The Life Fantastic

by Liza Ketchum

  Pascal juggled with kitchen knives as the dogs trotted in circles around him. Had he stolen the knives from the boardinghouse? The cutlery spun and glittered above Pascal’s head, just missing his eyes and bitten fingernails. He looked small and vulnerable, with his hair falling into his eyes, but the audience loved him. At the end of Maeve’s act, the prop man appeared with a burning hoop and the dogs jumped through, one at a time, making a small pyramid with the biggest dogs on the bottom and tiny Dixie on top. Cheers erupted around the theater and coins rained onstage. Pascal zigzagged across the stage gathering pennies, but dropped them quickly, his face twisted in pain. “They’re hot!” he cried.

  The audience roared with laughter. A stagehand grabbed the flaming hoop and Maeve peeled off her gloves, handed them to Pascal, and strutted onto the apron, arms held high, her red skirt shimmering in the gaslight. She signaled to the dogs. They lined up and raised their rumps in the air, tails wagging, to take their own bows. More coins clattered onto the stage. Pascal pulled on a glove and dashed to and fro, picking up pennies, until the stage manager signaled them off.

  They ran into the wings, the dogs milling about. “They loved you!” Teresa cried. She hugged Pascal. “What’s wrong with the pennies?”

  “They’re burning hot!” he said.

  “They heat the coins with matches—that means they love us.” Maeve was gasping for breath.

  The next few acts came and went. Teresa barely noticed. Her insides were jelly. When Pietro and Mr. Jones went on, she forgot to send them off with the French swear word, and the roar of applause, when they came offstage, only made her more nervous. When it was her turn, her teeth chattered, though she was drenched with sweat after standing in the stuffy wings. “Help,” she whispered to Maeve.

  “Queen of England,” Maeve said.

  The announcer called Teresa’s name. He even pronounced it correctly. Maeve gave her a little shove. “Breathe.”

  She took some deep breaths. In her head, she heard Nonnie telling her to sing like an angel. All right, Nonnie, she told herself. This one’s for you.

  The audience settled down. Teresa took a step forward, then hesitated. “Hsst.” She looked across the stage. Pascal, Pietro, and Mr. Jones were signaling to her from the wings, urging her on. She strode out, swinging her arms as if she had all the time in the world. What if her voice squeaked?

  She took another breath while the band played the first few bars, and launched into “Silvery Moon.” She dipped and swayed from side to side along with the beat, tapping her toes. The crowd didn’t cheer, as they had for Maeve and then for the Joneses, but they were polite. She went straight into “Hard Times,” giving it a bit of bounce. When she reached the first chorus, Pietro’s tenor floated from stage left, adding harmony.

  Was he crazy? Teresa rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders, as if to say: He’s impossible—what can I do?—and kept on singing. She twirled her hand to speed up the tempo, and the band followed along. A solo banjo accompanied her on the next verse. Instead of bemoaning her fate, Teresa sang as if she dared the hard times to come back. “Many days you have lingered around my cabin door—oh! Hard times, come again no more!” She belted the last chorus to the last row in the balcony, and raised her hands in triumph, as if she’d beaten those hard times to the ground.

  A hush fell over the audience; silence hummed in her ears for a few long, terrifying seconds. Then the applause began. Teresa bowed, ran offstage, and returned for a curtain call. She glanced toward the wings, to see if Pietro would join her, but he had disappeared.

  “You were wonderful!” Maeve wrapped her in a tight hug. “When did you and Pietro practice?”

  “We didn’t.” Teresa leaned over, trying to catch her breath. “It was just like that other time, in Brooklyn. I guess he helps.”

  32.

  The next act—colored twin sisters with a song and dance routine—hurried onstage to perform a ragtime number. Teresa, Pascal, and Maeve took the dogs downstairs to wait for the final curtain call. Pietro was perched on a tall stool in the corner, reading that book he carried around. Mr. Jones leaned against the wall nearby, flipping through a newspaper.

  Teresa stopped in front of Pietro. “Thanks for singing with me,” she said.

  Pietro looked up. “Who, me? I’d never do that. You must be hearing things.”

  Was that the hint of a smile? “What are you reading?” she asked.

  He slipped a finger between the pages to mark his place. “The Souls of Black Folk. I was looking at the last chapter, where Du Bois writes about the ‘Sorrow Songs.’ Those are the songs we need to hear.”

  Mr. Jones lowered the newspaper. “Son, be gentle. She’s not the one to sing those tunes. And isn’t ‘Hard Times’ sorrowful enough? You’re much too cocky.” He gave Teresa a nod. “Pay him no mind. That song suits you.”

  Teresa thanked him and hurried down the hall to the dressing room, where Maeve and Pascal were resting with the dogs. Pietro had told her not to sing a Foster song—but then he’d joined in. He’d called her ignorant—but he’d just made her act a success. He talked about this writer named “Do—boyss” as if she should know who he was. She didn’t understand Pietro at all.

  • • •

  Seven acts to go. Pascal fell asleep wrapped in Teresa’s cloak, his head on Edna’s scratchy fur. Teresa rested her arms on the vanity and tried to sleep, but the floor above them shook with stomps, bumps, scrapes, and shuffles, and the audience countered with its own rough music of jeers or applause. Finally, the stage manager called, from the top of the stairs, “Places, everyone!”

  Teresa slipped into the end of the line and waited while shoes traipsed above her on the stairs: dance shoes, spats, floppy clown shoes, spiked heels. Her own Sunday choir shoes were shabby in comparison. Why had she entered this contest, anyway? She’d never win.

  As they filed out through the wings, Maeve nudged her. “Strut onstage, remind them who you are.” She clucked to the dogs. They pricked their ears and raised their tails into C shapes. The acrobat ahead of them entered with a backward flip, bouncing on his hands and landing on tiptoe, his arms in the air. Teresa followed Maeve and Pascal onstage, but the most she could manage was a small wave.

  The audience gave her a nice hand and they also had hearty cheers for Maeve and Pascal, as well as for the Joneses. But they saved their loudest roar for the comedian who had closed the night. Even the orchestra had laughed at his jokes—“a really good sign,” Maeve had told Teresa. He took the five-dollar bill from the stage manager, kissed it with a loud smack, and bowed low. The curtain swung closed for the last time.

  Five dollars. With that five-dollar bill, Teresa could have sent Pascal home. What would they do now?

  The performers hurried away in pairs or alone. Teresa and Pascal huddled with the dogs on the empty stage while Maeve talked to a man in an usher’s uniform. She ran over and tickled Pascal under the chin. “An usher says there’s a message for me in the lobby—hold the dogs, will you? And don’t look so blue. You were both terrific. Just think: Puerto Rico didn’t shoot us!” She parted the curtain, giving them a quick glimpse of the theater as she headed for the lobby. The seats were nearly empty and ushers were cleaning up.

  Pascal and Teresa untangled the leashes and hooked them onto the dogs’ collars. Pascal leaned against Teresa. “We didn’t win anything. How will I get to Vermont?”

  “We’ll figure something out. We have lots of coins—we can count them when we get home.”

  “Mrs. O’Donnell’s boardinghouse isn’t home.”

  “You’re right.” The stage felt vast and lonesome with everyone gone and Teresa was relieved when Maeve reappeared, her cheeks as scarlet as her blouse.

  “Resa! Pascal! Mr. Pantages wants to see me! He’s talking to Mr. Jones and Pietro now—and Resa, he wants to speak to you, too.” The dogs leapt up and nipped the hem of Maeve’s skirt, their tails wagging like tiny whips. Teresa’s heart thumped as she followed her up through
the curtain and up the aisle to the lobby. Was this her lucky break?

  • • •

  The lobby was full of people talking, laughing, and pushing through the doors. Maeve led them to Mr. Pantages. A white man with narrow eyebrows and oiled hair, he was talking to Mr. Jones and Pietro in the corner. He consulted a small notebook and glanced at Maeve as they approached. “Our animal act on the Western Tour has an injured horse. Miss Cullen, you and the dogs would do nicely in their place. I’ve told Jones and his son that we can also use a dance routine.” He peered over his glasses at Pascal. “You’ve got talent, son—but the Gerry Society will shut me down if I put you onstage. Come see me in a few years.”

  Pascal nodded and plopped down on the floor, sitting cross-legged. His face was blank. “Stand up,” Teresa whispered, grabbing his arm, but Pascal wrapped his arms around Dixie.

  “The boy needs his mother,” Mr. Pantages said, narrowing his eyes at Teresa.

  As if she didn’t know! Teresa listened as Mr. Pantages turned to Mr. Jones. “You and Miss Cullen will join the tour in Denver. Come into the office tomorrow and we’ll go over the route. Of course—western towns expect blackface.”

  Pietro scowled, but Mr. Jones nudged him and said, “Yes, sir.”

  Teresa couldn’t hear Pietro’s response. Her pulse swooshed in her ears as Mr. Pantages approached her. “You’re a bit green, but you’ve got a strong voice. No openings for singers on that western tour, but I do need song pluggers here in town. Come by tomorrow and I’ll get your information.” Teresa’s eyes burned, but she wouldn’t cry. A song plugger in New York was a step up from plugging songs in Brattleboro—but how could she manage on her own?

  Mr. Pantages handed out business cards. Pietro and his father took one and headed for the door, greeting people with smiles, waves, and tips of their hats. They slipped outside without saying goodbye. So much for being friends.

  “Watch yourself,” Mr. Pantages told Teresa as he gave her his card. “You’re lucky this is a friendly audience. You’ll be in serious trouble if you sing with that boy again, unless he’s in blackface.”

  “Yes, sir.” She’d never asked Pietro to sing with her—so why was it her fault? Teresa didn’t dare protest. Mr. Pantages put on a bowler hat and left the theater. A crowd of eager performers trailed after him, like children after the Pied Piper.

  “Teresa, do you know what this means?” Maeve clapped her hands, startling her. Dixie and Edna barked and yipped. “No more amateur nights. No more scrambling for money to pay the rent. Four shows a day on the road. My own route at last.” She hugged Teresa, then Pascal, and handed out biscuits to the dogs. Fido and Bronwyn balanced on their hind legs, their tongues wagging, and the few people left in the lobby clapped and laughed.

  Teresa tried to smile. She should be happy for her friend. But who would keep her company now? Who would encourage her, push her onstage when her heart was quailing? As if she knew that Teresa was upset, Edna trotted over and leaned against Teresa’s leg. Her warmth was a comfort—but even Edna would be gone soon.

  Maeve slapped herself on the cheek. “What a fool I am! To boast like this—when you won’t be with me. You’re like my sister now. What will I do without you?”

  Pascal was petting Dixie, his face buried in her fur. “That’s okay. I want to go home.” Tears streaked his wan face. “Don’t you miss Mama and Papa, Resa? What about Nonnie?”

  Did he have to bring up Nonnie? Teresa couldn’t speak.

  Maeve ruffled Pascal’s hair and pulled him to his feet. “We’ll get you home soon, though my act won’t be the same without you. Leash the dogs, will you?” They gathered dogs and props and headed for the stage door. Maeve gave Teresa a sad look before they went outside. “You look like you just lost your best friend.”

  “Maybe I did.”

  “Don’t be silly. We never say goodbye in vaude. Just arrivederci, because we always meet again.” She kissed Teresa on the cheek and hoisted her prop bag. “Song plugging is a good way to get started. They might even give you a car of your own, so you can zip from one theater to the next.”

  “I don’t know how to drive,” Teresa said.

  “So—you’ll learn! I can see you now, touring around town in your Tin Lizzie.” Maeve put two hands on an imaginary steering wheel, squealed, and leaned to one side, as if taking a corner too fast. The dogs yipped and tugged at their leashes. Teresa knelt beside Edna and buried her face in the dog’s fur. “I might have to steal you,” she whispered.

  Although it was late, the sidewalk outside the Lafayette teemed with people. Maeve raised her voice above the hubbub. “You’ve been here a week and you haven’t seen the Great White Way. That means you haven’t lived. Follow me.”

  • • •

  An hour later they stood at the corner of Broadway and Forty-second Street. Teresa felt breathless. Had someone plucked the Milky Way from the sky and draped it over Manhattan? Lights winked, shimmered, and beamed in all directions. Strings of electric lights spelled words; poured champagne into a glass as tall as a building; flashed the names of stars on theater marquees.

  “Look at the kitty!” Pascal cried. A giant white kitten, electrified from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail, played with a silken ball of yarn. Nearby, the figure of a white woman, outlined in lights, danced with open arms above the crowded street. Although it was after midnight, crowds streamed past: men sporting bowlers and walking sticks, women in wide-brimmed hats so laden with feathers, it seemed as if the women might topple under their weight.

  When Maeve said it was time to go, Teresa lagged behind with Edna and Cleo, humming Mama’s favorite waltz tune. “East side, West side . . . we’ll trip the light fantastic on the sidewalks of New York.”

  More like the life fantastic. Teresa finally smiled.

  33.

  They straggled up the sidewalk in the early hours of the morning, surprised to see the boardinghouse windows ablaze with light. Pascal was almost sleepwalking as Maeve and Teresa helped him up the steps. Maeve pulled out her key, but the door was unlocked. “How strange.”

  Teresa followed her inside—and nearly fell over. Mrs. O’Donnell stood in the entry in her dressing gown, her hair under a nightcap. “About time,” she said. “Someone’s waiting for you.”

  Edna growled low in her throat. Teresa looked past their landlady. Had someone died? She gasped. A florid-faced policeman stood in the corner, his arms crossed—

  Next to Papa.

  Pascal screamed. “Papa!” He threw himself into Papa’s arms, sobbing.

  “There, there, Pascal. Reste tranquille. Easy. Are you all right, mon petit?” Papa stooped to touch Pascal all over, like a father checking a newborn baby. He spoke to Pascal in French, his voice too soft and soothing for Teresa to hear his words, then set Pascal on the couch. At last, he turned to Teresa. “What can you say for yourself?”

  Teresa’s voice had flown. She was in one of those nightmares where you freeze in place, unable to speak or run. Papa made no move to touch her, to hug her—nothing. “Hello, Papa,” she managed to squeak out at last.

  Maeve came up with a pale smile. “We didn’t mean to be so late.” She put out her hand to Papa. “I’m Maeve Cullen,” she said. Papa ignored her, and Maeve’s face went scarlet as her hand fell to her side.

  Teresa was blinded by tears. Everything was ruined. She started for the stairs, but the policeman—who had been still as a statue—was suddenly at her side. He set a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Not so fast, young lady. We need information about the men who kidnapped you.”

  “Kidnapped?” Teresa’s heart raced. What had Papa said, in his ad? Last seen . . . in company of two dark-complexioned men . . .

  Pascal leapt to his feet. “Pietro and Mr. Jones didn’t do anything!” he cried.

  “Hush, Pascal.” Teresa remembered Pietro’s warnings and the stories Maeve had told her. She faced the policeman. “I came to New York on my own. It’s my fault. I paid my own way. Pascal followed
me, but Papa is right: I should have told him we were safe.” No matter what Papa said or did now, she would never admit that she’d stolen Mama’s egg money—or that Mama had told her it would be hers . . . someday. “Mr. Jones is kind. He told me to send you a telegram, but I didn’t listen. So if you need to arrest anyone—arrest me.”

  She pushed up her sleeves and held out her hands for the cuffs. The policeman glanced at Papa. “Sir?”

  “Resa, don’t be a fool.”

  Maeve cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Mr. LeClair. I’m at fault, too. I should have insisted they get in touch with you. But Pascal is talented—he added so much to my act. Maybe we can show you in the morning?” Maeve gave Papa her prettiest smile, but he didn’t melt.

  “We will be on our way before dawn.” Papa pulled Pascal close. “This is a family matter.”

  Maeve turned to the policeman. “Teresa and Pascal are right, officer. The men you’re accusing had nothing to do with any of this.”

  Papa grunted. “Officer, I’m sorry we wasted your time. I’ll take care of them now.”

  “You have a telephone in Vermont?” the policeman asked. When Papa nodded, he handed him a card. “Anything makes you uneasy, call this number.” No one spoke as he left the room.

  Mrs. O’Donnell stood in the doorway, scowling. “I expect all of you out of here in the morning.” She turned to Maeve. “That includes you. One of your mutts howled last night until I thought I’d lose my mind. I’ve had enough of you and your riffraff.”

  “They’re not mutts,” Pascal said. “They’re terriers.”

  “It’s all right.” Maeve hugged Pascal and squeezed Teresa’s hand. “Come see me later,” she whispered, and hurried her dogs upstairs. Pascal curled up on the sofa and fell asleep, as if life were back to normal.

  Teresa’s knees suddenly felt wobbly. She leaned against the wall.

  “Well?” Papa said. “Your mother has been crazy with worry. Nonnie paces up and down with her cane. I’m here in New York missing work; who knows what Estey will do to me. You owe me an apology. And you need to thank Mrs. O’Donnell. She saw my ad and was kind enough to call me.”