“I will give you ten minutes,” she said.
“I will listen,” he replied, as she waved him in and escorted him to an ornate parlor done in reds: red plush horsehair, red velvet drapes, oriental rugs. She took a seat but let him stand.
“You are French,” she said.
“Mostly orphan, madam.”
“Penelope was destined to be the finest concert pianist in the world, but her hands never grew. You need an octave, you know. So I switched her to voice, a good soprano that altered downward as she matured, but not perfect. It was such a blow to me. But training can perfect a flawed voice, and I was about it when all this girlishness happened.”
“What did happen?”
“You destroyed her reputation. She’s ruined.”
“Ah, I am not following, madam.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. And I’m not going to explain it.”
“What of the future, madam?”
“Penelope is dead. Let her lie in an unmarked grave.”
“And you, madam?”
“My daughter took my life. I will spend the rest of my days scrubbing her from the world. Until nothing’s left of her. Not a memory.”
Beausoleil became aware of a ticking clock, a mantel clock over the fireplace.
“Is there anything you want from me, madam?”
“Put her on the streets. Here. She must never sing again. Do that, and I will drop the lawsuit.”
“Is the suit yours, rather than your husband’s?”
“My intentions entirely. Now I have given you your salvation. You are going to snatch at it. One could not expect more from your sort. You may leave.”
“She is married to my colleague, madam.”
“You heard me. On the streets. After that, your company will be free to go.”
He bowed slightly; the manservant materialized at once from behind velvet, escorted him to the door, and moments later he was in fresh air, under a cloudless sky. He edged carefully down the icy drive, and into town. He stepped around ice, avoiding black patches, checking each step before putting weight on that foot. And so arrived back at the hotel, unscathed by broken bones.
The price was a glowing young woman, whose talent was larger than any he had ever known. The day was still young. He headed for the chambers of the Union Pacific lawyer who was also handling this matter for the superintendent. Pierce Brophy, according to the signature.
August was ushered in the moment he gave his name to the clerk. The office was far from opulent, but the railroad preferred oaken muscle to show when it came to legal affairs.
“Mr. Brophy, what sort of surety will you seek in court?”
“Five thousand.”
“And is the judge likely to set bail at that?”
“Always.”
“Thank you, sir,” August said.
“Just a minute, Mr. Beausoleil. Mrs. Jones required me to supply you with another option.”
“I was just there, and heard it.”
“Well?”
“Mrs. Jones will not succeed.”
“I think I like you,” Brophy said.
“Then ask the court for a more appropriate surety.”
Brophy stuck a finger in his left ear and twisted, apparently gouging out wax. August thought Brophy hadn’t heard the expected.
“Ten thousand?” Brophy asked.
“I will be there at eleven tomorrow,” August said.
He left, somehow knowing he had gained ground. There were lawyers who did not like to do what they were commissioned to do, and he sensed that about Pierce Brophy.
He was done. Fate would play out in the morning. A weariness settled through him. He might not be the proprietor of the Follies for much longer. But he had weathered worse, and the Follies was actually the second of his variety companies. The first had collapsed under his own mismanagement, which had been instructive.
The show went splendidly that eve, with every seat filled and thirty people standing along the rear wall. Again, Ginger was the attraction. The battle with her parents, flamboyantly described in the paper, had ignited the curiosity of people for miles around, and all eyes were on Ginger, who did not fail to sing her golden songs, in her golden way.
In the morning, Charles showed up on the first train in from Boise, and August filled him in. Charles looked stricken. At eleven, the pair showed up in the chambers of Henry Rausch, district judge, and waited for events to unfold. The courtroom was empty, save for a clerk and a bailiff. And The Tribune reporter, Parkinson.
The bored jurist eyed the defendants cursorily, and Pierce Brophy petitioned the court to set bail at one thousand dollars, that being a reasonable estimate of the presumed damages suffered by the complaining party.
Judge Rausch, from the bench, set the trial date as January third, and set bail at the thousand dollars, August agreed to provide it forthwith, and that was the end of the proceeding.
“Can we do it?” Charles asked.
“Yes, and with a little to spare.”
“I don’t know how you managed that,” Charles said.
“I don’t know, either,” August said. “But it had to do with honor.”
42
PARKINSON TRAILED them out of the Bannock County courthouse, annoying Charles Pomerantz. Ginger had suffered enough from The Tribune’s sensationalism.
“What was all that about?” the reporter asked.
“Ask the Joneses,” Pomerantz said.
“It’s a public document, a complaint. You may as well tell me.”
“Read it, then. We have nothing to say.”
“You posted bail. That cuts you loose, right?”
“We will lose a large sum unless we appear in this court in January.”
“What have the Joneses against you?”
Parkinson was amused by his own question.
“Look, sir, talk to them. We have a show to put on tonight.”
August was listening as the reporter dogged them, walking back to the hotel. But suddenly he intervened. “Here’s your story, sir. You tell the Joneses there will be two seats, front center, for them this evening, and the company would be pleased to host them, and let them see their magnificent daughter perform.”
“Holy cats, that’s a story, all right. Who do I talk to?”
“I gather that Mrs. Jones makes all the decisions, sir. At least she says she does.”
“I can work this into a great story either way. An invitation and two empty seats tonight. Or the Joneses, bitterly opposed to their daughter’s entry into vaudeville, show up for a gander.”
Charles smiled in spite of himself. It reminded him that reporters often manufactured news, especially when there were no good headlines at the moment.
“Go ahead, Parkinson, fill our house for us,” Beausoleil said. “Here’s a pair of tickets. Give them to the Joneses.”
“Hey, this is a story and a half. And if I can’t unload them?”
“Bring your lady and enjoy the show. But let me know if the Joneses accept the tickets, all right?”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll give you the word.”
Actually, the last performance was nearly sold out. The hurly-burly reportage of Ginger’s tussle with her parents was filling the opera house. So far as Charles or August were concerned, any publicity was good publicity. But Charles worried about Ginger, whose courage was being tested each hour in Pocatello. How would she feel, singing in front of her mother?
He found Ginger lying on the bed, looking worn.
“Bail was a grand. We can manage, sweetheart. We’ll be opening in Boise.”
“I’ve cost you a fortune.”
“Hey, sweetheart, you’re our new star.”
“You’d be better off…”
“If we hadn’t found you? Nah, you’re our fortune cookie. But there may be something going on tonight you should be ready for. Like maybe your parents in the audience.”
“They are?”
“We don’t know. August sent some prime
tickets to them.”
She stared up at him, looking forlorn.
He sat down next to her. “Maybe some good will come of it,” he said.
She just stared, and he could only guess what torments were flowing through her now. August had been impulsive, the fixer making things good, but maybe this time he had overstepped. The gulf between Ginger and her mother could not be bridged, much less fathomed.
“I’ve come this far. I’ll go the rest of the way,” she said, and squeezed his hand.
She was tough.
That afternoon, Parkinson reported that the Joneses’ attorney, Brophy, had accepted the tickets. Parkinson had gotten nowhere with Mrs. Jones. He didn’t know who, if anyone, would claim the seats.
And that’s how they went into the final performance. Pomerantz hoped it would be a door-buster. That surety for the court appearance came to the entire income for two shows. And that meant they’d barely make payroll and expenses, going into Boise. But that was nothing new for the Follies.
By seven, the troupe had assembled at the opera house. Ginger was costumed early, and spent her time peeking out at the empty house, looking for her parents. And then, at the first signs of people arriving, the Joneses appeared, he in ordinary business clothes, but she in black taffeta, with a black hat and black veil, looking funereal from head to toe. Mazeppa Jones made a spectacle, which was plainly what she intended. They took their seats as the opera house began to fill. There was whispering out there, but nothing untoward, as show-goers slipped in, found their seats, and settled down for the evening. Mrs. Jones sat immobile, wrought from stone, not so much as a finger moving inside its black glove.
Oddly, Ginger smiled.
“It figures,” she said.
But by then the whole troupe was curious about her, about her parents, about the quiet hubbub out there as this final audience in Pocatello realized the sort of drama playing out right there between the wayward daughter and the rejected parents. As far as Charles could tell, the town was divided, many siding with the parents but some standing up for Ginger. It had all played out in the paper, and people had rushed to their own conclusions no matter whether they knew the Jones family or not.
She stood quietly, a wall of privacy around her, waiting in the wings. Charles couldn’t say what was passing through her then, only that she was composed. She had stopped peeking from the edge of the proscenium. Her parents were there, a pool of darkness in a festive crowd, and then it was showtime.
The curtain rolled up; August Beausoleil, jaunty and eager, a spring in his step, sailed into the center of the stage, the bright place, and began all his familiar routines, welcoming the ladies and gents to this, the final performance of the Follies.
And then, to everyone’s astonishment, he changed the order. It would not be the Wildroot Sisters opening this time.
“Ladies and gents, I bring you the star of our show, the one you’ve been waiting for, the beautiful, the sublime, the engaging Miss Ginger!”
Ginger was caught utterly unprepared, and in the ticking seconds, she processed this shocking thing, collected herself, and plunged out to a warm applause, once again in her bottle-green gown, looking as heavenly as Charles had ever seen her. She paused, center stage.
There was a great hush.
She bowed, she smiled at the balcony, she smiled at the orchestra, and she smiled at her parents.
“I wish to dedicate this performance to my mother and father,” she said, into the deepening silence.
Charles, from the wings, ached for her and rejoiced in her, all at once.
She began with “Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair,” which she sang sweetly, and with the warmth that Stephen Foster had intended.
Mrs. Jones sat motionless.
Soon, Ginger was singing her repertoire of American ballads, one after another, while her mother sat like a gravestone, and the crowd was craning to see how the Joneses were responding to their daughter. Something was happening. Ginger was pouring beauty and joy into these familiar songs, transforming each of them into something magical. She was singing as she had never sung before.
But they saw nothing. The pair sat silently, a black pool in front-center seats.
She bowed and abandoned the stage, and August swiftly continued the show, bringing on the Wildroot Sisters, and Harry the Juggler, and then Wayne Windsor, who had worked up a new routine.
“I’m going to tell you about a railroad man who figured out how to get rich,” he began. “This fellow knew where the traffic was, and found a way to make his fortune. His secret was simple. He built a railroad to Hades. A high-speed state-of-the-art railroad, that hauled multitudes down the slope. At first he thought coaches would be all he needed, but he soon discovered that parlor cars were in great demand. The more luxurious the better. He was catering to clientele of the better class. So he began adding luxurious and roomy cars, one after the others, and his business improved.…”
The audience was plainly enjoying this, enjoying Windsor’s attempt to entertain the railroad man in their midst. There were chuckles and cheer, but not from that bleak little pool of darkness front center.
The performers were watching from the wings, watching to see if the couple would ever smile, ever settle in and enjoy the show. And gradually, it all became a contest, with each act striving to entertain the Joneses.
Harry and Art Grabowski put on a fine show, choreographing a brawl that set the crowd to howling. Every time Art threw a haymaker, Harry did cartwheels, until laughter rippled through the opera house and continued almost nonstop. Then the Marbury Trio tapped out to center stage, tapped intricate steps, did a buck and wing, delighted the crowd—except for the two who could not be entertained, and who didn’t move a muscle.
And August had never been better at introducing his acts, one after another, each given a special send-off that wrought eagerness in all those people out there in the dusky seats.
The Genius and Ethel wrought good cheer that eve. The Genius was especially outrageous and superior, comparing Pocatello to Butte, scorning everything and everyone, while Ethel bled the hot air out of the blowhard. The crowd chuckled. Many of them had run into self-serving people bent on letting the world know how superior they were. And still the Joneses sat, immobile.
Ginger watched them anxiously, and was so restless backstage that Charles finally caught her hand and held it quietly. She looked stricken at first, but his smile wrought one in her, and she was all right.
When intermission came, the performers watched anxiously to see whether the Joneses would rise, retreat to the lobby, and vanish. Instead, they sat silently, unmoved, unmovable, while the patrons refreshed themselves and drifted back to their seats.
The second act was much like the first, with the crowd enjoying the performers while Ginger’s parents sat sternly, revealing not so much as a smile or raised eyebrow. They did not clap. They did not nod, or share their delight with those in neighboring seats.
When Ginger returned, she told her eager listeners that she would sing more ballads, and invited the crowd to sing along. She offered them “Careless Love,” “Swing Low Sweet Chariot,” “Clementine,” “Down in the Valley,” and concluded with “Buffalo Gals.”
Nothing could be further from what her mother intended than these old songs, and Charles knew that Ginger was carefully, deliberately, staking out her independence. He watched them closely, but saw not the slightest shift of a muscle. They had been cast in bronze.
Ginger was watching them, too, as she sang, and registering her mother’s every movement. And then it was over, and the crowd clapped politely, almost as if these people were afraid to appreciate the wayward daughter.
The show ended that way, the crowd subdued, as if the stern disapproval of the Joneses had triumphed over their own appreciation of a happy evening. They had seen good vaudeville, and had enjoyed top talent, and yet when the curtain rang down, they left quietly, soberly, defeated by Ginger’s parents.
Charles wat
ched them rise, stretch a little, and make their way to the aisle, and up the lobby, and vanish into the night, where their enameled cabriolet was waiting. He could not fathom what they were thinking, and no one else could, either. The performers felt blue; they had turned the whole show into an effort to break the ice, win the good cheer of those two people. And had failed.
Ginger was inscrutable, too. Whatever she felt, she was not sharing.
This was the end for Pocatello. He watched the performers pack up. There were accordions and guitars to put into cases, a few props to bundle, Harry the Juggler’s array of cups and saucers and knives to box up, costumes to return to trunks, and they did these things in deep silence, unsure of themselves. It was as if Ginger’s mother had not only thwarted the entire audience, but thwarted each performer who had sought her approval. She had approved of none, and now it lay like a blanket over the company.
But there was always tomorrow. They would catch a train for Boise early in the morning, and would be setting up shop in the opera house in the state capital late that afternoon. Another opening. Another crowd, this time more likely to enjoy the talent.
Charles walked back to the hotel with Ginger, both of them lost in silence.
He was worn, and crawled into bed ahead of her. She took her time washing up, and when she did emerge she was in a bright crimson wrapper.
“Let’s leave Pocatello behind, forever,” she said, and reached for him.
43
BOISE WAS surely the place where good things would happen. It was a bustling state capital, with plenty of cash. It had a fine, large theater, the Columbia, with a thousand seats. Fill those seats for several performances and the troupe would bridge the gap in late December, and start along the West Coast with the new year.
Charles Pomerantz brimmed with hope. He had done everything it was possible to do. In a short time, when Spokane canceled, he had put together two Idaho dates, looked to all the details, and somehow managed to move the company, which was now quartered at the comfortable Overland Hotel, close to the theater. The Union Pacific had delivered them on time. The trip was restful. The performers were lodged, and spreading out to look at the handsome town. And they had a day of rest. The first show would be tomorrow eve.
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