The Life Fantastic

by Liza Ketchum

  A woman’s whisper came from the wings. “You can do it!”

  Was that Maeve? Teresa tried to ham it up and put some bounce in it, but she felt clumsy. She struggled on and was relieved when she reached the end of the last chorus. “He’s Mother’s sister’s angel child . . . he’s a cousin of mine.”

  The band played the introduction to “Hard Times” and she launched into the first verse. She remembered how Mr. Jones had told her to pitch her voice to the last row at the Princess. She opened her throat and let her voice soar, hoping they’d hear her in the second balcony. The audience stopped whispering. A good sign? Pietro hummed some harmony from the wings on the final chorus, just as he had done in Brattleboro. Teresa tried not to notice; she didn’t want to lose the beat.

  At last, it was over. Teresa let the last note drift away. The audience threw a few pennies—hardly enough to pick up—but at least people clapped. Teresa took a quick bow before running offstage.

  “Hurrah!” Pascal’s high voice piped up from the wings at stage left.

  “I died,” she said to Pietro when she could catch her breath.

  “They liked your second number,” Pietro said. “Must be my harmony.” He raised his eyebrows, teasing.

  “What’s the matter—think I can’t sing on my own?”

  “Hssst. Quiet over there.” The stage manager gave them a warning look as he came off from announcing the next act.

  Teresa leaned against the wall and waited for her heart to stop thumping. She’d just had her New York stage debut. Not a success, but not a complete disaster. No hook, no rotten eggs, she hadn’t missed a note—and she hadn’t fainted. So there, Papa. Try to stop me now.

  26.

  When the show ended, everyone who had escaped the hook lined up on stage. “Laa-dies and gentlemen, you pick the winner!” the stage manager cried. He started down the line, dangling a five-dollar bill over each performer’s head, and waited for the audience to respond.

  Five dollars would give her another week at the bed and breakfast. Teresa crossed her fingers behind her skirt, though she knew she couldn’t win. But perhaps Maeve and Pascal could? The dogs sat in a circle around Pascal and Maeve, their ears pricked, tails wagging, looking as hopeful as Teresa felt.

  Teresa received polite applause, as did Pietro—in spite of a few boos. The crowd gave Maeve, Pascal, and the dogs a big hand, but saved their loudest cheers for a young English couple who had performed the death scene from Romeo and Juliet. The manager gave the winners the five-dollar bill and paid the other acts fifty cents apiece.

  It wasn’t much. Maeve had told Teresa that the famous risqué actress Eva Tanguay made thousands of dollars in one week. Still, fifty cents would buy lunch.

  Pascal and Maeve hurried across the stage, beaming, with the dogs fanning out around them. “I have 75 cents!” Pascal announced. “Maeve gave me half the money, and I picked up so many pennies.”

  Maeve hugged Teresa. “You were wonderful!”

  “I wasn’t. My songs are boring.”

  “So change them! That’s what amateur nights are for. You find out what works, what flops. The first time is the hardest. You’re on your way.”

  “Was someone speaking Russian?” Teresa asked.

  “Probably.” Maeve laughed. “The whole world is in New York!” She turned to Pietro, who was taking off his tap shoes. “Young man, you are a terrific dancer. Have you tried the Lincoln, in Harlem?”

  Pietro looked up. “Why, what’s there?”

  “A Saturday-night dance competition. Six colored dancers compete against six whites. The winner takes a twenty-dollar gold piece. I’m sure you could lick them all, especially if you work on that ragtime number. You’d slay them.”

  Pietro smiled. “Thanks for the tip, Miss—”

  “Cullen. Maeve Cullen. And you are Mister . . . ?”

  “Pietro Jones.”

  “Pietro. A wonderful stage name. But Jones is a bit ordinary; you might think of dropping it. No offense. Teresa and Pascal, be angels and hold the dogs while I change into my street clothes.” Maeve hurried offstage, pins flying from her hair, leaving them to untangle dogs and leashes.

  “Tells you what she thinks and then some,” Pietro said in a dry tone.

  “She has good ideas,” Teresa said. “What about that contest?”

  “Depends.” Pietro tucked his tap shoes under his arm and tugged at Pascal’s red scarf. “Guess this brought you good luck. You’re on your way. Your sister should hustle to keep up.”

  Pascal scowled at Pietro. “Resa was good,” he said. “So were you.”

  “Not what the audience said.” Pietro stowed the top hat in a hatbox and pulled on his felt cap. “This crowd won’t give me the time of day.” He unbuttoned his gloves, tugged them off one finger at a time, and held up his hands. “How many faces my color you see out there?” He pulled the curtain back a few inches so Teresa could watch people filing out.

  “None,” Teresa admitted. “It looks like Brattleboro. Your friends can’t come to watch you?”

  “We’re not welcome in most white theaters, unless we sit in the balcony.” Pietro’s voice was cold. “And you won’t find coloreds without cork on Broadway. This manager is better than most; said I could go on without blacking up, long as I was alone onstage. Those are the rules.”

  “That’s stupid!” said Pascal. The dogs sat up expectantly, as if they thought he might do another magic trick, and Dixie whined.

  “Are your theaters different?” Teresa asked.

  “Is night different than day? Summer than winter?” Pietro tapped out his questions with one foot.

  Teresa turned away, stung. “Is it my fault that I don’t know everything?”

  “Like I said once: It’s never too late to learn.”

  “If you know so much, why don’t you teach me?” When Pietro didn’t answer, Teresa tugged on the dogs’ leashes. “Come on, pups. Let’s find Maeve.”

  Pietro did a quick two-step and landed in front of her. “Don’t go off in a huff, Miss LeClair. You want to get educated, come to Harlem’s Lafayette Theatre on amateur night. Then you’ll see different.”

  “Why?” Pascal asked. “What happens?”

  Pietro’s eyes danced. “Doesn’t matter if you’re black, white, or purple. They love you, they tear the place down. You die, Puerto Rico shoots you dead.”

  “Dead? Who’s Puerto Rico?” Pascal’s eyes bulged.

  “A funny Puerto Rican man. He runs onstage with a popgun, makes a shooting sound, and you’re gone.” Pietro shaped his thumb and forefinger into a pretend gun. “Pop! That’s the Lafayette’s hook. It’s the only theater in New York where my people can sit in the orchestra. They put on classic plays there, too, starring colored actors.” He raised his eyebrows at Teresa. “What about it? Want to try?”

  Teresa shook her head. “Not after tonight.”

  “Guess I figured you different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t take you for a coward. After all, you did run away from home.”

  Teresa put both hands on her hips. “So what if I’m afraid. You were nervous tonight—weren’t you?”

  Before Pietro could answer, the stage manager strode out from the wings, his face red beneath its freckles. “What’s going on here? You giving this lady a hard time?”

  Pietro looked at his feet. “No, sir.”

  “We were just talking,” Teresa said quickly.

  “Pietro’s our friend!” Pascal said.

  The manager grabbed Pietro’s arm and twisted it behind his back. “Don’t get uppity in my theater, think you can socialize with a white girl. Didn’t I go out of my way to help you tonight?”

  Before Pietro could answer, Fido scrambled to his feet, the fur on his shoulders bristling. He stalked toward the stage manager.

  “Call off that dog!” The stage manager let go of Pietro and stumbled backward.

  Pascal pulled on Fido’s leash, but the dog’s legs were loc
ked in place and he quivered all over. Edna lifted her head and howled like a hound dog while the other dogs milled around the stage manager, growling. “Naughty dogs,” Teresa crooned in a sweet voice.

  The stage manager trembled with rage. “Get out of my theater. All of you. Right . . . this . . . minute. And don’t you ever come back.” He backed away slowly, his eyes on the dogs, his hands protecting his neck. He glared at Teresa. “I thought you had promise. Instead, I see you’ve got no sense.” The stage manager tripped over Pascal’s juggling bag, caught himself, and hurried into the wings.

  “Pick up your things—we need to find Maeve.” Teresa’s hands shook as she untangled the dogs.

  “Where’s Pietro?” Pascal asked.

  They turned around. The stage door stood open to the night. The dogs whined as Teresa and Pascal peered outside. Rain lashed the dark alley. Pietro was gone.

  27.

  Three days later, Teresa sat at the breakfast table, so tired she could hardly see. Every night, she and Maeve and Pascal had entered one amateur contest after another. The day before, they’d competed in the afternoon and again at night. Now Teresa had a sore throat and a froggy voice. If Mama were here, she’d make her a soothing hot drink, with honey and gingerroot. Nonnie would pull out some of her special throat lozenges, even give her a sip of her special evening “medicine.” Instead, Teresa was forced to sip Mrs. O’Donnell’s lukewarm tea.

  Maeve and Pascal had nearly won last night, and Teresa hadn’t done badly. Yesterday she’d sifted through some discarded sheet music on Mrs. O’Donnell’s piano and found a copy of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” In a rare moment of friendliness, their landlady had come into the dining room to listen as Teresa tried singing the tune. “Not bad,” she’d said, and corrected Teresa’s pronunciation. “Give it a bit of a lilt and belt it out. The Irish in the audience will love ya.” And they had. Last night’s crowd had peppered the stage with coins—Teresa even had some nickels and dimes in her pocket—but it was barely enough to keep Pascal in food; it was not enough to send him home.

  What would Nonnie tell her to do? Teresa reached into her cloth bag and pulled out the photo of her great-grandmother that she kept with her. Nonnie wore a beautiful, brocade dress with a high neck and long sleeves, one she’d probably stitched herself—and her eyes were clear and full of mischief. “Reach for the stars,” Nonnie had said. “I’ll try,” Teresa whispered. She slipped the photograph back in the bag. “No tuning rooms for me.”

  She went to the piano and studied another song: “By the Light of the Silvery Moon.” Pietro had danced to that number at the amateur night. It had a nice bounce with room for a quick tap shuffle at the end of each phrase. But her body felt awkward on stage. She’d probably trip over her feet if she tried to dance.

  Teresa glanced at the newspaper lying open on the table and flipped to the classified section at the back, where Maeve often found news of amateur nights and other contests. A bold headline jumped out at her: “INFORMATION WANTED.” Underneath, small box advertisements asked readers for information about runaway wives, and husbands who had abandoned their children. One ad wanted “News Of Owen Harte, Last heard from lying sick at St. Louis, Missouri.” Another asked: “Of Peter Gier, once of Manhattan. The undersigned sent him money and had it returned.”

  Teresa was about to put the paper away when she spotted her own name at the bottom of the page. Her hands shook so hard, she could barely read the notice, set off from the rest of the page in a box:

  INFORMATION WANTED: Of our children, Teresa and Pascal LeClair, of Brattleboro, Vermont. Last seen by station master in company of two dark-complexioned men on New York–bound train. Teresa age 15, redheaded singer. Pascal age 8, blond, slight. Reply to this office. Handsome reward provided by the undersigned. F. LeClair.

  Teresa tasted bile. “Idiote,” she whispered in French. Of course Papa would look for them! What was she thinking—that Mama and Papa would do nothing when their children disappeared? She had imagined Mama frantic with worry about Pascal, and Papa raging—but she hadn’t thought beyond that. Teresa read the ad again. At least Papa called her a singer. But how could he give away her age? What if some stage manager realized she wasn’t sixteen?

  Worse, Papa made it sound as if Pietro and Mr. Jones had kidnapped them. Teresa hadn’t even spoken to them on the train. Would this get them in trouble? Mr. Jones was right: She should have sent Papa a telegram right away. But then he’d come find them. Teresa felt dizzy.

  Metal crashed on the ceiling above her head and the chandelier swung wildly. Teresa tossed the newspaper onto the table as Mrs. O’Donnell strode through the door, brandishing her broom. She thumped the ceiling hard, adding pockmarks to the circle of bruises on the plaster. “That brother of yours,” she said. “Thinks I wouldn’t notice that my table knives are missing.” She glared at Teresa. “He’s up with that juggling team that came in last night. I’m going to speak to him now.”

  “I’ll go,” Teresa said.

  “Do it right away, then.” Mrs. O’Donnell gathered up the newspaper and tucked it under her arm. “No one cleans up their mess around here. Where’s that father of yours?” When Teresa didn’t answer, she said, “Humph. Thought so.” She headed for the kitchen. “Rent for next week is due Saturday,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Yes, Ma’am.” As if she could forget. Teresa stared at Mrs. O’Donnell’s retreating back, willing her to drop the paper, but she shut the door firmly behind her. Teresa ran upstairs.

  “Pascal!”

  Metal crashed again, a door opened, and Pascal stuck his head out. “What?”

  “Mrs. O’Donnell wants her knives back.”

  Pascal squinched up his nose. “Your voice sounds funny.”

  “Something wrong, Miss?” A young man with pinkish eyes, white hair, and skin the color of paste peered around the door.

  “I need—” Teresa caught her breath. She’d seen an albino squirrel once—was this an albino man? Whatever he was, he had a friendly smile. She looked past him into the bedroom. The floor was covered with props. Juggling balls, huge rings, and unlit torches were stacked in neat piles on the rug. A pair of stilts leaned against the dresser, and a second man, with olive-colored skin, stood in the middle of the room, juggling four white balls as naturally as if they were part of his breathing. The balls flew in lazy circles, singly, then in pairs, behind his back, over his head. He nodded at Teresa but never lost his rhythm.

  Pascal stepped closer, knocking the knives together at his feet. “They’re good, Resa. They’re teaching me things. Please, let me stay?”

  “We won’t hurt him, Miss,” said the pale man. “He’s no bother. We’ll keep the door open, if it makes you feel better.”

  “Sí,” said the second man. “Amigos,” he said, pointing at his chest, then at Pascal.

  Friends already? Was this safe? She thought of Papa’s warning, that vaude was “no place for children.” Still, the jugglers seemed kind and this was her last chance. “Thank you,” she said. “Pascal, I’m going out for a few hours. Return the knives to the kitchen, and don’t bother these men. If you need anything, ask Maeve. Don’t leave the boardinghouse, no matter what.”

  Pascal’s shoulders slumped and he suddenly looked small and frightened. “Where are you going?”

  “To see about your ticket home,” she said.

  Which was almost true. That would have to do for now.

  28.

  An hour later, Teresa stood outside an ornate, cast-iron fence, looking through the grillwork at a leafy park. She had found her way there by train and on foot, with a lift at the end from a kind man in a milk cart who said, “Sure, I know Gramercy Park. That’s where the rich folks live. They’re so fancy dancy, you can’t get in without a key.”

  Teresa pulled out Miss Connover’s card. Gramercy Park #3—were the houses inside the garden? She put a foot on the bottom rung and hoisted herself up, gripping the spiked bars at the top of the gate. It was hard
to see beyond the curtain of new spring leaves. Teresa dropped to the sidewalk. The milkman was right: The gate was locked and no one was inside.

  The sound of children chattering made her turn around. Two little girls, dressed in buttoned coats and felt hats, were skipping toward the gate, followed by an older woman whose face was as white as her starched cap. Was she a nursemaid? The woman strode to the gate, slipped a key into the lock, and let the girls through. Teresa hurried over before the gate swung shut. “Excuse me, Ma’am? I dropped an earring in here the other day—when I was walking with Miss Connover—I wonder if I could go in and look for it?” She edged into the space opened up by the gate—and now she could see, quite plainly, that there were no houses inside, just trees with the blush of new leaves, a planting of tulips, and some shrubs pruned into stiff shapes.

  The nurse waved Teresa away and pulled the gate closed with a heavy clang. “No strangers in the park—those are my orders. If Miss Connover took you in here once, I’m sure she’d do it again. Why don’t you ask her? She’s home this morning; I saw her in the hallway.”

  “Thank you!” As the nurse turned away, Teresa called, “Sorry to bother you again. It was raining the day I came. I’m not sure which house is Number Three.”

  “Why, the brick one.” The woman pointed toward a street beyond the park. “The number’s hidden behind the shrub. I keep telling the missus she should prune it back so’s people can see.” She hurried after her charges.

  Teresa followed the street around the back of the park to a row of elegant houses. As the nursemaid had said, a lilac bush concealed the number on the brick building. Teresa entered the front door and stood in a small entryway in front of a second door—which was locked. Three metal plates were screwed onto the wall, beneath three buttons. L. Connover, read the fancy script on one plate. Teresa cleared her throat and screwed up her courage. She’d come this far; she couldn’t turn back. She pushed the button. A bell sounded, then silence.