by Liza Ketchum
Miss Connover joined her under the streetlight and pinned on her broad-brimmed hat. “Good luck, Teresa LeClair. Whatever you decide, I won’t forget you.” She hurried away up the hill.
What an unusual woman! Teresa studied the embossed card in the lamplight. Lucy Connover, #3 Gramercy Park, New York, New York. Instruction in piano, voice, and composition. A musical note decorated the top corner.
Teresa sighed. She couldn’t leave Brattleboro alone. Besides, when Papa heard what she’d done tonight, he’d never let her out of the house again. Her shoulders drooped. Whatever happened to the old Papa, the one who played fiddle tunes after work or showed off his Québécois clogging, his heavy boots rapping their wooden floors?
A trolley rattled past, headed for the final stop on Prospect Hill. In a few minutes, it would turn around and come back for its final run to West Brattleboro. Teresa had stepped out to the curb to cross the street when the theater door opened behind her. The man who had clapped for her performance tipped his cap. He was tall and dark-skinned, his short-cropped hair rooted with gray. “My compliments, Miss,” he said, in a soft southern drawl. “Marvin Jones, here. You’re gifted with a fine set of pipes.”
Pipes? Teresa was flustered. “Excuse me?”
“Daddy means you can sing.” A younger man emerged from the shadows, carrying a book under his arm. He was a taller, younger version of Mr. Jones, wearing a similar suit of dark wool.
“My son, Pietro Jones,” Mr. Jones said.
Pietro touched the brim of his cap. His gold-flecked brown eyes met her gaze so steadily that Teresa had to look away. “Good to hear the competition,” he said.
Teresa looked from one man to the other, confused.
“Pietro’s teasing,” Mr. Jones said. “We’re on the program here Saturday—and we needed to take a look at the stage.”
“Oh!” Teresa said. “So I’ll see you perform. Do you sing?”
“I do, now and then. Mainly, we dance.” Pietro took his father’s walking stick and tapped out a syncopated rhythm with his feet, using the stick to punctuate the beat. The distant clang of the trolley drowned out Teresa’s applause. “That’s my ride to West Brattleboro,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too, Miss LeClair,” Mr. Jones said. “By the way—I heard you tell that lady judge your family takes in boarders. Any chance you have a room for tonight? We’re headed to New Hampshire tomorrow to do another show.”
Teresa bit her lip. “I’m not sure . . .”
“Daddy.” Pietro’s voice was hard. “Don’t cause trouble. You know we got to find our own place in this all-white burg—”
“It’s not you.” Teresa’s face felt hot, although the air was cool. “Papa won’t rent rooms to anyone in vaudeville, even though we used to be on the road ourselves.”
“So that’s where you learned to sing,” Mr. Jones said. “What will your daddy think about your winning the contest?”
Teresa shifted from one foot to another. The trolley bell clanged, growing closer.
“Where do entertainers stay, then?” Pietro asked.
“Try Miss Wilkins’s Café.” Teresa pointed up the hill. “She doesn’t mind performers—at least, I don’t think so. She’s always been a friend to my mama and papa.”
“You mean it depends on their skin color?” Pietro asked.
Teresa met his gaze. “Miss Wilkins looks like you.” She hadn’t thought about it much, but Pietro was right: Brattleboro was a very white town. “Miss Wilkins has rooms over her shop. And her bread is delicious.”
“Sounds good.” Mr. Jones touched his hat brim. “Thank you for the tip, Miss LeClair. And take care of that voice. If luck will have it, we’ll see you Saturday.”
The church clock struck the half hour. Teresa gave them a quick wave and dashed across the street to catch the trolley. She sank onto the wooden seat. She’d won a silver dollar, received an offer to learn opera, and been told she had a “fine set of pipes.” Best of all, she’d been offered a job as a song plugger. The trolley wheels clanged and squealed. Somehow she needed to keep all this from Papa.
6.
The next morning, Teresa carried Nonnie’s breakfast tray into her room and set it on the table. Nonnie was still asleep, but Teresa waited until she heard the clump clump of Papa’s boots and the slam of the front door before she left for school. She’d been lucky last night; the house had been dark and quiet when she’d come home—as it often was after choir practice. Maybe her luck would hold all day.
After school, Teresa washed the stack of dishes in the sink, snapped the sheets off the line to fold them, and slipped her hand under the broody hens, setting their warm eggs into Mama’s egg basket on the kitchen table. The boardinghouse was blissfully quiet: Pascal and a friend were skipping stones in the brook, and Mama wasn’t home.
Now or never. Teresa shut the glass doors of the music room behind her and set the new sheet music on the piano. She ran through “Cousin of Mine,” singing the verses softly without the piano—she knew the tune. But she nearly choked when she picked up the second song. The cover of the sheet music, under the title “Tillie’s Nightmare,” showed a woman in an enormous, ugly hat, her mouth wide open as if she’d just seen a hairy spider. Inside, the lyrics for “Heaven Will Protect the Working Girl” were as silly as the title, and the tune was harder to grasp. If only she could read music as easily as she could pick things up by ear.
She pulled Miss Connover’s calling card from her skirt pocket. Instruction in piano, voice, and composition. She’d never thought about voice lessons. What did she need to learn? Mr. Tish, the choirmaster, only complained that she sang too loud.
She squinted at the sheet music, slowly matching the notes with the lyrics. “You are going far away, but remember what I say, When you are in the city’s giddy whirl . . .” Teresa sang. Her hands went still on the keys. Was this song trying to tell her something?
She heard voices through the open window. Mama and Papa? Teresa stood up, lifted the cover on the piano bench, and stuffed her music under a stack of popular songs. She wedged herself into the spot between the piano and the parlor organ. She used to hide there when she was small. Now she wiggled her hips and crossed her arms to fit into the narrow space. She remembered how Nonnie and Mama used to sing together, until Mama’s voice gave out. While Nonnie pumped the Estey organ, Teresa felt the vibration of the bass notes inside her body. Lately, the organ was as silent as Papa’s fiddle.
The front door opened. Mama and Papa’s voices were raised. Teresa ducked her head and held still.
“Did you know Teresa skipped choir practice last night?” Papa said.
“But I saw her go out,” Mama said.
“I ran into Mr. Tish,” Papa said. “He told me Resa never showed up, so he gave her solo to someone else.”
Teresa itched all over. She was in for it now.
“That’s strange,” Mama said. “I wonder where she was?”
“Out with some boy, I’d guess,” Papa said. “And if I find out who—”
How ridiculous. Teresa unfolded herself and opened the glass doors, catching a glimpse of her flushed face and snarled hair in the mirror. “It wasn’t a boy,” she said.
“Bon soir, Teresa.” Papa’s voice was ice. “How nice of you to join us this evening.” When Teresa said nothing, he asked, “Who is he?”
“François, calm down.” Mama turned to Teresa, her dark eyes worried. “Where did you go last night?”
“I competed in a singing contest. And I won!”
Mama’s smile was quick as the flash of a lightning bug, but Papa frowned.
“One of the judges gave me her card.” Teresa held it up. “She says—that I have real talent.” Teresa felt her cheeks burn. Mama had warned her not to brag, but still, that was what Miss Connover had said. “She wants me to come to New York City. She says she’ll teach me to be an opera singer.”
“Très intéressant.” Papa ignored the card. “And may I ask what you
told her?”
“I said—that I didn’t want to sing opera.”
“Eh bien. So. You’re not as foolish as I thought.”
Papa’s words smarted like a slap. “I told her—” Teresa gulped. “That I plan to sing with a vaudeville troop someday.”
Mama’s shoulders slumped. “Resa—”
Teresa grabbed Papa’s sleeve before he could protest. “Think of it, Papa. You always wanted to play Hammerstein’s Victoria. And you hate working for Estey. You could play the fiddle again, if you’d practice. You were good. Remember?”
Papa shook his head, then turned away. Was that regret she saw in his eyes? Teresa pressed on. “If we were on the road, Mama wouldn’t have to cook and clean all day. And Pascal’s a great juggler. He could be our dumb act.”
“I’m not dumb!” Pascal’s high voice came from the landing. “And I can juggle four balls now—want to see?” He clattered down the stairs, braced his feet on the hall carpet, and pulled four wizened apples from his pockets. He began to juggle, tossing first two, then three, then four apples into the air, his head bobbing as his eyes followed them up and down. One apple went up and over the chandelier. The glass wands tinkled but didn’t break, and Pascal caught the apple, then lifted one leg and tossed the apples from side to side, up and around and under his leg. The red orbs bobbled and spun.
Teresa couldn’t help laughing. Mama covered her mouth, but her eyes twinkled and her laughter came out in a snort.
“Mon Dieu!” Papa roared. He scrubbed his hair and beard with both hands, as if he’d just wakened from a hundred-year sleep. “Have you all gone mad?”
Pascal missed a catch and the bruised apples rolled across the floor. “You said: No swearing about God,” he whimpered.
“Pick. Those. Up.” Papa’s words came out like fisticuffs.
Teresa cringed as tears started in Pascal’s eyes. She pulled her brother close. “Papa,” she whispered. “Pascal is only playing.”
“Excuse me.” A reedy voice sounded from the upstairs hall. “Is everything all right?”
7.
No one moved for a long moment. Then Mama called out, “Excuse us, Mr. Jensen. We’ve had a little upset. Dinner will be ready in an hour.” She shooed them all into the music room and shut the doors. Pascal plunked himself down on the upholstered stool by the organ and swung his legs from side to side. “It’s not fair. Resa got to perform on the road when she was young, but I never had the chance. Can we go again, Papa?”
“Non,” Papa said. “Besides—aren’t you forgetting someone?” He jerked his thumb toward Nonnie’s room.
Teresa and Pascal exchanged a guilty look. How could they forget Nonnie?
Mama smoothed Pascal’s collar. “Go wash up. And Teresa, pour your brother a glass of lemonade. Then we’ll fix the supper.”
“Un moment,” Papa said. “They need to hear what I have to say.”
“François . . .” Mama began, but Papa shot her a warning look.
Papa rubbed his beard, as he did when he was excited. “You’re a lucky girl, Teresa,” he said. “You have an appointment with Estey’s floor manager tomorrow.”
“I won’t go.”
“Resa, you are testing my patience . . .”
“Stop, you two.” Mama drew herself up. Though she was short, she seemed rooted like an oak when she was cross. “I won’t have it. Teresa is too young.”
“Not necessarily,” Papa said. “If she can lie about choir practice, perhaps she can lie about her age. She certainly looks sixteen, or older.”
“Would you teach our children to lie?” Mama asked.
Papa ignored Mama and turned to Teresa. His eyes seemed to glisten. “The manager is eager to meet you and witness your talent.” He cleared his throat and hummed a B-flat. “What is that note?”
Teresa shook her head. “I’m not playing that game.”
Papa’s neck reddened. “Resa—I won’t have this rudeness.”
“What’s wrong?” Pascal cried. He buried his face in Mama’s skirts.
“Papa wants to shut me up in the tuning rooms,” Teresa said.
Pascal’s blue eyes swam. “Is that like jail?”
“Exactly,” Teresa said.
“François—look how you’ve upset everyone,” Mama said, stroking Pascal’s hair. “Teresa is not going to work in that factory. And that’s final.”
“Now Alice. Surely you don’t want me in trouble with my floor manager? I promised to bring Resa in tomorrow. We’ll see what he says—and then, we decide. Together. How does that sound?”
“Horrible,” Teresa said. Papa had become a stranger. A stranger who would lock her away and told her to lie. “It’s not fair,” she said.
“La vie n’est pas juste,” Papa said.
“If life isn’t fair, what about you, Papa? You have perfect pitch, too. Why don’t you work in the tuning rooms?”
“Tell her, François.” Mama’s voice was hard.
Papa’s shoulders slumped. “My hearing is not so good after all those years with the big saws. But Estey has been good to me—work is quieter where I work now, assembling the organs. I’m finally a craftsman.” Papa cupped Teresa’s elbow. “Estey could give you a job for life. Many girls in this town would die for this chance.”
“I don’t want to die, Papa! I want to live—and sing.”
Teresa raced upstairs to her attic bedroom, threw open the tiny window under the eaves, and breathed deep until her heart stopped racing. The dappled light was fading and a cardinal sang his mating song in the oak tree. “You’re lucky,” she told the bird. “You can sing wherever you want. No one will put you in a cage.”
She perched on the edge of her bed and made a bargain with herself. She would go to Estey with Papa tomorrow. But on Saturdays, Papa worked the morning shift, and he always came straight home when the noon whistle blew. Hopefully, he wouldn’t know she’d been plugging songs until she was done. He couldn’t stop her from doing that—could he?
8.
Teresa rode the trolley to the end of the line on Thursday afternoon and trudged up the hill to Birge Street. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, their color matching the slate tiles that covered the roofs and sides of the factory. The identical buildings were lined up like soldiers in uniform. Smoke poured from the building housing the giant Corliss steam engine that powered the factory. It pounded in syncopation with the whine of saws in the lumberyard and the clang of metal in a distant building. How did Papa stand it? She could never work here.
A quick wind whipped the branches overhead. Teresa thought of all the happy times when she had come downstreet after school to do an errand for Mama, then waited for Papa so they could ride the trolley home together. Now she felt nothing but dread. She checked the clock on Building Number Five: 3:45. She was a few minutes early.
“Well, well; look who’s here. Miss Hard Times herself.”
Teresa whirled around and almost knocked into the young man she’d met at the contest. He looked younger, dressed in street clothes, but he still carried a book tucked into his open jacket. She’d forgotten his name. “Oh—hello . . .”
“Pietro. Pietro Jones.” He tapped out a quick-step rhythm with his heavy boots.
“I thought you were performing in New Hampshire,” Teresa said.
“We did, last night. I’m just walking through town, passin’ time.” He pointed to the Estey buildings. “I wanted to see this factory everyone brags about. It’s quite the place. My grandmamma in Tennessee has one of their parlor organs. It has a pretty sound.”
“We have one, too,” Teresa said.
The streetcar clanged in the distance. Pietro glanced over his shoulder, as if looking for someone, but the street was empty. “I heard Estey employs half the town.”
“Not half—but a lot of people. My papa works here.”
Pietro raised his eyebrows. “Maybe he made Grandmamma’s organ.”
“Maybe part of it—but Papa was only a sawyer until last year
. Now he puts the organs together.” She frowned. “He wants me to talk to someone about a job.”
Pietro whistled. “My, my. ‘The girl with the golden pipes,’ as my daddy called you. You’d work in a factory that makes organ pipes?”
Teresa’s collar felt too tight around her neck. “I hope not,” she said.
“Mm-mm. I know how that is,” Pietro said. “My daddy’s got his ideas and I’ve got mine.”
“You don’t want to dance with your father?”
Pietro frowned. “It’s complicated. Marvin Jones and Son—that’s our name. Like I don’t rate my own name up there on the marquee. Besides—there are other things I might want to do.”
“Like what?” Teresa couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. Most boys treated her like an idiot.
Pietro tapped the spine of the book he carried but didn’t reveal its cover. “I’m studying on it here in this book.”
“What’s the title? Is it your homework?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Well of course! That’s why I asked.” The door of Building Number Five opened and two men in suits stepped out, pulling on their hats. Teresa glanced at the clock. Time to go.
When she turned around, Pietro was striding away toward Canal Street. “Well, excuse me,” Teresa said to herself. “You can’t even say goodbye?”
Daddy’s got his ideas and I’ve got mine. She understood Pietro’s words all too well.
• • •
Teresa knocked on the door of Papa’s building and a short man opened the door. He held a screwdriver in his hand and scowled at her as if she were an annoying insect. “What is it, Miss? Do you have a pass?”
“I’m here—to—to see my father,” Teresa stammered. “François LeClair.”
“Wait here.” The man pointed to a small square of empty floor near the door and disappeared into a maze of organs—some finished, others in pieces—that stretched as far as she could see. The organs near the front of the room gleamed, their dark wood polished and shiny. Men in aprons worked on the instruments, some hammering, others drilling or sanding. The room smelled of sawdust and resin, and the din made her ears ring.