by Liza Ketchum
Teresa shook her head. “I forgot all about them. I hope they made the train.”
She pulled her cloak around her. They were out of the tunnel now, slipping past apartment buildings, brick warehouses, lumberyards, streets, and bridges. They crossed a river, where scrubby trees along the banks were just leafing out, their spring green a feathery contrast to the cold jumble of steel, brick, and stone. Teresa leaned against the glass.
Edna jumped up onto the seat and rested her head on Teresa’s lap. Dixie did the same with Maeve. The wheels sang an iron lullaby: Pockety pockety pocketa. Teresa’s eyes felt heavy. “Rocky Mountains, here we come,” Maeve said.
37.
The train stopped on a siding west of Buffalo, where Maeve and Teresa climbed out to walk the dogs. “Keep them on their leashes,” Maeve said. “Look—the Joneses are here.” She waved. As Pietro and his father came to join them, Maeve gave Teresa a nudge. “Handsome, isn’t he?” she said.
“Who?” As if she didn’t know.
Maeve laughed. “Your face matches the feather in my hat.”
“Stop it,” Teresa whispered.
Mr. Jones touched his cap and glanced around. “Your police going to follow us all the way to Denver?”
“I hope not,” Maeve said.
Pietro pointed to the front of the train. “Quite the engine. They switched to steam outside the city.”
The engine was massive, with six wheels on each side, some as tall as the conductor. Steam hissed from the smokestack. Teresa couldn’t speak. Maeve’s teasing had suddenly made her tongue-tied and she was relieved when the engineer signaled to the conductor, who waved his flag. “Board!” he called. The whistle responded with a quick toot.
Maeve beckoned to Mr. Jones. “Come sit with us.”
Mr. Jones hung back. “Well . . .”
“Come on, Daddy,” Pietro said. “We’re not down south.”
“Praise be,” Mr. Jones said.
“Oh!” Teresa said. “I forgot—I have your newspaper at my seat. Dixie picked it up in the station.”
“I wondered where that went,” Pietro said.
Maeve waved to the dogs. “Line up!” The dogs scrambled onto the train and pranced down the aisle as if they were making a stage entrance.
“Mama, look at the doggies!” a little girl cried.
“What is this?” a woman asked. “A circus act?”
“Almost,” Teresa said. “We’re part of a vaudeville troupe.” We. Teresa couldn’t help grinning.
Maeve shooed the dogs onto the floor when they reached their seats and beckoned to the Joneses. “Sit down, won’t you? Plenty of room.”
Mr. Jones glanced around the car. “I guess the coast is clear.” He opened his coat but kept it on as he settled into the seat next to Maeve. Pietro perched on the arm of the other seat as if he were about to bolt.
“New York State goes on forever,” Maeve said. “I remember that from when I first came east. Let’s have some stories. How did you get started?”
“Harlem was still country when I came up,” Mr. Jones said. “Lots of white folks. Italians raising goats where the fancy houses are now. No subway. I worked in hotels by day; at night, my wife and I danced wherever we could.” His eyes narrowed. “Back when we got along.”
Pietro frowned and nudged his father with his foot. “Come on, Daddy. That’s our private business.” He glanced at Teresa. “You got that newspaper?”
She handed it to him. Pietro took the paper without unrolling it. “Which one is it?” Teresa asked.
“Amsterdam News, out of Harlem. I pick it up whenever I can.”
Mr. Jones glanced at them. “My boy tries to convince me he’s interested in the local news. Truth is, he’s looking to read Du Bois’s column. All right with me.” He smiled. “Any sign of your singer girls on the train?”
“Not yet.” Teresa frowned. “I hope it works out. Julie sings sharp.”
“That girl is sharp in more ways than one,” Pietro said.
Maeve laughed, and Teresa felt the tension slip away.
“How’d you get started singing, Miss LeClair?” Mr. Jones asked.
“I traveled with my parents from the time I was born. They called me a ‘trunk baby.’”
Mr. Jones nodded. “A trunk was Pietro’s first cradle, too.”
Pietro rolled his eyes and looked out the window, as if fascinated by the fields passing by.
“When did you first go onstage, Resa?” Maeve asked. “Do you remember?”
“I was six. I performed with my parents a few times. Then my grandmother died, my great-grandma was home alone, and Pascal was born. So we stopped touring.” Now it was Teresa’s turn to study the newly plowed fields, the blush of spring green on the trees that sped past. Thinking about her family—especially Mama and Nonnie—was like picking a scab that wouldn’t heal.
The train swung from side to side, throwing Mr. Jones against Maeve. Suddenly a fat man with a contorted face leaned over the seat behind them. “What’s going on here?”
Maeve looked up and gave him her sweetest smile. “Why, nothing much. Just having a nice conversation. Is something wrong?”
“I’ll say there is. These boys bothering you ladies?”
Pietro and his father froze. A bad taste, like castor oil, swirled in Teresa’s mouth. She glared at the man. “No, sir. These men aren’t bothering us. Mind your own business. Please.”
The man’s face turned nearly purple. “Why—”
Maeve snapped her fingers and whispered a command. Fido growled; the other dogs jumped to their feet, whining and yipping. Maeve didn’t stop them.
“Seymour.” A woman standing behind the fat man clutched his arm. “Please don’t make a fuss. We’ll sit somewhere else.”
“Fine with me. I don’t need this menagerie.” The man lurched sideways as he hoisted his bag. “You ladies better watch yourself, if you know what’s good for you.” As he pushed through the door, his wife gave them a look of regret that said, clear as day, I’m sorry.
“Whew. Who could be married to a man like that?” Maeve asked as the door closed, taking them away.
“So much for being comfortable up north.” Pietro reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the book he always carried around. For the first time, Teresa was able to read the whole title: The Souls of Black Folk: Essays and Sketches. Pietro opened the book, skimmed through a few pages, and pointed to a passage he had underlined. “Du Bois says it in the Forethought, Daddy: ‘The problem of the Twentieth Century is the problem of the color-line.’”
“All too true,” Mr. Jones said.
“True in Illinois, where I’m from,” Maeve said. “Things weren’t so good in Springfield.”
Pietro stared at her. “That’s where you’re from?”
“It was,” Maeve said. “My family farms outside town. Not my home anymore, thank goodness.”
“Chicago’s all right. Wouldn’t boast on Springfield if I were you.” Pietro tucked his book back into his coat pocket and left without saying goodbye.
How rude! Teresa’s neck felt hot. Could Maeve help where she was born?
Mr. Jones stood and gripped the seat to steady himself. “Pietro thinks I don’t care about all this. Of course I’ve read Du Bois’s work. He’s brilliant. Right now, I got to make sure we keep up our routines, give the audience a good time, make sure the boy has three squares a day—and that he’s safe. I won’t hold on to him long.” He touched his cap. “See y’all in Chicago.”
Maeve’s eyes filled with tears as Mr. Jones took off down the aisle. “It’s my fault. I should never have asked them to sit with us. That man was awful—but why shouldn’t we sit with our friends?”
“Mr. Jones is a friend, but I don’t know about Pietro,” Teresa said. “Who’s the writer he talks about?”
“W.E.B. Du Bois,” Maeve said. “My father pounded the kitchen table whenever the Chicago paper printed his articles. All I’ve heard is that Du Bois is trying to help his peo
ple. He sounds very smart.”
Teresa ran her fingers through her hair and scrubbed her scalp, as if that might help to clear her head. “I feel stupid, not smart,” she said. “Papa was right. I should have learned my history.”
“Maybe,” Maeve said. “But there’s a lot they never taught us in history class.”
38.
“I’ll walk the train and look for the Toronto girls,” Teresa said later. “We need to choose our songs.”
“Good idea. Take Edna, in case you run into that angry man,” Maeve said. “She won’t let anyone bother you—will you, girl?”
Edna leapt to her feet, her tail wagging as Teresa leashed her and pushed the heavy door open against the wind. The couplings moved and slid beneath Teresa’s feet when she passed from one car to the next. She staggered from side to side like a tipsy woman, grabbing for handholds, but Edna trotted along without missing a step.
They walked the length of the train, passing hundreds of seated passengers. The waiter in the dining car scowled when she came through. “No dogs in here,” he said. Teresa nodded and hurried on. She finally spotted two identical gray hats, set on blonde curls, near the front of the train. Like Maeve and Teresa, Cat and Julie had set themselves up in two seats facing each other. Teresa reached them just as the train swept around a steep curve. Fighting to keep her balance, she grabbed ahold of Julie’s armrest and fell into a small space next to a hatbox.
“Nice entrance,” Julie said, in a dry voice.
“Hullo, Teresa!” Cat smiled and scratched Edna behind the ears. “Where are the other dogs?”
“With Maeve, near the end of the train.”
“Back where the colored folks sit?” Julie’s blue eyes were cold. “I saw you talking to those two men when we stopped on that siding.”
“So what if I was? Pietro and Mr. Jones are our friends.”
“You’re greener than swamp grass. Just like Pantages said.” Julie leaned toward Teresa, keeping her voice low. “It’s fine to have ideals. But you have to be smart—unless you want to lose your job.”
Julie made Teresa feel tired, and they hadn’t even tried to sing. “Let’s talk about something else. We need to pick some songs and practice.”
“She’s right, Jules,” Cat said. “We have a long train ride ahead.” She pulled a small book out of a satchel. “I have a list of songs we’ve performed. Want to see?”
• • •
The train sped west as Teresa and Cat wrote up a list of songs they all knew. Julie participated, but only when Cat asked, “What about that one, Jules?” For the most part, Julie gazed out the window, even though the train hurtled through darkness, with only an occasional glow of light in a distant farmhouse.
“Let’s figure out who sings lead on which songs,” Teresa said, guessing—correctly—that Julie would respond.
“You can’t just barge into our group and expect to be the star,” Julie said.
Teresa took a long, slow breath. “I didn’t ‘barge in.’ Mr. Pantages chose me. And who said anything about being a star?” Teresa handed Julie the piece of paper.
Julie scanned the list and frowned. “I say we should only sing songs that we all know by heart.”
“Jules, that’s silly,” Cat said. “Our act was getting tired—Lydia said so—and Mr. Pantages told us to come up with new material.” She glanced at Teresa. “Anyway, it’s two against one, so I say we learn some of Teresa’s songs—”
“And I’ll learn yours,” Teresa added quickly.
“Sing something now,” Cat said.
“All right. ‘Hard Times’ has nice harmony.” Teresa closed her eyes, listened for the first note, and began to sing. Cat hummed softly on the second verse and Teresa realized, with relief, that Cat had a good ear. By the third chorus, Cat was singing the words along with her. “Tis the song, the sigh of the weary . . .” Julie frowned and stayed quiet, but a few passengers turned around in the seats ahead of them; one woman stood up to listen and her little boy leaned toward them, his thumb in his mouth. The door to the next car opened, but Teresa didn’t pay attention—until she started the fourth verse and heard a voice behind her.
“Someone’s a little sharp.”
Pietro? Teresa turned around, but he was already gone.
Julie glared at Teresa. “Who does he think he is?” she asked.
“Who?” Teresa bit her lip, trying not to smile. Pietro was right, of course: Julie did sing off-key.
“You can’t fool me. He has no right to insult us.” Julie picked up her coat. “I’m going to complain to the conductor.”
Teresa leaned over to block her way. “Wait. I’ll speak to Pietro. He and his father have a fine dance routine. They’re too busy to bother us. And we need to practice.”
“She’s right, Jules.” Cat tugged Julie’s hand. “Let’s get going. How about ‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart’? You could take the lead on that one.”
“Good idea,” Teresa said, though it was a schmaltzy song.
Julie perched on the edge of her seat and crossed her ankles as if someone were about to take her picture. “All right.” She cleared her throat. “Damned Lydia—she could have left us the pitch pipe, at least.”
“Try this note,” Teresa said, humming.
Julie sang a few bars and shook her head. “Too low.”
Teresa pitched it higher. Julie swayed along with the train and tipped her head in a fetching way, but she still sang sharp, with movements as stiff as her voice. However, Cat’s voice was sweet and Teresa found a line of harmony just above her alto line. Would their voices ever blend? If Julie always sang off-key, they’d be “all wet”—as Papa would say—after their first performance in Denver. How had Julie been hired in the first place?
That was obvious: Julie was pretty, and her eyes had what Nonnie called a “come-hither look.” Yet her voice sounded like Papa’s fiddle when his bow slipped on the strings, causing it to shriek.
They needed a miracle.
39.
Teresa, Cat, and Julie sang together for an hour—or rather, Teresa and Cat sang while Julie pouted, criticized, and occasionally chimed in. Her voice even annoyed Edna, who huddled on the floor under the seats. When Teresa suggested they sing “The Sidewalks of New York,” Julie stood up. “Who’s going to care about that song in Denver?” She left for the lavatory without waiting for an answer.
“She hates that song because of her fiancé,” Cat said. “He didn’t want her to try out in New York, so he ended their engagement. He thinks vaudeville is improper.”
“That’s what my papa thinks, too—even though he used to perform himself.”
Cat bit her lip. “If Jules changes her mind, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“She can’t go anywhere as long as we’re on this train. Let’s try the song anyway.” Teresa whistled the first four notes. They sang the first verse and the train’s swaying rhythm mimicked the song’s waltz tempo. A few passengers turned around and joined in. Then the conductor, passing through with a wad of tickets in his hand, added a bass line on the final refrain.
“Time for a lullaby,” the conductor said when the scattered applause died down. “The porter will make up the sleeping compartments soon.” He nodded to Teresa. “Nice voice you have there, Miss. You part of a troupe?”
“We are,” Teresa said, and nodded at Cat. “My friend’s harmony makes me sound better.”
The conductor passed into the next car. “You didn’t have to say that,” Cat said.
“I meant it,” Teresa said.
“Julie says I’ll always be a backup—not a star.”
“What does she know?” Still, Julie could be right. Cat might be too shy, her voice too soft, to make it on her own.
“Julie’s not always like this,” Cat said.
When she didn’t explain, Teresa asked, “Where are you from?”
“A farm in Ontario. It’s lambing season now.” She winked back tears. “I’m homesick.”
“Why
did you leave?” Teresa asked.
“Pa said he had too many mouths to feed.” Cat wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I thought it would help him if I left. When Julie’s fiancé jilted her—” Cat took a deep breath. “Here she comes,” she said quietly.
“It’s late. I’ll see you in Chicago.” Teresa nodded at Julie—although the girl ignored her—and slipped away. Jilted? No wonder Julie was upset.
Teresa pushed through one heavy door after another and finally collapsed into the seat next to Maeve. Even Edna seemed exhausted; she jumped into Teresa’s lap and closed her eyes. “This will never work,” Teresa said.
Maeve stretched and yawned. “What’s wrong?”
“The so-called ‘Singing Triplets’ are doomed. Julie hates me, and she sounds like a fiddle out of tune.”
“Ouch,” Maeve said. “I’m worried, too. My act was so much better with Pascal. He covered my mistakes, distracted the audience. Who will take his place?”
“Not me, that’s for sure—I’d fall flat on my face.” Teresa huddled into her cloak and pulled Edna closer. Her stomach growled. They’d finished their snacks long ago and had little money left for food. Better to sleep off her hunger.
• • •
The train was an hour late reaching Chicago. Maeve led their troupe through the cars to the front of the train as it crawled into the station. They waited at the door, the dogs lined up and ready. “Ready to dash? We can’t miss our connection,” Maeve said.
They jumped the gap between the train and the platform and raced toward the station. The dogs barked and yipped; Teresa’s bag slammed against her shins. She passed a young man and a woman caught in a passionate embrace, the woman arched back with the man leaning over her. He held his hat in front of her face to hide their kiss, but Teresa recognized the yellow curls and the powder-blue coat. She scooped up the gray hat lying on the platform.
“Julie? You dropped your hat.”
“Resa, hurry! We’re out of time,” Maeve called.
Julie grabbed the hat and the man drew her into the shadows beneath the stairway—but Teresa saw the flush on Julie’s cheeks, her triumphant smile.