by Amy Stewart
By five o’clock, she had one of the dresses taken apart and pinned back together. The Dolls popped back in before leaving for the theater and heaped praise on the new design, which was thoroughly modern, with a daring hemline and a low waist, but still slightly pleated so the skirts would move when they danced.
“It’s just perfect,” Roberta declared. “Can you do all of them tonight? May hates to skip a costume change. If you can’t do them in one night, don’t do them at all.”
Fleurette promised to try, although it seemed impossible. The way to go about it was to take all the dresses apart, spread them out in a row, then put each one back together in precisely the same manner. First she’d cut away the petticoats, then she’d stitch in a new band around the waist from some of the old petticoat material—such a cheap and telling way to drop a waist, but the audience wouldn’t notice—and then she’d put the skirts back on, giving each one a few even pleats. Something had to be done about the sleeves as well, but she’d save that for last.
It was a dull job, once she knew how to do it. For the rest of the evening, she worked in silence and solitude. The drudgery of her time with the company had started to tell on Fleurette. She felt diminished by the long hours in a dim and stuffy room, especially as that room was entirely unsuited to the kind of work she needed to do. She had no work-table, no iron, poor lighting, and no proper mount for her machine.
The Dolls treated her more like a servant than a compatriot. They hadn’t seen her act back in Paterson and knew nothing of her theatrical ambitions, as she so rarely had a chance to tell anyone about them. She’d expected to be with them all the time: out about town during the day, and at the theater every night. She’d imagined herself backstage, helping with costume changes and perhaps working out new dance steps alongside them, not left alone in a hotel room with more work than she could possibly finish.
For the first time, she allowed herself to feel a little sorry over her predicament, and just the slightest bit homesick. She hadn’t realized it, but she had a certain shorthand with her sisters that no one else seemed to understand. Anytime she tried to say something cutting or clever to one of the Dolls, she’d be greeted with confused stares. And no one was the least bit interested in indulging her, or looking after her, or seeing to her comfort in any way. Her cot was creaky and flimsy. The only food she could afford—train station sandwiches and tea and toast at the hotel—was bland and dispiriting.
She gave in to her misery and recounted every single thing she missed: her bed, her hot baths, her sewing room, her pleasant afternoon job at Mrs. Hansen’s, the company of Helen and the other girls, and even her sisters. Her old life, which had once seemed so weighty and oppressive, now felt rich and warm and familiar. It rushed back at her like a dream and Fleurette, already so tired and bleary-eyed from her work, found herself blinking back tears.
But that wasn’t to be the worst of it. She was halfway finished—every dress taken apart, every one of them missing its skirt—when she heard a popping sound, smelled smoke, and looked down to see an orange flame flicker to life and then expire along the fabric-wrapped electrical cord of her sewing machine.
48
THE THEATER WAS OVERFULL. It had warmed so quickly that women were already fanning themselves with their programs and men were putting fingers under their collars. There was an air of whiskey and merriment in the audience, and a thrilling undercurrent of anticipation.
The lights went down and May Ward stepped out in front of the curtain to the ravenous applause of the audience. She wore an old-fashioned dancing frock buoyed by so many frothy layers of petticoats that it seemed to bounce around on its own. On her head was an elaborate poke bonnet trimmed with an arrangement of silk flowers, feathers, and bows. She stood perfectly upright, but the bonnet swayed precariously.
The pianist played a little melody, and people started laughing and clapping before a word came out of Mrs. Ward’s mouth. Constance didn’t recognize the song until another girl, presumably one of her Dresden Dolls, flitted across the stage with an enormous stuffed canary attached to a stick. The bird came to rest in the very center of May Ward’s bonnet.
Norma slumped down into her seat and put a hand over her eyes.
“You’re the one who insisted we come all the way to Harrisburg to see this,” Constance whispered.
“We came to find Fleurette. I’d hoped never to hear this song again,” Norma said.
Norma had banished the song from the house at the height of its popularity a few years ago. Fleurette used to sing it all day long, and would beg one or the other of them to take the bird’s part. They both refused, although they knew the lines by heart.
Here it came, whether they wanted it or not. The pianist gave his cue and May Ward sang:
On Nellie’s little hat, there was a little bird,
That little bird knew lots of things, it did upon my word;
And in its quiet way, it had a lot to say.
As the lovers strolled along;
May Ward was possessed of a bright and clear voice that rang out like a bell. She embellished every line with a theatrical trill. As she began to skip around in a pantomime of a lady out for a walk with a man, the other girl scampered along behind her, making sure the bird bounced jovially up and down on her hat. She plunged into the second verse:
To Nellie, Willie whispered as they fondly kissed,
“I’ll bet you were never kissed like that!”
The girl made the bird flutter on its stick and sang, in her best imitation of a bird’s voice,
“Well he don’t know Nellie like I do!”
Said the saucy little bird on Nellie’s hat.
Carrie laughed and clapped along with the rest of the audience. Norma shot Constance a look of despair. It was a highly infectious song, which explained why they used to hear it coming out of every music shop in Paterson. May Ward didn’t write the lyrics, but she was the one who made it popular, which was why her face decorated the sheet music.
She sang each verse in the same grand manner. Norma kept her head in her hands, trying, no doubt, to forget the lines as soon as she heard them.
“Oh, it’s twelve o’clock,” said Willie as he took her home;
“I’ll bet you’re never out as late as that!”
The girl wiggled the bird around and sang its line:
“Well he don’t know Nellie like I do!”
Said the saucy little bird on Nellie’s hat.
Constance thought it might never end, but it did, eventually. May Ward collected her applause, as did the girl and the bird.
They disappeared into the wings. After a little shuffling, the curtain rose to reveal a stage set meant to look like the front of an old half-timbered European-style shop. From the awnings hung dolls, pots and pans, drums, masks, puppets, toy horns, and other such props meant to recall a Main Street department store.
One girl after another ran out on stage, costumed in ordinary street attire and shop aprons. The Dresden Dolls were almost impossible to distinguish from this distance: one saw only brightly painted lips, pink cheeks, and enormous eyes lined in black. Constance watched anxiously for a glimpse of Fleurette, but none of the creatures on stage answered to her description.
“Haven’t you seen her yet?” Carrie whispered.
“She must be in the next number,” Constance said.
“She isn’t here,” Norma mumbled.
The next number, called “The Cash Girl,” concerned itself with the affairs of a department store cash girl (played by Mrs. Ward) in want of a husband. She found her happiness in the affections of the store detective, but only after pretending to steal a pair of gloves to win his attention.
One girl, dressed as a doll in the toy department, sang “The Tale of an Old Rag Doll,” and another, playing the part of a girl shopping for her first party dress, sang “The Girl in the Looking Glass.” May Ward herself performed “The Moon Song” at the end, under an enormous celluloid moon, in the arms of her
store detective.
It wasn’t a bad little play, but there was something shopworn about it. Constance was growing a little frantic over the fact that she hadn’t seen Fleurette.
The next number, “The Garden of Love,” was filled with the kind of silly romantic songs that Fleurette loved. “Put Your Arms Around Me” was performed by May Ward and four Dresden Dolls, none of whom were Fleurette. “Hands Up” seemed to have six of the ensemble on stage at once. Still they didn’t see her.
Constance fidgeted in her seat and contended with an avalanche of explanations and excuses, none of which bore up for long: Fleurette was new to the company and would probably only take a few small parts alongside the entire ensemble. She had been given a solo, as she so often had back at Mrs. Hansen’s, and would appear on her own in the next number. Maybe, Constance thought, she would only be brought out on stage for the grand finale.
But the truth made itself known to her eventually. Fleurette wasn’t there.
More than once she counted eight Dresden Dolls on stage together. Fleurette was never among them.
Norma had stopped looking at the stage and was glaring at Constance. She was letting her have the first word, but only so that she could contradict it.
“There’s an explanation,” Constance whispered.
“There’s always an explanation. The jails are full of people with explanations. She’s going to have to do more than explain.”
“Well, the first thing we have to do is to find her,” Carrie put in. “She might yet be with the company. Let’s go around to the stage door before the crowds get there.”
She led the way out of the theater, just as the final encore ended. Once outside, they slipped around the corner and into the alley. It was dark back there, with only a single lamp at the stage door. They had just enough time to get themselves situated behind a row of ashcans before the theater-goers started to trickle around to the alley. Soon there was a crowd of young men and women pressed shoulder to shoulder, many of them waving autograph books.
Finally the door opened and the porter—the man Fleurette called Mr. Impediment in her postcards—stepped outside, gave the audience a disapproving frown, and yelled for them all to stand back. Then, to the accompaniment of squeals and shouts from the crowd, May Ward stepped out in a pretty white fur wrap and a hat to match.
She stood alone at first to collect applause and whistles for herself, and then she turned around and waved for her chorus girls to join her. One by one they popped out of the stage door, each with a winter coat over her costume and a hat trimmed in feathers and flowers. Mr. Impediment saw to it that autographs were signed in some orderly fashion, and that the more ardent male admirers were held back and prevented from slipping notes to the girls.
But still there was no sign of Fleurette.
“She could be ill tonight,” Constance whispered to Carrie and Norma. “Maybe she’s back at the hotel, and one of these girls is an understudy.”
Norma pushed her coat up around her neck and said nothing.
“Or maybe Fleurette is the understudy, and she wasn’t needed tonight,” Carrie suggested.
Norma shook her head. “She never said anything about being an understudy.”
“She might have neglected to mention it,” Constance said. “There’s only so much room on a postcard.” She didn’t believe that herself—it didn’t seem like Fleurette to run away just to be an understudy—but she was desperate for an explanation.
Two black motor cars nosed down the alley and lined up at the stage door. The figures of May Ward and Her Dolls crowded into the machines. Constance thought she might have seen someone else climb in with them—or had she only imagined it?
“She’s not here,” Norma said.
“If we hurry we can have another look at them back at the hotel,” Carrie said. They made haste down the alley and around the corner, which put them back at the hotel just before the motor cars arrived.
By this time Constance was in a state of panic. Was it possible that Fleurette really had disappeared? She wanted one more look at the company before she decided.
“I’ll follow them upstairs and try to take a peek in their rooms in case she’s there,” Carrie said. “She won’t recognize me.”
Norma pulled Constance across the lobby to the opposite corner, where a sort of reading-room had been assembled around a fireplace. She took the only chair available and told Constance to hide inside the telephone booth.
“You know I hardly fit inside a telephone booth!” Constance complained. But Norma had settled into her armchair and taken up a newspaper, which she intended to use for concealment.
“If you don’t think she’ll spot you because you’re holding a newspaper, then you have no idea what you look like most of the time,” Constance said.
“I don’t think she’ll spot me, because I don’t think she’s here,” Norma returned.
“Keep that to yourself.” Constance couldn’t bear to imagine where else Fleurette might be.
She perched awkwardly on the little stool inside the telephone booth and arranged the brim of her hat to fall down over her eyes—although if Fleurette was there, she would, of course, recognize her hat as easily as her face. By that time, Constance wouldn’t have minded if Fleurette had walked into the lobby and spotted her, if only to put an end to the uncertainty.
She had only just settled into the telephone booth—if anyone is ever actually settled into a box of glass and wood no larger than a coffin—when May Ward made her grand entrance, sweeping into the high-ceilinged lobby and causing a stir the likes of which only a woman of her celebrity could bring about. Almost every man in the lobby rushed over to her at once. They tried to take her arm, they held out their cards to her, and they even offered to help with a little bag she carried. The room was filled all at once with their jokes and laughter. Constance had never before seen one woman create so much excitement on her way to the elevator.
The porter was doing his best to keep the men away from Mrs. Ward, but he also had the eight Dresden Dolls to attend to, each of whom attracted their own small following. They were all still brightly painted and dressed in their costumes, and resembled tiny island-nations of feminine charm, each one beribboned and bejeweled and leading her own band of loyalists.
An older woman in a plain brown coat followed behind with the two chauffeurs, who struggled under the weight of bags and hat-boxes. Constance took the woman to be Mrs. Ironsides, the chaperone. She was keeping a sharp eye on all of the girls and snatched away a note that someone tried to pass to one of them.
The Dolls gathered around the elevators. One of the hotel porters was summoned to help swat away their most ardent admirers, who had mingled in with the crowd with the obvious intention of trying to follow them upstairs. In the course of sorting out who belonged and who didn’t, one elevator landed, and then another, and the Dresden Dolls all stepped on board with their entourage. Somehow Carrie managed to creep on board with them, showing her hotel key to prove she was a guest.
Only Mrs. Ward remained, surrounded by young men eager for her attention. She continued to sign autographs and laugh and flirt while her mountainous porter waited sullenly at the elevator.
Constance slumped over in discouragement. She squinted at her reflection in the brass telephone and marveled at the mess she was in. The lobby had grown quiet as the last of Mrs. Ward’s admirers drifted away. Constance allowed the brim of her hat to fall down over her eyes, and wished she could simply disappear rather than go and confront Norma over what they were to do next.
She was, therefore, not prepared for a sharp knock at the glass. She jumped and lifted up the brim of her hat with the expectation of seeing Norma waiting for her impatiently.
But it wasn’t Norma. It was May Ward.
49
NO ONE, APART FROM HER OWN SISTER, had ever glared at her so ferociously. May Ward had a look in her eyes that put Constance into a cold sweat. The actress’s lips were as red as a poisonous b
erry, her cheeks as white as death, except for a flaming streak on each side that looked more like war-paint than a lady’s blush.
Constance stared at her for what felt like an eternity, before realizing that she couldn’t keep the glass door between them closed forever.
When she pushed it open, May Ward leaned inside and gave her a whiff of imported perfume, gin, and a costume that needed laundering two days ago.
“Who sent you?” she demanded.
Constance’s first impulse was to lie. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m awaiting a call. The operators were told to put it through here. I believe there’s another booth upstairs.”
But she wasn’t interested. “You are not here to make a call. I saw you watching us, and you’re not the first one I’ve seen following us around. You work for Freeman, don’t you? It’s just like him to send a lady detective.”
Constance was too panicked to answer, so she took the opportunity to look around the lobby. Mr. Impediment was standing nearby, in a spot that had probably been chosen for him by Mrs. Ward. Norma’s armchair was turned away, but the upper edge of her newspaper stood at attention.
“I’m not a private detective,” she told Mrs. Ward. “You might speak to the hotel manager if you believe someone’s following you.” Constance was trying to make it sound as if Mrs. Ward were the paranoid one, when in fact it was her heart that was hammering, and her neck that had grown hot under the collar.
“I don’t need to see any manager,” she spat. “You tell Freeman that I will not have hired men—or hired women—watching me. I’ve gone along with the chaperone, and the porter, but I will not have a spy trailing us from city to city. Go on back to Trenton, or wherever he dredged you up. If I see you in Pittsburgh, I’ll have you arrested.”