The Tumbling Turner Sisters

by Juliette Fay

  During intermission of the six o’clock show, Archie came to help Kit and me practice. The teeter-totter of their friendship seemed to have tipped in Kit’s favor, and now he was the one following her around like a colt after the feedbag.

  We had time for only a couple of run-throughs before Archie had to go on with the Pender Troupe after intermission. In our hurry, the springboard was incorrectly placed and instead of catching the cane, I batted it away as it flew toward me too soon. Archie tried to catch it before it impaled him, and the metal tip of the cane made an inch-long gash in the heel of his palm.

  “Crikey, that smarts!” he said, as blood pooled around it.

  “Kit—quick! Run and get my little first aid bag. It’s on the table in our dressing room!”

  I guided him to the wings and sat him in a chair, holding his hand above his head and pressing two fingers against the wound, as the first aid book had instructed. “Get a doctor,” I urged a stagehand. “He’s going to need stitches.”

  “Stiches!” said one of the acrobat boys. “We go on soon!”

  “I’ve got to do the act,” Archie insisted. “My mates need me.”

  Kit came with my first aid bag and I used the gauze pads to wipe away the blood. The cut wasn’t deep, but if he was to go on, I had to find a way to stabilize it. “This has alcohol in it,” I warned, pouring tincture of iodine onto a piece of gauze. “It’s going to hurt.”

  He clenched his teeth and muttered, “Bloody hell!” but he didn’t pull his hand away from the pain. The blood bubbled up, but it didn’t spurt, and the more I pressed on the iodine-soaked gauze, the less it leaked. “You missed a vein, at least,” I told him. “Only just a capillary.”

  “They’re on in ten minutes,” said Barney, the stage manager. “Will he be okay to go?”

  At first I didn’t know to whom this question was aimed—Mr. Pender, possibly, or even Archie himself. But when no one answered, I glanced up and saw the eyes of the troupe, stagehands, and my mother and sisters, who had followed Kit up with the first aid supplies, all trained on me. I had taken charge of the situation, as the book instructed, and they all waited on my word!

  “It’ll hurt,” I warned Archie, “but if you want, I can try and put a few stitches in and then bandage it up to get you through the act.”

  Archie blanched, and his eyes darted to Kit. She nodded encouragingly and said, “You can do it, Archie!”

  “Yes, but can she do it?” he murmured, tipping his head toward me.

  Kit smiled. “Oh, don’t worry—she’s read all about it.”

  I felt my confidence plummet. With a total lack of experience, what business did I have offering to perform this procedure? Like a child anxiously contemplating her first steps, I instinctively glanced to my mother.

  “I’ll get my sewing kit,” she said. “Big needle or small?”

  Gratitude surged through me. Mother could be many things: temperamental, ornery, fickle, controlling . . . but she had brought me into this world and guided me safely through seventeen years of it, and her confidence in my ability—whether to quickly learn how to fly through the air, or to stitch human skin—meant the world to me.

  I thought for a moment. “Big enough for your strongest thread.”

  She returned with a needle already threaded, and I wiped it down with iodine before taking Archie’s hand in mine. “Kit, stick out your pointer finger. Now, Archie you squeeze that as hard as you can with your good hand, and try not to move.”

  I stared down into the wound for a moment and took a deep breath.

  Five quick stitches, I told myself. Pretend it’s just a popped seam.

  I tried to recall the old doctor who had mended my father’s hand to replicate his actions, but with less quaking of my fingers—a tall order, given the anxiety coursing through me! But then I forced myself to replace his image with that of the competent and unflappable Dr. Lodge, and this helped to calm me. I soon became fascinated by the texture of the skin, how easily it took the needle and seemed to want to reconnect with its opposite shore.

  Archie let out an occasional muffled groan through gritted teeth, but I’ll say one thing for him: that boy did not budge. He was made of stronger stuff than any of us would have guessed.

  In just a few minutes, I had completed the stitching, then applied a new round of iodine-soaked gauze. I wound my prized Esmarch triangular bandage, with the figures of half-naked men, around his hand and wrist to cushion and stabilize it.

  “Thank you, miss!” said Mrs. Pender as the boys all ran out onto the stage. I didn’t need her thanks; my own veins and capillaries bubbled with the thrill of stitching my first wound!

  Gert leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Living large, I see.”

  On Saturday, our final day in Geneva, there was a surprise visitor waiting for us just before the last show that night.

  “Hello, Turners,” said Morty Birnbaum, his form as stooped and his suit as brown as ever. He shook hands all around, but when he came to me he squinted his eyes of innominate color. “You’ve grown,” he said.

  “A little,” I said self-consciously.

  He studied me a moment longer and then moved on to Gert. “Yankees pitching scout’s been sniffing around, but I said, no, I think she’s sticking with vaudeville. Am I right, or should I call him back?” He let out his little barking laugh. “You’ve caused quite a stir, missy.”

  “Did you come to see us?” said Gert.

  “Course I did,” said Birnbaum. “Word is, you’ve tumbled yourselves right into a high-class act. I hear you’ve added a springboard, bigger stunts, and even some comedy routines. That’s a far cry from the few splits and somersaults you started out with. Barney says you’re keeping the crowds rolling in, feuding with one of the other acts. Priceless. I’ll tell you what. I got a booking agent from the Keith-Albee circuit to come up and give you a look-see, so give it your all, girls.”

  “Keith-Albee?” Kit’s jaw was agape. “You mean it? That’s big-time.”

  “The biggest,” said Birnbaum. “They got the best theatre in every major city east of the Mississippi.”

  “The Palace!” She practically went into a swoon just saying the name.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’d be tickled just to get you booked in Poughkeepsie.”

  The show was about to start. Birnbaum went to take his seat, and we went to freshen our makeup and try to ward off fits of anxiety as we waited to perform for a big-time booking agent.

  “We have to do the jump-and-throw,” insisted Kit.

  “I’m so nervous, I’m afraid I’ll miss the cane and break my neck!”

  “Even if you break every bone in your body, just get up and bow. They’ll love it.”

  Gert stood up. “I have to find Marie.” It was the last we saw of her until showtime.

  Nell and Fred had their act down, and the applause was respectable, even delighted. As I hid in one of the leg curtains, I spotted Birnbaum in the second row, and the man sitting next to him said something that my limited lip-reading skills interpreted as “Charming!”

  They were charming, and it wrenched me to realize that our success would likely mean Fred’s misfortune. If we got into the big time, he’d have to find another partner and start all over again. I clapped hard when they finished, amplifying the ovation as best I could.

  In the next moment, they were done, Nell shimmied out of the gown, and I got into my suitcase. Blood thrummed like crashing waves in my chest as I waited in the cramped space. Then I was rolling out onto the stage, smiling as if it were my birthday, Christmas, and the Fourth of July, directly into the face of the Keith-Albee booking agent.

  We punched every punch line, landed every jump, and I even caught the cane. But the thing that made the audience roar like a pride full of lions at a kill was when Marie Dubois entered too early, as usual. She and Gert came to a dead stop glaring at each other, and patrons waited to see if another world war might begin right on the stage of the Sm
ith Opera House.

  Gert did something completely unexpected: she held out her hand to shake. Marie eyed her warily for a moment, and then nodded and shook Gert’s hand. The audience applauded this act of diplomacy, of course, but only because it was the civilized thing to do.

  When Gert turned to go, she pulled her hand back and tugged Marie’s long black glove right off! She flipped it over her shoulder as she sashayed toward the wings, and Marie gave a look of pure spite before grabbing it back. The audience exploded with delight at the feud’s second life, and Marie used the opportunity to pull her glove back on in a darkly sensual fashion.

  “Gert, that was brilliant!” I said.

  “It was half Marie’s idea.”

  “And it was half yours.”

  Her gaze flicked appreciatively at me. “Big time,” she murmured, “or die trying.”

  I found Joe in his dressing room. Birnbaum was his agent, too. “Have you seen him?” I asked when I got to the door.

  “We saw him,” said Joe. I followed his gaze into the corner of the small room, and there was Lucy, hunched over on a chair, her face damp with recent tears.

  “What’s wrong?” I said, and went to sit by her, stroking the hair off her forehead.

  “Joe won’t do the song, and Mr. Birnbaum said we’ve got no zing, and I don’t want to go back to Boston!” She began to wail all over again.

  Joe rolled his eyes. “That’s not what he said. He said he was disappointed to see us closing, and it didn’t look good for big time if we’re only good enough to close in small time.”

  “We have to do the song!” she cried.

  “Lucia, you know we cannot do that song.” He seemed tired, as if this particular disagreement had gone on for ages.

  “What song?” I asked. “Why not?”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I probably can’t even get through it.” He glanced at Lucy. “And neither can you.”

  She stood up and glared at him. “Vigliacco!” she sneered, shaking a finger at him. “Just because you’re too cowardly doesn’t mean I am!”

  “Basta!” he yelled. “That’s enough of your disrespect!”

  She put her knuckles on her hips, palms out like I’d seen the women in the Seventh Ward of Binghamton do. Then she closed her eyes and began to sing.

  Oh, Papa, my papa,

  I was born to the sound of your voice,

  Singing the joy of the day, serenading my way

  To a life of happiness.

  I looked at Joe, and all the anger seemed to seep out of him, leaving only sorrow as he watched her. Tears formed in Lucy’s eyes, but her voice never faltered. If anything it grew more resonant.

  And when the winds of sadness blew,

  You taught me to be strong, so strong,

  But I could never be as strong as you,

  Oh, Papa.

  She stopped and glared at him. “Should I go on? Or do you admit I can do it?”

  We both waited for his answer. His eyes were shiny, and he seemed unable to respond.

  “Joe,” I said gently. “It’s beautiful. Did you write it?” He nodded.

  “It’s the best song we have,” insisted Lucy. “It’s a showstopper.”

  She was right. If they could get through it without falling apart, it would bring down the house.

  “Joe, I have a question, and maybe you don’t know the answer, but I’m going to ask anyway.” He gazed down at me, beautiful brown eyes so full of pain. “How would your father feel about it? Would he be proud?”

  At that he put his chin down and cried, shoulders shaking, hand across his face. I put my arms around him and held him. He was a good man, this Joe Cole, and I was grateful to be allowed into his most profound sadness.

  His crying slowed, and he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his face. “Yes,” he said finally. “I think he would be very proud.”

  “Can you get through it?”

  He cut his eyes toward his sister. “If she can, I can.”

  “It’s so beautiful, people in the audience who’ve lost their own fathers might really appreciate it.”

  He gazed at me, grateful, full of love. “I never thought of it that way.”

  I smiled. “It made me miss my dad, and we’ve only been apart five days.”

  When the stage manager called, we went up to wait for their entrance. Isadora the Incredible Impersonator was doing President Wilson. Onstage she’d set up a folding screen for costume changes. She could go from Abraham Lincoln to a baby in diapers in ten seconds. As President Wilson, she looked over her pince-nez glasses and spoke in stentorian tones about the coming Prohibition, garnering laughs about being a nation with the shakes.

  “Is that really how President Wilson sounds?” I asked Joe, to get his mind off his nerves.

  “Who knows? Unless you’ve seen him in person, how could you tell?” Apparently being an impersonator was more about the costumes and gags than actual mimicry.

  I could feel their anxiety rising as Isadora wrapped up her stint; when she was called back for two encores, the three of us almost went mad with anticipation. But finally it was their turn, and though a few people headed up the aisles to leave, the house remained mostly full.

  Lucy gave it her all with “Pretty Baby,” “By the Light of the Silvery Moon,” and “In the Good Old Summertime,” inviting the audience to sing along with her at the refrains. For a “haircuts” act, she was doing well, keeping the audience happy enough to stay. I wondered if they’d need the song about their father after all.

  Then a few more patrons got up to leave, and Joe began to play some soft and wistful chords I hadn’t heard before. The audience stilled itself to catch the tune. Lucy gestured back to Joe and said demurely, “This is a song my brother wrote for our father.” Then she began to sing.

  An audience is a living organism, in constant motion, producing constant sound. A finger scratches an arm, a fist covers a cough, lips move to say, “Oh, excuse me,” when a coat falls. But that audience was as close to still and silent as any group of eighteen hundred people could possibly be. The final lines were even more heartrending than the ones she’d sung in the dressing room.

  Oh, Papa, my papa,

  You sheltered me against the storm

  You kept me safe, you kept me warm

  This hard, cold world I never knew

  Until God said, “Come home,” to you.

  A little gasp rose in the house, a collective, sympathetic ohhhh. That simple, primal sigh of compassion was for all the little girls who’d lost fathers, for all the sorrow of all the children in the world. Her voice was strong and sweet even as tears pooled in her lids, and the audience began to sniffle and dab their own eyes in response.

  When she hit the last refrain, Lucy dropped down onto her knees, hands clasped in front of her, and lifted her gaze to the vaulted ceiling.

  Oh, Papa, my papa,

  I love you—I’ll always love you,

  And miss . . . you . . . so!

  For a moment after the last notes drifted away, the only sound was of people openly weeping. Then the audience rose to their feet and sent up applause that echoed through the chamber in an outpouring of love and sympathy.

  Joe came forward, his eyes full, and reached down to help Lucy stand, which set off another round of applause and calls of “Bravo!” It seemed as if their bows might never end.

  After another few moments they left the stage, but the applause surged again. They looked so utterly exhausted I hated to tell them: “You have to do an encore!”

  “Porca vacca!” Joe muttered to himself. “I can’t.”

  I looked at Lucy. “It just means “pig cow,’ ” she said. “But not in a nice way.” Her face brightened. “I know—“Stella Stellina’! Joe, that’s so easy.”

  She pulled him back onstage and he slumped down onto the piano bench. Lucy told the audience, “This is an Italian lullaby our papa used to sing to us.”

  She sang it
first in Italian, then in English.

  Star, little star,

  The night is coming, the flame is flickering.

  The cow is in the stable. The sheep and the lamb,

  The cow with her calf, the hen with her chicks,

  The cat with her kittens; and all are sleeping

  In the mother’s heart!

  Afterward, we all waited backstage for our wages, and while I was thrilled at the prospect of the biggest paycheck I’d ever known—a walloping twenty-five dollars!—my mind was overrun with pride for Joe and Lucy. As we say in the business, they laid ’em out in the aisles (and in a few overly emotional cases, almost literally). I couldn’t wait to see Mr. Birnbaum’s reaction.

  But he was nowhere to be found, and we had no idea if he had gone back to New York, or was staying at one of the handful of local hotels.

  “He can’t just go without a word!” said Gert as we left the theatre.

  “I’ve a mind to start contacting other agents,” Mother warned, as if saying so would make Birnbaum appear from out of the mists that drifted in off Seneca Lake.

  Joe walked a few paces behind, his arm around Lucy, guiding her as if her vision were impaired. The performance had exhausted her, and her head lolled against his shoulder, little eyelids blinking back sleep. Up in the hotel room, he tucked her tenderly into bed next to Kit and went to wash his face and change into civilian clothes, while Gert and I did the same.

  “Want to come out with Joe and me?” I asked as we wiggled out of the tight costumes and into shirtwaists and skirts, ringlets of hair sticking to our freshly scrubbed cheeks. Gert gave a deadpan don’t-be-ridiculous look. She had taken to going out on her own since the Biscuit Incident—where I couldn’t be sure—and much as I wanted to be alone with Joe for our last night together, I worried about the potential danger to her person as well as her reputation.