The Life Fantastic

by Liza Ketchum

  He turned on his heel and strode back up the aisle, leaving Teresa with her mouth open. His welcome was as cold as this town—but at least the “Rose” was gone.

  51.

  After a stingy breakfast, Teresa and Maeve discovered that the Miner’s Refuge offered little more than a sponge and a basin of hot water for a bath. “We’ll clean up at the theater,” Maeve said. “And let’s bring our luggage with us. I don’t trust this place.”

  The theater’s lavatory was tiny but clean. Teresa washed at the basin and winced when she pulled her yellow skirt and blouse from her bag. “Look how wrinkled it is,” she said. “I can’t go on in this.”

  “We’ll find an iron,” Maeve said. “That’s the least of our worries. From what you told me about the stage manager, we all have to prove ourselves today.”

  Someone rapped on the dressing-room door. “Who’s there?” Teresa pulled on her cloak to cover her underwear.

  “Wardrobe mistress.” A plump white woman stepped inside and stared at Teresa. “You’re that singer girl, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was listening upstairs, when you was practicing.” The woman’s face reddened. “Sorry for eavesdropping, Miss, but Mr. Harrison had no business talking to you that way; you such a young thing. Thought I’d look in on you, see what you might need.”

  Teresa blinked back grateful tears. “How kind.” She scooped up her yellow costume. “I was going to wear this—but it’s so wrinkled.”

  “Hmm. I’ve got something better suited to your coloring.” She bustled away and returned a few minutes later carrying a royal-blue gown. “Let’s see if it fits you.” The woman’s speech was slurred from the straight pins sticking from her mouth. She slipped the dress over Teresa’s head and buttoned it up the back.

  Teresa looked at herself in the mirror. Like the dress Maeve had stitched for her, this one had a low neckline, though not as revealing. The skirt swung just below her knees. And the woman was right: The royal blue set off her hair and didn’t highlight her freckles as the yellow outfit did. “It’s beautiful,” Teresa whispered. “Thank you.”

  “You’ll need some decent tights, maybe some black shoes,” the wardrobe mistress said. “I’ll check my storeroom.” She glanced at Maeve, then at the dogs. “Anything you need, Miss? And what about these furry critters?”

  “A whole new canine wardrobe?” Maeve smiled. “Just teasing.” She held up a pair of green tights. “I was mending these, but they’re in terrible shape. Maybe a pair to match my shorts?” She showed the woman her emerald satin outfit, then picked up a shredded pompom and pointed to Fido, who was curled up under the vanity table. “He chewed this up on the train last night. If you had some fresh ribbon—”

  “Naughty boy,” the wardrobe mistress said, but she gave Fido a pat. “These dogs are better behaved than the monkey we had last week. Not to mention what the visiting zebra left onstage.”

  They all laughed. “You’re very kind,” Maeve said. “What’s your name?”

  “Miss Feingold—but folks just call me Goldie. I’ll be back shortly.” She paused at the door, looking at Teresa. “Sing like you did this morning, and you won’t have nothing to worry about.”

  She was gone before Teresa could thank her.

  “You see?” Maeve gave Teresa a quick hug. “As long as you do your job and sing like an angel, the audience will love you.”

  “I hope so.” Teresa plopped down onto a hard chair. “Do you have to prove yourself every time you start in a new town?”

  “Every single town, every single theater, every show,” Maeve said. “It keeps us on our toes, trying new things. Right, dogs?”

  The dogs jumped to their feet, tails wagging, ears pricked. Dixie did a little jig on her hind legs—and Teresa imitated her, twirling around the tiny room until her head spun.

  • • •

  An hour later, as Maeve and Teresa were putting the finishing touches on their makeup and costumes, they heard familiar voices in the hall. Dixie and Edna leapt up, tails wagging, but Teresa froze.

  “Daddy, if I’m dancing alone, I’ll do it my own way,” Pietro was saying.

  Teresa opened the door and peered out. Pietro was hauling their luggage down the narrow hallway while Mr. Jones limped behind, leaning on Pietro’s shoulder. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “Afraid not.” Pietro set down their bags and wiped his brow on his sleeve.

  Mr. Jones gave Teresa a sad wave. “I’m slow as a tortoise at this altitude.” He touched the brim of his cap. “Don’t you ladies look nice.”

  Pietro didn’t even glance in their direction. He squinted at the label on the dressing room across the hall. “Looks like this is our spot. And it’s not your fault we’re late, Daddy. It’s this town, and you know it. No room at the inn.” His voice was like cold iron. “That’s what they all say.”

  Maeve emerged from their dressing room. “Our place—the Miner’s Refuge—was supposed to save you a room.”

  “Some ‘refuge.’ We showed up just after you, but they said someone had taken the last bed.”

  “Then they lied. Where will you go?”

  Pietro shrugged and shoved their bags into their dressing room. “Maybe a boxcar, but that won’t help Daddy’s cough. Right now we need to get ready for band call. Come on, Daddy.”

  Mr. Jones didn’t budge. “Let’s see what our friends think about our question.”

  “Our question—if that’s what you want to call it—is none of their business—begging your pardon,” he added.

  Mr. Jones ignored him. “Pietro here says he’s dancing without cork.”

  Pietro leaned close to him. “I am, Daddy. That’s none of their worry—or yours. If Walker could perform without cork, then so can I.”

  “Son, we’ve been through all this. George Walker was one of the most popular entertainers ever known, until his collapse—God rest his soul. Williams still is one of the funniest men alive. But you’re just a young man, hardly more than a boy, starting out.” He bent over coughing.

  Pietro patted his father’s back. “Williams and Walker were boys once, too. Personally, I’m sick to death of being a ‘boy’ to all these stage managers.”

  “Then maybe it’s time for you to pack it in,” Mr. Jones said, when he caught his breath.

  Teresa bit her lip. Did Mr. Jones mean that? She backed away. It was too awkward to hear them fight. Maeve touched her elbow. “We’d better finish dressing,” she said, and ducked inside their dressing room.

  Pietro held up his hand. “Resa, wait. Let me get Daddy settled.” He took his father’s arm and ushered him into their dressing room.

  Resa. Had he ever called her that before? Pietro’s voice was low and reassuring behind the closed door. When he emerged from their dressing room, he glanced at Teresa. “Daddy’s right. You sure do look nice.” He glanced along the hall. “Coast is clear. We need to talk.”

  Teresa followed him past the dressing rooms to a bench in a corner. They perched at either end, careful to keep their distance. “How is your father?” she asked.

  “He’s still got a fever. We could be all washed up after tonight.”

  “But you’re fine, dancing on your own.”

  “I need to be more than fine. If the stage manager won’t accept me without cork, that’s the end. It might not be the worst thing.”

  When he didn’t explain, Teresa said, “I read some of your book.” She stole a look at him, expecting him to be angry, but he smiled.

  “I know.”

  “How?”

  “You put my notes back in the wrong place. What did you think?”

  “I’m not the best reader. It’s—it’s complicated writing. I can see why you’d have to study it a lot. I liked the part where he wrote about being a teacher. But what—I feel dumb that I don’t remember—what happened to John Brown at Harpers Ferry?”

  She expected scorn, but Pietro’s tone was patient. “Brown and his sons and f
ollowers tried to take over a federal arsenal. There was a massacre, people killed on both sides. Some folks say the Civil War began at Harpers Ferry. That’s why Du Bois gave his speech there—”

  “I read it,” Teresa said. “He—makes me think about things.” She felt stupid and tongue-tied. Pietro didn’t seem to notice.

  “The man’s a genius. He’s a poet and teacher, he writes essays, he went to Harvard, amazing for a colored man—and he understands how the world works.” Pietro’s toes tapped a nervous rhythm on the floorboards. “And I want—” He glanced down the empty hall. “Don’t say anything about this.”

  “Of course.”

  “I want to be near this man, learn from him, work for what he believes in. So that someday—” He glanced up and down the hall, then leaned close, pulled up his shirtsleeve, and held his arm against hers. Teresa shivered when their skin touched. “See that?” Pietro asked. “Black against white? No different than day touching night. White folks can’t handle that now. Someday, maybe they will.”

  Footsteps clattered on the stairs. Pietro jumped to his feet as a stagehand ran past. “Band call in a half hour,” the stagehand said, and kept running.

  Pietro’s brown eyes met her own. “I haven’t said a word to Daddy. Du Bois has this organization, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People; NAACP, they call it. That Harpers Ferry speech was the start of it. In the NAACP, whites and blacks work together to stop the lynchings; help us get schooling, jobs, and houses like white people have now. I’ve been reading about it in the newspapers. Might see if I can work with them, get better educated, try to change things.”

  Teresa’s mouth went dry. “You’d leave the stage?” Her voice sounded as small as she felt. “You’re such a good dancer.”

  “Good, sure. But fabulous? Not yet; maybe never. Dancing is Daddy’s calling, not mine. I do it because he’s my daddy. If they toss me offstage tonight, maybe that’s a sign.” In spite of what he said, Pietro tap-danced in a lazy beat as he talked.

  “What would happen to your father?”

  “He’ll be all right when he gets down from the mountains. I’ll take him back to New York. He could find another partner—maybe a woman. Or teach people to dance. You see how he was, helping you: so patient. Not like me,” Pietro added, with a rare smile.

  “Twenty minutes!” The same young stagehand pulled up in front of them. “Everything all right, Miss?” he asked.

  “Just fine.” Teresa stood to face him. “I’m completely fine, thank you very much.” When the stagehand disappeared, she plucked Pietro’s sleeve. “Could I borrow your book for a few minutes? I promise I’ll be careful. I want to copy something.”

  He gave her a rare smile. “I didn’t take you for a reader.”

  “I’m not,” she admitted. “Except for song lyrics. But could I?”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re one confusing girl, know that? Sure; borrow it until band call.” He drew circles on the floor with the toe of one shoe. “Better go to Daddy now.” He didn’t move. He was so close, Teresa felt his breath. She lifted her hand, longing to touch his face—but he turned away. “I’ll get the book,” he said. And was gone.

  52.

  The bandleader skimmed Teresa’s sheet music and checked a card on his music stand. “Looks like you’re on after the acrobats, so come back in a few minutes.”

  “Second, before Maeve?” Teresa’s heart skipped. “Could I see?” He handed her the list and she scanned it quickly. The scrawled handwriting was hard to read, but she found her name: #2: Singer LeClair—followed by Pietro and his father. She skipped over the other names to the end. Maeve and the dogs were in the plum spot, next to last, followed by a movie short. “Thank you,” she said.

  Teresa stopped at the end of the downstairs hall and hugged herself with delight. The narrow passageway buzzed with activity. Sammy the acrobat was upside down in a handstand, his shirt fallen over his face. The comedian from the Denver performance dashed past, his coat open, fake mustache dangling, calling “Goldie! Where are you?” Edna, Bronwyn, and Cleo were loose; Bronwyn nipped at the pointy shoes of three men dressed in tights and blousy short trousers—were they the Shakespearean actors? Stagehands bustled past, handing out props, while Goldie appeared at the end of the hall, a fur coat over her arm, her mouth bristling with straight pins again.

  Teresa wound her way through the chaos. How could Pietro give this up? She rapped on their door to return the book. Pietro slipped into the hall. “Daddy’s too sick to dance.”

  “Should we call the doctor?”

  “He says no. He’s stubborn.”

  Like you, Teresa thought. “Listen—I’m on second and you’re third. If I don’t see you—then merde.”

  “Break a leg yourself,” he said.

  • • •

  Teresa’s new high heels put her off balance and the thin air made her lightheaded again. The bandleader asked her to run through her last number twice and he didn’t even nod when she finished. Teresa flopped in front of the mirror in their dressing room. “I’m all wet,” she said.

  “Nonsense.” Maeve looked up from mending Dixie’s pompom. “You just need to relax and forget about Pietro.”

  “Who says I’m thinking about Pietro?”

  “It’s obvious.” Maeve squeezed her knee. “You look like a star in that dress. You’ll be wonderful—you always are. Belt your heart out. Now help me with the dogs.”

  The matinee audience was tepid and didn’t call her back for a second bow. Maeve met her in the wings. “You were fine. First house always sits on its hands.”

  Like Pietro, Teresa wanted to be more than “fine.” She was walking her own slack wire to stay with the troupe. She watched Pietro from the wings. The stage manager gave him a nice plug while the stagehands slid Pietro’s stairs onstage. “Mr. Jones is ill,” Mr. Harrison told the crowd. “Luckily, his son dances well enough for two. Please give a big hand to . . . Pietro Jones!”

  The crowd applauded politely, the music began, and Pietro danced out of the shadows—wearing his fancy striped cutaway suit and his own brown skin. Teresa wanted to cheer. Mr. Harrison did a double take as Pietro cakewalked past him. “You’re asking for trouble,” he said, but Pietro ignored him.

  Pietro did dance as if he were two people, his feet and arms a blur of motion. He was elegant in his new suit and top hat. The crowd was quiet during the cakewalk, but a low hum started up as he began his tap routine and soon became a buzz. Tappetta tappetta tap tap tap . . . buzz buzz buzz. Finally, someone shouted, “Where’s the cork?”

  Teresa held her breath. Would he falter? But Pietro never missed a beat, and his smile, when he danced up and down the stairs, brandishing his cane, seemed genuine. The stage manager had disappeared. Pietro launched into his third dance without waiting for any applause. The band played his ragtime number. Pietro’s movements seemed loose and free, as if he had no worries in the world. A few people in the front row began to clap in time to the music. The clapping spread, and Pietro beamed, his body swaying and bending with the beat, his feet moving faster and faster.

  “Not in my theater.” The stage manager reappeared beside Teresa, holding a hook. He started forward, but Teresa grabbed his arm and held on with all her might.

  “Wait,” she said. “The audience likes him. Listen.”

  Mr. Harrison twisted out of her grip and stalked toward the stage, but the crowd clapped and stomped in unison until the theater seemed to vibrate. Pietro finished with a flourish of his cane, swept off his top hat, and bowed deeply. The audience roared. He danced offstage, tipped his hat to Mr. Harrison in the wings, and danced back out for another bow.

  “What cheek,” the stage manager said. But the hook was gone.

  Teresa slipped away and waited for Pietro downstairs. “You were wonderful!” If only she could give him a hug. He tipped his top hat to her, breathing hard. “Thank you, Resa LeClair.”

  • • •

  Pietr
o and Teresa each found their rhythm by the third performance, although every house was cool until Pietro proved himself. Maeve had suggested that Teresa play to someone in the audience. On “The Sidewalks of New York,” she focused on a woman with sparkling eyes who mouthed the words along with her. The band picked up the tempo and Teresa waltzed in place as Mr. Jones had taught her.

  As she belted out the chorus, she even imagined Papa in the audience, listening as she praised New York’s street life. “Boys and girls together,” she sang. “Me and Mamie O’Rourke. We’ll trip the life fantastic on . . . the sidewalks of New York.” She knew she’d botched the words—the song was about dancing the “light” fantastic on Broadway—but it was the life she longed for. Someday she’d perform on a real stage in New York. The crowd hushed when she sang “Hard Times,” and called her back twice.

  Sam and Sammy stood in the wings, applauding, as she ran offstage. “Good job,” Sam said. Teresa bent over, gasping for breath. Sam pointed to the stairs. “Maeve needs you in the dressing room,” he said.

  Teresa ran downstairs, though she had wanted to stay and see the Shakespeare scene. She pushed the door open. “Two curtain calls!” she sang, and skidded to a halt. Maeve sat at the vanity table, her face ashen. Teresa drew back. “What is it?”

  “You have a telegram,” Maeve whispered. “You were onstage so I signed for it.”

  The Western Union envelope rattled in Teresa’s hands. “Who knows I’m here?”

  “Pantages.”

  “Has he fired me? Maybe I should read it later.” But Teresa tore it open in spite of herself.

  The telegram was in French, with the stops in English:

  MA CHÈRIE STOP NONNIE EST MORTE STOP VIENS ICI STOP PAPA.