The telegrapher eyed them and counted, and yawned. “Four fifty,” he said.
Charles winced. He had it. He had to have it. An advance man operated on cash. The show did, too. Payroll was greenbacks, and part of Charles’ job was to deal with banks along the way. Suppliers wanted cash from road shows; most wouldn’t take a check or send an invoice east.
“These’ll take a few moments,” the mustachioed operator said. “You gonna stick around for replies?”
“No, they won’t reach their destinations until morning when things open up. But we’ll be here four days.”
The man nodded. He took his time, reading each one, and then hunched over his brass key, the device with which he tapped out coded messages, usually in a flawless and fast staccato, the device clicking and chattering as it hastened its message out upon miles of copper wire.
Charles did stick, making sure the wires went out, watching the skinny, bored telegrapher depress the key in some sort of rhythm, letter upon letter, word upon word, space upon space, his concentration total.
That was it. An SOS shot into a void. He would be sending more wires in the morning. More and more, a pile of yellow paper the next few hours and days. The show was dark, and putting it into houses was up to him now.
He nodded to the telegrapher, who had returned to a Horatio Alger novel, and headed into the eve. His thoughts were on Ginger. She would be pleased. She had been his wife a few days, and he had barely given her a kiss. Tonight would be fragrant in their memories.
She was waiting for him, sitting primly in the room’s only chair. She had waited a long time.
“Put your coat on, sweetheart, and we’ll eat.”
She looked a little pouty.
“Hey, in this business, you’ll spend your life waiting for someone. Namely me. Managers have to put out fires.”
He steered her into the breeze, which had a hint of snow in it.
“There’s not a decent eatery in town. Believe me, I know. Advance men know everything. But there’s a hotel, down the street here, that’s got something edible.”
Missoula wasn’t his favorite place. He had his doubts whether all those sawmill men and timber cutters cared to be entertained, but he’d soon know. The state college would only make it worse. Academics never cared about a feed, and sat long-faced through a show, right to curtain.
He steered her into a folksy place named Mrs. Williams’ Appetite Chastener.
It chastened appetites, all right.
Its walls were jammed with embroidered samplers, most of which flaunted biblical verses, or mottoes encouraging rectitude of one sort or another. Charles had been there a few times during his advance forays, and had offered to buy the samplers to hang temporarily in the Green Rooms of the houses they played. But Mrs. Williams had declined. He had thought to instill virtue in his troupe, wherever they played. His favorite sampler, and one he really itched to own, was “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.” But Mrs. Williams would not even take a five-dollar greenback for it.
He had the sense that Ginger had been in better restaurants, but she kept her silence. That was one of her becoming traits. He talked and she listened. The perfect wife. That separated her from almost all other females.
“Want me to order for you, sweetheart? I can separate the good, the bad, and the ugly.”
She smiled at last.
He ordered something or other she had never heard of that sounded southern. Like grits.
“All right, tell me. What took you away from me this afternoon?”
“I need a double rye to unload all that on you. But the chances of getting one from Mrs. Williams are slim.”
“I will ask her,” Ginger said.
When Mrs. Williams returned with some bread and butter, Ginger caught her.
“My husband would like a double rye, on ice if you have it,” she said.
Mrs. Williams stared. “In a Limoges teacup, and it’ll cost a dollar. And don’t let on.”
Charles stared, amazed.
“Maybe I know some things,” Ginger said. “Now tell me what happened.”
He waited until the rye materialized, sampled it, and found it was the real stuff.
“We’re not going to Spokane. New owner canceled us.”
That troubled her. “Can they do that?”
“Easily. They didn’t buy the old contracts. They bought the house. We could maybe sue the previous owner and get two cents next year if we’re lucky.”
“But why?”
“Vaudeville’s changing fast, sweetheart. Shows like ours, a complete company on tour, we’re being beaten out by the new chains and associations. Circuits. The owners of theaters think they can make more money with continuous shows, or at least two shows a day. And the shows are all acts, booked from one town to the next. It’s acts, like yourself, or Windsor, or a magician, or a trio like the Wildroots. The contracts don’t include us; the Beausoleil Brothers are being squeezed. But it’s not all bad. It takes big towns with big houses to keep a circuit going. This is how it is back east, where there’s people. And now, maybe the West Coast.”
“But wouldn’t the acts prefer a company like ours?”
“Money talks, sweetheart. Those acts are getting a hundred a week, some of them.”
“Dollars?”
“It’s a tough life: shows all day, moves each week. The circuit’s a treadmill.”
“What’s going to happen to us, Charles?”
“Not over, sweet. Not by a long shot. We’ve got a few aces. We can make money in smaller houses. We can get talent for less.”
She smiled wryly. “Which reminds me…”
He reached across to her. “I’ll talk to August. You were, well, tentative. Now you’re not. I’ll get you something. Maybe not a lot; you need to be a draw before you can start dickering with August. But you’ve got a foot on the rung, and you can climb the ladder.”
He sipped his rye from the teacup, and smiled, even as Mrs. Williams brought two plates of sliced beef and mashed potatoes mixed with chives, called Le Grande Eau de Cologne.
She ate tentatively, but dug in after a bite or two. The dish had seemed off-putting to her. He sipped from the teacup, thinking the Limoges improved the rye.
“We’re going to try another route,” he said. “We’ve a two-week gap to fill, and I’m heating up the wires looking for bookings. We’ve got an option worked out. Pocatello, Boise. I sent queries this eve. That was what delayed me. If the houses are dark, we can detour. It’s a pain. We’ll need to print a lot of playbills and slap them up.…” He stared. “Something wong?”
She was staring into space, her knife and fork down.
“I’ll be all right,” she said. “It’s just a spell.”
“Anyway, it’s a tough haul. Backtrack from here almost to Butte, go south on that UP branch, Utah and Northern, and then move through southern Idaho. Pocatello’s got the Grand Opera House, town of fifty-five hundred, good enough for a stay. Boise’s got the Columbia Theater, eight thousand there, good potential. And I’m looking at Moscow, even though there’s no direct route. It’s got five thousand, and the G.A.R. Opera House. Grand Army of the Republic. I guess we know what side the owners were on. But that’s way out of the way.”
She had quit eating, and sat rigidly in her seat, staring.
“Vapors or something?”
She smiled, woodenly. “I’ll get over it,” she said. But she didn’t eat. And said not a word.
After that strange meal, he took her back to their room, anticipating a delightful renewal of their honeymoon. But she lay rigid and pale, her mind drifting somewhere, and he wondered what the hell sort of marriage he had gotten into.
30
ETHEL WILDROOT, Wayne Windsor, and The Genius were exploring Missoula, having first settled in their rooms. Their first stop was The Woodcutter’s Bowl, which had but a single dish, beef stew, all drawn from a pot. A large bowl cost two bits. It wasn’t bad if one didn’t examine the meat clos
ely. That done, they ventured out once again, this time southerly, and found themselves at the Bennett Opera House, which occupied the second floor of the Hotel Europa.
Some event was unfolding there that eve. The lamps were lit.
“Want a look?” Windsor asked.
Of course they all did, so they entered, climbed a gallant set of stairs, and found a placard on an easel announcing the evening’s fare: a lecture by Mrs. Amelia Woodcock of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. It had started at seven, and was no doubt mostly over, unless Mrs. Woodcock was particularly windy.
They entered, found the place lit by electric lights. Mrs. Woodcock, a handsome woman in a gray suit with a jabot at the neck, stood at a walnut lectern. She was flanked by two other ladies and some gents in full white beards, suit coats, waistcoats, with gold watch fobs dangling across their middles. They were all paying rapt attention to the speaker. The three vaudevillians settled quietly at the rear. When Ethel’s eyes had adjusted to the light, she discovered several of the acts had slipped in. Show people liked to do that: see the house, see what was playing ahead of them.
Her daughters and LaVerne were sitting nearby. The Marbury Trio, too. Harry the Juggler.
The opera house was a third full, the listeners gathered forward. An olio drop behind Amelia Woodcock barred a view of the large stage behind.
“The rising tide of drunkenness comes from lax immigration laws,” Mrs. Woodcock was saying. “There are, of course, certain nations and cultures that actually welcome intoxicating beverages and even use them in religious rites. Even small children are permitted to sip wine, a sure way to begin them upon the road to ruin. It doesn’t matter whether it’s wine or ardent spirits; they are all evil, and destroy the character and decency of those who take the fateful step of drinking them. The Woman’s Christian Temperance Union is staunchly opposed to imbibing alcohol of any sort, in any circumstance.
“We are, of course, opposed to lax immigration laws, which have opened the gates of this great nation to morally loose people, especially those gathered around the Mediterranean Sea. They tend to be people of darker hue, a sure sign that they are vulnerable not only to drunkenness but also to social disorders, crime, cruelty, and wantonness of all sorts. But wine drinkers aren’t the only problem. Head north and we find the Germans, celebrating life in beer halls, drinking all sorts of ardent spirits, and delighting in it. Such people can never make good citizens of our republic; neither can the Irish, another race imbibing ardent spirits. Look at Butte, a city lost to inebriation, a city in perpetual turmoil because moral bonds are loosened, and widows and orphans suffer.
“This organization is devoted to curbing promiscuous immigration, and maintaining a civil order intended from the beginning to reflect the ideals and cultural traditions of its founders. That means, largely, those who cannot speak English ought not to be welcomed here.”
Ethel listened closely, peering at her vaudeville colleagues, wondering if they felt what she felt. Her alienated husband’s name was not Wildroot but Wildenstein; he was German. Ethel herself was Irish. Her daughters were a mix of both peoples and would not meet this speaker’s approval for citizenship in the United States.
Harry the Juggler was Polish, or at least from some country around there. Who knew which? The Marbury Trio, golden-fleshed, were mostly Italian, from the boot of Italy. Charles Pomerantz was a Polish Jew. August Beausoleil was French, and who knew what else? Mary Mabel Markey had been Irish. Heaven only knew what Mrs. McGivers was, all told, but only part of her could have been Scots.
And that was true of the whole business. Vaudeville was a creation of recent arrivals, people distinctively different and not on this lady’s approved list. Not native, but arriving in immigrant boats from Italy, Ireland, Germany, the Continent. And they were giving these native people like Mrs. Woodcock the best entertainment and humor they had ever seen.
“Now, then,” said Mrs. Woodcock, “to sum up, the community can cleanse itself of tragedy and grief and loss and financial ruin, all of it wrought by spirits, if it quietly removes and destroys all the drinking parlors, making it impossible for the weak to appease their ravenous appetites, or bring further sorrow to their families and friends and colleagues. How great is the ruin they visit upon their loved ones, friends, associates, and neighbors.
“We calculate costs, which go far beyond the financial sort, and include children denied food and shelter and the loving paternal hand; we calculate that the presence of spirits ruins an entire city and county. The solution does not lie in Washington, or in the Montana capitol, but right here. In your village ordinances. In your county laws. Make this beautiful county dry. Make it a crime to operate a saloon, or a store where spirits are vended. Drive out the demonic presence of spirits, which corrupt a whole community until it bleeds with tragedy, and no household is spared.
“Yes, begin here, and then take the issue to the state, and then to the nation, so that at some future date the United States Constitution will forbid the sale or possession of intoxicating spirits. And then, dear people, we will see safe and secure communities, sober and industrious fathers, each neighborhood dotted with white churches watching over the flock. Then we will see the orphanages empty out, the work of constables diminish, the available jobs increase because a sober workforce is far more productive than a dissolute one. Yes, we will swiftly see all these things come to pass. Not all at once, but as a tidal wave rolling toward shore, carrying a clean and bright new world on its crest.
“Start here, dear people. Start right here in this opera house. Make it the home of lectures, enlightened musicales, uplifting sermons, exhortations to achieve a good life lived in quietness and service. Ah, dear friends, begin right here in this theater, and choose carefully what might be played here. Let it inspire and reward.”
She paused, collecting the polite applause, and sat down.
A gent with a massive white beard stepped up to the lectern.
“We do thank you, Mrs. Woodcock. We all have profited from your inspiring talk, and your vision of the future, and the remaking of America. And now, as always, I invite inspirational comment from our audience.”
A matronly lady in blue arose at once. “Mrs. Woodcock,” she began. “We’re all inspired by your lecture, and also by your guidance. We know now what to do, and how to do it. The WCTU has a great history of picketing saloons, but also picketing undesirable places that endanger public morals. I do believe I know of some places right here, in Missoula. In fact, this opera house tomorrow will be turned over to a troupe called the Beausoleil Brothers Follies. That’s the word, Follies. That says it all. It’s time for us to drive pernicious influences out of Missoula, wouldn’t you say?”
“Madam, you have caught the letter and spirit of my lecture, and if that’s what’s coming here, then let the world know. A firm line of picketers has been known to drive such company out of a town.”
“Count on us!” said the lady in blue.
“We’ll organize the event right now,” said someone else. “Those of you wishing to join us, have a sign ready. I believe the Follies starts at seven.”
Ethel watched, fascinated. And so did the rest of the troupe.
The crowd around the stage stirred, and the lecturer and her contingent abandoned the stage. Few people were leaving; most of the Missoulians were collecting around the woman in blue, who was plainly organizing the surprise party for the vaudeville company.
“I guess we’d better talk to Charles, or maybe August,” Ethel said.
“I’ve been in a couple of these,” Wayne Windsor said. “And I’m English.”
“I bet,” said Ethel. Windsor laughed.
“This place sure isn’t Butte,” The Genius said.
Some of the company, notably the Marbury Trio, were drifting forward, boldly intent on listening in, while others, such as the juggler, were quietly donning coats and pulling out.
LaVerne Wildroot eyed her aunt. “What are you going to do?”
“He’ll know what to do?”
“I think so. He can turn something like this into box office.”
“I’d never thought of that,” LaVerne said.
“Any publicity works,” Ethel said. “If it’s put to use. All right, Genius, let’s hunt down the boss. You coming, Wayne?”
“No, I’m going over there and listen in. I might have a new monologue ready when we open.”
“You coming LaVerne?”
“No, I’m going to volunteer to picket us.”
“I always knew you had talent,” Ethel said. She eyed the rest of the company, including a couple of musicians and stagehands who obviously didn’t know what to do.
“Go listen,” she said. “Make a picket sign.”
They smiled.
Ethel headed into the evening, Genius at her side, passing a knot of dignified men in topcoats, waiting for their wives within.
“Scandalous,” Ethel said to one, who sputtered something that vanished in the wind.
She tried Beausoleil’s room at the hotel, but no one responded, so she headed for the nearest saloon, and entered, with The Genius, against a wall of frowns. Sure enough, there was August, nursing a drink, maybe his third or fourth, in one of his melancholic moments. She knew about those. Sometimes the remembrance of an abandoned youth, desperately surviving on tips around theaters, caught at him, even now, and sent him reeling into a bleak private world.
Beausoleil smiled slightly as Ethel plowed down a long bar. An oil portrait of Cleopatra, thinly veiled about the loins, was prominently displayed above the handsome, mahogany Brunswick back bar.
Beausoleil nodded, even as a serving man showed up.
“I can only serve the gentlemen,” he said.
“Then your life is half as valuable,” The Genius said, ordering a rye.
“We’re going to be picketed tomorrow,” Ethel said.
August stared, sipped, and waited.
She spilled the story swiftly, and he absorbed every word.
“What set them off?” he asked.
“Follies.”
Anything Goes Page 20