The Life Fantastic

by Liza Ketchum

  • • •

  Maeve begged bowls of water from the management at the restaurant, herded the dogs into a corner, and helped Pascal to a table behind the dogs. “Keep an eye on the pooch patrol—we’ll get you some food.” Maeve stationed Fido at the door, where customers could read the sign on his purple jacket as they came in. People laughed and bent to stroke the dogs as they waited for seats.

  “Best advertising I’ll ever have,” Maeve said. She led Teresa through the cafeteria line. “This meal is on me. You can take me out after you win your first amateur night.”

  “You haven’t even heard me sing,” Teresa said. “What if I’m terrible?”

  “Well then, enjoy your only free lunch.”

  “How much can you win, in these contests?”

  “It depends. Five, ten, fifteen dollars, depending on the theater.”

  Fifteen dollars? She could send Pascal home and still have enough to stay in New York—at least for a while.

  Teresa and Pascal devoured chicken potpie, mashed potatoes with gravy, and milk. Maeve went to the counter for a second glass of milk for Pascal, and he drained it as fast as the first one. The color came back into his cheeks. He slipped away from the table and sat on the floor with the dogs, scratching them in turn behind their ears.

  Teresa swallowed hard. “Mama would never have let him go hungry,” she said. “And Papa will kill me when he finds out we’re here.”

  “Truth time,” Maeve said.

  “What do you mean?” Teresa shifted uneasily.

  Maeve cupped a hand over Teresa’s. Her eyes were warm. “Trust me,” she said. “I won’t give you away. I assumed you were runaways. If we’re going to be friends, we need to be honest with each other. And maybe I can help you.”

  Friends. Even though Maeve was a few years older, Teresa felt as if she’d known her forever. “I had to leave home,” Teresa said.

  Maeve nodded. “I understand. I was sixteen when I ran away from our Illinois farm. Go on.”

  Teresa told her everything: how her parents had eloped before she was born; how they raised her on the vaudeville circuit, putting her to bed in the top drawer of a steamer trunk as they traveled the small-town circuits; how she performed with them before they moved back to Vermont, where her parents worked at Estey and ran the boardinghouse. “It’s hard on Mama,” Teresa said. “She can’t work at the factory anymore. And Papa—”

  She stopped.

  “Tell me.” Maeve tipped her head to the side, listening, in a way that reminded Teresa of Nonnie.

  “Papa changed,” Teresa said. “He stopped playing the fiddle and he won’t sing with Mama. Even worse, he planned to shut me up in the tuning rooms at the organ factory. I’d rather die than work there.” Teresa twisted her napkin in her lap. “I thought I was running away alone, but Pascal followed me. Mama will never forgive me if something happens to him. I need to send Pascal home.”

  “It’s not your fault that he followed you,” Maeve said. “We’ll think of something.”

  A burst of applause made them turn around. Pascal had pushed some furniture aside and was juggling a bruised apple and three chestnuts. His cap sat on the table next to him and his hair fell down into his eyes, but he never missed a beat. He even tossed a chestnut under one leg and caught it while keeping everything else in the air. Maeve elbowed Teresa. “He’s good!”

  Pascal threw the apple too far to the side, just missing it. As if they’d planned it, Dixie leapt high, caught the apple in her mouth, and brought it to Maeve, her tail wagging. The restaurant erupted in laughter and the chestnuts rattled onto the wood floor. Pascal scooped them up, looking flustered.

  “Keep going, lad!” a man called, and a coin flew through the air, just missing Pascal’s cap. Maeve tossed him the apple and Pascal started up again. This time, he whistled to Dixie before throwing her a chestnut. Dixie stood up on her hind legs, caught the chestnut, and tipped her head as if she were bowing. The customers whooped. Two women leaned over to drop more coins into Pascal’s cap. Pascal grinned and waved.

  Maeve nudged Teresa. “He’s got the magic touch. And we’ve just added a new trick to my routine.” She put on her hat and grabbed her bag. “Time to practice. We’re going to have a terrific night.”

  We? Teresa couldn’t help smiling.

  24.

  Teresa and Pascal sat at the upright piano in Mrs. O’Donnell’s boardinghouse. Teresa set her sheet music on the piano, blew dust from the keys, and played a few chords. “Ouch,” she said. “Out of tune. Never mind—I can still practice.” She glanced at Pascal. “Are you excited about tonight?”

  “I guess.” Pascal’s voice sounded as flat as the piano keys. “Maeve says I can be part of her act.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t like it here.”

  “But you said you wanted to perform onstage.”

  He sniffled. “Not without Mama and Papa. I want Papa to come get me.”

  “He’d force me to come home and shut me up at Estey. Listen.” Teresa cupped his chin in her hand, forcing him to meet her eyes. “I’ve paid Mrs. O’Donnell for a week’s lodging. When we win some of these contests, I’ll have money for your ticket. Remember, you didn’t have to follow me.”

  “I know.” Pascal fidgeted on the piano bench. “What if you don’t win? I mean—you’re a good singer, Resa, but people might be better here.”

  “You’re right. I could ‘die,’ as Mama would say. But look: You earned some money yourself this morning. And there’s always Miss Connover, the lady judge. She might take me in and give me lessons.”

  “You mean—you won’t go home? Ever?”

  “Not now.” Teresa pulled Pascal close. “I’m not leaving you. But I need to sing.”

  “What if Mama and Papa think we’re dead?”

  He would bring that up. “I left Mama a note.”

  “About me?”

  “Of course not. I didn’t know you would follow me! Please don’t cry.” She stroked his head. “Six more nights. If I haven’t earned enough money by then, I promise we’ll send Papa a telegram.”

  “Promise?”

  “Of course. I need to practice my songs. Now go to Maeve and learn your part.”

  • • •

  Maeve helped Teresa dress for her first night on the town. Teresa wore the skirt and blouse that Nonnie had made. The gold locket shone against the creamy fabric. Maeve clucked her approval as she clipped some silver barrettes in Teresa’s curls.

  “Your hair shines like a bright light when you come into a room,” Maeve said. “And those golden eyes make you look like a young lion.”

  Maeve, with her silky tresses, thought Teresa’s twisted curls were pretty? “The boys in school said my eyes were witchy,” she said. “They call me ‘carrot top,’ and ‘freckle face.’”

  “That just shows they like you,” Maeve said, rubbing rouge on Teresa’s cheeks. “You’ll make a grand entrance, show them you’re on top of the world.”

  The world sat heavily on Teresa’s shoulders that evening as they rode the El to Brooklyn. She glanced at Pascal. He pressed his face to the window, his eyes wide with astonishment. He wore a green jacket with gold braiding that Teresa had bought in a secondhand clothing shop with some of Mama’s coins. His juggling bag bulged with his bowling pins, a set of new juggling balls that Maeve had found, and apples for his trick with Dixie.

  As the train hurtled past apartment windows, Teresa felt as if she were watching a moving picture show at the nickelodeon. People ate, read newspapers, yelled at one another, or just stared at the walls. They didn’t seem to notice the train, even though it seemed as if it might smash right into their flats. The train rounded a sharp curve and Teresa nudged her brother. “Look—you can see the engine.” But Pascal covered his eyes. He was as green as his jacket.

  Their next train lumbered across the Brooklyn Bridge. Teresa gasped. Great cables swooped down from twin towers like filaments of thick
silk. “We’re so high!” she said. “Pascal, look!”

  He glanced down, then away. Teresa couldn’t take her eyes off the view. A steamer, its giant smokestack belching smoke, passed beneath them, reflected in the dark water. Behind them, strings of white lights blinked on all over the city, speckling the skyscrapers like stars.

  Maeve smiled at her from across the aisle. “Isn’t it gorgeous? I never get tired of this view.”

  Teresa gripped her seat. If only her clutch of coins were bigger. She’d sing her heart out so she could stay forever.

  • • •

  The Loew’s Royal Theatre had two balconies and so many seats that Teresa’s hands went clammy with fear. The stage manager, a large man with even more freckles than Teresa, was happy to see Maeve and her dogs. “Welcome back,” he said, rubbing his hands. “You were popular last time.”

  “I have a helper tonight.” Maeve pointed at Pascal. “He juggles. You’ll love our new tricks.”

  “A little young, isn’t he?” The stage manager twisted his handlebar mustache between the tips of his fingers. “Never mind. The Gerry Society leaves us alone—but if there’s any trouble—” He crooked one arm into a hook shape, then peered at Teresa through thick glasses. “And who have we here?”

  “I’m Teresa LeClair.” If only her voice would stay steady! “I’d like to sing tonight. I won a singing contest a few weeks ago.”

  The stage manager shook his head. “Sorry, Miss—but I’ve got sixteen acts already. I’m not sure I can fit you in.”

  “Oh, but she’s wonderful!” Maeve set a hand on the stage manager’s arm and gave him a pretty smile. “You won’t be sorry, I promise.”

  “All right, all right.” He pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, scribbled something and squinted at it, as if he couldn’t read his own writing. “Miss Cullen, you and the dogs will be third; we have another dumb act going on first.” He crossed something out. “Miss—LeClair, is it?” Teresa nodded. “You’ll be eighth. Give your music to a stagehand and he’ll pass it to the orchestra. No stage hogging—two songs are enough.” He cleaned his glasses on the hem of his coat and raised his bushy eyebrows at Teresa. “Tough audience here. Tomatoes if you bomb, coins if they love you.” He stomped into the wings.

  “Phew!” Maeve said. “We passed one hurdle.”

  “Tomatoes?” Pascal asked.

  “Not at us, silly,” Maeve said. “Everyone loves dogs. Now, let’s talk to the prop man. I have to change, and I need Edna’s big hoop. Oh dear, why do dumb acts always go on so early in the lineup? Here, Pascal, hold the leashes. And don’t worry about our tricks; if Dixie doesn’t catch the apple, just keep going . . .” With a flurry of props, wagging tails, and scarves, Maeve and Pascal disappeared into the wings.

  Teresa gave her music to a stagehand and stood in a corner, humming to herself. She should sing scales to warm up her voice. Was that allowed? Other performers came and went, some silent, others as restless as Maeve. “Nyet! Nyet!” someone grunted behind her, followed by scuffling, then silence. Was that Russian?

  “Curtain in five,” a woman’s voice called.

  Teresa backed into the wings and pulled the heavy curtain aside to peek at the audience. A raucous crowd filed in, looking for seats. Teresa swallowed once, twice. The pure sound of an oboe playing an A floated from the orchestra pit, followed by a violin tuning up.

  “Well, well.” A muffled but familiar voice sounded behind her. “If it isn’t Miss Teresa LeClair.”

  Teresa whirled around. “Pietro! What are you doing here?”

  “Shh,” he warned. “Trying to win some money, make myself famous.”

  She couldn’t help staring. “You look so—so fancy.” She was going to say “handsome” but stopped herself. Pietro wore tails with a starched white collar, a red bow tie, and a top hat. A scarlet flower bloomed in his buttonhole. And he was handsome, without the burnt cork. “Where’s your father?”

  “In Harlem. Thought I’d branch out on my own. I’m seventh, my lucky number. And you?”

  “Eighth.”

  He shook his head in mock sadness. “Mmm, mm. That’s a doggone shame. I’m a tough act to follow.”

  “We’ll see,” she said, trying to sound cocky. “After they hear me, they’ll forget they ever saw you.”

  “So the Princess Theater gave you a swelled head.” Pietro scraped the soles of his shoes, one at a time, into a pot hidden in the corner.

  “What’s that?” she whispered.

  “Rosin. Gives me traction so I won’t slip on this smooth floor.” He pulled on his white gloves.

  “Curtain!” a woman bellowed from the bowels of the theater.

  The house lights dimmed. Horns played a fanfare, and a drumroll sounded as the announcer stepped out in front of the curtain. “La-a-a-dies and gentlemen!” he cried. “Welcome to another amateur talent night, the night when you decide who the next big stars will be! We have seventeen acts lined up. We have comedy, we have animals, we have soulful singers and dancers with flying feet. Give them a big hand. If you like them, shower them with favors. If you don’t . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence, but the audience laughed, and someone shouted: “Rotten eggs!”

  “Let the music begin!” the manager cried.

  25.

  The show opened with a short film, followed by a flourish of horns and violins. A pair of male acrobats, dressed in pink satin suits studded with silver beads, turned cartwheels onto the stage. They vaulted over bicycles and each other, twisted themselves into contorted positions, did flips, walked on both hands, then on one. The audience was lukewarm, and when the two men dashed into the wings, they just missed Teresa. “We died,” one whispered. The other muttered something she couldn’t understand.

  Teresa took a deep breath, then another. Could you “die” for real, if your heart was beating like a drumroll?

  “Don’t worry.” Pietro’s voice came from right behind her. “You’ll be fine.”

  How did he know what she was thinking?

  A comedian came on next. He made fun of himself and of anyone with a foreign accent, and he used a bad word for Jews. Papa hated it when people called him “Frenchie” or “Frog,” so he and Mama had forbidden those words, and all other insults, in their house. Teresa was glad when the audience booed at the comedian. An egg splattered on the stage, then a tomato, followed by a barrage of spitballs. Suddenly, a long hook, like a shepherd’s crook, snaked from the wings, grabbed the comedian by the waist, and yanked him offstage. He scuttled sideways like a crab and the audience went wild. Stagehands hurried out to clean up the mess with mops. Teresa shuddered. Would she get the hook?

  Too late to back out now. The stage manager announced Maeve’s act. She and Pascal hurried onstage surrounded by the dogs, their tails wagging as they pranced on their hind legs. No wonder Maeve hadn’t worn her costume on the train! She had poured herself into a slinky, low-cut green blouse, satin shorts with slits up the sides, and black tights. The outfit matched her green eyes as well as the ribbons on the dogs’ collars. The audience cheered, whistled, and clapped.

  “Nice scarf,” Pietro murmured. “What’s your baby brother doing out there?”

  “He’s not a baby now.” Pascal was transformed, and not just because of Pietro’s scarf, fluttering from his neck like a flag. It was the way he saluted the audience and began to juggle the wooden balls, as confident as if he’d been onstage all his life. How did he do that?

  The audience loved Maeve’s act. The dogs caught tiny hoops on their noses. They “spoke” with yippy barks when she asked them questions, jumped over and on top of each other, and walked across each other’s backs like acrobats. Pascal’s trick with Dixie worked perfectly. He tossed an apple out to the right, keeping the others moving, and Dixie snatched it up and set it at Maeve’s feet. Pascal pretended to count the remaining apples and made a puzzled face, as if he couldn’t figure out where the apple had gone. He kept going until he only had one apple left, which he threw
over his head in disgust. When Dixie caught the last one, the audience roared their approval and rained a torrent of pennies onto the stage.

  “A natural comic,” Pietro said. “Who would have thought?”

  Maeve’s last number had the audience gasping: With gloves on her hands, she held a flaming hoop near her body. She kept it low at first, then raised it higher and higher as the dogs jumped through, first singly, then in pairs. Pascal zigzagged across the stage, scooping up pennies, as Maeve curtsied and made a fiery exit into the wings. Teresa turned to Pietro. “They’re good, aren’t they?” she whispered.

  Pietro’s face looked frozen. His stage fright made Teresa feel even worse and she hardly noticed the acts before Pietro’s turn. He stepped in and out of the rosin one last time, and waited, bouncing on his heels, for the music to begin.

  “Good luck,” Teresa whispered.

  He recoiled as if she’d spit on him. “Good luck is bad luck,” he snapped. “For dancers, you say merde.”

  Teresa raised her eyebrows. Papa would wash her mouth out with soap if she said that word at home, but she blurted it out anyway.

  “Welcome Pietro Jones, of Marvin Jones and Son!” the stage manager called. “He’s dancing on his own for the first time tonight!”

  Pietro entered tap dancing, his body loose yet controlled. He sashayed into a strutting cakewalk, followed by a ragtime number. His feet moved faster and faster, even though his upper body stayed still. Finally, he danced up and down a small set of stairs and ended with a flourish of his top hat, his feet clicking like castanets.

  Pietro danced into the wings and nearly knocked Teresa over. He bent over at the waist, breathing hard. “Get ready,” he said. “They’re handcuffed. Sittin’ on those hands.” He raised a finger. “Listen. There’s your call.”

  The music was familiar, but Teresa couldn’t move, and her name drifted from someplace far away. Pietro gave her a small shove. “Break a leg.”

  How did she get onstage? Somehow, she found herself in a hot spotlight while the band played the opening bars of “Cousin of Mine.” Teresa missed her first cue. The bandleader coughed, pointed his baton in her direction, and played the first four bars again. Teresa began to sing, but the audience grew restless.