The Life Fantastic

by Liza Ketchum

  “I remember. I was born on the road. Mama called me a ‘trunk baby’ because I slept in the drawer of her steamer trunk. It was my life for six years.”

  “I wish I’d been there.” Pascal flicked his loose front tooth back and forth with his tongue. “Papa can’t stop me from going onstage when I’m grown up.”

  Teresa raised her eyebrows. “You want that, too?”

  “’Course. Don’t you?”

  “More than anything.” Teresa glanced across the street. No sign of Papa.

  “Remember the jugglers at the Pageant last year?” Pascal asked. “Juggling swords? And fire?” He whirled and danced, as if he were handling flaming torches. “I’m going to do that someday.”

  Teresa laughed. “You must have caught the vaudeville bug when you were in Mama’s tummy.”

  Pascal’s face twisted as if she’d fed him a worm. “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.” The front door of the boardinghouse swung open. Mama beckoned to them from the porch. “Time to go,” Teresa said.

  Pascal dashed for the house, but Teresa lingered on the bandstand. She’d have to face Papa now. A poster tacked to one of the posts caught her eye. She stepped closer and read the sign.

  AMATEUR NIGHT! SINGING CONTEST! ARE YOU A CHILD WITH UNUSUAL MUSICAL TALENT? COME SING YOUR FAVORITE TUNE, WIN A SILVER DOLLAR AND A SECRET, SPECIAL OPPORTUNITY! PRINCESS THEATER, TUESDAY AT 8 P.M. CHILDREN 15 AND UNDER.

  Tuesday: tonight. Mama would insist that Teresa go to choir practice as usual, knowing she needed to rehearse her solo for Sunday. Teresa always rode the trolley to church. If she got off at the Princess Theater instead—who would know the difference?

  3.

  Mr. Jensen was waiting for his supper when Teresa came in. Papa wouldn’t scold her in front of their boarder; instead he chopped kindling on the back porch, Pascal loaded it into an old sap bucket, and Teresa helped Mama slice the vegetables—as if nothing had happened.

  As she served the stew at the table, Teresa spilled on her old blouse—accidentally on purpose. “I can’t go to choir with grease on my blouse,” she told Mama.

  “Put on your new shirtwaist,” Mama said, “but keep it clean for church on Sunday. And fetch Nonnie’s tray before you go, will you?”

  “Nonnie should eat with us,” Papa said. “It makes more work for your mother.”

  Teresa knew that her great-grandmother couldn’t stand old Mr. Jensen and his quavery voice. Plus, Nonnie’s failing eyesight embarrassed her. Sometimes Teresa helped Nonnie find the food on her plate—but Teresa wouldn’t contradict Papa now.

  Upstairs in her attic room, Teresa buttoned her shirtwaist, smoothed the ruffles at the sleeves, and crouched under the eaves to peer in the mirror. She tried to work a comb through her tight curls. Impossible. Hopefully, the judges would only pay attention to her voice.

  Teresa slipped past the dining room, avoiding Papa, and stepped into Nonnie’s room without knocking. The air smelled sickly sweet. A single lamp lit the chair where Nonnie sat wrapped in a flowered shawl, her face turned toward the window, as if she could see the spring shadows gathering outside. “Nonnie?”

  “Resa!” Nonnie’s voice was bright. “Come closer.”

  Teresa kissed Nonnie’s forehead. Her skin was as thin as tissue paper.

  “I missed you earlier,” Nonnie said. “I’m having a little spell.”

  Teresa smiled. They played this secret game every night. She took the bottle of sherry, a gift from Nonnie’s friend Miss Wilkins, out of the cupboard and poured the amber liquid into a glass waiting on the side table. Nonnie claimed that these spirits were her “medicine.” Teresa waited while Nonnie took a small sip, then another. “Feel better?” she asked.

  Nonnie smiled. “Much.” She set the glass down. “Where are you, my dear?”

  “Right next to you.” Teresa touched Nonnie’s shoulder. Her great-grandmother’s eyes were milky. “I’m going downstreet soon.”

  Nonnie reached out a hand and smoothed Teresa’s skirt. “Is that your new shirtwaist? I’m glad your mama listened to me. I told her you were bursting out of all your clothes. If only I could still sew for you.”

  “You made such beautiful things.” Teresa felt fidgety. In the past year, her body had betrayed her, pushing out and up in every direction until she had more bust than Mama and was nearly as tall as Papa. Even her voice had changed. The choirmaster had chosen a contralto part for her solo this week. What would Mr. Tish say when she didn’t show up tonight?

  The piano sounded from the front parlor: plunk plunk plunk ker-plunk. “Listen to that,” Nonnie said. “Someone should teach that child a more interesting tune. Thank goodness he’s not strong enough to pump the Estey pedals. He’d drive us out of the house.”

  Pascal was picking out a melody one slow note at a time. “Sounds like ‘Shoo Fly,’” Teresa said. “Somebody should shoo him away.” She cringed as he missed the B-flat and covered her ears when he hit the C in the seventh measure. “Ouch! The piano’s out of tune.”

  Nonnie smiled. “You could tune pianos someday with that skill of yours.”

  Teresa shivered. She wouldn’t tell Nonnie about Papa’s plan. It would only make her angry. “I want to sing,” Teresa said.

  “You will,” Nonnie said. “Don’t you have choir practice tonight?”

  “I’m supposed to.” Teresa dropped her voice to a whisper, although no one else could hear them. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “Of course, child.” Nonnie winked and held up her glass. “You keep my secrets; I keep yours. Not running after a boy, are you?”

  “Never. The ones in my class call me ‘carrot top’ and stare at my chest. No—I’m entering a singing contest.”

  “Good for you.” Nonnie reached for Teresa’s hand. “I love hearing you sing. You have the gift. Don’t waste it, as your mama did, working at Estey. She had a pretty voice when she ran away with your father. Not as strong as yours, but lovely.”

  Teresa squatted on Nonnie’s footstool. She was too big for it now, but she had always perched there to listen to Nonnie’s stories. “Tell me again, how they eloped.”

  Nonnie laughed. “It was a scandal. Your papa stole Alice away in the dead of night, carrying nothing but a small valise. And vaudeville was called improper back then.”

  “Papa still says vaude is ‘no place for a young girl.’’’

  Nonnie laughed. “Just what your grandpa said. Broke his heart when your mama eloped—and of course, your Grandma June never forgave your papa.” Nonnie squeezed Teresa’s hand. “And you know about the strange omen.”

  “Omen? What do you mean?”

  “Your mama had a pet canary named Lebo.” Nonnie spoke so softly that Teresa leaned closer to hear her. “Of course, she couldn’t take the bird on the road. After they found your mama’s bed empty, your grandpa pulled the cover off Lebo’s cage. The canary was lying dead in the sawdust.”

  Teresa shivered. “I’d forgotten that story. No one ever talks about it.”

  “Why do you think, child? Your parents don’t want you to run away with some Gypsy Davey.”

  Teresa laughed. “I know that song. A princess elopes with a handsome gypsy. ‘And he won the heart of a la-dy . . .’” Teresa sang. “No gypsy in my life.” She stood up and kissed Nonnie’s withered cheek. She paused at the dresser to finger Nonnie’s treasures, collecting dust: a chiffon scarf; a box of crumbling rose petals that had lost their scent; pieces of unfinished embroidery; and a glass vial of rouge. She glanced at her great-grandmother. The old woman’s eyes were closed. Teresa tucked the rouge into her dress pocket and picked up Nonnie’s tray.

  “’Night Nonnie.”

  “Good night, Resa dear. Sing like an angel.”

  “I’ll try.”

  4.

  By the time the trolley clanked toward her, Teresa’s palms were damp with fear. She gave the conductor her nickel and sat in the back, watching the familiar houses slide past. Maybe she should go to ch
oir practice after all. What if she got stage fright? Last summer, when the town had its 150th birthday, she sang a solo in the Pageant, out on Island Park. She had stood in front of thousands of people, her heart pumping faster than the engines on the new automobiles draped with bunting, and her voice came out in a tortured squeak for the first few notes. Could that happen tonight?

  Teresa jumped off the trolley at her stop and ran down the hill to the Princess. A poster nailed up beside the door advertised the upcoming show, with a picture of a woman called “The Rose of Abilene: The Girl with the Golden Voice.” This singer wore a skimpy dress with a neckline cut deep at the bodice, and a feathered hat. Papa would never let her dress that way. She felt dingy and immature in her plain shirtwaist. If she had to compete against this “Rose,” she’d better put on some rouge.

  Teresa went through the dark lobby into the washroom and studied her face in the mirror. She rubbed some rouge onto both cheeks with her fingertip, but the makeup couldn’t hide her freckles—in fact, the rouge made them bleed into an angry red tapestry, and the color clashed with her orange curls. She pursed her lips, ran another streak over her mouth, and took two deep breaths. She sang up and down an A scale, as they did in choir practice, then a B and a C, to warm her voice.

  The Princess had a low tin ceiling and hard wooden chairs. The house lights were on and a single spotlight fell on the stage, where a small boy, about Pascal’s age, sang, “I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair.”

  Ouch. He was slightly off-key. And what a silly song for a little boy! Teresa went to the woman sitting at a desk near the stage.

  “Name, please,” the woman said, without looking up.

  “Teresa LeClair.”

  The woman spelled it wrong, but Teresa didn’t dare correct her. “You’ll be tenth,” the woman said and raked her eyes over Teresa’s face and figure. “Didn’t you read the rules? Contestants must be fifteen and under.”

  “I am fifteen.”

  “Date of birth,” the woman said, her pencil poised.

  “April first, 1898.”

  The woman sniffed. “You’re seventeen if you’re a day. You’ll forfeit the prize if we find you’re lying.” She waved her away.

  Teresa’s cheeks felt warm. Could she help it that she had burst out in every direction? She sat in the third row. The next singer was a tiny girl who wore a velvet bow as big as her head. She croaked like a broody hen when she sang. Teresa knew she could do better, but her dress felt damp under her arms as she waited.

  “Teresa La Clark,” the woman finally called, mangling her name.

  Teresa went to the piano. The pianist was a pudgy man whose rear end overflowed the piano stool. “Where’s your music?”

  “I—I don’t have any.” She felt stupid. “I’m going to sing ‘Hard Times.’ Do you know the tune?” She hummed a few bars.

  He shook his head. “Bad luck. Next!”

  “Wait. I’ll sing it a cappella. I don’t need the music.” Teresa climbed the steps to the stage before anyone could shoo her away. Her heart bounced in her chest. She glanced at the front row where the judges sat: two men in dark suits and a woman in a brown dress. She was about to bolt when the lady judge nodded, as if to say: You can do it.

  Teresa imagined she was back on the Silver Circuit, performing with Mama and Papa. She heard the E-flat note in her head, took a deep breath, and brought the melody into the theater. Her voice felt tentative on the first notes but strengthened as she reached the chorus. As she sang, the door from the lobby opened and two men slid into seats near the back. She raised her voice and pitched the song to them.

  According to Papa, Mama was singing this song when they first met. Stephen Foster, who wrote it, told about the sorrows of being poor and hungry, but to Teresa, the song was about everything she and Mama and Papa left behind when they gave up touring. It was about the sorrow of Mama’s voice going bad at the organ works, and Papa coming home tired and grumpy while his fiddle sat silent in its case.

  “Many days you have lingered, around my cabin door,” Teresa sang, and she gave her voice the full power of her breath on the last line of the chorus: “OH! Hard times come again no more.”

  She held the final note until her breath was gone, as the choirmaster had taught her. The theater was completely silent. Did she sound terrible? Had she been off-key? Suddenly, clapping sounded and one of the men in the back stood up in front of his seat. “Very nice!” he called.

  Teresa gave him a small bow. She wasn’t sure what to do until the woman at the table called out another name. Teresa hurried off the stage. The piano player surprised her by giving her a thumbs-up. Her cheeks felt hot. She dropped into a seat a few rows back, too rattled to pay attention to the final contestants, and closed her eyes. She went so far away that the lady judge called her name twice before Teresa realized she had won.

  5.

  Teresa stood in front of the stage, fingering the silver dollar that was her prize, while one of the judges, a short man with a wide belly, introduced himself. “I’m Mr. Quincy, manager of the Princess.” He pointed to the second judge, who had come up behind him. “This is Mr. Fenton, owner of Fenton’s music shop.”

  Teresa nodded, still too shocked to speak, though she and Nonnie used to buy sheet music at Fenton’s.

  “We need a song plugger for Saturday’s show,” Mr. Quincy said. “You’re just right for the job.”

  Teresa found her voice. “You want me to plug songs here—in Brattleboro?”

  “That’s right,” Mr. Quincy said. “Saturday morning, when the shoppers are out, you’ll sing a few songs for the upcoming show, in Fenton’s, at Miss Wilkins’s Café, J.E. Mann’s—wherever we find a crowd. Hopefully, your singing will pull folks into the theater to see Rose Stanton, the star attraction.”

  “I’m plugging songs for Miss Stanton?” Teresa asked, feeling like a dumb echo.

  “For Miss Stanton and for me,” Mr. Fenton said. “If you sing as well as you did tonight, I’ll sell more sheet music.” He looked her over as if she were a horse for sale at the livery. “Could you wear something a bit more—sophisticated?”

  “Of course.” Teresa wouldn’t tell him this was her very best dress. “What songs will I sing?” she asked.

  Mr. Fenton reached into a bag and pulled out two sets of sheet music. “‘Cousin of Mine’ and ‘Heaven Will Protect the Working Girl.’ You know them?”

  “Just ‘Cousin of Mine.’ But I can read music.”

  “Perfect.” Mr. Fenton rubbed his hands together. “First band call is Saturday, nine o’clock sharp. You’ll practice with the orchestra.”

  A real orchestra! Teresa shivered with pleasure. “May I come to the show?”

  Mr. Quincy flipped open his gold watch, as if he might find the answer there. “I suppose. We’ll leave a ticket in the lobby for the first house.” He hurried up the aisle without saying goodbye.

  The matinee was never as good as the last show, but Teresa didn’t care. How could she turn down a free ticket? Unless Papa found out—but she wouldn’t think about that now. She rubbed the silver dollar and slipped it into her pocket. It was her first real money from singing.

  “Excuse me.”

  Teresa looked down at the woman judge, a short lady with eyes bright as shoe buttons. “Congratulations.” The woman took Teresa’s hand and gave it a warm squeeze. “I’m Lucy Connover from New York. I’m visiting friends in Brattleboro and heard they needed a judge. Where did you learn to sing?”

  Teresa shrugged. In her house, singing was like walking or breathing: You just knew how to do it. “From my parents, and my great-grandmother.”

  “That melody you selected was lovely; one of Foster’s best. I’m surprised the pianist didn’t know it. You even picked the right key.”

  Should she tell this stranger that she had perfect pitch? It seemed like a strange thing to boast about, like being double-jointed, or knowing how to say the alphabet backward, the way Pascal could. “Thank you,”
she said.

  Miss Connover stepped closer, speaking softly although the theater was nearly empty. “You have a powerful voice for a young girl. You’re not really fifteen, are you?”

  “I was fifteen on April first.” Teresa tried to sound polite, since Miss Connover had awarded her the prize. “Everyone says I look old for my age.” She glanced at the clock at the back of the theater. “Excuse me. I need to catch the last trolley home.”

  “I’m sorry,” Miss Connover said. “I didn’t mean to question your honesty. I’ll walk you out.” As they started up the aisle, she pulled a calling card from her beaded bag. “You’re wasting your talent, singing in amateur contests. With proper musical training, you could sing opera.”

  Opera? Teresa stifled a laugh. Opera was for fancy people who traveled first class on the train, or for women like Miss Connover, whose stylish brown skirt skimmed her ankles. “I plan to sing in Hammerstein’s Victoria Theatre,” she said, though that was only a dream.

  “I’m sure variety sounds glamorous from here,” Miss Connover said. “But the life of a vaudeville performer is hard work and little money. Only the best make it to the big cities. If you’ll pardon my saying so, nice girls don’t end up in variety.”

  So Mama wasn’t a nice girl? Teresa drew herself up tall. “My parents were vaudeville performers. And we loved being on the road.” She pushed open the door to the lobby. “Excuse me. I have to catch the trolley.”

  Miss Connover looked flustered. “I didn’t mean to insult your family. I do apologize.” She pressed her calling card into Teresa’s hand. “You sing beautifully. Come spend the summer with me. I’ll give you voice lessons.”

  Before Teresa could tell her that her family could never afford such a thing, Miss Connover added, “Don’t worry about the expense. I always need help around the house—if you wouldn’t mind that sort of work.”

  “We run a boardinghouse, so I’m used to it.” She’d had enough of those chores to last a lifetime. Still, scrubbing dishes and dirty clothes in New York City would be better than being locked up at Estey. She gave Miss Connover a quick smile. “Thank you for the offer. I’ll think about it.” Teresa hurried outside.