The Life Fantastic

by Liza Ketchum

  She waited: nothing. Pushed the button again. This time, a door opened on an upper floor and she heard the faint sound of piano music. “Who is it?” a high-pitched voice called.

  Teresa took a deep breath. “Teresa LeClair. I’m here to see Miss Connover.”

  “She’s giving a lesson. Do you have an appointment?”

  “She asked me to visit her.” Teresa climbed the stairs to the first landing, her heart pounding like her footsteps.

  “Just a moment.”

  The music stopped. Teresa wiped her damp palms on her skirt. What was taking so long? Finally, the same woman’s voice said, “Come up. But you’ll have to wait.”

  Teresa hurried up the stairs, expecting a grown woman. Instead, a girl about her own age stood in the doorway. She wore a maid’s uniform, her sandy hair tied back in a bun under a starched cap. She showed Teresa into a small room, pointed to a straight-back chair, and said in a clipped voice, “Miss Connover will be with you shortly.”

  Teresa’s palms were damp. She wiped them on her skirt. The maid raised an eyebrow. “Miss Connover wonders if your parents are with you?”

  None of your business, Teresa thought, but she said, “Not yet.”

  The maid made a small, disapproving noise and left the room.

  Teresa wiggled in the hard chair, trying to get comfortable. A china bowl filled with wrapped toffees sat on a small table beside a love seat, just like Mama’s candy basket in the front hall. Teresa’s stomach growled and her throat burned. Surely Miss Connover left these for visitors? She quickly tucked three candies into her pocket.

  Bookshelves lined the walls of the room from floor to ceiling. Their leather bindings, nestled against the paneled shelves, made the room feel warm. Chintz fabric covered the loveseat, and a lamp lit the room with a golden glow. Even though she’d worn her best skirt and blouse, and wiped her boots clean, Teresa felt shabby next to these fine things.

  Low voices sounded in the next room and the piano music started again, an odd melody in the key of E-flat. The dissonant chords grew so loud and angry, Teresa wanted to clap her hands over her ears. She tiptoed into the hall and peered into the most magnificent space she had ever seen. A row of floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the trees in the park below. Oil paintings in ornate frames hung on the walls, which were painted a soft yellow. A red-and-gold carpet covered the floor, and a real piano—a shiny, black, grand piano—stood in the middle of the room, its lid propped open. A young man with slick brown hair sat at the keyboard. Miss Connover leaned over him, pointing at the sheet music. “Try that phrase again,” Miss Connover said. “Ives wants you to feel what he’s seeing.”

  Who was Ives? The scene was beautiful, elegant—and all wrong. Teresa edged away from the door. She thought of Maeve’s laugh, more musical than anything this man was playing. She thought of the dogs, prancing along New York streets as if they owned the world. Finally, she pictured herself, wedged into a tight starched uniform, taking orders from a prissy maid no older than herself, trying to learn opera—while the hurly-burly, gritty life of variety went on without her.

  Teresa turned, tripped on the edge of the carpet, and caught herself just in time. Her boots clattered on the stairs. The music came to a sudden halt.

  “Teresa?” Miss Connover’s clear voice rang out in the stairwell, but Teresa threw open the door. She left it open behind her, dashed past the park, and ran down a long block until she’d left the fancy houses behind. She plunked down on a stone wall to catch her breath.

  Papa was right. Opera was for fancy folks. No matter how hard she tried, she’d always be Teresa LeClair, daughter of a vaudeville singer and a catgut scraper. And proud of it.

  Teresa glanced at the street sign. Twenty-first Street—more than thirty blocks to Mrs. O’Donnell’s. She unwrapped a toffee and let its sweetness soothe her throat. Pietro’s words from the other night suddenly echoed in her head: I didn’t take you for a coward.

  “I’m not,” Teresa announced to the empty sidewalk. She took a deep breath and began to walk.

  29.

  When Teresa finally arrived at the boardinghouse, her legs ached from the long walk, but her head felt clear. Dusk was falling, and the house was quiet. This was the hour when performers would be walking up and down on The Beach, or traveling to an amateur night. The lucky ones would be applying their makeup in a dressing room, in a real theater.

  The dining room was empty. An envelope was propped up against the sugar bowl. She bent over to look at it. Her name, Pascal’s, and Maeve’s were scrawled across the envelope in a bold, unfamiliar hand. She tore the letter open and carried it to the window, reading in the fading light.

  Miss Cullen, Miss LeClair, and Pascal. Amateur Night, Lafayette Theatre, Thursday at seven. 7th Ave. and 132nd St. Mr. Pantages is coming. Learn any new songs? New juggling tricks? Pietro Jones.

  Tomorrow was Thursday. If she won some money, she could send Pascal home. But who was Mr. Pantages?

  Teresa folded the note. Pietro was being friendly again. After that awful night when the stage manager drove Pietro out, she assumed they’d never see him again. She rushed upstairs to Maeve’s room and knocked. Silence. She hurried to her own room. A note was pinned to the door: We’re trying again. Pascal is safe with me. See you at breakfast. Maeve.

  The tiny room felt lonesome and dark under the eaves. Teresa picked up the sheet music for the “Silvery Moon” song. The song only had one real verse. She hummed the tune and went over the words, singing each line over and over to memorize it.

  Amateur night at the Lafayette. Where “Puerto Rico” would “shoot” you if you “died”—could she do it?

  Teresa clenched her jaw. She’d said no to Papa and Estey; today, goodbye to opera. If she wanted to make it in vaudeville, it was now or never.

  “By the light . . . of the silvery moon . . .”

  • • •

  Teresa was waiting in the dining room the next morning when Maeve dragged in, long after everyone else had eaten breakfast. She looked pale and worn. She poured herself a cup of coffee, spooned in three heaping teaspoons of sugar, laced it with cream, and sipped it slowly, propping her chin up with one hand.

  “Where’s Pascal?” Maeve asked.

  “Still sleeping. You came in late.”

  “A terrible night,” Maeve said. “I’m ready to go back to Illinois.”

  “Not yet.” Teresa passed her Pietro’s note.

  Maeve read it, rubbed her eyes, read it again. “Pietro? Oh, that boy who likes you—”

  “He doesn’t!” Teresa slopped coffee on the table and blotted it with her napkin.

  Maeve rolled her eyes. “Could have fooled me.”

  “He’s much older and he thinks I don’t know anything. Besides . . .”

  “I know. But you must be careful.” Maeve lowered her voice. “Colored men in the South get lynched if they look at a white girl. There are crazy places in this country—including my hometown.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  Maeve inched closer. “Five years ago, in Springfield, Illinois, near where I grew up, a white woman claimed she’d been raped by a colored man. She lied—but the city went crazy. People killed innocent Negroes, burned their homes and stores, drove the rest out of town. It was horrible.” Maeve picked at her napkin. “After it happened, my father . . .” She cleared her throat. “He didn’t say he approved of the riots. But there were strange meetings at our house. You know about the Klan?”

  “Sort of.” Papa had told Teresa about white men in white robes who burned crosses and terrorized and killed colored people—and sometimes even Catholics. That made Papa very nervous, though he hardly ever went to church. “I thought they were only in the South.”

  “I’m afraid not. A crowd of men came to our house, carrying their robes and pointed hats—and my daddy knew them all. I couldn’t believe it. I had to leave.” Maeve gave Teresa a wan smile. “But I found my dogs, created my act. Now I’ve met you and Pascal.
But yes—you and Pietro should be careful.”

  Teresa looked away. A car sputtered past a horse and carriage on the street. The horse shied and whinnied. Pedestrians hurried past, some dressed in finery, others in ordinary work clothes. Many faces were white, but some were brown. Everywhere in New York, she heard languages from all over the world. Had she lived in a dream, back in Vermont? She thought of Miss Wilkins and her popular café. Everyone loved her pies and breads—but was Miss Wilkins ever afraid?

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Maeve said.

  “I never knew what it was like for people like Pietro and his father,” Teresa said. “We didn’t know about those riots.”

  “You were just a little girl then.”

  “But my parents must have been onstage with people wearing blackface. They never talked about it.”

  Maeve shrugged. “It probably seemed normal to them. Just the way things are.”

  “Pietro hates wearing cork.”

  “Who can blame him?” Maeve lathered jam on a biscuit and ate it, brushing the crumbs off the tablecloth. When she looked at Teresa this time, her eyes twinkled again. “Pietro has laid down quite a challenge. A Lafayette audience could be tough. And we’d perform for Mr. Pantages!”

  “Who is he?”

  “Alexander Pantages, born Pericles Pantages in Greece—imagine a name like that! Anyway, he runs the Western Circuit. He must be looking for new talent.” Color rose in her cheeks. “Well?” Maeve asked.

  “Well what?”

  “I’m game if you are.”

  Teresa buttered a biscuit and nibbled at the edges. “What if we’re the only white people in the theater?”

  “Then we’ll know how Pietro feels at our amateur nights.”

  Teresa hadn’t thought about it that way. “Pietro said the Lafayette has a man with a toy gun who ‘shoots’ the worst acts.”

  Maeve laughed. “Then we’ll collapse onstage and play dead.”

  Teresa picked at her biscuit. “It could be my last chance. If we don’t win anything, I’ll have to go home. And I still owe you money.”

  “You’ll pay me back someday.” Maeve grabbed Teresa’s hand. “You can’t leave now. You don’t know how good you are. You need to strut a little, show some stage presence.”

  She pushed her chair back. “Let’s line the chairs up.” She drew the chairs into two rows, making an aisle beside the table and the sideboard, and pointed to Teresa. “You’re in the wings, stage left, about to make your entrance. The audience is out there.” Maeve waved toward the windows. “The spotlight tracks you as you come onstage. You’re going to slay them.”

  Maeve tossed her hair back and pranced along the aisle she had made. “You’re as regal as the Queen of England. Come on!”

  Teresa went to the door, pulled herself up to her full height, and tried to walk on as Maeve had. But her hand knocked against the table, and she tripped on the edge of the carpet, nearly falling down. “I’m too big and clumsy,” she cried.

  “Nonsense. Most women would kill to be as busty as you are—and many would buy a sheath dress to show it off. Try again.”

  Teresa caught sight of her face in the mirror over the sideboard. Her cheeks were so scarlet it looked as if her freckles ran together. “How does the Queen of England walk?”

  “Like she owns the world. As if she’s better than anyone else around.”

  Teresa went to the door again. This time, she held her head high and snapped her fingers to an imaginary beat, adding a little bounce in her step. When she reached a spot that could be center stage, she planted her feet like a dancer, one foot in front of the other, and nodded toward Maeve. “Music, please.”

  Maeve laughed. “Excellent! Now do it again. And again.”

  30.

  Teresa, Maeve, and Pascal practiced for the Lafayette all day. While Teresa went over her songs, Pascal and Maeve worked on a new trick. Finally, at Maeve’s insistence, they all took naps. “We’ve got to be rested and ready,” she said.

  The Lafayette was as elegant as any theater on Broadway, with bright lights blazing on the marquee. Teresa’s palms were damp and her throat was scratchy and dry. She watched Maeve dress in a crowded dressing room below the stage while questions swarmed like bees in her mind. Why had Pietro asked them to come? He read newspapers all the time—had he seen Papa’s ad? He wouldn’t turn her in—would he?

  Floorboards rumbled above them as the audience filed in, and stagehands rushed up and down the stairs, carrying props. Teresa snapped her fingers at Edna. “You go on for me, pooch.” The dog set her head in Teresa’s lap, waiting for an ear rub. Maeve stood with her back to Teresa, putting on her makeup. She wore a tight red skirt and a low-cut blouse. “You look nice. But I can’t do this,” Teresa said.

  “You don’t have a choice, doll. The orchestra has your music—you’re going on.” Maeve opened her lipstick. “My hands are shaking. You trust me to make you up?”

  “Do what you want,” Teresa said. “They’ll hate me.”

  With their makeup in place, they combed each other’s hair. Pascal brushed the dogs. “Ready, Pascal? We’re on second,” Maeve said.

  Pascal nodded. Teresa glanced at her brother. His face was pale and his eyes seemed dull. Guilt twisted in her belly. She gave him a quick, sideways hug. “Just one more night,” she said. “You’ll be great.”

  He shrugged her off and lifted his juggler’s bag. It rattled and clanked as they started up the stairs.

  “Brattleboro meets Harlem.”

  Teresa recognized Pietro’s voice before she turned around. He was dressed in the cutaway suit and white starched shirt he’d worn in Brooklyn. His flower was the only change: a white carnation in his buttonhole. “Nervous?” he asked. Before she could answer, Pietro reached for Pascal’s bag. “That’s heavy, young man,” he said, and hoisted it over his shoulder. “You have new tricks up your sleeve?”

  Pascal finally smiled. “Maybe,” he said. “Don’t look in the bag.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Pietro said. “You’re smart not to give your secrets away, even to your friends.”

  Friends. Teresa flushed, embarrassed that she’d thought badly of Pietro. “Is your father here?”

  “Right behind you.” Teresa glanced down the stairs. Mr. Jones tipped his top hat to her but didn’t smile. He looked as nervous as she felt. They climbed to the stage together. The wings were full of performers, some in fancy dress, others wearing acrobats’ costumes. Except for a blonde woman in a ball gown, every other face was brown or black. She and Maeve and Pascal pulled the dogs into the wings on stage left. Edna licked Teresa’s hand. “Thanks, girl,” Teresa whispered. “That helps.”

  “When do you go on?” Maeve asked Mr. Jones.

  Pietro held up seven fingers.

  “How did you get your lucky number again?” Teresa asked.

  Pietro shrugged. “Someone wants us to win.” He danced a lazy soft-shoe pattern in the wings.

  “Curtain in five,” a man called from behind the scrim.

  They waited in the shadows. Pietro adjusted his tie, smoothed his hair, replaced his hat, fiddled with his carnation. Knowing that Pietro was nervous only made Teresa feel worse. She peeked around the curtain. The theater was enormous, with tier upon tier of seats. The audience was the most elegant of any she’d seen, with only a few white faces. The women wore ruffled dresses of silk or organza, more elegant than any party gown Nonnie had made. If only Nonnie could see this finery! A few even sported fur coats on this warm night. The men paraded down the aisle in stylish suits, carrying canes with carved handles. “Everyone looks so dressed up,” Teresa whispered.

  Pietro nodded. “High tone. You watch out for that Foster tune—might be a problem here.”

  “Why?”

  Pietro shook his head. “For someone so smart, you don’t know much. In his other songs, Foster celebrated slave life. You think we like that stuff? ‘Massa’s in de cold cold ground’—‘My old Kentucky home’—worked
by slaves?” he said, nearly spitting the word “slaves.”

  Teresa’s eyes burned. “Those words aren’t in my song,” she said. Pietro was the most confusing person she’d ever met. He called her smart but criticized her in the same breath. Some friend!

  “Pietro, watch your mouth,” Mr. Jones said. “Don’t spoil Miss LeClair’s act—pay attention to your own. We don’t want to end up on the Death Trail.”

  “Where’s that?” Pascal asked. His voice trembled.

  Pietro tightened Pascal’s scarf. “Up north in Canada, where it’s so cold you freeze your nose off.”

  “I’m going home,” Pascal said.

  Pietro glanced at Teresa. “That so?”

  Teresa didn’t answer. Her stomach was playing tricks on her. She swallowed hard, determined not to throw up.

  “Curtain in two!” the voice called. And then: “Places, first act!”

  With a roll of the snare drum, amateur night at the Lafayette began.

  31.

  As Pietro predicted, the audience was hard to please. They hated the first dumb act. They shouted, threw things, and stomped their feet, until Puerto Rico, the man with the toy gun, “shot” the acrobats. They crept offstage to boos and catcalls.

  Maeve was next. Her face was pale against her dark hair, her lips tight with fear as the announcer called their names. “Please welcome Madame Maeve, her Marvelous Marching Dogs, and a surprise guest!” he cried.

  Pascal clung to Teresa’s waist. “I can’t do it.”

  “Too late now.” Maeve put on a shiny smile as if it were a piece of clothing, and Teresa gave Pascal a tiny shove. “Break a leg.”

  At Maeve’s command, the dogs reared up on their hind legs and trotted out from the wings. The audience roared with delight, and the applause continued right through their act. The dogs hopped up and down off their little stands, lined up in a row of five so that Alix could trot across their backs, and jumped through Maeve’s hoops.