by Liza Ketchum
The dog wagged its tail and gave the woman that half smile again. Teresa laughed. “I never saw a dog smile.”
“Isn’t she cute? Audiences love her for that, especially people in the front row. Can you spare a minute?” The woman didn’t wait for an answer, but took off down the hall at a fast clip, the dog trotting at her heels. Teresa hurried after her. “You’re obviously good at finding things—maybe you can help me. I’ve lost something even more valuable than Edna, but don’t tell her I said so.”
As if Edna understood, she gave a mournful howl. “Hush!” the woman cried. She hurried to the end of the hall, pushed open a door with a faded number 7 painted in the center, and pulled Teresa in after her. “Don’t let them out.”
“Them” turned out to be a pack of white terriers, all smaller than Edna. One dog slept at the foot of the bed, another was curled up on the room’s only chair, while a third lay in a tangle of blouses, underclothes, and belts spilling from a steamer trunk. The smallest terrier, its tail wagging, wriggled all over as it wound itself around Teresa’s ankles. Like the others, it was white with a brown splotch across its back, but it also had a furry black patch surrounding one eye. “You look like a pirate,” Teresa said, scratching her behind the ears. Was that a nose, poking out from under the bedspread? The room smelled of animals, Sterno gas, and perfume.
“How many dogs do you have?”
“Six.” The woman waved her hand around the room. “Meet ‘Madame Maeve and her Marvelous Marching Dogs’—though I’m not ‘Madame’ since I’m eighteen and not married. Also, the dogs don’t ‘march.’ Never mind. Silly details.”
Maeve was “marvelous” looking: Her hair fell in glossy black ringlets down her back, contrasting with very pale skin. Her eyes were a bright jade green, matching some of the rings that glinted on almost every finger, and her dress was made of some sort of gauzy fabric that made her look as if she were floating. “What are the dogs’ names?” Teresa asked.
“One for each of the first six letters of the alphabet,” Maeve said. “Alix, Bronwyn, Cleo, Dixie—our pirate—and Edna, whom you’ve met. Fido is the only boy—every canine family needs a Fido. Woe to the man who tries any funny business with me when Fido is around. And Dixie runs the show, don’t you, girl?”
The pirate-patch dog wiggled all over. “Poor gray-haired Edna doesn’t match,” Maeve went on, “but we started out together back in Illinois, so I have to keep her. Now please—help me figure out where on earth I’ve stowed my earrings.” She rummaged through the mess on her dresser. “You’d think I could keep track of something as valuable as diamonds.”
Teresa gasped. “You have diamond earrings?”
“I did. Don’t worry; I won them fair and square. What did you say your name was?”
“Teresa. Teresa LeClair.”
“What a great stage name. Are you on your own?”
Pascal! Teresa gasped and started for the door. “My little brother’s sleeping upstairs. I’d better see if he’s all right.”
Maeve pulled her back. “Brothers are always fine; I don’t know how they do it. Be a dear, won’t you, and help me look for a few minutes? I have to wear my drops when I go to the Palace. It will make such an impression—”
“The Palace Theatre? But it just opened! Are you performing there?”
“If only. I’ve won some amateur nights lately, so my agent is meeting me at Keith and Albee’s booking agency to see if they’ll give me a route. I must look my best—now where are those jewels?”
Maeve seemed to know everything about getting onstage in New York. Teresa searched for the earrings on the rug and under piles of old newspapers. She moved a dog aside and looked through a pile of scarves and beads. She lifted a stack of bright-colored hoops, got down on her hands and knees, and looked under the bed. Edna licked the back of her neck and Teresa sat up quickly—knocking her head on a wobbly end table near the bed. “Ouch!” She caught the table before it fell, but a drawer opened, showering the rug with coins, hairpins, safety pins, a string of beads—and a pair of earrings.
“Brilliant! You’re brilliant!” They knelt together, picking everything up, and Maeve helped Teresa to her feet. “Did you hurt your head?”
“It’s hard as a rock,” Teresa said.
“Does that mean you’re as stubborn as I am?” Without waiting for an answer, Maeve wiped the earrings on the hem of her skirt and dropped them into Teresa’s hand. “Hold them a sec. I don’t want to lose them again.” She brushed her hair with quick strokes, then pinned it up in a thick coil.
The earrings twinkled in Teresa’s palm. “They’re beautiful,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen such big diamonds.” She’d never so much as touched a diamond, for that matter.
“Go to Panic Beach and you’ll see more diamonds than sand on a real beach,” Maeve said. She clipped on the earrings. “Mine are in and out of hock, depending on my luck. It seems to be on the up and up lately.” She glanced in the mirror, gave her reflection an approving nod, and turned to Teresa. “Now—how can I help you?”
“Could we go with you to the Palace?”
“Of course. You have an act?”
“Not yet. I’m a singer—I want to break in. I don’t know where to start—”
“At the bottom, love, right where we all do.” Maeve’s smile lit her green eyes. “You’ll try every amateur contest in town, until someone notices you.” She squinted at her. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen. But—”
“‘But’ is right. As of today, you’re sixteen; otherwise you’ll have the Gerry Society after you.”
“What do they do?”
“Enforce the rules; make sure child performers are sixteen.”
“I was onstage when I was six,” Teresa said.
“Not everyone obeys. And how old is this little brother of yours?”
“Pascal? Almost nine.”
“Hmm. That’s a problem.”
“I need to send him home, somehow. He followed me here.”
“Does he have a skill?”
“He juggles.”
Maeve’s wide smile was infectious. “Perfect! We’ll take our chances.” Before Teresa could ask how and why, Maeve threw the window open and waved her hand at the street below. “Wash your face, dress yourself up, and wake that brother of yours. Manhattan awaits you!”
22.
An hour later, Teresa, Pascal, and Maeve rushed downtown. The dogs strained at their leashes and held their tails aloft like proud flags. Maeve had lined them up in order, so that Edna (who seemed to have adopted Teresa) was on the outside, while Dixie, the smallest, pranced along closest to the buildings. Fido sported a purple silk jacket with Maeve’s name—Madame Maeve and her Marvelous Marching Dogs—stitched onto both sides. Pedestrians laughed and pointed as they passed. “Perfect!” Maeve cried. “Two dogs per person—why didn’t you show up sooner?”
Maeve held her leashes in one hand and carried a big canvas bag in the other. Her dogs never got tangled, but Edna and Bronwyn—Teresa’s dogs—kept twisting up their leads. “Wait!” Teresa called. If she lost Maeve and Pascal, she’d never find her way back to the boardinghouse.
They fought horse-drawn carriages and motorcars to cross the street. Teresa wanted to grab Pascal’s hand, but the dogs helped them thread their way to the other side without a hitch. The streets were mobbed compared to the night before. Motorbuses, horses, and delivery wagons took up the center of the street. Teresa had never heard so many different languages spoken, or seen so many stores. They twisted through the crowd, passing a button shop, barbershops with red-and-white poles twisting outside, and toy stores. A pair of giant wooden eyeglasses dangled next to an optometrist’s sign. Open wooden stalls lined the avenues, where men and women sold puppies, hats, fresh flowers—and food. The scent of fresh-baked bread, wafting from an open stall filled with loaves and rolls, made Teresa’s stomach growl. A woman in an apron, her face smudged with flour, called out to her in French, “Mademois
elle! Avez-vous faim? You hungry, Miss?”
“Oui! J’ai faim!” Teresa called, but she didn’t dare stop, although they’d missed breakfast. The current of moving people pulled them along, taking them under a bridge that blocked the meager sunlight. Suddenly the metal struts above them began to vibrate, darkness fell on the sidewalk, and a horrible squealing noise sounded overhead. Sparks flew. A bright green train with angry red headlamps passed on the elevated rails. It swayed on the corner as if it might jump the tracks and crush them like ants under a boot.
“Watchit!” Teresa screamed, and pulled Pascal close against a building. He ducked his head. Teresa stared at the massive cars hurtling through empty space. The dogs waited patiently at their feet until the train had passed.
Maeve, who had rushed on without them, spun around and hurried back. “Goodness—you look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”
“What was that thing?” Pascal asked.
“The Sixth Avenue El,” Maeve said, reaching down to untangle the dogs. “Where are you from, anyway?”
“Vermont,” Pascal said, before Teresa could stop him. Maeve seemed trustworthy, but how did they know she wouldn’t tell someone—like the police—if she found out they were runaways?
But Maeve just laughed. “So you’re green,” she said. “When I first came to town, I was so green you could have cut me like new hay. Come on, mustn’t keep my agent waiting.”
So Maeve and Pietro were both right, calling Teresa green. Never mind. She was here, in New York City. She had arrived.
Teresa craned her neck and looked up. The tops of tall buildings scratched the clouds like fingernails. She sniffed the air. An old woman with wizened brown skin and blackened palms sold hot chestnuts while a band of boys, no older than Pascal, hawked apples, peppermint candy, and matches, in at least three languages. Teresa listened to the city’s music as she ran to catch up with Maeve. New York sounded like an orchestra playing out of tune with an offbeat, disjointed rhythm. Perfect pitch wouldn’t help anyone in this town!
Maeve hurried them through the crowds. At last, they turned a corner and faced a tall white building on the other side of the street. “There she is.” Maeve set her bag down and swooped her arm through the air, as if ushering in a famous personality. “The spanking-new home of our dreams. Meet the Palace.”
The dogs sat on their rumps, panting, as if they were impressed, too. The stately building rose from the sidewalk. Stacks of billboards surrounded the Palace, advertising everything from the latest Stevens-Duryea car to hair cream. A flag swinging from the second-story windows promised “TEN STAR ACTS!” The curved marquee was studded with lights and boasted the names of acts and performers in giant letters. Crowds of people milled around on the wide sidewalk near the entrance. Surely this was the most elegant theater in the world.
Maeve nudged her. “She’s something, isn’t she?”
Pascal pointed to the crowd. “Is that The Beach?”
Maeve’s eyes twinkled. “Aren’t you smart? Who told you about that?”
“Our friend Pietro,” Pascal said.
Was Pietro a friend? Teresa wondered. He was prickly and critical. On the other hand—he had challenged Teresa to come to New York. She looked down at Pascal, whose eyes shone like new coins. “Isn’t it wonderful?” Teresa asked.
Pascal pointed to the tall letters on the marquee. “Will they write your dogs’ names up there?”
“A dumb act will never be a headliner,” Maeve said. “But I can dream.”
“I’m working on a dumb act,” Pascal said. “Someday, Resa and I will have our names in lights.”
Teresa squeezed his shoulder. “Thanks.” For a moment, she forgot that she needed to send him home.
“Who knows if we’ll ever play the Palace,” Maeve said. “Any old booking would be fine with me now. Just get me off these amateur stages and on the road with a real vaudeville troupe.”
They led the dogs past groups of men and women who were laughing, arguing, and sharing stories outside the Palace doors. Teresa heard snatches of Spanish, French—and some very staccato language. Everyone seemed rushed, as if they had just come from someplace or were about to run off somewhere. “Excuse us!” Maeve sang out. People parted to make room for the dogs, and Teresa noticed a man with a diamond stickpin in his tie. Another wore diamond cufflinks even though his coat was shabby. “Bella! Bellissima!” he cried in Italian, and whistled as she walked by. Teresa ducked her chin and hurried after Maeve into the lobby.
“Look at you,” Maeve said. “Your cheeks are burning.”
“That man whistled at me.”
Maeve laughed. “And he called you beautiful! Get used to it—you’ll turn heads here. That’s why I’ve got Fido. Just ignore them. Now: What do you think?” She opened her arms and twirled around the lobby. It was a vast open space surrounded by sparkling mirrors, an arched ceiling, and so many doors that Teresa felt as if she were in a castle where a queen might appear any minute. Maeve herded them toward the elevator. “Sit!” Maeve told the dogs as the golden doors swished closed behind them.
Teresa held her breath as Maeve asked for the sixth floor. Her stomach fell while her body soared. The dogs sat in a row, ears pricked, tails wagging. Teresa laughed.
“What so funny?” Maeve asked.
Teresa pointed to the dogs. “If I had a tail, I’d be wagging it, too.” Then she caught sight of herself in the shiny brass walls, which reflected their images like warped mirrors. Even though she’d changed into her new shirtwaist, Teresa felt dowdy compared to Maeve, who used the reflection to adjust her green felt hat, tipping it cockily to one side. Teresa turned away. She was ashamed of her hair, in its usual snarl, and her carpet of freckles. She couldn’t imagine anyone “turning heads” to look at her now.
“Are we almost there?” Pascal’s voice sounded small at the back of the elevator. Teresa sighed. How could she enjoy the city if she had to worry about her brother all the time? She’d have to get him home somehow.
“Sixth floor,” the elevator operator announced. The elevator swooshed to a stop and they piled out. Maeve led them to an enormous room filled with desks. Men and women hurried back and forth, carrying papers, sheet music, and instruments. Every now and then, someone shouted out a name to the lines of people waiting near the elevators.
“The people at the desks are booking agents,” Maeve explained. “And all these scared-looking folks are like me: searching for a gig.” She straightened her shoulders, tipped her head to the side, and batted her long eyelashes. “The secret is looking like you’re a success, before you even start.” She waved to a man in a straw hat. “There’s my agent. Wish me luck.” Maeve unhooked the dogs and gave their leashes to Teresa. “Hold these for me, will you?” Before Teresa could protest, Maeve told the dogs to heel and took off.
The dogs lined up and followed her like obedient soldiers. Where was Pascal? Teresa panicked for a moment, until she noticed a small brown orb, followed by another one, flying through the air near the elevators. She hurried over. Pascal had left his bag of balls and bowling pins at the boardinghouse—so what was he juggling? She pushed through the small crowd. The brown orbs circled fast—too fast. One fell to the floor, followed by another. Chestnuts.
Teresa grabbed one. “Pascal, did you steal from that woman?”
“They were just lying on the ground,” he said.
Teresa was ready to scold him when Maeve reappeared, her eyes bloodshot. “What happened?” Teresa asked.
“No interest; that’s what they said. It doesn’t matter how many contests we’ve won.” Maeve’s voice shook.
“I’m sorry.” Teresa loosened the knots in her handkerchief, which she’d used to tie up her money this morning, and handed it to Maeve. “It’s kind of dirty,” she said.
Maeve tried to smile. “That’s okay, hon,” she said, and wiped her tears. “Back to the amateur circuits. And that’s where you and your brother need to start. We’ll go together.” She gestured to the do
gs. “Sit, all of you.”
Teresa helped Maeve snap on the leashes and handed two dogs to Pascal. He hardly seemed to notice. “You all right?” Teresa asked.
He didn’t answer. They crowded into the elevator again, and Maeve nudged Teresa. “The Loew’s Royal Theatre has a contest tonight. Shall we give it a try? I could get you on the list.”
“All right.” Teresa’s mouth was suddenly full of cotton wool. An amateur night in New York would be a thousand times scarier than a children’s singing contest. And what would she do with her brother?
Something thumped behind them and the dogs whimpered. Teresa whirled around. Pascal lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, his face white as paste. The dogs circled around him like a crowd of doctors, licking his face and wrists. Dixie set up a howl.
Teresa dropped to her knees beside him. “Pascal! Wake up!” He didn’t move.
23.
“Stop the elevator!” Teresa cried. The operator pulled the elevator up with a shudder and bent to touch Pascal’s neck. “Poor kid’s fainted. Get those dogs out of the way; give him some air.” He took the elevator to the ground floor without stopping and helped them carry Pascal to a plush couch in the lobby. “Water fountain over there,” he said, pointing, and disappeared.
Maeve loosened Pascal’s collar and fanned his face with her hat. “When did he last eat?”
“Yesterday?” Teresa’s face burned with shame. Her own stomach cramped with hunger, but being in the Palace had made her forget about food.
Pascal’s eyes fluttered open. “What happened?”
“You fainted,” Teresa said. “Can you stand up?”
He wobbled to his feet and leaned against her. “I want Mama.”
Maeve glanced at Teresa across Pascal’s head. “We need to talk. You help Pascal; I’ll take the dogs. Get him some water at the drinking fountain—and then we’re on our way. Next stop: Kellogg’s Cafeteria.”