be “ungentlemanly” and brought along a biscuit from his noon meal instead.

  Miss Gertrude Turner, a member of the lively and well-received Tumbling Turner Sisters, responded to the biscuit assault by returning it at high speed to its rightful owner. She later applied the palm of her hand at a similar velocity to Miss Dubois’s cheek when the two passed each other onstage. This is hardly the kind of genteel activity that is expected of well-mannered ladies at the Opera House.

  “I hope we won’t be fired,” Nell murmured.

  “I should’ve held my temper.” Gert shook her head, but the regret seemed to be aimed at the potential consequences rather than her actions.

  “Let’s wait and see,” I said, and flipped the paper over to hide the offending article from further consideration. That’s when I saw the headline:

  SUFFRAGE WINS IN SENATE: NOW GOES TO STATES

  “It passed!” I said, half in shock.

  “What did?” said Joe.

  “Women’s right to vote! It passed in the House a couple of weeks ago, but the Senate vote had been too close to call.” I turned to my sisters. “If the states ratify, we’ll be voters!”

  “That’s wonderful,” said Nell, but she was clearly still distracted by the prospect of our future unemployment. “We should get to the theatre.” She and Gert stood up from the table and headed for the dining room door.

  “I’ll be right there,” I said, wanting to read the full article.

  “I wouldn’t get too excited.” Joe was buttoning his jacket.

  “For goodness’ sake, why not?” I said. “It’s history in the making!”

  “It isn’t history unless two-thirds of the states agree. And they won’t.”

  I stared up at him. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Massachusetts already passed a law against the women’s vote just four years ago,” he said matter-of-factly. “And if we’re not for it, it’s not likely many others will be.”

  “Massachusetts isn’t the center of the whole solar system!” I stood and tossed my napkin onto the table.

  His eyebrows shot upward. “I didn’t know you were such a radical.”

  “Radical? It’s been before the legislature every session for decades! It’s not exactly a newfangled idea.”

  “No, just an unnecessary one. There’s no need for women to vote, Winnie. They’ve got enough to do just taking care of their families. My mother doesn’t want the bother of voting.”

  “Then let her stay home and make meatballs!” I yelled. “I want to vote!”

  People from other tables were looking over to see what the ruckus was. We certainly didn’t need another Turner sister ending up in the paper for unseemly behavior, so I walked with as much speed as dignity would allow out the door of the dining room and up the sidewalk toward the theatre.

  I soon caught up with my sisters. “He’s antisuffrage!” I fumed.

  “The hell with him, then,” said Gert.

  “Gert!” Nell scolded. “Winnie, give him some time to come around to the idea. And try to put it out of your mind—we’ve got more pressing concerns at the moment.”

  We braced ourselves as we entered the theatre. Kit had gone over early, as she often did, and we found her kneeling on the stage apron, changing a burned-out incandescent bulb in one of the footlights. Distracted by our unexpected approach, her hand banged into the fixture. There must have been some loose wires because a spray of sparks flew out and onto the wooden boards. She slapped at them with her hands, and we could only hope that none of them fell between the cracks to smolder below the stage.

  Annoyed, she snapped at us, “What’s wrong now? You all look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”

  “Has anyone said anything about the article in the paper?” asked Nell. Evidently no one had, because Kit knew nothing about it, and returned to her bulb-changing before the explanation was fully completed.

  We gathered in our dressing room to apply makeup and sat tight, hoping that out
rage over the article would blow over before there were any further consequences.

  This was not to be the case, but the consequences were certainly not what we expected. We all went up when Fred and Nell were called for their act, and were shocked to see the house completely full. The first show of the day was generally sparse, often older women or young mothers with children looking for an activity to pass the afternoon. But the house was standing room only, and there were plenty of gentlemen in the seats, as well.

  Fred and Nell had taken every opportunity to practice, and enjoyed a much better reception. Not only was their dancing smoother, but they had settled into a new rhythm with the jokes. Nell played her part with a perky quirkiness that added punch to the corny gags, a feat that April with her flat, bored expression had never achieved.

  They took their bows to enthusiastic applause, and we tore the blue gown off Nell in the wings. “Break a leg!” we all whispered to one another, and began our act.

  Even from inside the suitcase, I sensed the audience’s anticipation. They cheered for Nell’s cartwheels, but the volume rose when Gert entered with her handsprings. By the time I rolled out onto the proscenium, the audience was like a pack of hungry dogs, ready to devour any scraps of entertainment we threw them. Gert’s arm jiggles sent them into paroxysms, and the human rolling ball, with skirts flapping up as they spun, caused a wild round of boot stomping.

  At the end, the applause went on and on, even after we’d headed for the wings. The stage manager, who had a restraining hand on Marie’s arm, waved us back onto the stage for an encore. Of course, we were entirely unprepared, never having been obliged to reprise our act before. It was Kit who saved us. She produced the cane, which she’d apparently hidden behind one of the curtain pulls, and gave me the eye.

  “No!” I whispered.

  “Go!” she said. And there I was, an almost fully grown woman, ordered by my thirteen-year-old stage brat of a sister to perform a stunt I hadn’t mastered. I ran to stage left while she positioned the springboard.

  Please, Lord, don’t let me break anything or anyone, I prayed, and ran full speed toward my doom.

  I did not catch the cane. It bounced off my fingertips and flew into the wings behind me. Kit did, however, catch me and swung around with such force I almost went sailing off into the orchestra pit. The audience seemed to think we’d done what we’d set out to do, because they were on their feet applauding and calling, “Brava! Brava!”

  After another round of curtsies, we trotted off. The stage manager had apparently let go of Marie a couple of beats early, and she and Gert came face-to-face at the edge of the stage, shooting eye daggers at each other.

  An oooooh rose from the audience, and then tapered off as Gert continued offstage.

  The applause surged for Marie. In the places where she had previously done the stolen arm jiggle, she instead stroked her fingers up her long satin gloves, leaning forward slightly, which enticed the audiences into hoots of approval.

  “Not too low, Marie,” the stage manager murmured nervously, “Not too low . . .”

  In the end, she, too, was called back for an encore, for which she was clearly prepared.

  We headed to our dressing room, anxious to discuss this surprising turn of events.

  “I can’t believe all those people,” said Nell. “On a Thursday afternoon, no less!”

  “I don’t think the theatre manager can be too mad at us now,” I said.

  “Are you kidding?” said Kit. “They love this stuff. Barney said they were bracing for an invasion.”

  “Who in the world is Barney?” said Gert.

  “The stage manager!” said Kit. “Gee, you people don’t pay any attention at all.”

  We were soon graced with unexpected company. Marie Dubois tapped her gloved fingertips on our open door. “May I enter?” she said.

  “No, you may not,” said Mother. “You’ve caused enough trouble.”

  Marie ignored this and aimed her icy blue eyes at Gert. “We have done well, no?”

  Gert scrutinized her. “Done well?”

  “Our antipithie has filled ze house. Now we must . . . quel est le mot . . . capitalize.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Simply zat we continue to show our discord. It is”—she drew out the s as she searched for the phrase—“big news?”

  “Okay,” said Gert hesitantly.

  “A warning. If you ever touch my face again”—at this she smiled coldly—“I will scar you.”

  “Understood,” said Gert, affecting an arctic aplomb. “The same rules apply to us both.”

  Marie gave a regal nod and left us.

  “Do you think she cooked up the whole thing on purpose?” said Kit.

  “She’s not that bright,” said Mother. “Besides, Gert started it when she stole that move.”

  “She’s smart enough to come down here and capitalize,” I said. “That took guts.”

  “I still don’t like her,” said Gert.

  “It seems the feeling is mutual,” said Nell with a wry smile. “And it’s probably best for business if you keep it that way.”

  Joe did not come and find me as he usually did, and this began to eat a hole in my fury toward him over women’s suffrage like a moth in a sweater factory. I was no less firm in my belief that women should vote, but I did worry that it might cause a permanent rift. I wondered if I could turn down the volume on my opinions without giving them up altogether. How much bending of oneself was necessary to nurture one’s love for someone with differing views? And was Joe wondering the same things—or did he think that because I was the woman, I would do all the bending?

  There was only one thing I truly regretted, and that was the crack about his mother’s meatballs. It wasn’t nice. The poor woman had been through enough.

  But he didn’t come for me. I took a walk with Nell and the baby, went out for sandwiches with Gert, and between shows Kit dragged me onstage to practice our jump-and-throw. Archie helped her time the cane toss, declaring us “the cat’s pajamas” even when we failed. He really was a sweet boy, and I hoped luck (in combination with those lovely dark eyes) might one day land him an even better job than chauffeur. Or at least better than pig slopper.

  By the last show, our jump-and-throw was fairly reliable, if not an absolute sure thing. Kit did drop me once, but the audience seemed to appreciate the effort and clapped all the same.

  Gert and Marie made sure to pass each other onstage with a sneer or threat of a slap. For the last show, Marie gave the back of Gert’s hair a tug, and Gert shook her fist as Marie smiled victoriously and took her place downstage.

  After that, we headed straight for the hotel instead of waiting for Joe and Lucy to close.

  “But I always wait for Lucy!” said Kit.

  “You’re not hanging around a theatre full of randy stagehands till all hours of the night without one of us there,” said Mother in a burst of random maternal protectiveness. Of course, there had been countless hours when she had no inkling as to Kit’s whereabouts, probably assuming that her size and sass would keep her safe.

  “Have you talked to him?” Nell murmured as we entered the hotel lobby.

  “No. I’m not sure if I want to.”

  She gave me a little pat on the shoulder that said she didn’t believe that for one minute. “Why don’t you sit down here where it’s quiet and think about what you do want.”

  It was after midnight and the hotel clerk had closed up for the night. The lobby was hushed except for the soft clicking of the grandfather clock pendulum. I looked out the tall windows to Seneca Lake, its satiny darkness bejeweled with the twinkling lights from moored boats. In the quiet, I could hear the lapping of the waves against the stony shore.

  What did I want?

  Gert had dedicated herself to “living large”—large enough for two, even. But that wasn’t me. Fame, money, adventure. I didn’t crave any of these things.

  In all that I’d learned du
ring my time in vaudeville, the most important was the realization that, even beyond going to college, what I truly wanted was to be taken seriously: to be able to form my own opinions—ones that might be challenged, certainly, but not utterly discounted; to dream my own dreams, and not have them limited by the happenstance of my gender or social standing. I wanted to be Winnie Turner, and as small and poor and female as that made me, I wanted the right to forge my own future.

  I also wanted love.

  Greedy girl, I thought. But who isn’t greedy in the secret shimmering fairyland of their own wishes?

  The front door to the hotel opened and closed with a heavy thunk.

  “Go on up,” I heard Joe say, and Lucy’s steps, kip kip kip, on the stairs.

  I tipped my head to one side, giving his wary expression a moment to soften. “I shouldn’t have said that about your mother’s meatballs.”

  He broke into a reluctant smile and strode toward me. I could feel him wanting to slide his arms around my waist as he always did, but he clasped his hands behind his back instead. “So,” he said, weighing his words. “You’re one of those political types?”

  “Not especially. But I do like to talk about it sometimes. Are you one of those women-aren’t-smart-enough-to-have-political-opinions types?”

  “Madonne, Winnie. You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

  “But I shouldn’t vote.”

  My words hung in the air, and I could practically see the battle being waged in his head between what he’d always presumed about a woman’s place, and the woman he now knew standing before him. He threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t know!”

  It’s a start, I thought. And though I was fairly certain he’d eventually see that women voting would not cause the devastation of society, I did wonder about his own secret fairyland of wishes, and whether I would ultimately be able to grant any of them.

  The next day was Friday, and Kit was determined to make the jump-and-throw a reliable success before we left Geneva. She dragged me off to practice anytime the stage was free, which impeded my time with Joe. But a little part of me didn’t mind so much. I loved Joe, and was certain he had strong feelings for me, as well. But there was a new note to our tune, maybe even a whole minor chord. Women’s suffrage hadn’t so much come between us as alerted us to the fact that as deep as our feelings might be, there was still so much we didn’t know about each other. Who could predict what far more contentious matters might loom in the future?