by Liza Ketchum
They parted with Mr. Jones and Pietro outside their rooming house. “See you tomorrow,” Teresa called. Mr. Jones was coughing again, and Pietro had to help him up the short flight of steps to the front door. Neither man answered.
The baggage man pocketed Pietro’s coins and set off again. “I’m surprised at you ladies,” he said. “They say the West is free and easy—but watch out for the company you keep.”
“Don’t insult our friends,” Maeve said. Fido picked up on Maeve’s warning, growling until the man picked up the pace. When they reached their rooming house he took his pay and hurried away without a word.
“Good riddance,” Maeve said. “I’m winded and we didn’t even walk far.” She gazed at the rooming house, a simple wood building with a red door. “A bath, a walk with the dogs, maybe some food, then bed—how does that sound?”
“Perfect.” Teresa’s eyes were heavy. She couldn’t tell Maeve what else she was thinking: They were in Denver at last—but what if she didn’t have a job?
43.
After a long sleep, followed by a bath in a tiny, claw-footed tub, Teresa tried on the skirt and blouse that Maeve had stitched for her on the train. “Don’t look until I’ve buttoned you up,” Maeve said. “All right—now.”
Teresa turned to face the mirror and gasped. She had watched Maeve work the pleats into puffy sleeves on the blouse, and had even hemmed the skirt herself—but it was different, seeing it on. The neckline plunged, the skirt barely covered her knees, and the short sleeves left her arms bare. “I can’t wear this,” she whispered. “I’m almost as naked as Eva Tanguay.”
“Nonsense,” Maeve said. “If I can perform in short pants and tights, you can wear this skirt and blouse. Besides, I didn’t go to all that trouble for nothing.” She touched Teresa’s hair, still wet from her shampoo. “The dry climate will tame your curls, and the yellow fabric highlights the color, just as I thought. You look wonderful!”
“Not like a carrot?”
Maeve hugged her. “Stop worrying. You need to walk into that theater like you own the place.”
“Should I wear this to first band call?”
“Definitely. Pull out the stops; convince the stage manager you’re ready to go. Where’s your necklace?”
Teresa settled her locket around her neck. Though the photograph was hidden, she felt as if she carried her family with her. The warm gold gleamed against her freckled skin.
• • •
Sam and Sammy, the acrobats from the train, were already rehearsing on the slack wire when Teresa and Maeve walked down the aisle of the Princess Theater. Sam balanced on the metal line, four feet above the stage, while Sammy did flips and tumbles nearby. The metal slack wire rose and fell like breathing, but Sam’s feet never faltered. Halfway through their act, Sammy tossed Sam a ball, then another one, then a third, and Sam began to juggle on the wire. A rolling drumbeat escalated from the orchestra pit as their tricks grew bolder.
“Pascal would love this,” Teresa said.
Dixie whined and wagged her tail as the balls sailed through the air. Maeve’s face lit up. “That’s it!” she whispered. “Maybe one of the acrobats could help me do Pascal’s trick.” She headed down the aisle with the dogs at her heels.
Teresa followed, only half listening. Where was the stage manager? Sam and Sammy cartwheeled into the wings, leaving an empty stage. Maeve nudged Teresa from behind. “Take off your cloak and find the stage manager, before things get too busy.”
Pietro’s voice rose from the wings. “It’s the altitude! He’ll be fine this afternoon; I promise. Let me run through our numbers for the band. He’ll dance later.”
Teresa and Maeve crept closer to the stage. The stage manager paced up and down in the wings, running his hands through his bushy white hair. “And if he’s not ready?” the manager demanded. “What then? Better to scratch you now. Our patrons won’t think much of one measly colored boy dancing alone.”
“But you’ll be missing an act. And how do you know what I can do until you see me? Give me a chance.”
Pietro, pleading? The stage manager shook his head. Teresa tossed her cloak over a seat and hurried up the steps to the stage. “Excuse me. Sir?”
Pietro tried to warn her off as the manager whirled around. He gave her the once over, and waved her away. “Later, Miss. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Teresa stood her ground. “Pietro’s a good dancer,” she said. “We saw him perform many times in New York. He and I sang together there. Maybe we could do a number here, after Pietro dances on his own.”
The stage manager folded his arms across his chest. “And who—if I may ask—are you?”
“Teresa LeClair. I’m part of Pantages’s troupe.”
The manager pulled a crumpled program from his pocket and ran his finger down a list of names. “No LeClair here.”
“I’m one of the Toronto Triplets.”
“Fine. You girls can run through your songs later. Now, if you’ll please let me finish—”
The stage manager turned away, but Teresa blocked his path. “That’s the trouble, sir. The other two girls ditched the act in Chicago. I’m here alone—and if Pietro is alone, too—well, I thought you might not want two solo acts—”
“I don’t care what you think,” the manager said, “or how they do things in New—York—City,” he said slowly. “You may be friends offstage, but races don’t mix on this stage. I can’t help it: Those are the owner’s rules.”
Pietro shook his head at Teresa from behind the manager’s back, but she ignored him. “What if we both wore blackface?” she said. “Then our skin wouldn’t show.”
The stage manager gave a harsh laugh. “Are you serious?” He pointed to her hair. “Who’s going to believe that, with your orange mop?”
Mop? Teresa bit her lip and stood up as straight as she could. She wouldn’t cry in front of this wretched man. “If the audience thinks we’re both white underneath, my frizzy hair wouldn’t matter—would it?”
The manager rolled his eyes, as if asking heaven for help. Teresa glanced at the pit. The band members were listening intently, leaning forward in their chairs. Pietro didn’t move, though a muscle twitched on the right side of his jaw. Was he angry with her for barging in?
Maeve’s cheery voice rose from below the stage. “Sir! Excuse me for interrupting. I’m Maeve Cullen, with the dog act. I’ve seen these two perform, and they’re good, alone and together. Why don’t you let them rehearse, see what you think? Otherwise, you’ll have two empty spots in your program.”
“The day is wasting,” the bandleader called from the pit.
The manager groaned. “This is absurd—but you’re right; I’ve got too many solo acts now.” He loosened his collar and his small brown eyes darted from Teresa to Pietro and back. “First we’ll see how you do on your own. Then we’ll decide if you go onstage together.”
Teresa’s mouth was dry, but at least he was giving her a chance. She had opened her bag and was searching for her sheet music when a high voice sounded from the back of the theater. “Just a minute! Stage manager, Sir—wait just a cotton-picking minute!”
Teresa froze. Where had she heard that voice before? She glanced at Pietro, who rolled his eyes. “Sounds like the so-called ‘Rose of Abilene.’”
Sure enough, Miss Stanton herself tripped down the aisle in high-heeled shoes. Her hair was a brassy red now, rather than blonde, and her dress was even shorter than last time. She clicked up the stairs onto the stage apron and planted herself in front of the manager. “This is outrageous!” Miss Stanton sputtered. “I’m the Rose of Abilene and I know this girl. She’s nothing but a song plugger. And she’s a runaway! I saw what happened, with my own eyes! Left her family weeping and wailing. Besides, she’s too young. The Gerry Society will shut you down if you let her perform.”
The manager tried to speak, but Miss Stanton leaned in close. “What kind of theater lets a white girl perform with a colored boy?” She was nearly sp
itting.
The manager’s face turned a mottled red. “Mind your manners. I don’t care if you’re a rose or a prickly pear, this is my theater. We’re trying to put a show together here.” Miss Stanton hissed, but the stage manager ignored her. “Now, could we please carry on? I’ve had enough interference for one day.” He glanced at Teresa’s low neckline. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” she said promptly, then gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering. Was it true, what Miss Stanton had said about her family?
“She’s lying!” Miss Stanton cried. But the manager strode past her and beckoned to Maeve. “Come with me, Miss Cullen. I’ll show you where you can park your dogs.” He waved at Teresa and Pietro. “Get ready. I’ll be back in a few minutes to watch your acts.”
Miss Stanton’s high heels clipped across the stage, her breast heaving in a fake way. “I know the truth about you,” she whispered to Teresa. “You had to be fifteen to enter that contest. And what sort of girl steals her baby brother away from home?”
“Pascal is safe, with my parents.” Teresa struggled to keep her voice steady.
“So you say. Don’t think you can get away with this.” Miss Stanton disappeared into the wings.
“Phew,” Pietro said. “Prickly pear indeed.” His hands trembled.
“I just hope she won’t turn the manager against us,” Teresa said.
“Who’s first?” the bandleader called.
“Be right with you,” Pietro said. “Let me get my shoes.” He lowered his voice as he crossed the stage to fetch his bag. “You crazy, or what? You’ll hate being corked up. And you’ll wreck your pretty dress.”
Was that a compliment? You never could tell, with Pietro.
44.
Pietro ran through his dance routine with the bandleader. His feet looked weighted, especially during the number where he danced up and down a small fight of stairs. He tripped once, and dropped his walking stick when he twirled it above his head. “Play it again, please,” he said. The musicians grumbled, but they repeated his last tune. Pietro’s face was stony until Maeve hissed, from the wings, “Smile!”
He pasted a smile on his face, danced offstage, and bent over in the wings, gasping for breath. “Break . . . a leg,” he managed to whisper to Teresa.
“Play to the stage manager. He’s in the third row,” Maeve told her.
“Will we do ‘Mockingbird?’” Teresa asked Pietro.
“Sure . . . can you waltz?” He mopped his brow.
“I used to waltz with my mama a long time ago. Why?”
“Tell him we’ll do ‘The Sidewalks of New York,’ if he has the music.”
“You want to dance together?” she whispered.
“Not exactly,” Pietro said, as the stage manager clapped his hands.
“Come along!” he cried. “We haven’t got all day.”
Teresa wiped her damp palms on her dress and lowered her music to the bandleader. “I’ll do ‘Cousin of Mine,’ ‘You Are My Sunshine,’ and ‘Hard Times.’ Do you know them?”
“Of course.” The bandleader’s smile was warm, and Teresa felt welcomed for the first time all morning. “Good choices,” he said. “Let’s have a sense of your tempos.”
She hummed a few bars of each song and snapped her fingers to give him the beat. The band played the first four measures of “Cousin” as an introduction and she pitched the song to the stage manager. She felt like a phony, singing to a white-haired man in an empty theater about a girl flirting with a cousin, when she’d never even walked out with a boy. Her voice felt as thin as the mountain air. The stage manager nodded when she finished, but his expression told her nothing. “Go on,” he called.
Teresa drank a glass of water. Her voice felt stronger on “Sunshine.” She sashayed a few steps right, then left, snapping her fingers. On the last line of the chorus, she stretched her arms out, pleading with the invisible audience not to “take my sunshine away.”
Someone in the pit clapped. Teresa bowed, and finally hit her stride with ‘Hard Times,’ sending the song up to the balcony. It was so quiet when she finished that she heard floorboards creak backstage. Finally, the manager grunted and waved his hand. “Not bad.” He beckoned to a stagehand. “Get her stage name and take the Triplets off the sign outside.”
Stage name? Teresa’s mind went blank. Never mind; she’d invent one. She had a job.
• • •
Teresa and Pietro sang “Mockingbird” straight through, but they were out of sync. Teresa’s voice cracked twice in the chorus, Pietro’s tenor barely covered her mistake, and the high ceiling swallowed their voices. Could the stage manager even hear them? He was chatting with an older woman halfway up the aisle, his back turned to the stage. Maybe he’d already scratched their duet.
“We’d like to do ‘The Sidewalks of New York,’” Pietro told the bandleader, “but we don’t have the music.”
“No trouble.” The bandleader played a chord on the piano. “This all right with you?”
Teresa hummed a few bars. Pietro shrugged. “Sounds fine.”
They practiced the first few verses. Teresa swayed from side to side while Pietro added a lazy waltz rhythm behind her with his tap shoes, mimicking the sound of brushes on a snare drum.
The bandleader held up his baton and checked his watch. “We’re way behind. Practice offstage somewhere. Don’t worry; a full house gives this place better acoustics.” He peered up at Teresa from the pit. “Such a pretty girl—you really want to hide behind blackface?”
“No.” She glanced at Pietro, but he was studying something at the back of the theater.
The bandleader beckoned to Pietro and spoke to them both. “Bert Williams wore blackface even though his partner didn’t. Audiences accepted that. Black and white together isn’t common. But if the boy’s in blackface and you’re not—who’s to know what color he is beneath the cork?”
“I know,” Pietro said. “Neither one of us is Williams or Walker. And I’m not anyone’s ‘boy,’” he muttered.
“Think about it,” the bandleader said. “Nothing worse than being sent home without pay.”
They gathered their coats and bags and headed for the wings. The stage manager was nowhere in sight. “Where can we practice?” Teresa asked.
“Our rooming house. You remember—just beyond the station.” Pietro stowed his tap shoes in his bag. “I’ll go along first. Follow me in ten minutes or so.” He squinted at her. “How do you do that thing—where you pluck the note out of thin air?”
“Luck. I was born with perfect pitch. That’s why my papa wanted to lock me up in the tuning rooms.” Teresa didn’t want to think about Papa, or Estey Organ Works, right now. “Go ahead.” She understood why they had to walk to the rooming house separately. She didn’t like it—but what else could she do?
45.
Teresa stood in the stage doorway, feeling lonesome. Maeve’s music was playing as she whistled to the dogs, calling them onstage. Teresa drew her cloak around her, stepped out of the wind—and caught her heel on something lying on the floor. She stooped to pick it up. Even in the dim light, she recognized the book that Pietro carried with him everywhere: The Souls of Black Folk: Essays and Sketches, by W.E. Burghardt Du Bois. Pietro must be really rattled to leave his precious book behind.
She traced a finger over the author’s name. Papa would say it the French way, “Do Bwah”—“of the wood”—but Pietro pronounced it differently, like “boyss.” She looked through the book, turning the pages carefully. Pietro had underlined sentences all the way through, including the one, at the beginning of Chapter II, that he’d read to Mr. Jones on the train: The problem of the Twentieth Century is the problem of the color-line.
Teresa turned the pages and a slip of paper fell out. In neat handwriting, Pietro had written: “The morning breaks over blood-stained hills. We must not falter, we may not shrink. Above are the everlasting stars.” Spoken at Harpers Ferry.
She tried to put the paper back
in the right place. One page was bookmarked with a newspaper column written by Du Bois. Pietro had also turned down the corner of a page where Du Bois had written a poem—or was it a song? In the margin, Pietro had written: What’s the tune?
She looked behind her to make sure no one was coming. She felt as if she were reading someone’s personal diary without permission. Pietro’s notes in the margins were questions for the author—as if they were having a conversation. The writing in the early pages was so complicated it made her head spin. She was about to shut the book when a chapter called “Of the Meaning of Progress” caught her eye. It began like a story: Once upon a time I taught school in the hills of Tennessee, where the broad dark vale of the Mississippi begins to roll and crumple . . .
Pietro had written in the margin: Was Du Bois teaching where Daddy grew up?
Teresa leaned against the wall, caught up in Du Bois’s descriptions of the valley where he taught, the children he grew to love, the little school with its “rough benches” and few books, the families struggling to survive. She was so lost in his words that she yelped when a man’s voice called, from below, “Miss LeClair? You still here?”
“Yes, sir!” Teresa shut the book, stowed it carefully in her bag, and ran downstairs to the dressing rooms. The stage manager waited in the hall with the gray-haired woman he’d been talking to earlier. “This is Mrs. Handley, our costume designer,” the manager said. “We need to show you something.”
Teresa followed them to a tiny dressing room that smelled of cigar smoke, stale greasepaint, and sweat. Mrs. Handley held up a wooden sun, attached to a stake. The sun’s rays radiated out from a smiling face with big green eyes. Mrs. Handley balanced the sun up behind Teresa. “Perfect, ain’t it?” she asked. “Her hair is like the flames themselves.”
The stage manager nodded. He and Mrs. Handley turned Teresa sideways in front of the mirror, as if she were a store mannequin. “What is this for?” Teresa asked.