by Liza Ketchum
“No cork,” the stage manager said. “Mrs. Handley and I agree: You shouldn’t cover that comely face. And what would we do with your hair? Besides, it makes no sense for you to perform in cork when you’re onstage alone. You’ll sing ‘Sunshine’ first, with this behind you—thus—” He gave her the stake and helped Teresa position it behind her shoulder, so that the flames fanned out around her face. “We’ll call you ‘Little Miss Sunshine.’ That’s your stage name, for now.”
“Little she’s not,” Mrs. Handley said, in a dry voice.
“Just ‘Miss Sunshine,’ then,” he said. “Do the ‘Cousin’ song next, and the sad number last.”
“But—I don’t understand,” Teresa said. “Will Pietro and I sing together?”
“We’ll try it at the matinee. The bandleader’s right: If the boy’s in blackface and wears gloves, no one will know his true color beneath the cork. Whites did that in minstrel shows—so why not try it here? If there are no complaints, we’ll go ahead with the other three shows.” He took a deep breath. “You must understand—I don’t own this theater. If my boss finds out I’ve mixed races on our stage—” He ran a finger across his throat.
Suddenly, a familiar voice screeched from the end of the hall. “Disgusting!”
The stage manager rolled his eyes at Mrs. Handley. “She’s a hard case. Doesn’t want to perform after a colored boy.”
“Henry, you could lose your shirt over this,” Mrs. Handley said.
To Teresa’s surprise, the stage manager laughed. “It wouldn’t be the first time. I survived the California Gold Rush, so I hope I can deal with a prickly cactus.”
Miss Stanton cried out again. “There’s a roach in my dressing room!”
Mrs. Handley rolled her eyes, which only made Teresa laugh. The manager sighed. “Mrs. Handley, see if you can calm her down. Tell her she’ll have a good spot in the lineup.” Mrs. Handley hurried away and the manager turned to Teresa. “Miss Stanton is right about one thing. Pantages won’t want two women singing solo and a solo dancer on this tour. So do your best. We’ll let the audience decide who stays on the program.”
He turned on his heel, leaving Teresa with that ultimatum. Her shoulders sagged, but she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She heard Maeve’s voice in her head—Queen of England—and then Nonnie: Reach for the stars.
Teresa stood tall. She hadn’t come all the way to Denver to be beaten by a poisonous rose—or a prickly pear.
46.
Pietro yanked the door open when Teresa finally reached the boardinghouse. He must have been watching for her. “Where the heck have you been?” he demanded.
She explained what the stage manager had planned. “That figures.” Pietro stomped down the hall, slicing at the air with his walking stick. “Bad enough that Daddy and I have to pretend to be someone else. Now I have to black up to sing with a white girl?”
“So don’t.” Teresa put her hands on her hips. “You do your act, I’ll do mine—but the manager told me he can’t use three solo acts. One of us will get the hook if the audience likes Miss Stanton best.”
“And it’s my job to keep you in business?” Pietro’s eyes blazed and Teresa bit her cheeks to keep from crying.
“Take it easy, you two.”
Teresa whirled around. Mr. Jones lay on the couch behind them, propped up by pillows. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jones,” she said. “I didn’t see you. Are you all right?”
“Barely. Still breathing.” He turned to Pietro. “You knew you’d be in blackface here.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Mr. Jones swung his legs to the floor and sat up. “We’re all lucky to have any job at all—and you’re wasting time . . .” He began to cough and his eyes bulged. Teresa rushed over and patted his back.
“I’ll get some water.” Pietro sent Teresa an accusing look as he left the room. As if this were her fault!
Pietro returned with a full glass and watched his father drink it down. Mr. Jones settled back against the pillows. “I wish I could play my reeds for you,” he whispered, “but I’d better save my wind.”
“That’s all right.” Teresa opened her bag to get her sheet music and found Pietro’s book. “I found this on the floor of the theater.”
Pietro snatched it as if she’d stolen it and caressed the cover with his fingertips.
Teresa turned away. Did anything she owned matter that much? Her voice. That was her most prized possession—yet no one could see it. The locket—and Nonnie’s photograph: that was all she owned. She took out her sheet music and cleared her throat. “Shall we sing?”
• • •
They practiced “Mockingbird” twice, singing in the key of G, without looking at each other. “Stiff as boards, the both of you,” Mr. Jones said. “Add some bounce to it. And you gotta at least pretend you’re friendly.”
Teresa blushed, but she still didn’t dare meet Pietro’s eyes. “Show her some steps,” Mr. Jones said. “Go on, Son.”
“Like this.” Pietro sidestepped in front of Teresa and whistled the tune.
Teresa tried to imitate him, but she felt big and clumsy.
Pietro stepped behind her, put his hands on her waist, and swayed her from side to side. “Relax,” he said.
Impossible. The feeling of his hands on her hips sent fire into her face.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Jones said. “He won’t touch you onstage. Close your eyes and imagine you’re all alone, learning a new dance, with no one watching but the four walls.” He slapped the beat on the arm of the sofa. “‘Listen to the mockingbird’—clap clap. Snap those fingers and let Pietro do the dancing.”
Teresa shut her eyes and pretended she was in her attic room with no one home, and it helped: The music flowed into her body. Pietro dropped his hands, Teresa opened her eyes, and they followed the beat. “Now you’ve got it!” Mr. Jones said.
They practiced for an hour. When they switched to “The Sidewalks of New York,” Pietro showed her how to waltz in place while he danced around her, twirling his cane and easing into a smooth routine. They dropped into the empty chairs, out of breath. Teresa still felt lightheaded, but not as dizzy as when she’d arrived. She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her face, hoping sweat hadn’t stained her new dress.
Applause broke out in the hall. A tall colored man with a wide smile stood in the doorway. “Mr. Bertram here,” he said. “You’ve got a powerful voice, young lady. I was humming along in the kitchen. And nice harmony,” he told Pietro. “You’ll slay them.” He rubbed his chin. “I don’t mind you singing together in my parlor. But how will folks act when you show up on stage together?”
“I’ll be wearing cork,” Pietro said.
“And she won’t?”
“That’s the plan,” Pietro told him. “Sound crazy?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Mr. Bertram said in a dry voice. “Best of luck to you.”
“We need it.” Pietro raised one eyebrow at Teresa. That was as close as she would get to a smile.
47.
Mr. Bertram fed them sandwiches before they returned to the Princess. Mr. Jones leaned heavily on Pietro; he waved Teresa on ahead. “You go on,” he said. “I’m a slowpoke.”
Teresa lifted her skirt to keep it off the dusty sidewalk and hurried through town. Now and then she glanced behind to be sure they were all right. Pietro was dressed in the new suit he’d bought in New York, with a handsome striped cutaway jacket and a red bowtie. He looked taller, more dignified. Teresa felt awkward, wearing clothes that were too old for her. Papa wouldn’t approve—though maybe Nonnie would. Thank goodness her cloak covered her knees.
Mr. Jones claimed he was feeling better, but he used his dancing stick as a cane and his cough wouldn’t quit. If the Joneses could dance together tomorrow—would Teresa have to sing on her own? Would the stage manager like that? She knew what Nonnie would say: One day at a time, child. One day at a time.
Nonnie. If only she had some way t
o reach her, to let her know she was all right. But she needed every penny she might make today—and she couldn’t let Papa know where she’d gone. Teresa nearly bumped into a streetlight. She caught herself, pulled her cloak tight, and pushed thoughts of her family away. She had a job to do.
When they arrived at the theater, Teresa, Mr. Jones, and Pietro went downstairs to the dressing rooms. Two signs were tacked up on the wall, over chipped paint: Such words as Liar, Slob, Son-of-a-gun, Devil, Sucker, and Damn are unfit for Ladies and Children. A second sign read: Don’t send out your laundry until after the first show.
“What does that mean?” Teresa asked Mr. Jones.
He managed a weak smile. “If you’re all wet at the matinee, they throw you out. You don’t want to leave town with your laundry wet, too.”
Teresa’s heart hammered in her throat. “What if we get the hook after the matinee?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine,” Mr. Jones said.
Maybe. A stagehand showed Mr. Jones and Pietro to a dressing room under the stairs that was as small as a closet—maybe it was a closet—and pointed Teresa to a room at the end of the hall. She hesitated. Wasn’t Miss Stanton down that way? Just then, Maeve poked her head out of another door. “Teresa—where have you been? Pietro, Mr. Jones—you can’t do your makeup in that cave! Come in here. I’m presentable.”
Pietro and his father glanced at each other before they followed Teresa into Maeve’s room. The dogs went wild, yipping and jumping. “Lie down, dogs! All of you.” Maeve waved the dogs into a line under the vanity tables and made space for Pietro and Mr. Jones on two spindly chairs. Her eyes sparkled as she looked at Pietro. “You’re quite natty today.”
Pietro actually looked embarrassed. “You’re not too shabby yourself.”
He was right. Maeve’s emerald pants and blouse, along with her eye shadow, brought out the green in her eyes. Silver barrettes, shaped like butterflies, glittered in her dark hair. Her cheeks shone and her lips, painted a deep maroon, lit up her smile.
“You look wonderful,” Teresa said, then explained the manager’s plan. “No cork for me.”
Maeve turned to Pietro. “But you’ll be in blackface?”
“Afraid so,” Pietro said. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” Maeve said.
Pietro shrugged. “Come on, Daddy. Let’s get it over with.” They moved into a corner, where Pietro perched on an old crate at one end of the vanity table. Teresa sat on a chair at the other end. The row of lights made her squint. Scribbled notes from previous performers were tacked on the wall next to the mirror. One note warned about rooming houses with bedbugs; another begged friends to come find him. Someone named Shirley scrawled the names of restaurants with “decent, cheap grub.” Another post, from “Lazy Mary,” boasted that she would give someone “a nice roll in the hay.” Teresa blushed and turned away. Was this what Papa meant, when he said vaude wasn’t proper for young girls?
Greasepaint and lipstick stained the vanity table, and a torn dress, limp with age and sweat, hung from a hook behind the door. It wasn’t the Palace, but it was better than an amateur night, for sure. Teresa held still while Maeve tried to make sense of her hair.
“Your curls don’t want to be combed,” Maeve said. “I’m just going to pin your hair up.” She twisted Teresa’s curls into a small knot at the back of her head and held it with a comb and heavy clips.
Mr. Jones draped an old sheet over Pietro’s collar and shoulders and spread thick, black paste on his face. Pietro’s cheeks, once a ruddy mahogany, became pitch black, as if he worked in a coal mine. Mr. Jones painted a wide, false grin on Pietro’s lips and Teresa stared at the floor. Even though she’d seen them wear blackface in Brattleboro, it was worse, now that she knew them both so well. “It must feel awful,” Teresa said.
“You said it,” Pietro said. “Like wearing a mask. I’m the worst kind of fake.” He stood up and pulled on his gloves. “Admit you hate it, Daddy.”
“I do.” Mr. Jones slumped into a chair and coughed into his handkerchief. “Believe me—I wish we had a choice.”
“We do, Daddy.”
Mr. Jones waved him away. “Can’t fight that battle now. You taking a big enough risk as it is.”
His cough seemed louder in the small room. Even the dogs were quiet. Teresa felt as if the walls were closing in on them. She closed her eyes as Maeve rubbed rouge onto her cheeks. A sudden knock made them all jump. “Come in!” Maeve cried.
Mrs. Handley pushed open the door, holding Teresa’s wooden sun on its stake. “Well!” She took in the room, glancing at the dogs—all dressed up in their pompoms and satin coats—then at Pietro and Mr. Jones. “Excuse me,” she said. “I didn’t mean to intrude on this cozy little group. Don’t forget your sun—‘Miss Sunshine.’” She shook her head. “Every time a new group comes to town, I think I’ve seen everything—but this takes the cake.” She shut the door firmly behind her.
Teresa’s stomach lurched. “Mrs. Handley told the manager he could lose his shirt if we all perform together.”
“With his paunch, that’s a sight I’d rather not see,” Maeve said.
Mr. Jones laughed; even Pietro smiled. He pointed at Teresa’s prop. “Don’t tell me you have to perform with that thing.”
“I’m afraid so. I’m ‘Miss Sunshine’ now.”
Pietro whistled and Mr. Jones grabbed his arm. “Bad luck to whistle in the dressing room,” he said.
Whistling was bad luck? So was a feather on the windowsill, according to Maeve, not to mention wishing someone good luck. Nonnie was the one who might help Teresa sing “like an angel,” but her picture was buried at the bottom of her valise, back at their hotel. Teresa tried to hear her great-grandmother’s encouraging voice inside her head, but the footsteps shuffling above their heads, and the scraping of furniture and props across the floorboards, drowned her out. An oboe played an A, and a chorus of instruments chimed in.
“They’re tuning up,” Mr. Jones said. “Time to go.” He fiddled with Pietro’s bow tie. “Merde,” he said in a low voice. Teresa giggled and Mr. Jones gave her a quick look. “You know French?”
“Mais oui. My papa is from Québec.” And a good thing Papa wasn’t here.
“Then excuse my French, as they say. You’ll do fine.” Mr. Jones squeezed her hand. His palm felt hot to the touch. Did he have a fever?
Teresa glanced at her reflection. She was a stranger to herself, with her flaming cheeks, her hair pulled up high, and her chest exposed by the plunging neckline. Only the gold locket remained from her past life.
48.
The matinee crowd was sparse and restless. Children ran up and down the aisles, tossing peanut shells, and the audience talked through the acrobats’ act, even though they performed some wonderful tricks on the slack wire. “Sitting on their hands,” Sammy complained as they dashed into the wings.
“You were great,” Teresa told him, but he blew her a raspberry. The next act—two comedians—was stupid; no wonder the audience booed. Their best slapstick move was slapping each other with rolled-up newspapers. “Puerto Rico would have shot them dead at the Lafayette,” Teresa whispered. “Where’s Miss Stanton?”
“Waiting in the best dressing room,” Maeve said softly. “She’s too ‘important’ to stand in the wings. Don’t think about her. She’s next to last, where she wanted to be. She’ll be sorry, having to go onstage after you two.”
If only.
The band launched into a ragtime number. Pietro pushed past Teresa as if she didn’t exist and danced onstage, his feet flashing in his new black-and-white spats. Teresa’s stomach roiled and her palms were sweaty.
“Breathe,” Maeve whispered.
But breathing deep only made her more lightheaded. Pietro kept dancing. The band’s music rushed in her ears like water, and the applause that followed his ragtime sounded like distant drumbeats. She was so far away, so lost in terror, that when Pietro came offstage, Maeve had to jostle her
elbow. “You’re next,” she whispered, and placed the wooden stake, with its sunshine medallion, into her hand.
Teresa stood on tiptoe, waiting for her music to start, when the stage manager strode out from the wings, his belly protruding under his ill-fitting jacket. “We have a little change in the program.” The audience rustled and he put up his hand. “Two of the Toronto sisters decided to go back home. But they left the best member of their group behind. Please welcome . . .” (he paused for the drumroll) “Miss Sunshine!”
Scattered applause broke out and the band played her opening bars. Teresa couldn’t move. Maeve shoved her from one side and Pietro whispered, “Go!”
Somehow, she found the nerve to sashay out from the wings as the band played the first verse of “You Are My Sunshine.” A few people laughed and hooted as she hoisted the wooden sun above her head. It was too heavy and made her feet feel rooted to the stage floor. Teresa glanced at the bandleader. He nodded, brought the band around to the opening chords again, and she began to sing.
The bandleader was right: Even this small audience gave the theater better acoustics. Teresa found a way to brace the sun, as if it were a tree in the woods, and let her voice go. By the third chorus, she heard people humming. She dared to try something she’d never done before: After the final verse, she beckoned to the audience and cried, “Sing it with me!”
They did—badly, but with enthusiasm. By the end of the song, most of the chatter had stopped. Setting her prop aside, she began singing “Cousin of Mine.” That song brought a few laughs, so she was more relaxed for “Hard Times.” It wasn’t her best performance, but the small crowd gave her a decent round of applause.
As she bowed low, the bandleader played the first few bars of “Mockingbird,” and Pietro strutted onstage in his tap shoes, whistling. Teresa whirled around, pretending surprise, then shrugged at the audience as if to say: What can I do?
The crowd was suddenly still. Teresa began to sing, and when she sang “listen to the mockingbird!” the flute answered with a birdlike trill. Pietro tapped out a lazy rhythm, adding some steps that took him back and forth across the stage. The audience gave them polite applause. The band picked up the pace on “The Sidewalks of New York,” playing it almost too fast for Teresa to keep up. Pietro danced around and behind her, until she was afraid she’d bump into him. She was relieved to dash offstage when the song was over.