by Liza Ketchum
Teresa’s knees buckled and she sank to the floor, wailing like a tiny child. “Not Nonnie! She can’t be dead! I never wrote her a letter. Now she’ll never know . . .” Teresa drew up her knees and buried her face in her skirt.
“Who’s Nonnie?” Maeve knelt beside her, stroking Teresa’s hair. “Here, use my hankie.”
“My great-grandmother. She was very old. I love her so much.” Teresa gave way to deep, heaving sobs. Maeve held her tight. The dogs whimpered, and Edna licked Teresa’s hand. “Everything’s ruined,” Teresa wailed. “I have to go home.”
“Is that what she’d want?”
Teresa held her head in her hands, as if someone had boxed her ears. “I don’t know. Papa says, Viens ici: Come here. Did that policeman in New York tell Papa I was on that train?” Teresa sat up, very still. Only a few hours ago, she’d remembered Nonnie telling her to follow her dreams. Had Nonnie sent her a message? Teresa pulled her valise out from under the vanity table and rummaged in the bottom for Nonnie’s photograph. “Here she is.”
Maeve held the picture gently. “You have her bright smile.”
“She was nearly blind—but she taught me all the songs I know. She was—” Her voice broke. “She was everything to me.”
Applause rang out upstairs and someone tapped on their door. “Ten minutes, Miss Cullen,” a stagehand called.
Maeve let go of Teresa. “Will you be all right?”
“Maybe,” Teresa said, though she felt stripped and broken inside. She struggled to her feet, swept the jars of makeup to the side, and set Nonnie’s picture on the vanity. “I’ll feel better if I help you.” She snapped her fingers at Edna and Alix. “Come on, girls,” she said, her voice shaking. “Pompom time.”
She bent to her work. But when Maeve and the dogs were set to go upstairs, Teresa grabbed hold of the dressing table. “I still have one more show. How will I sing again? Look at my eyes!”
Maeve kissed the top of her head. “You’ll be fine. Put a cold compress on your face; that will help the swelling. And you will perform once more today. Sing to your great-grandma in heaven.”
• • •
Maeve must have told everyone what had happened, because when Teresa climbed the stairs for her evening performance, she found Maeve, the dogs, the acrobats, and Pietro waiting for her in the wings at stage right. “Sorry about your loss,” Pietro whispered. His dark eyes were sad. Even Mr. Jones was there, perched on the prompter’s stool. He beckoned to her and whispered in her ear. “Sing your heart out, Resa. It will ease your pain.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, and went out onstage. Her smile felt pasted on at first, but then she imagined telling Nonnie about “tripping the life fantastic”—instead of the “light”—on the sidewalks of New York. It was harder to sing “Listen to the Mockingbird” without weeping, especially when she pictured the birds that Nonnie loved, singing over her grave—but her voice only broke once.
After the flute’s final trill, she walked slowly to the edge of the stage apron and held up her hand. The audience settled, with a few curious murmurs. She looked out over the gas footlights. “I’d like to dedicate this last song to my great-grandmother, Aurelia Baxter, who just passed away.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Teresa glanced at the wings. Pietro stood there, listening intently. The stage manager shook his head violently, but Teresa ignored him and pulled a folded paper from her pocket. “The famous American writer W.E.B. Du Bois said these words.” She smoothed out the paper and read, “The morning breaks over blood-stained hills. We must not falter, we may not shrink. Above are the everlasting stars.”
“I believe my great-grandmother is in the stars, so I’m sending this song to her.” Teresa turned to the bandleader. “I’ll sing my last song a cappella.”
She returned to center stage. The lights went down and left her standing in a single spotlight. Teresa closed her eyes for a long moment. She saw Nonnie’s cloudy blue eyes and twinkling smile, smelled her lilac scent. She remembered sitting beside her on the piano bench, as a little girl, learning her notes. An E-flat sounded from the wings. Was that Mr. Jones, on his harmonica?
“Let us pause in life’s pleasures, and count its many tears,” she began. The full house gave warmth and depth to her voice. When she reached the first chorus and begged the hard times, with all her might, to “come again no more,” a pure tenor joined by a sweet harmonica sounded from the wings at stage right, while a bass added rich tones from stage left. And an alto voice chimed in—was that Maeve? Teresa smiled through her tears. Do you hear me, Nonnie? We’re all singing to you.
Her voice cracked when she reached the last verse and its lines about “the lonely grave,” but she was steady on the final chorus, and the voices of her friends, in the wings, felt like an embrace. “Oh!” she sang, with all the power in her lungs, “hard times, come again no more!”
A hush, as warm and thick as fur, fell over the theater. Teresa pictured her last note drifting up into the last row of the dress circle, through the ceiling with its painted frescoes, and up into the dark sky to heaven. When the applause began, she was startled; she’d forgotten where she was. She ran offstage and bumped into Pietro, who squeezed her hand. He didn’t speak, but his eyes shone.
“You sounded beautiful, all of you!” Teresa leaned over, gasping for breath. “Thank you, Mr. Jones. Who sang bass?”
“Sammy.” Mr. Jones gave her a little shove. “Go on—the crowd wants you.”
Teresa ran back onstage. She curtsied low and then stood tall, kissed her hands and blew the kisses up to heaven. The crowd roared, and pennies rained onstage. She bowed deep once more, then hurried off for the last time and collapsed in Maeve’s arms.
53.
Goldie was waiting for Teresa when she stumbled into the dressing room. The wardrobe mistress pulled her close and dabbed at her cheeks with a hankie. “You sang like an angel,” she said. “Your grannie must have heard you.”
“Thank you,” Teresa said. “You’ve been so kind.” She pulled away gently. “I need to change.”
“Turn around. I’ll unbutton your dress. It fits you like a dream.” Goldie’s fingers flew over the cloth buttons.
“I hate to give it up.” Teresa pulled the dress over her head.
“It’s yours,” Goldie said. “Another actress left it behind. Quite frankly, she didn’t have the bosom to fill it the way you do.” She chucked Teresa under the chin. “Don’t go blushing on me. You’re lucky for your pretty figure. It matches your voice.”
Teresa hugged her again. “How can I thank you?”
“You already did. Tonight you sang for all of us that ever lost someone. Send me a card once in a while; let me know how you’re doing. And don’t forgot me.”
“How could I? You’ve been good to me.” Teresa remembered Mama, in that long-ago chat in the kitchen, saying she “missed the feeling of family” on tour. This was what Mama meant. “I’ll write to you, Goldie,” Teresa said. “You’re wonderful.”
Teresa embraced her, shut the door, and leaned against it, her heart thumping. She couldn’t bear to tell Goldie that Papa had ordered her home. Viens ici, Papa had said. Mama would want her home for Nonnie’s funeral—
Or would she? Teresa picked up the telegram and read it again. Papa had called her ma chèrie—my sweet. Was that a trick, to bring her home? Or did Papa mean it? Teresa felt stretched and tugged in every direction, like saltwater taffy.
• • •
It was after eleven by the time Teresa, Maeve, and Mr. Jones stood outside under the gaslight, waiting for Pietro. Snowflakes angled through the lights onto the street. “Snow in June,” Mr. Jones said. “That’s a first.”
The door slammed and Pietro strode toward them, lugging their bags. “Well, Daddy. Say goodbye to this no-count town.”
“What happened?” Maeve asked.
“Stage manager had a telegram from Pantages. He says if Daddy can’t dance with me, we’re through. I have to say,
I agree.” Maeve gasped, but Pietro held up his hand. “It’s all right. Resa can explain it to you—and I think Daddy understands.”
“I’m working on it,” Mr. Jones said, but his dark eyes were sad.
“We’re headed east tomorrow,” Pietro said.
Me, too, Teresa almost said, but held her tongue. She rubbed her ribs to ease the ache that was lodged there. A broken heart actually hurt.
“Good thing we didn’t leave our bags at the so-called ‘Refuge.’” Maeve’s
eyes shone with tears in the gaslight, but she managed to sound cheerful. “I’ve always wanted to sleep in a boxcar. How about you, Resa?”
“Of course.” Teresa hoisted her bag. “Let’s find one before we freeze our toes off.”
“Don’t you have a bed?” Mr. Jones asked.
“A horsehair plank with fleas is not a bed,” Maeve said. “Besides, the dogs will keep us warm.”
Mr. Jones shook his head. “You’re wearing me down. Never mind. Even fools won’t come looking for us out here.” His dry laugh turned into a cough. Maeve steadied him.
“I’ll go on ahead, find us an empty car.” Pietro took off. The dogs ran free beside Maeve, snuffling the frozen snow lining the streets. Thick, wet flakes caught on their fur. They sneezed and rolled in the snow. Mr. Jones stopped coughing. “I’ll be right as rain, soon’s I get back to sea level,” he said.
Maeve matched her steps to Mr. Jones’s slow pace and Teresa lagged behind. A few days before, they didn’t dare walk down the street with Pietro and his father. Here in the dark, no one seemed to care.
A light bobbled up ahead and she heard Pietro’s whistle. He hurried toward them holding a lantern high overhead. “Found one.” He tucked one arm through his father’s. “A few bales of straw, along with the dogs, and we’ll be warm as toast.”
They climbed over steel rails, skirted an engine and its coal car, and followed Pietro to a boxcar that stood alone on a siding. Pietro pulled a wooden crate to the open door to use as a step. Teresa waited, handing the baggage up to Pietro, before she clambered onto the overturned crate herself. “All aboard,” Mr. Jones said softly.
A shout rang out. Teresa listened, holding her breath. “Someone’s calling me. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait!” Maeve poked her head out. “Take Edna. She’ll protect you.”
Teresa ran back along the rails with Edna loping beside her. A tall, skinny figure jogged toward her. “Teresa LeClair! Is that you?”
“Sammy? Over here!” Teresa cried. Edna barked and raced to greet him, her tail wagging in circles.
The acrobat strode through the dark, a long cape swirling at his knees. “What are you doing in this godforsaken place?” he asked. “Goldie told me you had headed out this way.”
Teresa looked up at him. Her teeth were chattering. “What’s wrong?”
He reached under his cloak. “Another telegram,” he said. “Goldie found this on the floor of your dressing room.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Hope it’s good news this time.”
“I hope so, too. Thank you, Sammy. And thank you for singing with me. Your voice is beautiful.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “See you on the first train out.”
Would she? Sammy touched his cap and hurried away before Teresa could say goodbye.
Her feet were as heavy as the lead that had named this town. She followed the glow of the lantern back to the boxcar and climbed inside. “Who was it?” Maeve asked. She was curled up in the corner, her voice already thick with sleep.
“Sammy, with another telegram. Pietro, could I borrow the lantern?”
Pietro stepped over his father and held the lantern above her head. Her hands shook as she tore open the telegram.
DEAR RESA STOP NONNIE SINGS WITH THE ANGELS STOP ALWAYS REMEMBER THE CANARY ONLY SINGS WHEN FREE STOP LOVE MAMA.
Teresa laughed, even as the words swam across the yellowed paper.
Pietro squinted at the message. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He cleared his throat. “Excuse me for being nosy.”
Teresa glanced at Mr. Jones, curled up with Fido, Bronwyn, and Dixie, and at Maeve, wrapped in her cloak next to Cleo, her head pillowed on Alix. “Come outside,” she whispered.
They jumped down into the snow. Pietro cocked his head. “Well?”
“It means,” she said, “that I’m not going home.”
“I knew that. But what’s this about a bird in a cage?”
“It’s complicated.” Teresa explained about Lebo the canary, who only sang when he was flying free. “Mama wants me to keep singing,” she said. “Even though Papa says I should come home.”
“Your mama sounds smart.”
“She is.” For a moment, Teresa longed to feel Mama’s arms around her, ached to hear her mother’s laugh, to feel her hands—rough from so many years of dishes and washing—smooth the hair from her forehead. “She’s brave, too.” Teresa rubbed her hands to warm them. “Would your mother tell you to keep dancing?”
Pietro stared off across the rail yards. “I don’t see her much, with all this traveling. But if I did, I’m guessing she’d say: ‘Do what’s right.’” He stepped close. “Resa, you’ve got the hunger. I don’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. You’re hungry for all of it. You love to strut onstage. You feel the spark when the crowd’s with you. When you finish a song, and the last note floats and the crowd goes still—you want to hold on to that moment forever. Don’t you?”
Teresa nodded, her throat too thick for speech. So he felt it, too.
Pietro glanced around the empty rail yards and took her hand, his touch firm and steady. “Look at me, Resa.” She met his gaze, though it made her shy. “I’m hungry for other things,” Pietro said. “The end of lynchings. Schools where my people can learn. A time when I can hold the hand of whomever I please.” His voice was like iron. “That’s my hunger. And I won’t find it onstage.”
“Where will you find it?”
“I don’t know yet. I got to work for it. The way you’ll work for your success. Someday, I’ll see Teresa LeClair’s name in lights on some big New York theater—like the Palace. If they let me in, I’ll be there, cheering you on.”
“And I’ll read about you in those newspapers of yours.”
“Maybe.” A rare smile flickered in his eyes. Then Pietro’s lips brushed her own; a kiss as delicate as the touch of a butterfly’s wing. “Good night, Resa. We’ll be gone before first light. But I’ll see you in my dreams.”
He climbed into the boxcar, leaving Teresa alone in the dark.
“In my dreams, too.” Teresa looked up. The snow had stopped, and clouds scudded across the brightest stars she had ever seen; as bright as the lights on the Great White Way. Above are the everlasting stars. She picked a song that Mama loved—and Papa, too.
“Irene, good night,” she sang. “Irene, good night. Good night, Irene, good night, Irene, I’ll see you in my dreams.”
Pietro’s warm tenor echoed from inside the boxcar. “In my dreams,” he sang. “I’ll see you in my dreams.” Their harmony wheeled up to the velvet star-studded sky.
FINAL CURTAIN.
Hard Times by Stephen Foster (1854)
Let us pause in life’s pleasures and count its many tears
While we all sup sorrow with the poor
There’s a song that will linger forever in our ears
Oh hard times come again no more.
Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard times, hard times, come again no more
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door
Oh hard times come again no more.
While we seek mirth and beauty and music bright and gay
There are frail forms fainting at the door
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
Oh hard times come again no more.
Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard times, hard
times, come again no more
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door
Oh hard times come again no more.
Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,
Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore
Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave
Oh hard times come again no more.
Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard times, hard times, come again no more
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door
Oh hard times come again no more.
Oh hard times come again no more.
The Songs (in order of appearance):
Hard Times
Shoo Fly
Gypsy Davey
(I Dream of) Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair
Cousin of Mine
Heaven Will Protect the Working Girl
Down by the Old Mill Stream
The Sidewalks of New York
When Irish Eyes Are Smiling
By the Light of the Silvery Moon
A Bird in a Gilded Cage
After the Ball
Meet Me in St. Louis, Louis
Let Me Call You Sweetheart
Shine On, Harvest Moon
Listen to the Mockingbird
You Are My Sunshine
Irene, Goodnight
Everybody Works But Father
Author’s Note
Vaudeville has fascinated me since I was a small child. That’s when my father told me the romantic story about my great-grandmother, Carrie Lebo. She stole away from home in the night to elope with a vaudeville musician, leaving her pet canary behind. The family found the bird dead in its cage the next morning and declared it a bad omen.
William Patton, Carrie’s sweetheart, was a charming red-headed violinist. Carrie had a lovely voice and played the piano. The couple sang and played with a vaudeville troupe that moved from town to town, performing in small theaters. They had two children: a son, and my paternal grandmother, Thelma June.
The couple’s elopement created a scandal in the small town of Shreve, Ohio, as did their divorce a few years later. Growing up, I often asked my grandmother about her parents. She told me that Carrie loved to sing, and that she was a skilled seamstress and music teacher. Although my grandmother had inherited her parents’ love of music (she also played piano), she refused to speak about her father, except to mention his red hair, and the fact that he seldom visited. Sadly, she was ashamed of her parents’ history.