The Life Fantastic

by Liza Ketchum

Miss Stanton stared at Teresa. “This child? Can she even sing?”

  “Like a nightingale,” Mr. Jones said quietly.

  “Enough!” Mr. Quincy shouted. “Get to work, or you’ll all be fired.” He stomped offstage and into the orchestra, where he took a seat a few rows back.

  “We’ll start with ‘Cousin of Mine,’” the bandleader said. He raised his baton and nodded to Miss Stanton. “Ready? You first, and then Miss LeClair.”

  The bandleader had upstaged Miss Stanton! Teresa grinned, and edged closer to Pietro and Mr. Jones as the orchestra ran through the tune. Miss Stanton insisted that the band start over until the tempo was the way she wanted it.

  “Fussbudget,” Pietro said under his breath.

  “She’s a little flat,” Teresa whispered. Even worse, the woman’s voice was breathy and small.

  After the third time through, Miss Stanton turned to Teresa. “Your turn,” she said in a nasty tone.

  Teresa moved close to the orchestra pit, took a long breath, and nodded to the bandleader. She felt as stiff as Nonnie’s mannequin and she missed the first note. The bandleader stopped the piano player. “Try again,” he said. “Pretend you’re singing at home, for your mama.”

  Or for Nonnie, Teresa thought. She took a deep breath and felt her voice fill the theater on the second verse. A rollicking beat sounded behind her in the final chorus. It was Pietro, keeping time with his feet. “He’s mother’s” (tap tap) “sister’s” (tap tap) “angel child,” she sang (tappity tap); “He’s a cousin o’ mine.”

  “This is outrageous!” Miss Stanton strutted toward them like one of Mama’s banty hens. “Boy—if you dance behind me in my numbers, I’ll send you back where you came from.”

  “My name is Pietro Jones,” he said. “And going back won’t bother me. Harlem’s the best place in the world.”

  Mr. Jones gripped Pietro’s elbow, and Mr. Quincy opened his palms, as if begging for pennies. “Please calm down. Don’t worry, Miss Stanton. No one will interrupt your act.”

  Miss Stanton tapped the toe of her silver shoe. The bandleader peered up at Teresa from the pit. “The dancer has a good idea,” he said. “Give the tune a little more oomph. Remember, this is a funny song. The boy’s not really her cousin—he’s a beau. Could you belt it out, be a bit saucy?”

  Saucy? Teresa blushed. She’d never had a beau, so how would she know how to act? Papa used to sing this song on the train, when they were on their jumps between one town and the next. She’d never thought about its meaning. “All right,” she said. Maybe she was too young and innocent.

  Mr. Jones pointed his cane toward the back of the theater. “Someone you know?”

  A yellow head popped up from behind the last row, and three red balls spun above the seats. Teresa sighed. “My brother. He’s not supposed to be here.”

  “Never mind,” Mr. Jones said. “Sing it to him. Be yourself caught out, making excuses to your mama ’bout something you done wrong.”

  More like excuses to Papa, Teresa thought. She cleared her throat, signaled to the bandleader that she was ready, and imagined her voice carrying over the empty seats to Pascal.

  I ain’t seen Jerry in about ten years

  You know that’s a mighty long time—

  He’s mother’s sister’s angel child—

  Why, he’s a cousin of mine.

  Pascal clapped, and Mr. Quincy called, “Good, good,” from the first row. “Try the next one.”

  Miss Stanton and Teresa took turns on the “Working Girl” song, and Teresa managed to avoid meeting the woman’s eyes. Instead, she imagined that Mama was the woman in the song, who warned her daughter about the dangers of the city; that it was Mama who prayed that heaven would protect her from the city’s “temptations, crimes, and follies/Villains, taxicabs, and trolleys . . .”

  When Miss Stanton sang, she put on an act, as if she were a yokel from some no-count town. She refused to run through it a second time. “I need to save my voice for the performance,” she said, and disappeared into the wings.

  The bandleader shook his head, Mr. Quincy threw up his hands, and Pietro danced a slow jig across the stage. Teresa guessed they all felt the same way: The so-called “Rose” of Abilene was more like the thorn than the flower.

  12.

  “All right, Miss LeClair,” Mr. Quincy said. “Davey’s waiting for you in the lobby; he’ll go with you to Fenton’s. I’ll find you as soon as I get the next act started.”

  Teresa hurried up the aisle. Too bad she couldn’t see Pietro and Mr. Jones dance. A tall young man with a sweeping mustache, a fiddle tucked under his arm, greeted her in the lobby. “I’m Davey.” His hazel eyes twinkled as he and Teresa shook hands. “You sure got that Rose Stanton het up.”

  “What did I do wrong?” Teresa asked.

  “Nothing, lass. You just sing better than she does.”

  “He’s right. That dumb lady sings like she’s out of breath!”

  “Pascal!” Teresa whirled around.

  Her brother peered through the small hole inside the box office window. “Tickets?” he asked.

  “How did you get in there?” Teresa opened the ticket booth and yanked him out. “You nearly spoiled my rehearsal.”

  Pascal twisted from her grip. “Did not. You sang better after I waved to you.”

  “The boy’s right as rain.” Davey pointed at Pascal’s trousers, bulging at the hips. “Rocks in your pockets?”

  Before Pascal could answer, the door to the theater swung open and Mr. Quincy appeared. Pascal froze. “So you were the one making the ruckus,” Mr. Quincy said. “You know this boy, Miss LeClair?”

  “My brother. I’m so sorry. Pascal—please go home.”

  “Can’t. Mama said to meet her at Miss Wilkins’s Café.” Pascal pulled the three red balls from his pockets. “My sister sings, and I juggle. Want to see?”

  “Not now.” Mr. Quincy mopped his mottled cheeks with a kerchief. “Maybe never.” He nodded at Davey. “Take Miss LeClair to Fenton’s to see if folks will buy the sheet music, then work your way up and down Main Street. Don’t forget the café—and finish at Mann’s. They should have a good crowd by lunchtime.”

  Lunchtime? Teresa bit her lip. “Excuse me, Mr. Quincy—I thought we’d be done by noon.”

  “Then you’d best move along.”

  Mr. Quincy turned on his heel, but Pascal blocked the door. “Could I see the show with my sister?” He danced from one foot to the other. “Resa promised me a ticket.”

  Teresa was on thin ice. She gave Mr. Quincy a little curtsey. “Excuse me, Mr. Quincy, sir. You did say I could come to the first house.”

  “All right, all right. Two tickets. They’ll hold them at the box office. But young man: keep those hands in your pockets and get out of my sight before I lose my temper.” Mr. Quincy flung the door open and disappeared into the theater.

  Teresa gripped Pascal’s shoulder and steered him through the door. “Go to Mama,” she whispered in his ear, “or I’ll tell Papa what you’ve been doing. How did you get juggling balls, anyway?”

  Two red spots appeared on Pascal’s pale cheeks. “With Nonnie’s money. She gives me pennies when I help her find things. Anyway, you’re the one keeping secrets from Papa.” He ducked under her arm and was gone.

  “Little brothers. Bane of me existence when I was young.” Davey opened the door for her. “Drove me quite mad, they did, when we were boys in Ireland.” He pointed at Pascal, who was running up the hill, his arms pumping. “Love ’em while you can. That’s my advice.”

  13.

  The store was crowded. Mr. Fenton greeted Teresa as if they were old friends and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Laa-dies and gentlemen!” he called out, and the crowd quieted. “We have a special treat this morning. A local girl with a golden voice will plug two songs for today’s show at the Princess. If you enjoy her tunes, we have the sheet music right here.” He pointed to a stack of music on the front counter. “Ready, Miss LeClair?” />
  Teresa cleared her throat. Davey bowed the A string and twisted the tuning pegs. Teresa winced. She didn’t dare tell him that one string was flat. Her stomach felt like jelly that hadn’t set.

  Davey raised his eyebrows and gave her a small nod.

  Now or never. Teresa took a deep breath, Davey played two measures of “Cousin of Mine,” and she jumped in. Davey’s quick tempo made it easier to take the bandleader’s advice and give the song more bounce. When she came to the punch line—“ain’t no harm for to hug and kiss your cousin”—she winked, and the crowd laughed. By the end of their second number, the stacks of sheet music were dwindling, and one woman called out, “Is she the one performing this afternoon?”

  “No,” Mr. Fenton said. “She’s too young to be onstage. She’s plugging for the ‘Rose of Abilene.’ But we’ll see her name in lights someday. Give her a hand.”

  The strong applause sent Teresa out onto the sidewalk with her head in the clouds. For the rest of the morning, she sang up and down Main Street while Davey played for her. They stopped at DeWitt’s grocers, at Houghton and Simond’s dress shop, even at the automobile repair shop. The last stop before Mann’s was Miss Wilkins’s Café. It was steamy inside, and the smell of sage and fresh bread made Teresa’s stomach grumble.

  No sign of Mama or Pascal.

  Miss Wilkins greeted Teresa with her wide smile. “Why, if it isn’t Teresa LeClair. Don’t you look fine. That must be your great-grandma Aurelia’s handiwork.” She clapped her hands. “Listen up, everyone! You have a treat in store.”

  The café went quiet and Teresa and Davey dove in. By this time, Teresa had learned that her audiences liked “Cousin” the best, so she sang the silly “Working Girl” number first, then livened things up with the second tune. The customers laughed and clapped, and a few people slipped coins into her pockets. “Give them a nice bow,” Davey whispered in her ear.

  Miss Wilkins wrapped two warm biscuits in a napkin and handed them to Teresa. “Thank you for sending those nice gentlemen to me last night,” she said, her voice low. “Knowing what life can be like for them on the road, I hope I gave them a good rest. I plan to see them dance later.” She cupped Teresa’s elbow. “Take care of that voice. It’s going to carry you somewhere.”

  “Thank you.” If only her voice could take her far from here. But what did Miss Wilkins mean about the Joneses and their life on the road? She felt ignorant.

  “Let’s go.” Davey beckoned to her from the door. “We’re due at Mann’s at noon.”

  Mr. Quincy was right: The department store was crowded. Davey spoke to one of the sales girls, who cleared a spot for them at the notions counter. “We’ll give them the one song, leave them wanting more,” Davey said. He launched into the first few measures of “Cousin.” A small crowd gathered, and they were well into the second verse when the bell on the door jingled behind Teresa. She stepped to the side without missing a note, and sang out to the crowd: “I ain’t seen Jerry in about ten years . . .”

  Teresa felt the crackle of tension before she noticed the sales girls frowning. She’d lost the crowd. Davey’s fiddle faltered and his bow suddenly screeched. “Put that thing down! You can’t even play.”

  Papa stood in the open door, holding Davey’s fiddle high above his head. “Mon Dieu! You call that fiddling?" His voice was wound up tighter than the top string on Davey’s fiddle. “What are you doing with my daughter?”

  14.

  Papa gripped Teresa’s wrist and yanked her out onto the sidewalk. “Papa, let go! You’re hurting me.”

  Davey followed close behind. “My fiddle, sir! Take care.”

  Papa shoved the fiddle at Davey. Women shoppers peered through the door and Teresa twisted away from Papa’s grip. “People are staring.”

  “Let them,” Papa said. “You have disgraced our family.”

  “Why?” Teresa demanded. “Because I can sing?”

  Before Papa could answer, Teresa heard Mama’s voice. “François! Arrêt—stop!” Mama bustled down the hill, her basket over one arm. Pascal jogged along beside her. Everyone was suddenly talking at once. Teresa tried to explain the song plugging while Papa let loose a string of French swear words and Pascal tugged at Teresa’s skirt. “What happened?” he asked. “What did you do?”

  “I sang,” Teresa said.

  Davey stowed the fiddle in its case and turned to Mama. “Your daughter sings like an angel, Ma’am. Been my privilege, it has, to play for her this spring morning.” He dug into his pocket and handed Teresa a silver dollar. “This is from Mr. Quincy, for your good work.” Davey shook Teresa’s hand. “Take care of that voice. Fenton’s right: Your name will be in lights one of these days.”

  “Your playing helped me sing better,” Teresa said.

  “Ta.” Davey touched the brim of his cap and strode away, whistling a B-flat tune.

  “Angel my foot.” Papa cleared his throat. “Are you quite done making a fool of yourself?”

  “François.” Mama’s voice was fierce. “If I may say so—you are the fool. Creating a scene; shaming Teresa in public. It’s not right.”

  Teresa gave Mama a grateful smile. She felt warm inside, in spite of Papa’s rage. She held up the silver dollar. “See, Papa? There are other ways to make money. Just like you did once, on the road.”

  Papa shook his head. “Enough of this talk. There’s much you don’t know about that life. Anyway, you have chores to do at home—in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Hush.” Mama pulled Papa aside to let people pass on the sidewalk. “Chores can wait. Don’t deny Teresa her success. We get little enough in our lives.”

  “Eh, bien. Very well; have it your way,” Papa said. “If you want to slave away all day without help, that’s your choice.”

  He strode across the street to the trolley stop. Mama sighed. “I’ll go with him,” she said. “Maybe I can calm him down. Teresa, take Pascal to the theater.”

  “I’m hungry,” Pascal said.

  Teresa patted her pocket. “I have two biscuits from Miss Wilkins.” She held up her coin. “And I’ll buy us something else to eat.”

  Mama put her hand over Teresa’s. “Save that.” She gave her a few coins. “Get some treats at the theater.” She hoisted her basket.

  “Come with us,” Teresa said. “Please? We could get you a ticket.”

  Mama hesitated. Her brown eyes were soft with longing—but she shook her head. “Not this time. It will only make me sad.” Before Teresa could ask why, Mama had hurried across the street to catch the oncoming trolley.

  “Please can we go to the Princess now?” Pascal begged. “I want to watch them set up.”

  Teresa grabbed his hand. “Run! It’s about time we saw a proper vaudeville show.”

  15.

  The theater was full for the matinee. Mr. Quincy rubbed his hands together when he spotted Teresa. “Good job, good job. You really brought them in.” He led them to seats in the third row, where Pascal swung his legs and bounced on the wooden seat with excitement.

  “Calm down,” Teresa said, though she felt the same way.

  The show began with a boring silent film, followed by a dark-haired man with NICO THE GREEK! stitched on his striped shirt. He pedaled a unicycle and juggled red bowling pins as he wheeled around the stage. He dropped one pin, then another, and lost his balance. The audience booed and catcalled, and someone threw a raw egg. It caught in the spokes of the cyclist’s wheel and spattered all over his pants. “Look.” Teresa nudged Pascal as a shepherd’s crook poked from the wings. “He’s getting the hook.”

  The cyclist wheeled away before the manager could catch him. “I could do better than that,” Pascal said.

  “Hush,” Teresa said. Lively music rose from the pit as Pietro Jones and his father danced onstage. The audience quieted immediately. Miss Stanton must have won her battle; Mr. Jones and Pietro no longer had the headliner’s spot near the end. But it didn’t matter: “MARVIN JONES AND SON” stole the show.


  Both dancers were elegant, their long legs slicing and flashing as they echoed the band’s rhythm on the wooden floorboards. In spite of his graying hair, Mr. Jones was as athletic as his son. They danced in perfect tandem, then apart. Pietro used his scarlet scarf as if it were his partner. He swept it through the air, snapped it when his feet tapped loudest, then used it to trap his father, wrapping it around him twice before he pulled on it to spin him away.

  But Teresa couldn’t stand to look at their faces. Thick black cork covered their skin from the hairline to the tops of their collars. Even worse, their mouths wore fake, exaggerated smiles that made them look foolish. Pascal nudged Teresa. “Are those the colored men we saw this afternoon?” he whispered. “Why do they wear that goop?”

  The woman on the other side of Teresa gasped. “You must be joking!” she cried. “Why—they dance so well, I thought they must be white.”

  Teresa squirmed. She’d seen blackface before, but she’d always assumed, as this woman did, that the actors were white underneath. Maybe Papa was right—there was a lot she didn’t know about that life. But was that her fault?

  The Joneses finished with a ragtime number and the audience called them back for an encore. Pietro came out alone. He danced up and down a small flight of stairs, making it seem as if he might take off at the top and disappear into the flies, high above the stage. Did he like wearing cork? How could he?

  Rose Stanton’s music came up next and the audience whistled and stomped when Miss Stanton found her place in the spotlight. Her breathy voice was as tight and flimsy as her dress; it barely carried to their seats in the third row. How had she ever played at a New York theater? Maybe audiences liked seeing her legs in those pink tights.

  Miss Stanton performed four songs, ending with the “Working Girl” song. People started shifting in their seats, and the woman next to Teresa put on her coat and climbed over her to reach the aisle. When Miss Stanton took a bow, someone in the back shouted, “Give us the song plugger!”