She swept a hand across her face as if to wipe away the sadness of the memory, but in the next moment, looking straight at Papa, her face suddenly seemed transformed. It was shining with pride. “But my childhood dream did not die, after all. It is alive! It lives on through Ella!”
“So now you want Ella should make up for what you lost?” Tanta murmured.
Mama flushed. “Oh no! It’s not like that at all. Why do you think I’ve never told Ella this before? I didn’t want her to be influenced by what had happened in my life. Ella must do whatever she believes is best for her—and for her only.”
Tanta’s chin thrust forward, her arms akimbo. “You’re sorry, maybe?” she challenged Mama. “You think you missed something? You think maybe you would have had a better life on the stage?”
“Of course not!” Mama returned quickly. “Only sometimes, in a fleeting moment, I catch myself thinking—what Would it have been like?”
Smiling apologetically at Papa, she reached for his hands and cradled them in her own. “For myself, I would not change for anything! We’ve had our full share of hard times and troubles, but I’m nonetheless deeply content. I have found my great satisfaction—more than that—my greatest joy in sharing my life with Papa and in raising a fine family.”
She turned to Ella. “But that was right for me, Ella. For your life, only you can answer.”
“Oh Mama!” Ella threw her arms around her. “Hold fast to that dream! I won’t let you down, I promise!”
“No, Ella, no promises. That would be a big mistake. Just do what will make you happy.”
“And if you’ll be happy and Mama will be happy, and Tanta will be happy, then I’ll be happy, too. And the entire family will be like a bunch of happy hooligans,” Papa cried, laughing all over himself.
9
Prancing Pony
Ella had taken it for granted that rehearsals would be held in a theatre. To her surprise, the address given turned out to be a room in a shabby old building somewhere on Sixth Avenue. It was a barnlike place with paint peeling from the walls and grimy windows looking out on an alley. A few chairs, a coat rack, and a forlorn-looking piano scarred by countless cigarette butts completed the picture.
The company was already assembled. Ella counted eight girls and one man besides Mr. Trent and the piano player. They were standing around chatting with an air of easy camaraderie.
Mr. Trent caught sight of her. “Hiya,” he greeted and came forward to help her off with her cape.
A blur of introductions followed—Sally, La Verne, Marian, the fellow named Jack. But one thing did register. The girls were all young and their faces were heavily made up. As for that Jack, was he supposed to be the juvenile lead? He must be forty at least! And all that patent leather grease on his hair! Ugh!
“Okay now, girls,” Mr. Trent called out, “let’s get started.” He pulled a chair into the center of the room and sat down, the troupe gathering around him.
“First, we’ll go over the tunes. Hand out the music sheets, somebody.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s go, Harry,” and the pianist plunged into the first song.
The melodies were lively and simple enough for everyone to follow—but what voices! Ella couldn’t help thinking Professor Calvano would have grabbed his hat and made a hasty exit.
Over and over they sang, till everyone was familiar with the lyrics.
“All right, kids, you can take a break now,” Mr. Trent announced. “Not you, Miss Ella. You’ve got a solo to learn. And there’s a duet with Jack, too.”
Immediately Ella could sense some lifting of eyebrows, an exchange of glances.
“Miss Ella’s solo, Harry,” Mr. Trent directed. “Take it from the top.”
Ella listened intently to the introduction, then followed the music and words on her song sheet. What a silly tune, she thought. Nevertheless, she sang it with as much feeling as she could. When she’d finished, Mr. Trent was smiling, all friendly. “That’s good. A little more swing, maybe. But that’ll come as we work on it. Now let’s try the duet.”
Jack’s was not much of a voice, Ella decided, but she had to admit he did know how to put over a song in a slambang style.
“When both of you have got it down pat,” Mr. Trent said, “we’ll put in the dance steps. Jack, that routine we worked out, you’ll teach it to Miss Ella.”
“Be my pleasure, baby,” Jack whispered in her ear, sliding his arm around her. Ella stiffened.
“Now let’s see.” Mr. Trent turned to the girls. “You, Irene,” pointing to a pert redhead with a turned-up nose, “you’ll be Miss Ella’s understudy. We’ll rehearse you in the song next time. Harry, give her a song sheet.”
Did Ella imagine it or did Irene’s nose tilt a bit higher? I guess she doesn’t like the idea of playing understudy to a mere beginner like me.
“Okay now, girls! Line up for the dance. Snap into it! Size places. Miss Ella, you’re the smallest. You’re first.”
Ella was in a panic. She wanted to cry out “I’m not a dancer!” but Mr. Trent was already demonstrating the first step. “You come on in a pony prance with your knees up high. Like this.”
Thank heavens, the step looks easy enough, Ella thought, relieved.
But the dancing was far from satisfying to Mr. Trent. “Go on back—all of you—and try it again,” he shouted.
Over and over the girls pranced till Ella found herself gasping for breath.
“Take ten,” Mr. Trent finally yelled.
Now what does that mean? Ella wondered. When she saw the group dispersing around the room and Mr. Trent relax against the side of the piano, she understood it meant a ten-minute rest. Gratefully she sank into a chair.
All too soon, the ten minutes were up. Rehearsal of the dance routine resumed. It seemed easy enough for the others, but Ella found the steps a crazy patch quilt of legs. I’ll never get it! Which foot? Right? Left? Kicks, endless circles. My legs are dropping off.
“Step and kick and circle in the air!” Mr. Trent barked out anew.
The line of legs bobbed up and down like a jumping centipede. Ella, in desperation, kicked too hard. Her right leg shot up and, unbalanced, she started teetering backward. Immediately, one after the other, the girls fell back like a row of falling dominoes.
By a stroke of good luck, Jack, seated on a chair at the line’s end, was able to put out his hands just in time. He caught the last dancer as she promptly collapsed in his lap. The pianist stopped playing and looked inquiringly at Mr. Trent as the group disentangled itself amid a grumble of taunting remarks.
Ella burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry,” she kept reiterating.
But to everyone’s amazement, Mr. Trent was all smiles. “Great!” he cried.
Ella’s mouth dropped open in the midst of a sob. She smiled at Mr. Trent uncertainly.
“Miss Ella, you’ve given me a great idea!” Mr. Trent went on. “We can use that whole setup in the finale for the dance. By golly, it looks just like a row of falling ninepins!”
The girls all looked at one another. “But Mr. Trent,” one of them ventured, “a stunt like that will be hard to come out of.”
“So we’ll practice it, till we get it right. It’s sensational! It’s way too good to lose. Well. That’s all for today. We’ll continue working on it tomorrow. 10 A.M. sharp!”
Ella was silent and subdued as Mr. Trent escorted her to the subway station. “Don’t worry so much, Miss Ella,” he said. “See what you came up with today? Everything will be all right. Keep smiling.” He threw her a quizzical glance, tipped his hat, and walked on.
His heartening words helped somewhat. But for the greater part of her ride homeward, Ella sat slumped in her seat, exhausted in body and spirit. How am I ever going to go through with this? It’s all so different from what I imagined.
At least I have a solo. Only how I wish it were a different kind of song. Sure vaudeville’s not opera. But there are so many lovely songs people would enjoy hearing. Yet
it does give me a chance to be noticed. Maybe some big producer or director will see me.…
When you’re a star on Broadway, you’ll have your choice of songs to sing. Right now don’t complain. Be grateful for small favors. Like that crazy thing that happened during the dancing today. I started out crying and ended up laughing. If it hadn’t turned out that way, I don’t know how I could have gone on.
At home she managed to parry the family’s innumerable pryings with trumped-up enthusiasm. “Everything’s fine. Of course it’s hard work, especially the dancing part. Imagine me dancing! Mr. Trent’s a real stickler for perfection. He makes you go over every step a hundred times! Please everyone, I’m awfully tired.”
The daily rehearsals went on. Ella was given over completely to her work. She toiled away all the more single-mindedly because she felt so isolated. The other girls went out together, exchanged confidences, even borrowed money from one another. But somehow she was never included. And Mr. Trent’s preferential treatment of her didn’t help any either. It only served to fan the resentment some of them must have felt. Occasionally she’d overhear a remark like “Get a load of that Miss Ella. The prima donna!” and she’d wish she could shrink away into nothingness.
Toward the end of the week, Mr. Trent started to work on the final routine. A tricky little step kept eluding her.
“Left foot, kid. Cross it over right,” a voice close by whispered.
It was Sally—Sally, the peroxide blonde with the baby blue eyes. “Take it easy, kid. You’re getting yourself tied up in knots over nothing.” Ella flashed her a grateful smile.
When Mr. Trent called a break, Sally pulled her aside. “C’mere, kid. Lemme show you.”
Patiently, she broke the step down and it became suddenly clear. Ella had finally made herself a friend.
But with each passing day, Ella found herself growing more and more dispirited. “I suppose the rehearsing is the hardest part,” she remarked to Sally. “Once you’re actually performing, it’s fun, isn’t it?”
“Are you kiddin’?” Sally returned. “With four shows a day! And hangin’ around in between waiting to go on? It ain’t too much fun!” She shrugged her shoulders. “But you get used to it.”
“Get used to it!” Ella exclaimed. “When I think of having to work with Jack for a whole year …” She shuddered.
“Don’t be so fussy, kid. He’s not so bad.”
“Putting his arm around me every chance he gets! Even pinching me!” Ella cried, her annoyance spilling out.
Sally laughed good-naturedly. “Relax, kid. He’s just a big dope. He doesn’t mean any harm, really.”
Ella sighed. “You’re a lot more tolerant than I am.”
“Live and let live I say,” Sally replied matter-of-factly.
* * *
By the following week, rehearsals had stepped up intensively. Mr. Trent’s cheery manner was evaporating. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he would yell at the cast. “Can’t you pick up your feet, you lummoxes? Don’t stand there gaping at me like half-wits! Go back and take the entrance again!”
Sullenly the girls muttered under their breath. One needs real grit to stand up to this, Ella fumed, frequently close to tears herself. But if they can bear it, so can I.
“You know,” she later remarked to Jules, “when we finally win a grudging grunt of approval from Mr. Trent, it’s like winning a victory.”
“A victory over what?” Jules asked with a touch of sarcasm.
“A victory over myself!” she shot back.
“So you’ve learned to kick up your feet in time to music. Is that so important?” Jules went on. “And what has that to do with your singing?”
“When you take on a job, you work at it till you can do it well,” Ella replied hotly. “Or at least you keep trying. Besides, knowing something about dancing won’t do my career any harm.”
“I suppose not,” Jules admitted. “Forget it. Let’s not argue over it.”
They were pulling apart. Ella could feel it and it made her miserable. She yearned to be with Jules, but often rehearsals were late, cutting into the time they’d planned to spend together. When they were together, she was too fatigued to want to do anything or go anywhere. They’d just sit around in the parlor or downstairs. She would ask Jules about his job, but all the while he’d be talking, her mind would be occupied with problems concerning the show. Jules would notice her dwindling attention, and after a few minutes, he’d lapse into silence.
It’s just a couple of weeks and already we’re drifting away from each other. What’s going to happen in a year? Ella asked herself desolately.
10
Follow the Leader
“Whee!” yelled red-haired Pat. He grabbed hold of the lamp post, swinging himself up and around in a flying circle. Jumping clear, he landed on both feet, waving on the line of six boys behind him.
“C’mon, you guys!”
One after the other they followed suit.
Charlie sat on the curb watching longingly. Wish I could play with them. But they’re way bigger and older than me.
“Hey, kid, wanna join?” Pat called out.
Charlie sprang up. “Uh-huh!”
Pat grinned. “You’ll have to keep up.”
“Okay!” Charlie cried.
Next moment, he too was swinging around the pole. By the time he was back on the pavement, Pat had led his followers down the length of the block and around the corner.
Charlie went dashing madly after, forgetting completely Mama’s warning, “Stay close to the house!”
Now Pat bounded up the stoop of a tenement. Pausing briefly, knees bent, he spread-eagled his arms and jumped down to the sidewalk.
Jump! Jump! Jump! in quick succession, and then it was Charlie’s turn. It’s easy, he decided. Galloping down the stairs in his own house, he had jumped like that lots of times.
Wham! He made it! On he flew after the others.
In, out, and round about in a snakelike dance, Pat wove his gang. Suddenly he spied an ash can. With the agility of a cat, he leapfrogged over. The followers too sailed safely across, though somewhat less gracefully.
Charlie took a deep breath. Pressing his hands firmly down on either side of the can, he hurled himself upward. Alas, he couldn’t quite clear the top.
“Up you go, kid!” Someone grabbed him by the seat of his pants and hoisted him over. It was Pat!
Across the gutter the line streaked in a race to reach the other side before an oncoming streetcar. Clang, clang! Frantically the conductor slammed his heel down hard on the bell. But by then, the boys were safely across.
“We did it!” the youngsters crowed, panting and shivering a little at their flirtation with danger.
“C’mon!” Pat commanded. “Forward march, fellers!”
The street just ahead was all broken up. For days laborers had been working, repairing the gas mains. It was late afternoon and they had already gone. Across the wide opening of the excavation, some wooden planks had been laid. At either end, a red warning lantern glowed.
“There’s only one way to get across this big hole,” Pat announced. “Walking across the boards.”
“Gee, they’re pretty far apart,” one boy said.
“That they are. And they’re kinda narrow, too. Scared?”
“Who me? Nah!” the others boasted. Nonetheless, they watched nervously as Pat stepped on the first board. It swayed beneath his weight. Quickly he moved on to the next board, and the next, till finally he was on firm ground.
“What are you waiting for, fellers?” he scoffed.
Slowly, cautiously, the next boy in line began the hazardous journey. One after the other the rest of the gang followed, till at last all save Charlie were on the other side.
Charlie stood eyeing the first board. The other side was so far away. Six boards away! The spaces between them seemed much further apart now that he was close to them. Below, the pit gaped, deep, dark, and forbidding. If he should
make just one false step!
“Hey, kid, better skip this one,” advised Pat.
Charlie’s head came up. “I can do it!” he shouted.
He stretched one leg a giant step forward. There! He was safe on the first board! Slowly he managed the next. See, I can do it, he egged himself on. But the others were growing impatient at his snail’s pace.
“Aw, come on!” they cried. “You’re holding up the game!”
Charlie pushed himself to go faster. There was just one more board to conquer.
But the gap looked too wide. He glanced back. It was too far away to go back. He had to go on! But he’d have to jump if he was ever going to make it. There was no other way.
Charlie clenched his fists; his body grew taut, and he jumped!… There was nothing there but empty space.… He was falling, his small body plummeting downward! With a thud, his head struck a huge pipe.
Charlie lay crumpled at the bottom of the pit. He knew no more.…
* * *
Ella sat beside Mama and Papa in the hospital waiting room. How long had they been there? It seemed an eternity since Charlie had been admitted. She stole a glance at Mama. How pale she was! Her eyes appeared to have sunk deep in their sockets. For once, her never idle hands lay inert in her lap.
And Papa? Where were the laugh lines in his face now? Lips tight with anguish, his gaze was riveted on the door leading to the hospital corridor.
Ella longed to enfold them both in her arms—to say something that might help, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.
What was taking so long? Not knowing was so terrifying.
Footsteps echoed down the length of the corridor. They seemed headed their way. Yes, finally, it was the doctor.
“The boy is still unconscious. There is concussion. We do not yet know the extent of damage.” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “There’s little more we can do right now.”
“Could we see him?” Papa asked.
“Not just yet.” The doctor put a hand on Papa’s arm. “We’re doing everything possible.” It was both a promise and a hope.
Papa nodded. “He’s our only son,” he said huskily.
Ella of All-of-a-Kind Family Page 7