The Life Fantastic

by Liza Ketchum

  Pascal slid down the banister and dropped to his feet with a little bounce. “But Papa—you said you’d never rent rooms to people in vaude.”

  “Don’t be rude,” Papa said. “Miss Stanton is our guest.”

  Miss Stanton jabbed a painted finger at Teresa. “Is this hussy your daughter? She owes me an apology—showing me up in the theater this afternoon.”

  Now it was Papa’s turn to look confused. “Teresa—what is this about?”

  “The audience wanted to hear me sing, and Mr. Quincy brought me onstage,” Teresa said. “I can’t help it if they liked me better than Miss Stanton.” Teresa turned on her heel and ran down the hall to Nonnie’s room—the one place in the house where Papa wouldn’t bother her.

  • • •

  Nonnie’s shadowy form stirred in the armchair. “Resa? I was expecting you. Pascal tells me you were a star today.”

  Teresa ran to Nonnie and put her head in her lap, as though she were a little girl again.

  Nonnie stroked her hair. “Angel, you’re trembling. What happened?”

  Teresa perched on the footstool at Nonnie’s feet. In a rush, she told Nonnie about the song plugging, her surprise performance—and Papa’s threat to sign her up at Estey. “He lied,” Teresa said. “He told the man at Estey that I’m already sixteen. Mama says Papa will lose his job if I tell them the truth.” She went to the window. The lilacs were fragrant in the dusk. “He can’t make me. I’ll die in there.”

  Nonnie sighed. “We’ll think of something.”

  Nonnie was ninety-five, frail, and nearly blind. How could she save Teresa from the organ works? “Shall I help you to bed?”

  “Not yet, Resa dear. I’m listening to the sounds of springtime. Do you hear the veery? Like a flute, with the notes descending.” She cocked her head, looking like a bird herself. “And so ethereal—as if the bird calls to us from another world.”

  Teresa pressed her ear against the screen until she picked out the soft trill of birdsong over the rush of the Whetstone Brook. “Your hearing is so good,” she said.

  “Beautiful sounds make my blindness bearable. Give me your hand, child.”

  Teresa took Nonnie’s small, dry hand in her own.

  “Hold on to your dreams,” Nonnie said. “Reach for the stars—no matter what happens. Promise.”

  “Yes,” Teresa said. “I will.” She kissed Nonnie’s soft forehead.

  As she closed Nonnie’s door she heard Mama and Papa arguing in the kitchen. Teresa held still. “She’s on a bad path,” Papa said. “Lying to us, insulting our house guest, doing badly in school. Working at Estey will teach her obedience. Otherwise—j’ai peur, Alice.”

  “Afraid of what?” Mama said. “She’s a child, François. She has big dreams. You did once, too. Have you forgotten so quickly?”

  Teresa couldn’t hear Papa’s reply. Never mind. She knew what she had to do.

  • • •

  A few hours later, Teresa sat on her bed, fully dressed in her shirtwaist dress, the locket on its chain hidden beneath her high collar, her cloak buttoned. Her silver dollars, from the contest and the song plugging, clinked in one pocket. The card from Miss Connover was tucked in the other. Her small valise held the fancy skirt and blouse she’d worn to plug songs, her dressy choir shoes, a picture of Nonnie as a young woman, and a stack of sheet music for the songs that she and Mama used to sing together. She had also packed another change of clothes, some socks, and underthings. She went to the window. A streetlight burned a circle of light under the elm tree and moonlight cast shadows across the floor. No time to waste.

  Teresa slipped downstairs. She stopped a minute at Pascal’s door, but forced herself to keep going. She couldn’t lose her nerve. No light shone under Mr. Jensen’s door or Miss Stanton’s. Teresa held her breath going past Mama and Papa’s room. Their voices muttered, and Papa said Teresa’s name in a growl. She grabbed the railing and tiptoed down the next flight, avoiding the creaky boards.

  As quickly and quietly as she could, Teresa climbed onto a kitchen chair, lifted the heavy piggy bank from its hiding place, and set it on the kitchen table. She wrapped it in a napkin, stowed the bank in her valise, and unfolded the note she’d written to Mama. She scanned it in the moonlight. Mama, I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait another year. I hope you understand. I’ll write soon. All my love, Resa.

  She grabbed a pencil and added, in a scribble, Kiss Nonnie for me and tell her I’ll keep my promise.

  The grandfather clock chimed in the music room. Teresa climbed back onto the chair, tucked the note into the soup tureen, and slipped out the back door. When she crossed the front yard, she thought she heard a whistle. It must have been the neighbors calling their dog. She pulled her collar up and ran.

  18.

  Teresa smashed the piggy bank on the curb outside the railroad station, scooped the coins into her valise without counting them, and left the pottery shards in the street.

  “One way, Miss?” the stationmaster asked.

  She nodded. He was patient as she counted out the coins. “It’s late at night, for a young girl traveling alone,” he said.

  “My friend is joining me in Greenfield.” Running away from home, telling lies—it was all so easy—but her hands trembled.

  The stationmaster didn’t notice. “Move along, please.”

  Teresa stood at the far end of the platform, away from the gaslights and the few other passengers. Was that Mr. Jones and Pietro, near the station door? She turned her back and waited, ashamed to speak to them. If they knew Miss Stanton was staying at her house tonight, would they think she’d lied about Papa’s rules?

  The train’s mournful whistle sounded from north of Rattlesnake Hill and the engine’s acrid smoke made her eyes smart. She climbed aboard, found an empty seat, and pressed her face to the glass. She remembered train rides with Mama and Papa and their troupe, sharing stale sandwiches and stories. Conroy, the magician, would pull coins out of Teresa’s ear. Mama would make a bed for her on the hard seat and Teresa would fall asleep with her head in Mama’s lap.

  Now she was on her own without Mama. She was much too excited—and frightened—to sleep.

  • • •

  An hour south of Brattleboro, she felt a tap on her shoulder. “Resa, help! The conductor’s coming.”

  She twisted in her seat, her heart racing. Pascal crouched beside her, his cap pulled low over his eyes. The train leaned into a curve and he was thrown against her. “Pascal!” She wanted to scream. “What are you doing here?”

  “I followed you. I thought you were going to the last show at the Princess—but then I saw your bag. Are you running away?”

  “Tickets please!” A man’s voice bellowed from the back of the car.

  Pascal gasped. “I don’t have a ticket. Buy me one. Please?”

  She wanted to slap him. “You’re an idiot! I’ll throw you off at the next station.”

  His eyes welled with tears. “You can’t! How would I get home?”

  “You should have thought of that before you got on the train.” Of course, she couldn’t drop Pascal off in the middle of nowhere at this hour. The clicking sound of the conductor’s punch came closer. Teresa fumbled in her pocket for her own ticket, then opened the valise and grabbed a handful of coins.

  Pascal peered over her shoulder. “Where’d you get all that money?”

  “From Mama.” Almost the truth. Teresa’s throat closed in panic. If she sent Pascal home in the morning, would she have enough money to stay in New York? “You’ve spoiled everything!”

  Pascal pouted. “I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  The conductor peered at them over the top of his glasses. “You young ones traveling alone?”

  “Yes—” Pascal began, but Teresa jabbed him with her elbow. “Our parents sent us to meet our aunt in New York,” she said.

  “That so?” The conductor took Teresa’s ticket, as well as money for Pascal’s. �
��Where does this ‘aunt’ live?” he asked.

  “Gramercy Park,” Teresa said, without missing a beat.

  “Nice neighborhood,” the conductor said. “But the train arrives before dawn. You’d best be careful.”

  “She said she’d meet us at the station,” Teresa said.

  The conductor frowned. “You don’t fool me. Why would your parents only buy one fare?” Still, he handed Pascal a ticket, then passed through to the next car. Pascal edged away from her on the seat. “Liar,” he whispered. “Our only aunt is Papa’s sister in Québec. And you stole Mama’s money.”

  “I don’t steal,” Teresa said. “Mama told me it was mine.” She didn’t tell Pascal that Mama expected her to stay home until she turned sixteen.

  Pascal stared at her as if she were a stranger. “Are you going with those two dancers?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” Teresa said, although she remembered Pietro’s challenge. She grabbed Pascal by the shoulders. “Listen. You heard Papa. He was going to make me work at Estey. I couldn’t stand to be locked up there for the rest of my life.”

  “I know. I heard them fighting through the wall,” Pascal said. “They scared me. Mama was mad at Papa. They were so loud, they didn’t hear me leave.”

  “Mama tried to change Papa’s mind—but he’s too stubborn. I want to sing, just like you want to juggle.”

  Pascal sat up and pointed at the lumpy sack, stuffed under the seat in front of them. “I brought my juggling balls, and the bowling pins, in case you were going to the Princess. I can help you make money.”

  She wanted to shake him! But Pascal was too young to understand. What could she do? If she sent him home, he’d tell Papa where she’d gone. But he was too young to run away. He’d need food and a safe place to stay. “You’re impossible,” Teresa said.

  Pascal blinked back tears. She took his hand. She could never stay mad at him long. “It’s all right,” she said. But it wasn’t. The train chuffed on. “We’ll figure it out in the morning. Let’s try to sleep.”

  Pascal leaned to the right, ever so slightly, until his head rested on her shoulder. “Where’s Gramercy Park?” he asked.

  “I haven’t a clue,” Teresa said.

  The train rattled and shook on the straightaway. In the morning, in the morning, it sang. The whistle blew, a shrill D-sharp that made her ears ring. The Connecticut River gleamed in the moonlight and sparks trailed out over the water. They hurtled past lit buildings and angled slashes of trees. The wheels chattered and clacked, and the last lights of town flickered and disappeared as the train sped through its dark corridor. Teresa was headed south, with almost no money, to a city she’d never seen. Terror clutched her belly with its sharp claws—but she’d made a promise to Nonnie. She’d reach for the stars—or die trying.

  THE CURTAIN FALLS. END OF ACT ONE.

  Entr’acte 2

  Setting: A fall evening in a Vermont boardinghouse. The action takes place in a front parlor that serves as a music room. An upright piano stands at stage left, next to an Estey pump organ. Double glass doors open onto the front hall. Faded wallpaper covers the walls. A maple tree with bright orange leaves is visible outside the window. The year is 1908.

  Characters:

  TERESA (RESA) LECLAIR: age ten. She is tall for her age, with a mane of twisted orange curls that give her the look of a young lion.

  FRANÇOIS LECLAIR: Teresa’s father.

  PASCAL LECLAIR: Teresa’s brother, age four.

  ALICE LECLAIR: Teresa’s mother.

  NONNIE: Teresa’s great-grandmother. She is losing her sight but not her smarts.

  As the curtain rises, François perches on a stool at the piano, tuning his fiddle. The case sits open on the floor. Nonnie sits in an upholstered chair near the window. She appears to be asleep.

  TERESA: (Enters through the glass doors, carrying Pascal. She sets him on a stool at the organ.) Papa, play us a song.

  PASCAL: (Clapping.) Play! Play the song!

  FRANÇOIS: Not tonight. Je suis fatigué—so tired. Too much work at Estey. Besides, the fiddle is out of tune. (He plucks a string, frowns, twists the peg.)

  TERESA: Let me tune it.

  FRANÇOIS: That’s a job for grownups.

  TERESA: Please, Papa?

  NONNIE: (Rousing herself.) Let her try, François.

  FRANÇOIS: (Fusses with another string and its peg, scowls, and shoves the fiddle at Teresa.) Eh bien, you’re so smart—show me.

  TERESA: (Clutches the fiddle to her chest.) If I tune it, will you play for us?

  PASCAL: Play, Papa! Play my song!

  FRANÇOIS: Oui, oui, I’ll play. Pascal, stop bouncing. You’ll break the stool. Resa, be careful with the fiddle, d’accord? She’s traveled many miles since my papa gave her to me in Québec City. You treat her right.

  TERESA plays an A on the piano and plucks one string, then another. She twists the knobs, listens, plucks each string again. Papa stares, astonished. Pascal sucks his thumb, his eyes wide. NONNIE listens, her head cocked to the side, nodding when Teresa gets it right. TERESA smiles, hands the fiddle back to FRANÇOIS. He takes the bow from its case, runs it over the strings, plays a few bars of a haunting melody.

  FRANÇOIS: (To TERESA.) Who taught you to do that?

  TERESA: No one. I listen until it sounds right.

  FRANÇOIS: (Plucks a string.) What note is this, Resa?

  TERESA: A.

  FRANÇOIS: How do you know the names of the notes?

  TERESA: Nonnie taught me.

  FRANÇOIS plays more notes, first on the fiddle, then on the piano. TERESA names each one accurately, including sharps and flats. Papa plays the notes faster and faster, until Teresa claps her hands over her ears.

  TERESA: Stop, Papa! C’est assez—it’s enough!

  NONNIE: For heaven’s sake, François—don’t torture the child.

  FRANÇOIS: (To Nonnie.) Why did you not tell me—that she had this talent?

  NONNIE: I thought you knew. She always sings on key.

  TERESA: Can we go onstage again, Papa? Like we used to do? Remember how you and Mama and me sang together?

  NONNIE: Mama and I.

  FRANÇOIS: Of course I remember. But we got in big trouble. They gave me the hook!

  TERESA: You liked being onstage, Papa—didn’t you?

  FRANÇOIS: I did, ma chérie. Very much. (He goes to the window, his fiddle tucked up under his arm, and stares at something unseen beyond the maple tree.) Our life is different now.

  TERESA: Because of Pascal?

  PASCAL: Me? What did I do?

  FRANÇOIS: Rien, mon petit. You did nothing.

  TERESA: Nothing except being born.

  FRANÇOIS: (Angry.) Resa—don’t ever speak that way about your brother.

  NONNIE: Remember, François—you always said you would play New York’s Victoria. Wasn’t that the name of the theater? When you and Alice eloped, that was your plan.

  FRANÇOIS: C’est vrai. It’s true I had big dreams: to see our names in the lights of Broadway. Instead, they called me a “catgut scraper” and we played only small-time theaters. We practiced in cramped dressing rooms, slept with the fleas, traveled on cold, lonesome trains. Our pockets were always empty. And it was no life for a child, living on the road: bad food, no school, up all night. But then . . .

  FRANÇOIS tucks the fiddle under his chin, sets his feet wide, draws himself up tall and looks over their heads, as if facing an audience. He doesn’t notice that ALICE has entered from the hall. She leans against the wall, listening.

  TERESA: Then what, Papa?

  FRANÇOIS: Then the crowd cheers and throws you pennies. People stomp and call you back for one more song. When that happens—there is nothing like it in the world. Rien.

  Long pause. They all seem to hear the unseen audience clapping.

  PASCAL: (Tugs at his father’s shirt.) Play, Papa. You said . . .

  FRANÇOIS: Très bien. Okay. I play a song for Resa, whose ear is so smart, and
for Pascal, who loves to dance. (He notices ALICE, gives her a wink.) And for your maman, who taught you both to sing—and to dance.

  FRANÇOIS tucks the fiddle under his chin and plays an Acadian reel, then a jig, keeping time with the heel of his boot. NONNIE finds her way to the piano, sits down, and adds rhythmic chords to Papa’s tune.

  ALICE: Nonnie, play “The Sidewalks of New York!”

  NONNIE: What key, François?

  FRANÇOIS: In G.

  NONNIE feels for the keys with her fingers and they play the waltz together. PASCAL slides off the stool, grabs ALICE by the hand, pulls TERESA in. They dance around the room, laughing and swaying to the beat of the waltz. FRANÇOIS plays the tune on the fiddle while NONNIE’s chords provide the rhythm and harmony.

  ALICE AND TERESA: (Singing, in unison. On the word “fantastic” they all jump into the air and kick their heels.) East side, west side, all around the town . . . We’ll trip the light fan-tas-tic! On the sidewalks of New York.

  Fade to black.

  Act Two

  The Great White Way

  New York City

  May 1913

  19.

  The train shuddered to a stop before dawn. Pascal and Teresa climbed a granite stairway, their footsteps echoing on the cold stone, and entered a cavernous station with a ceiling as distant as the sky. Teresa felt small. Even though she didn’t know what on earth to do with Pascal, she was glad when he took her hand.

  “Where are we going?” Pascal asked.

  “To Miss Connover’s house. The judge who invited me to stay with her and take voice lessons.” Teresa fingered the worn calling card in her pocket. She had memorized the address—but where was Gramercy Park? And how did you get there in the middle of the night? What if Miss Connover wasn’t home? And what would she do with Pascal? Teresa stood, frozen, as a few travelers straggled past, headed for the stairways.

  “Look.” Pascal tugged at her sleeve. “The dancers are here!”

  Pietro Jones hurried across the marble floor, a bulky bag on his shoulder, a newspaper rolled up under his arm. His father lagged behind, talking to a man in a railroad uniform. Pascal waved and Pietro stared, shook his head in disbelief, and hurried over. “Well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t Miss LeClair. Didn’t think you had it in you.” He nodded at Pascal. “You two related?”