The Life Fantastic

by Liza Ketchum

  “Dogs! Come!” Maeve’s shrill whistle sounded from along the platform. The three dogs in Teresa’s care leapt forward, yanking Teresa with them. She ran.

  They reached the gate just as the conductor called out, “ALL ABOOAARD!”

  Teresa stepped onto the bottom step of the nearest car, shooed the dogs into the train, and clung to the railing as the other passengers wrestled their bags inside. “Teresa!” a high voice called.

  “Cat!” Teresa leaned out as Cat ran for the train. “Grab my hand. You’ll make it.” The conductor blew his whistle and waved a red flag. “Hurry!” Teresa cried.

  “I can’t.” The train began to move. Cat trotted alongside, gasping for breath. “Julie’s fiancé changed his mind . . . he came early on the Philadelphia train . . . they’re getting married . . . after all. I’m sorry! I want to go—ho . . .”

  The clattering of the wheels drowned her last word, but Teresa understood: Cat was headed home to Ontario. She waved until the girl’s tiny figure disappeared. She liked Cat. Now she’d never see her again. But that was the least of her problems.

  Maeve poked her head out, struggling to hold the door open while the train picked up speed. “Resa—what’s wrong? I thought you were right behind me.”

  “I was. I’ll explain later.” Teresa untangled Edna’s leash and tried to find the train’s rhythm as she followed Maeve through one car, then another and another, grasping for the seats as she lurched from side to side. The wheels sang a new song this time: What now? What now? What now?

  40.

  Maeve and Teresa finally found two open seats near the front of the train. Maeve hoisted her prop bag onto the shelf overhead and fell into the backward-facing seat. “Phew! We made it. Denver, here we come.” She winked at Teresa. “You certainly attracted attention as we went through the cars.”

  “Me? Why?” Teresa sank into the opposite seat. “They were looking at the dogs. Weren’t they, Edna?” She pulled her dog—for that’s how she thought of Edna now—into her lap.

  Maeve rolled her eyes. “Resa, dear Resa—your flaming curls and copper eyes turn heads—and now you’ve learned to walk like the Queen of England, with Edna strutting beside you. You’re the best advertisement for both our acts. I’m just glad we have the dogs to protect us.”

  Teresa’s face felt warm. “People notice me, even in this wrinkled shirtwaist?”

  “Even so. Once I finish your new frock, you’ll have every audience at your feet.”

  “If I can go onstage.” Teresa explained what had happened with Cat and Julie.

  “Oh, dear. What a pickle.”

  “I know. Not that I liked the group—well, Cat was all right. But what will Pantages do to me? I’m supposed to be part of the ‘Singing Toronto Triplets.’ Now I’m all by myself and I’m not even from Canada. Although my papa was born in Québec.”

  “There you go. One problem solved.” Maeve sat forward in her seat. “It just so happens that you’re the only one of the triplets who can sing.”

  “The Denver stage manager doesn’t know that. He could still toss me out.”

  “Not right away. He’ll have his lineup all figured out, and he won’t be able to fill that spot with someone else. If you slay them at the first house, the stage manager will think he can’t live without you.” Maeve placed her palm over her heart and batted her eyes.

  Teresa couldn’t help laughing. “You’re dreaming. How will I slay them?”

  “The same way you did in New York, only better. Practice, practice, practice. You’ll go onstage in your wonderful new costume, open your mouth—and they’ll throw you jewels, instead of pennies. But first, we need to finish the skirt and blouse.” She dug into her valise, took out the silky yellow fabric they had bought in New York, and held it up to Teresa’s face. “This will bring out the color of your hair—”

  Teresa laughed. “It’s not obvious enough already?”

  “Trust me. You like my costumes, don’t you?”

  Teresa nodded, although she was glad that Papa hadn’t seen Maeve onstage in her short pants, tights, and plunging neckline. Never mind. Papa wasn’t on this train—and Teresa couldn’t perform in schoolgirl clothes.

  Maeve had cut out and pinned the fabric on the first leg of their trip. Now she spread it across her lap and rummaged in her prop bag for a needle and thread.

  “What songs were you working on with the triplets?”

  “A real mix—oh! Lucky me. I made the list.” Teresa pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her skirt pocket. “Cat and I each wrote down the songs we both knew.” She studied her scrawled notes. “There are ten numbers. A few were for Julie to sing lead—and I didn’t like those.”

  “So scratch them. You’ll pick four or five songs you love and sing your heart out. We’ll listen and decide which ones sound best.”

  “We?”

  “Mr. Jones and Pietro, of course.” Maeve sat back. “I haven’t seen them since Union Station—have you?”

  Teresa shook her head. “Maybe they missed the train.”

  “Not likely. I’ll bet they needed a rest from all the commotion yesterday.” Maeve pressed her face to the window, as if looking for someone in the passing scenery. Dixie leaned against her while Fido and Bronwyn sat at her feet, their ears pricked as if to protect her. They seemed to sense Maeve’s moods. The farmland rolled and tucked into itself, the lush green pastures alternating with dark, newly plowed fields.

  Maeve turned to Teresa, her eyes glassy with tears. “I thought this wouldn’t bother me.”

  “Are we near your farm?”

  “So close. When I was a little girl, playing outside, I used to hear the train’s lonesome whistle as it neared the crossing.” She took Teresa’s hand. “I had eight brothers. I always wished for a younger sister. Now I found one—so you have to do well on this tour. We’ll figure it out.”

  Teresa moved closer to Maeve, shifting Dixie gently out of the way. What should she do to comfort her friend?

  She thought of Mama, who liked to say, “Singing scares our troubles away.” So Teresa hummed the tune to “Hard Times” and sang a soft round of the chorus. Maeve tapped her fingers, though she didn’t open her eyes. They leaned against one another and the train rocked them to sleep.

  • • •

  Hours later, they crossed the Mississippi River and pulled over at a siding. “We’re waiting on an eastbound freight,” the conductor called from the back of the car. “Twenty minutes, if you want to stretch your legs.”

  They tumbled out into a brisk, cold wind. Teresa pulled her cloak around her and squinted. “Look!” She waved at two familiar figures near the rear of the train. “There they are.”

  She and Maeve hurried to meet the Joneses. “Where have you been?” Teresa asked.

  Pietro and his father shared a look. “Here and there,” Pietro said at last.

  “Seems like a long ride,” Mr. Jones said. “At least we’re not down south where they make coloreds sit in the last car, then use that car for target practice.”

  Teresa felt sick. “Is that true?”

  “Afraid so. Listen to this.” Pietro pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and read. “‘The morning breaks over blood-stained hills. We must not falter, we may not shrink. Above are the everlasting stars.’” When no one spoke, Pietro said, “That’s the end of the speech Du Bois gave at Harpers Ferry, to start the Niagara Movement. So many states are ‘blood-stained.’”

  Harpers Ferry? Was that where John Brown was killed? Something else she might have learned in history class—if only she’d paid attention.

  Mr. Jones glanced over his shoulder. “Pietro, be careful. You quote that man in the wrong company, you’ll get us all in trouble.” He coughed, drew out a handkerchief, and wiped his face. The dogs tugged at their leashes as they waited for him to finish. Finally he nodded at Pietro. “Still, I’m glad we’re out of Illinois. I was thinking President Lincoln would be rolling in his grave if he knew what had happened in Sp
ringfield, his hometown.”

  “That was a few years back, Daddy. Don’t fret.” Pietro put an arm over his father’s shoulders and Teresa hung back. Had she ever tried to comfort Papa? No: He was bristly, like a wire brush. She touched her locket, thinking of the tiny photograph inside, how Papa had once looked so proud of his little family. Did Papa miss her now? Was he worried about her? She walked slowly along the verge of the tracks, fighting tears, and almost bumped into Pietro. “Sorry,” she said.

  “No problem.” He glanced up at the train. “Where’s the rest of your troupe?”

  “Gone.” Teresa explained what had happened in Chicago.

  Pietro shook his head. “Hope her fiancé knows what he’s got himself into, poor devil. What you going to do now?”

  “Sing,” Teresa said. “What else?”

  When Pietro shrugged, she asked, “Are you and your father doing the same routines?”

  “I guess. Daddy tells me they expect blackface—that right?”

  Mr. Jones nodded. His face looked tight from coughing.

  “Wish I’d joined that all-black troupe,” Pietro said.

  “You did fine against those white boys in the contest,” Mr. Jones said.

  “Oh!” Maeve cried, catching up to them. “We forgot to ask you. What happened?”

  Pietro’s smile flickered like heat lightning. “Twenty-dollar gold piece is what happened. Bought me a new suit, new scarf, new gloves and taps. Wait until you see.” He jumped in the air and clicked his heels.

  Two short, high-pitched blasts sounded from the engine. “B-flat,” Teresa said. Edna howled in response and everyone laughed, which sent Mr. Jones into another fit of coughing.

  “Come sit with us,” Maeve said. “This ride goes on forever.”

  “Well . . .” Mr. Jones hesitated.

  “Resa needs an audience for her songs.” Maeve gave him her most dazzling smile. “Don’t worry. If anyone bothers you, I’ll sic these dogs on them.”

  Mr. Jones shook his head. “Dogs that smile and wag their tails won’t scare anybody.” But he followed them onto the train.

  41.

  Mr. Jones carried two small harmonicas. When Teresa showed him her list of songs, he pointed to a few he could play. “What about ‘Shine On, Harvest Moon’—that’s an easy one to warm up with.” He blew a reedy note on one harmonica, then the other. “Either one of these work?”

  Teresa picked the lower key and breathed deep. She was shy at first, singing in the crowded car, but the harmonica gave her voice some depth and Pietro added his harmony. Then a few passengers joined in. One burly white man scowled and left the car, but a small crowd gathered in the aisle. People made requests, sang along, and laughed when the train threw them sideways around a curve. If someone suggested a song that wasn’t on her list, Teresa jotted it down. If this crowd liked them, maybe a Denver audience would, too.

  Two performers came on board in Des Moines and found their way to Maeve and Teresa’s car. Both men had curly black hair and were tall and skinny as beanpoles. “I said to Sammy, if there’s music, that’s our car,” one man said, pointing to his friend. “We’re acrobats. I’m the Italian Sammy; he’s the Spanish Sam.”

  Teresa laughed. “How confusing!”

  The man called Sam shrugged. “What can I tell you? They gave us the same names when we were kids, just off the boat at Ellis Island. What’s the next song?”

  Mr. Jones pointed to the list. “How about ‘Listen to the Mockingbird’—you know that one?”

  “It’s sad,” Teresa said.

  “Not completely—it has a bit of jive, if you sing it right,” Mr. Jones said. “You could use a little variety, and the audience needs a tearjerker now and then. Besides, it was composed by Richard Milburn, a colored man, though he never gets the credit.”

  Teresa glanced at Pietro. Would he approve? For once, Pietro nodded.

  “Let’s hear it!” Sammy said.

  Mr. Jones played a chord and she started in, but her voice caught in her throat like a fishbone. She remembered Mama singing that song to Pascal, walking him up and down the front hall of the boardinghouse when he was a baby, to stop his crying.

  Mr. Jones pulled out the bigger harmonica. “We pitched that too high. Let’s try the other key.” Teresa found the melody and tried again. “I’m dreaming now of Hallie,” Teresa sang, “My sweet Hallie . . .”

  The passengers hushed and the train slowed, as if it listened along with them. Teresa had never paid attention to the words before. The thought of a bird singing over a girl’s grave made her sing more sweetly. “Listen to the mockingbird,” she sang, and Pietro joined in, his tenor right on pitch. The second acrobat whistled a warbling tune and a few passengers whistled back.

  Mr. Jones picked up the tempo and Teresa sang the next verse in a more rollicking way, in spite of the lyrics. Pietro swayed as he sang harmony, and by the third chorus, the whole car was either singing or whistling.

  “For the thought of her is one that never dies.” Teresa bowed low when the applause started and waved her hand toward Pietro, to include him. To her surprise, he smiled and tipped his hat. “Thank you, thank you!” she called, and bent to Mr. Jones. “My voice is tired. But thank you for playing.”

  “My pleasure.” Mr. Jones looked up at Pietro. “You do make a pretty sound together. Too bad you can’t sing that number onstage.”

  “Are you sure?” Maeve asked.

  Mr. Jones lowered his voice. “Positive. In vaude, we travel together, get to know each other, treat each other right. It’s almost like family.”

  “That’s what my mama always said.” Teresa felt a pang of homesickness.

  “Things are different out in the world,” Mr. Jones said. “So don’t push it. Folks aren’t ready for that.” He beckoned to Pietro. “Come on, son. Let’s get some sleep.”

  They were gone before Teresa could say goodbye. She glanced at Maeve. “Did we say something wrong?”

  “No, hon.” Maeve sighed. “He’s right: You have to be careful. Both of you.”

  Teresa sighed and smoothed the song list out on her lap. Somehow, she’d have to persuade the stage manager that she could sing on her own, without Pietro. If not—

  Then she was headed back to Brattleboro. And Estey. And the mockingbird would sing over her grave.

  42.

  Denver’s Union Station was ice cold, even inside. Teresa shivered and Alix, with her short hair, trembled all over. Teresa picked the dog up and held her under her thin cloak. The dog was stinky. How long since anyone in their troupe had had a bath? Teresa’s hair was so tangled she couldn’t comb it, her shirtwaist was wrinkled and stained, and her joints were stiff from sitting so long.

  But she couldn’t complain. Not while Mr. Jones, sitting on a slatted bench nearby, coughed and hacked into his gloved hands. As they had crossed the rolling plains of Kansas and climbed slowly onto Colorado’s dry prairie, Mr. Jones’s cough had grown worse. Pietro had hovered over his father, bringing him hot drinks and wrapping a wool scarf around his neck, but nothing helped.

  “Can I get you anything, Mr. Jones?” Teresa asked now.

  He shook his head. “Not unless you got a nice warm bed nearby.” His eyes had lost their sparkle. “It’s the altitude. The thin air makes hammers ring in my head. Feel it?”

  “Some.” Her ears buzzed and her head felt too light for her body.

  Mr. Jones reached into the pocket of his overcoat and brought out a small, tattered book. “Look up Denver; see what they say about this Princess Theater.”

  The book was a guide to vaudeville theaters in cities and towns west of Kansas City. Teresa flipped through the worn pages. “Wow,” she said. “It tells you what trains to take, where to eat, and where to stay . . . it even gives the names of stagehands and conductors.” She found the section on Denver and glanced at Mr. Jones. “It says, ‘take care of your voice in Denver's thin air.’ Sounds like it’s hard to sing here.”

  “And to dance. The acro
bats will have a tough time, too.”

  Teresa searched the list of theaters. “The Orpheum, the Tabor Opera House, the Empress . . . Here it is: Princess Theater, Curtis Street.”

  “Got your start at a Princess, didn’t you?” Mr. Jones said.

  “Maybe that’s good luck.” She returned the book and he tucked it into his jacket.

  “Just hope I can go on,” Mr. Jones said. “I wasn’t this weak last time I was here. Good thing we don’t perform until tomorrow.”

  Teresa was relieved when Pietro and Maeve showed up with a baggage handler and a cart, but the man gave them a nasty look. “Don’t tell me you’re going to the same hotel?”

  “No, sir,” Mr. Jones said. “A nice Negro man runs a place close by. You take us there first, then help the ladies to their hotel.” He took Pietro’s arm.

  “No need to call him ‘sir,’” Pietro said.

  “Don’t make trouble,” Mr. Jones murmured.

  They made a scraggly line following the cart out of the station. The dogs strained at their leashes and refused to obey, no matter how much Maeve cajoled and threatened.

  “They’ve been cooped up too long,” she said. “We should walk them, once we get settled in.”

  Teresa leaned close to Maeve. “Mr. Jones is really sick.”

  “I know. Let’s hope it’s only the altitude. They say we’ll get used to it in a few days. But you notice that smell?”

  Teresa nodded. The bitter scent of burning coal made her eyes smart. “I thought the air would be clean.”

  “Me too. Poor Mr. Jones.”

  And poor me. Would her own voice hold up?

  They passed through an enormous iron arch with “WELCOME” spelled out in big letters on top. A wide boulevard stretched out beyond it. Everything seemed open and new, compared to New York, but the city had cars, buses, and streetcars, too. “Don’t miss the view,” Mr. Jones said.

  When Teresa turned around, her jaw dropped. A double wall of mountains loomed in the distance, the closer ones low and brooding, the craggy peaks in the distance snow-covered. Even though it was hard to make them out through the smoky haze, these mountains made Rattlesnake Hill look like a wart on her little toe.