by Liza Ketchum
“Did we die?” she gasped, trying to catch her breath.
“You didn’t,” he said. “I’m not sure about us together.”
Three actors went onstage for a comedy act and the stage manager beckoned to Teresa and Pietro. They followed him downstairs. “Good job,” he said to Teresa. “Don’t be afraid to ham it up a bit, put a little more oomph into it.” He turned to Pietro. “You’re dancing well, but you need a partner. It’s too one-sided.”
“My father will be better tomorrow,” Pietro said. The fake smile, painted on over the cork, didn’t match the worry in his eyes.
“I hope so,” the manager said. “They don’t know what to make of the two of you. Only one duet next show—maybe “Mockingbird.” They all know the tune, and the band does a good job, answering with the flute. We’ll see how it goes.”
Teresa went limp with relief. “Thank you, sir.” She rushed into the wings to help Maeve get ready.
• • •
The next two shows went smoothly and Teresa settled into the rhythm: She watched Pietro dance, sat quietly as she waited to go onstage herself, hammed it up a bit when he joined her onstage for her final number, then joined Maeve in the wings to help with the dogs.
Maeve’s act was a big hit. In fact, Teresa decided, she and her dogs were the stars of the show. Maeve had worked out a routine with Sammy the acrobat, who performed a version of Pascal’s trick with Dixie and the ball. The audience loved it, and the crowds grew as the day wore on. They remained lukewarm when Pietro and Teresa sang together, but each audience gave Teresa a warm hand; by the third show, they called her back for a second bow before Pietro came on.
Miss Stanton was another story. She received hoots and whistles for her low-cut gown and her daring skirt and tights, but when she started to sing, her small, breathy voice made the crowd restless. People began to talk; a few even walked out. In spite of this, the stage manager didn’t give her the hook.
“Thank goodness her act follows mine,” Maeve said.
“Do you think he’ll keep her and fire me?” Teresa asked.
“That would be idiotic,” Maeve said.
Scattered boos broke after Miss Stanton’s third performance. She stalked offstage and drew up in front of Teresa, her face the color of her scarlet dress. “You’ll pay for this.” She clicked away in her high heels before Teresa could respond.
The theater was packed for the final house of the night. Teresa was so tired she could barely stand, but the crowd’s energy carried her through her three solo numbers, and they called her back for three bows before Pietro came on. Teresa sang directly to Pietro this time, even though she couldn’t read his expression under the cork. “Listen to the mockingbird,” she implored. “The mockingbird is singing o’er her grave . . .”
Tappita tappita tap, Pietro’s shoes answered. When they finished, Pietro motioned her toward the edge of the stage, where they took their bows side by side. “Smile and stand close,” he told her, under his breath. “They expect it.” They bowed low, Teresa curtsied, the audience kept clapping—
And a shrill voice rang out, from someplace above the crowd—from a box, perhaps?—“Disgusting! She sings and dances with a colored boy!”
Teresa froze. “One more bow,” Pietro said.
Teresa’s smile felt as phony as Pietro’s. A raw egg splattered at their feet. Teresa jumped out of the way and dashed offstage with Pietro right behind her. A chorus of boos and a low buzz, like a swarm of bees, rose from the audience. The stage manager waited in the wings, wringing his hands. He jerked his thumb toward the stairs and they followed him to the narrow hallway outside the dressing rooms. Teresa’s heartbeat whooshed in her ears.
“The truth is out now,” the stage manager said. “It was madness, putting you onstage together.” He tugged at his thinning hair. “Tomorrow you do your acts separately, on different parts of the program. And you,” he said to Pietro. “Either you’re with your father—both of you in cork—or you’re washed up.”
“That’s not fair,” Teresa said. “It’s Miss Stanton’s fault.”
“What do you mean?” the stage manager asked.
“She’s the one who screamed. I recognized her voice.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because she’s jealous,” Pietro said. “Miss LeClair here sings better.”
A compliment from Pietro? Teresa couldn’t believe it.
“Boy,” the stage manager said through gritted teeth. “Don’t get uppity with me. Miss Stanton is a trained professional. I’m sure she’s in her dressing room.”
“Really?” Teresa turned on her heel and knocked on the first door on the right. Sammy the acrobat poked his head out, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand, his shirt unbuttoned.
“Sorry,” Teresa said. “I’m looking for Miss Stanton.”
“Next door,” Sammy said, his mouth full.
“You’re trying my patience,” the stage manager called.
Teresa ignored him, rapped on the next door, and opened it. Dresses littered the backs of chairs, makeup was strewn across the vanity table, and a feather boa lay coiled on the floor—but the room was empty. Teresa left the door open and faced the stage manager, who had followed her down the hall. “Now do you believe me?”
He glanced inside. White spots appeared on his cheeks. “Don’t test your luck, young lady. I’m giving you one more day here—but only because I don’t have replacements. Thank the Lord you go to Leadville on Sunday. Now get out of my sight, before I send Pantages a telegram.”
He stomped down the hall. Pietro gave a low whistle. “Watch your temper. You nearly got us both fired.”
“Me! You’re the one who—”
Before she could finish her sentence, Pietro ducked into the dressing room under the stairs and shut the door firmly in her face.
49.
Mr. Jones was better the next day, and he did manage to dance with Pietro—though without his usual style. Teresa couldn’t pay attention. She was too worried about her own performances. Perhaps because it was Friday, even the matinee brought in a full house. Teresa tried to put her heart into her songs, but she felt deflated without Pietro’s dance steps and harmony.
Worse, the Joneses weren’t speaking to her—or to anyone else. They used their own closet-sized dressing room to apply their blackface, and Mr. Jones huddled there between performances. When Pietro wasn’t running back and forth to a café for hot drinks and soup, he sat on a folding chair at the end of the hall, reading a newspaper. Teresa caught a glimpse of the paper’s title—the Chicago Defender—but she didn’t dare ask why he hauled that old paper around. Plus, she hated to look at his blackened face. Even Maeve seemed quiet and distracted.
After the third show, Teresa slumped onto a chair in their dressing room and faced herself in the mirror. Her hair was falling out of its pins, her makeup was smudged, and her dress was stained under the arms. “I look terrible,” she said.
“Join the crowd,” Maeve said. “Could you fix Edna’s pompom? It’s falling off.”
Teresa cut some ribbon from a roll on the table and retied the pompom to Edna’s harness. “Why is everyone mad at me?” she asked.
“We’re just nervous,” Maeve said. “You and Pietro could have spoiled it for all of us.”
“But I was helping him out! He needed someone to dance with. Besides, the audience loves you and the dogs. You’re the headliners, even though you’re not listed that way.”
“Not today. They’re sitting on their hands for everyone. They’re just waiting to catch us in a mistake, so we’re all tripping up. Dixie missed the ball in the third show, Sam nearly fell off the slack wire, and Mr. Jones dropped his cane. Meanwhile, Miss Stanton got some applause, even though her voice broke.”
“And that’s my fault?” Teresa blinked back tears.
“Remember what I said: You and Pietro must be careful.”
It wasn’t fair! Pietro didn’t even like her. Teresa buried her face in Edn
a’s tangled fur. “You’re my only friend,” she whispered.
• • •
Thank goodness the jump to Leadville was on the night train, so Teresa didn’t have to talk to anyone. She managed to sleep, using Edna as a pillow on a hard seat, and woke to bright sunlight glinting on slick rock. The train rattled across a long trestle, suspended in space above an abyss. She tapped Maeve’s shoulder. “Look.”
Maeve murmured, “The Rockies?” but didn’t open her eyes.
They passed under a long shed laden with snow and came out on a hillside dotted with emerald pines, their branches weighted with fresh powder. Deer with jackrabbit ears ran from the train, their tails waving like small flags. Dixie and Bronwyn set their paws on the windowsill and whimpered. Passengers stretched and twisted in their seats as the train climbed onto a wide, bleak plateau. They passed freight cars loaded with chunks of stone. Caves and tunnels were dug into the sides of a mountain, and rickety wooden structures sprouted everywhere. “What is all this?” Teresa asked.
Maeve slept on.
Teresa walked through their car to the toilet and then headed to the rear of the train, where she found Mr. Jones standing against a window, looking out. Pietro was curled up awkwardly on the seat behind him, legs dangling, his book tucked under his cheek for a pillow. Mr. Jones tipped his cap to her. “Morning, Miss LeClair. Quite the view, isn’t it?”
“It’s beautiful.” She pointed to a group of men digging into the side of the hill. “What are they doing?”
“Mining. Let’s hope they want some entertainment at the end of the day.” The men waved as they passed.
The train leaned into a curve and Teresa grabbed the back of the seat. “I’m sorry about what happened in Denver,” she said.
“So am I,” Mr. Jones said. “The world’s not ready for y’all—not yet.” He glanced behind him, keeping his voice low. “Tell you what, though—we walked the whole train last night before we found these seats. No sign of Miss Stanton anywhere.”
“Is this the only train?”
“No. There’s also the narrow gauge. But we can always hope, can’t we?”
Teresa crossed her fingers and held up her hands. “Definitely.”
• • •
Teresa, Maeve, and the dogs straggled down Leadville’s wide main street. Their bags knocked against their legs as they searched for a rooming house. “What a strange place,” Teresa said. Women in long gowns, hoisting their skirts to avoid grimy snow, walked beside miners carrying shovels and pickaxes. Mules strained to pull heavy freight wagons through the wide, muddy streets, while glossy black automobiles stood in front of stores with decorated, fake storefronts. Rundown shacks leaned up against elegant brick buildings. Within a few blocks the dogs had muddy paws, and Teresa was glad she had worn her oldest dress for traveling.
She glanced behind her. Pietro and his father followed them at a slow pace, Mr. Jones using his dancing stick for balance. Teresa felt lightheaded again. “I hope Mr. Jones can dance,” she said.
“I know,” Maeve said. “I feel woozy myself. We’re that much higher than Denver here—look!” She pulled up the dogs. “There’s our theater. Isn’t it grand?”
A three-story brick building rose above the sidewalk on the far side of the street. The raised words “Tabor Opera House” stood out above arched second-story windows, and the building stretched back into the next block. An elegant hotel flanked the theater on one side. “Too bad we can’t stay there.” Teresa patted her skirt, where she had pocketed her earnings from Denver. At least she wouldn’t have to borrow money again.
“It’s not worth asking.” Maeve clucked to the dogs. They walked the main street and tried four or five rooming houses, but they were all full. “There’s a run on molybdenum up here,” one owner told them. “Try the Miner’s Refuge—they might have room.”
The “Refuge” turned out to be three small cabins leaning up against one another like tired old ladies. “Glorified shacks,” Maeve said, but she knocked on the closest door. The owner, a jowly man in suspenders and a red flannel shirt, scowled at the dogs but offered a choice of two rooms: one not much bigger than a closet, but with a door; the other a larger room separated from the hallway by a thin curtain. They took the smaller room and Maeve settled onto the bed, which sank under her weight. “Prickly horsehair,” she said, rubbing the mattress. “Never mind. I could sleep on a board, if I had to.” She yawned and made space beside her. “Need a nap?”
“Not now. I’ll take the dogs for a walk. Maybe I can get inside the Opera House.”
“Good idea. Find out when band call is, and wake me in time—will you?” Maeve closed her eyes.
At least Maeve was herself again. Maybe this town would be all right.
On her way out, Teresa asked the owner if he could save the last room for their friends. “I think they’ll be along soon,” she said. “They’re part of our troupe.”
“First come, first served,” he said.
Teresa swallowed a laugh. As if he had something decent to offer!
50.
Teresa stopped outside the theater to catch her breath. A poster announcing their show leaned up against the brick wall. The “Singing Toronto Triplets” were still on the list, as were Maeve and the Joneses—but at the bottom of the bill, someone had drawn a thick line through “The Rose of Abilene” and scrawled above it:
“FAVORITE SHAKESPEAREAN SKIT RETURNS!”
“She’s gone!” Teresa crowed. Cleo, usually the quietest dog, made a low crooning noise. Teresa gave her a pat. “Yes, it’s lovely. Good dog.” Had Pantages fired Miss Stanton—or had she quit in disgust? Either way, it was good news.
The theater door stood open. Teresa tugged the dogs up a wide staircase and went into the hall, pulling the door closed behind her. The space was dimly lit. She waited a moment, with the dogs at her feet, until her eyes adjusted to the light. She was standing at the back of the parquet, with the dress circle above her. Rows of plush maroon seats, each one topped with a wrought-iron decoration, lined red-carpeted aisles. She looked up. Cherubs, flowers, and ribbons seemed to dance on the frescoed ceiling. “Dear Mama, dear Nonnie,” she whispered. “If you could see me now.”
She pulled the dogs together. They seemed to understand that they were in a special place, and trotted down the aisle in an orderly row. Teresa reached down to touch a seat. It was soft as velvet. Gauzy lace curtains lined the special boxes on either side of the stage, and a wide orchestra pit, with at least a dozen chairs, ran in front of the stage apron. She looked up—and sucked in her breath. A painted scene formed the stage backdrop. It showed lines of craggy peaks marching in rows to fainter, white-covered mountains in the distance. A waterfall cascaded over a stony bank in the foreground, surrounded by pines. Would she sing in front of this beautiful painting?
“Stay!” she told the dogs, and climbed onto the stage. She touched her locket, cleared her throat, and hummed an E-flat to warm her voice, then sang a few scales. When she began to sing, she closed her eyes to get a sense of the theater’s acoustics. Even without an audience, the placed sounded warm.
She begged the hard times to disappear, pleaded with them to quit lingering “around my cabin door”—yet, even as she sang of troubles, and the “sigh of the weary,” she also knew that this was what she was meant to do: send her voice up to the frescoed ceiling, to the last row of seats in the dress circle, and out to the busy street.
The final note drifted away and she was startled by the sound of clapping. The dogs leapt to their feet, barking and snarling, and raced up the aisle, the fur bristling on their backs. A tall, silver-haired man stood up in the last row and raised his hands over his head. “Call them off!” he yelled.
“Dogs—sit!” Teresa jumped off the stage and hurried up the aisle. “Calm down.” The dogs obeyed, except for Fido, who went down on all fours, a low growl rumbling in his throat, as the man started down the aisle.
“Easy, boy.” The man glared at Fido. “Is this
mutt part of today’s show?”
“They’re all with Madame Maeve and her Marvelous Marching Dogs. Fido, leave it.” Teresa picked up Fido’s leash and wrapped it around the arm of an aisle seat. “They’re usually friendly.” No need to tell him that Fido protected them both against men with “bad ideas,” as Maeve put it.
The man stepped out of the shadows and put out his hand. “Rupert Harrison,” he said. “Stage manager.”
If only her palms weren’t damp with fear. “I’m Teresa LeClair.”
“So I guessed.” He cleared his throat. “You have a lovely voice. But I heard about your—uh—little fiasco in Denver. I trust we won’t see any of that here.”
“No, sir.” Teresa studied the plush red carpet under her dirty boots.
“Look at me, young lady.”
She did. His eyes were a cold gray-blue. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “We thought—”
“Never mind what you thought. I also heard that you could sing, and you just proved that to me here. But no more shenanigans—understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Teresa hated sounding like a servant, but what choice did she have?
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep to your own kind.” His words stung, but Teresa said nothing. “What songs are you planning to sing?”
She pulled her list out of her pocket. He looked it over and nodded. “Check these out with the bandleader at first band call. ‘Sunshine’ might sound sappy to these men—I’d give them ‘The Sidewalks of New York.’ ‘Hard Times’ could be too close to home—but you sing it well, so leave it in.” He waved at the painted backdrop. “‘Mockingbird’ would match the setting, with those trees and mountains.” He handed her the paper. “I also heard that you sang better than that so-called ‘Rose of Abilene.’ She was already washed up when she performed here last year, so we scratched her. Hope you can prove we made the right choice. Band call at noon.”