The Life Fantastic

by Liza Ketchum

  “I’m Pascal. Her brother.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Pietro glanced over his shoulder as if someone were after him. “Where you headed?”

  “We’re not sure. Pretty crazy, I guess.” Teresa tried to sound confident, but her voice shook.

  Pietro shrugged. “You have to be a little nuts in this business. Too early in the morning for The Beach,” he said.

  “What beach?” Pascal asked.

  “Not the sandy kind. Talking about The Beach outside the Palace Theatre. Thin piece of sidewalk where everyone goes looking for work. Some folks call it Panic Beach. You stroll up and down, keep your eyes and ears open, find out what troupe needs a dancer, who’s looking for a dumb act . . .” Pietro tapped out a rhythm that echoed in the vaulted chamber. “We got our own version of The Beach in Harlem. Call it the Tree of Life.” He set his bag down. “Watch this a minute, will you?” Pietro went to help his father with his valise. When they returned, Pietro said, “Daddy, look what the cat dragged in.”

  How rude! Pietro’s moods were as unpredictable as March weather. Still, they must look a mess with their wrinkled clothes and uncombed hair. Pascal’s face was smudged with soot. Teresa gave Mr. Jones a shy wave as he set his bag down.

  “Fancy meeting you here.” Mr. Jones wiped his brow with a handkerchief, although it was chilly in the station, and looked around. “Where’s your mama and daddy?”

  “At home.” Pascal’s voice was small.

  Mr. Jones frowned. “New York’s no place for young ones. They know you’re here?”

  “Not yet.” Would Mama find the note Teresa had left behind? Would Papa blame Mama? What would they do when they found Pascal was gone, too? A cold fist grabbed hold of her belly.

  “This city ain’t easy on runaways,” Mr. Jones said. “You gotta be careful.”

  “Listen to you, Daddy!” Pietro nudged his father’s foot with the toe of his shoe. “How old were you when you left Tennessee? Twelve going on eleven?”

  “Going on thirteen.” Mr. Jones shook his head at Teresa. “It’s different for girls. And this little one, not even out of short pants—”

  “I’m almost nine!” Pascal said.

  “That so?” Mr. Jones held out his hand. “Saw you juggling in the Princess the other day, but I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Mr. Jones. And this is my son, Pietro.”

  Pascal shook Mr. Jones’s hand. “I know. I’m Pascal. I juggle.” He wrinkled his nose at Pietro. “Where’d you get that funny name?”

  “Pascal! That’s rude,” Teresa said.

  “No funnier than your name.” Pietro winked at Pascal. “My name comes from my ancestor who discovered America.”

  “Christopher Columbus was your ancestor?” Pascal asked.

  “His pilot was an African man named Pietro,” Pietro said. “He helped Columbus find his way here. Right Daddy?”

  “That’s right.” Mr. Jones rubbed his eyes. “Instead of a history lesson, why don’t you pilot us out of the station. You find that Amsterdam News?”

  “Right here,” Pietro said, waving the rolled newspaper. “Got all the news we need about our part of town.” Pietro and his father picked up their bags and headed for the end of the room. Teresa and Pascal followed. Pascal’s sack rattled as he dragged it up the stairs. Teresa pushed the heavy doors open and stood outside under a protective roof. The pavement was wet with rain; it was cold, for May. When Pascal shivered, Teresa opened her cloak and pulled him close.

  Mr. Jones frowned at Pascal. “Where’s your coat, son? The wind howls through these city canyons.”

  “I didn’t bring one.” Pascal’s face was blotchy with cold.

  Pietro reached into his pocket, pulled out his red silk scarf, and wrapped it around Pascal’s neck. “Every juggling act needs a bit of color.” He pretended to cinch it tight.

  “But the scarf’s part of your dance routine,” Teresa said.

  Pietro shrugged. “More where that came from.”

  “That’s very kind,” Teresa said.

  “You have someplace to go?” Mr. Jones asked.

  “We’re headed to Miss Connover’s, the lady judge from the contest.” Teresa pulled the card from her pocket.

  Mr. Jones examined it under the gaslight and whistled. “Gramercy Park—that’s high tone. She know you’re coming?”

  “Not exactly.” What a fool she was! “She wanted to give me singing lessons.”

  “Lessons!” Pietro laughed. “You already know how to sing—you just got to put some jive in it, add a little movement . . .” He stopped, picked up their bags, and whispered to his father. “Man in blue, Daddy. Better move on.”

  Mr. Jones glanced toward the street corner. A burly policeman stood under the light with his back to them. “Some white folks don’t appreciate colored men talking to you, at this hour of the night,” Mr. Jones said softly. “You got any money?”

  Teresa nodded. “Very well,” Mr. Jones said. “We’ll set off down the street. You follow, a half block behind. No way you can get safely to Gramercy Park before morning, and that lady won’t be happy, you ring her doorbell at dawn. I’ll show you some friendly rooming houses. The officer asks you anything about us, say you needed directions.” He touched the brim of his cap.

  Pascal started after them, but Teresa held him back. “You heard him. Not yet.” Mr. Jones’s warning made her feel as if they were doing something criminal. She hoisted her valise and waited a few minutes before they followed the Joneses at a safe distance. Tall buildings loomed above them on both sides of the street. Teresa nearly tripped on a rat that skittered across the sidewalk and down the alley. She stifled a scream and Pascal jumped. “Did you see that rat? It was bigger than a dog.”

  Teresa pulled her brother close, grateful for his presence. What if she were dodging rats—and unfriendly policemen—by herself? She kept to the center of the sidewalk. In a few more blocks, the tall buildings gave way to row houses with shuttered shops on the ground floor. She heard the familiar sounds of a neighborhood waking up. A milk wagon passed, its glass bottles jingling, and newsboys called out to one another as they bundled their papers on the curb, but these “newsies”—as Mama called the boys who sold papers at home—were barefoot, dressed in shabby clothes, and pale—as if they hadn’t eaten in days.

  Mama. She pictured Mama tying up her hair, cinching her clean apron around her waist, grinding coffee beans at the hand grinder on the wall beside the sink. She’d make the coffee, set the table, slice the bread—and then set out the yellow bowl to beat the eggs. Would Mama climb the attic stairs and find the pillows that Teresa had slipped under the blankets to fool her? Would she first notice that Pascal was gone—and call the police? Would she look for her piggy bank—and discover the note? Nonnie had told Teresa to follow her dreams—but not with Pascal. Could she help it that he’d followed her?

  A low whistle brought Teresa back to the empty streets of New York. “Resa, look.” Pascal let go of her hand and hurried to Mr. Jones, who beckoned to them from the next intersection. “Down there’s Broadway,” Mr. Jones said, when they caught up. “West of here is the brand new Palace Theatre Pietro was telling you about.”

  “Papa always wanted to play Hammerstein’s Victoria,” Teresa said.

  Mr. Jones nodded. “The Victoria’s in the same neighborhood. But now the Palace is queen of them all.” He glanced over his shoulder, keeping his voice low.

  “Avenues go north and south, numbered streets east and west,” Mr. Jones said. “The street numbers get higher as you walk north. Once you know that, you can’t get lost. We’ll leave you off in a few blocks, point you to the rooming houses. You may have to wait until daylight to get in.”

  How could you tell north from south, when buildings blocked the sky in every direction? Teresa clenched her jaw. She couldn’t give up now.

  The sky began to turn gray and steam rose from grates next to the buildings. As they crossed another intersection, Mr. Jones stopped in f
ront of a three-story brick building. The sign in the window read Mrs. O’Donnell’s Theatrical Boardinghouse. Actors Welcome.

  Teresa’s shoulders slumped. Had she come all this way to stay in another boardinghouse? But Pascal perked up. “See, Resa—‘Actors Welcome.’” He turned to Mr. Jones. “Will you stay here too?”

  Pietro’s laugh was harsh. “Coloreds and whites don’t stay in the same places.”

  “Where will you go?” Pascal blinked back tears.

  Mr. Jones squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t you worry about us, young man,” Mr. Jones said. “Friends take care of us. We’ll be just fine.”

  “Fine—if you don’t mind sleeping on the floor,” Pietro said.

  “Hush. Etta’s been good to us.” Mr. Jones pulled a pencil from his pocket and jotted an address on the back of his train ticket stub. “You get stuck, we’ll be here a few days, ’til we see what Toby’s got.”

  “Toby?” Teresa’s head felt fuzzy, as if she were trying to remember too many facts in school.

  “Theatre Owners Booking Association,” Pietro said. “We pronounce it ‘Toby.’ They manage us black actors. Some of us say the letters stand for ‘Tough on Black Actors.’”

  “Son—you just too cynical for your own good.” Mr. Jones gave Teresa a sad smile. “Your mama and daddy must be worried sick about you,” he said. “You send them a telegram in the morning.”

  “That’s none of our business.” Pietro pulled his father’s sleeve. “We got a long walk ahead of us and plenty to do tomorrow—I mean, today. Good luck to you. Break a leg, wherever you end up.”

  Mr. Jones shook hands with Teresa, then Pascal. “Hold on to your wallets. This city burns up hard cash like tinder.”

  “We don’t have much money to worry about,” Teresa said. Twenty-one dollars and thirty-six cents, to be exact. She’d counted it on the train.

  “Miss! Young man! You all right there?” A man’s voice called out. Four heavyset white men carrying lunch pails stood on the opposite corner. “Those boys bothering you?” another man yelled. “Need help?”

  Teresa shook her head. “We’re fine.”

  “What’d I tell you?” Pietro’s face hardened. He motioned to his father and they took off at a fast clip, their satchels slung across their shoulders.

  “Mr. Jones isn’t a ‘boy,’” Pascal said.

  “Hush,” Teresa said, though he was right. She took her brother by the elbow and steered him up the stairs to the boardinghouse. Pascal’s lumpy bag knocked against his legs, then against her own.

  “You’re hurting me,” Pascal said. Teresa ignored him and rang the bell, as if they already had a room. No one came, and she remembered that Mr. Jones had told her to wait until the sun was up. The men on the far corner taunted them with some nasty words, then strode off in the opposite direction. Was this what Papa meant, when he said vaude was “no place for a young girl”? Teresa sank down on the top step and set her head on her knees.

  “What are we doing now?” Pascal asked.

  “Waiting.” She pulled Pascal close and leaned against the iron railing.

  “I’m scared.” Pascal’s face was wet as he huddled close. “I miss Mama. Who will take care of me?”

  “I will,” Teresa said. But Pascal would need to leave soon. She couldn’t support them both here. Yet how would she live, if she bought him a ticket home? She’d have almost nothing left. Maybe Mama was right—she should have taken the Estey job, or failed the interview on purpose and suffered another year at school. Teresa sighed. Too late now. Besides—even prickly Pietro had said she knew how to sing. She couldn’t give up.

  “What if they won’t let us stay here?”

  “I don’t know.” She took off his cap and smoothed his hair, the way Mama would. One of Nonnie’s favorite expressions came into her mind: The world always looks better in the light of day. She hoped that would be true when this day dawned.

  20.

  “What is this? Waifs on my front stoop? Get off now. Away with you!”

  Teresa woke with a start as a broom slapped her rump. She scrambled to her feet before she even remembered where she was. A stout woman glowered at them from the top step, swatting her broom. “This is a respectable neighborhood!” she yelled, in a thick Irish accent. “Away with you, you hooligans!”

  “Wait! I can explain—oof!” Teresa jumped aside, dodging the bristles. Pascal cringed and leapt off the steps. The clatter of wooden balls and bowling pins made it sound as if he’d broken every bone in his body.

  “Excuse me, Ma’am . . .” Teresa gulped, trying to catch her breath. She pushed her hair off her face. If only she didn’t look such a mess. “We need a place to stay.”

  “And how do you plan to pay me? Gold dust?”

  “We have money. I rang the bell earlier, but no one answered.”

  “Of course not. I was asleep. This is a respectable place. My boarders come in late. They don’t expect to be jolted out of bed by some passing vagrant.”

  “I’m not a vagrant,” Teresa said. “My brother and I are quiet. We just need a bed for the night.”

  “The night’s over, in case you hadn’t noticed,” the woman said. “I rent by the week. Take it or leave it.” Before Teresa could answer, the woman asked suddenly, “If you’re so respectable, what does your mama say about you sleeping on doorsteps?”

  “Not much,” Teresa said, “since she’s dead.” Luckily, Pascal was out of earshot, scooping up his juggling balls. Then, piling on the lies, she said, “We’re meeting our father in a few days. We need a place until he arrives.”

  “Likely story.” The woman sniffed. “There’s a tiny room in the attic. You’ll have to share a bed. Five dollars for the week, payable in advance, board included.”

  It was more than Mama charged for a room at home, but Teresa told her they’d take it. She was used to attic rooms.

  They followed their new landlady—who was, indeed, the Mrs. O’Donnell of the sign—into the boardinghouse. Familiar smells seeped from the walls: stale cabbage, strong soap, coffee boiled too long. Mrs. O’Donnell waited while Teresa slowly counted out five dollars in coins. “Humph,” she said, pouring the coins into a dish. “Give me paper currency next time.”

  As they passed through the dining room, Pascal pointed at the ceiling. A rhythmic thumping made the glass chandelier swing wildly over the table. Tiny chips of plaster dusted the rug like snow. Teresa raised her eyebrows.

  Mrs. O’Donnell pounded the ceiling with her broom handle, sending a second flurry of plaster to the floor. “That foolish song and dance team, Russell and Wiggins. They need to rehearse onstage, not in my bedrooms.” Teresa winked at Pascal. The boardinghouse might smell like home, but otherwise, it was already very different.

  Mrs. O’Donnell huffed and puffed up one narrow flight of stairs, then another. As they climbed, snatches of song burst from behind a few closed doors. On the second floor, a man with a heavy accent shouted lines from a play, repeating them over and over, and a flute’s ethereal melody floated along the hall, where a line of sleepy men and women in dressing gowns stood outside a closed door.

  “Washroom,” Mrs. O’Donnell said, and hoisted herself up the last flight of stairs. She showed them into a tiny room with a steep roof and a window the size of a pocket handkerchief. The bed sagged in the middle, but Teresa didn’t care. Her eyelids had never felt so heavy. “Here you are,” Mrs. O’Donnell said. She squinted at them. “Vaude brats, are you?”

  Pascal, who hadn’t said a word since they’d come inside, stiffened. “We’re not brats,” he said.

  “It’s all right, Pascal,” Teresa said. “I’m a singer,” she told the landlady. “My brother juggles,” she said.

  “You’ll run afoul of the Gerry Society, that you will, putting him onstage,” Mrs. O’Donnell said. “’Course, that’s your worry, not mine. Breakfast at eight o’clock sharp.” She closed the door behind her.

  Teresa dropped her valise and sank onto the bed. “We’re
in New York,” she said. “Let’s sleep a while, and then we’ll start looking for jobs.”

  “Jobs? Why?”

  “So we can live.”

  They used the washroom, then climbed into bed with their clothes on. The sunken trough in the mattress pulled them toward the center. They kicked each other as they tried to get comfortable. Pascal fell asleep immediately, but Teresa stayed awake a while, listening to the city sounds: the steady clop of horses’ hooves; the rumble of engines; a roar that might have been a train, mixing with the steady thump-thump-thumping from downstairs.

  Teresa held still. She was in New York. Where real vaudeville happened. Where stars were born. Where Papa had always wanted to perform. And where—according to Papa—the lights burned day and night. Something had to go right for them here.

  21.

  Teresa dreamed that Papa was playing the fiddle and keeping time with the heel of his boot: Thump, thump, thump—and then someone whimpered.

  “Who’s there?” Teresa opened her eyes and gasped. A wiry gray dog, its paws resting on the blanket beside her chin, looked her in the eye. Its fur stuck out every which way. Teresa laughed. “Hello. Who are you?” She reached out and scratched the dog behind one ear. Its mouth curled up on one side, like a smile, and it made a happy grunting noise.

  “You’re all dressed up,” Teresa said. An orange plume bobbed on the dog’s back, attached to a shoulder harness, and a matching orange bow made a short ponytail on top of its head. The dog’s tail swept the floor, and when Teresa smiled, its tongue rasped over her fingers.

  Teresa climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Pascal. “Edna!” a woman’s voice called from the landing below. “Edna, come! Has anyone seen my dog?”

  Teresa clucked to the dog and led it downstairs. A young woman with long, jet-black hair dashed toward Teresa, gave her a sideways hug—as if they’d been friends forever—and cried, “You’re brilliant! Edna, you naughty pooch—where have you been?”