by Kirby Larson
It was all in secret. Not a soul knew about my efforts. Had I tried, I might have been able to get one or two of my stories published in the Great Falls Tribune.
I paused in midscrub of a window, vinegar water dripping down my arm. Might have. But shopping dogs and stubborn men are hardly topics to occupy a real reporter’s time.
My thoughts were interrupted by voices below. Many voices. Melodious voices. The Varietals had arrived!
I finished the window, ditched bucket and rags, and hurried downstairs. Several people, bearing an inordinate amount of luggage, were crowded into the front hall. A young dandy with Brylcreemed hair struck a pose by the coat tree. An ingénue with pouty lips fussed with the hem of her jacket. An older actress wore an overcoat of midnight-blue wool that tapered to an impossibly thin waist before ending a fashionable four inches above her shoe tops. She caught me gawking and I was rewarded with a queenly nod.
Their leader, Mr. Lancaster, stroked his waxed goatee as he parleyed terms with Mrs. Brown. “We have a train to catch on Saturday,” he said.
“Only three nights?” Mrs. Brown’s voice registered disappointment.
“Regrettably, that is the case.” Mr. Lancaster bowed to Mrs. Brown, reached for her hand, and planted a kiss there. “Such is the life of the wandering performer. Now, would you be so kind as to show us to our rooms?”
I headed to the kitchen to start noon dinner as Mrs. Brown settled everyone to rights. The door soon swung open and the Brylcreem man popped his head in. “Might I trouble you for directions to a tobacconist’s?” His smile was straight from an advertisement for Pepsodent toothpaste, it was that white. “I myself do not indulge. But Miss Clare is convinced that Milo cigarettes help relax her vocal cords.”
I gave him directions; for which my reward was another glittering smile.
He had barely exited the room when one of the young women of the troupe slipped in.
“Tobacconist’s?” I asked, anticipating her question.
“What?” She looked puzzled.
“Sorry. That young man with the white smile was just here, asking for directions. I assumed you might need them, too.”
“Cecil?” Her cheeks flushed pink. “I mean, Mr. Hall?”
I started in on a stack of spuds that needed peeling. “I hope I didn’t sound rude. Can I help you?”
“I noticed the clothesline out back. Might I hang some of the costumes for tonight’s performance out to air? You can’t imagine how”—she waggled her eyebrows—”aromatic they get with all those wearings.”
“The neighbors will appreciate the change of scenery,” I said. “Much more interesting than Mrs. Brown’s bloomers.”
She laughed. “I can imagine.”
I showed her to the bucket of clothespins and she went after the costumes, hanging them out to air.
“Oh, you’re making scalloped potatoes,” she said, passing back through the kitchen when she’d finished. “My favorite.”
I took stock of her. There was none of the oiliness that I’d felt from Mr. Hall. And she looked to be about my age. I introduced myself. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Oh, I’d love one.” She sat at the table. “I’m Sylvia. The world’s worst wardrobe mistress, according to her nibs in there.” She took the coffee I offered but shook her head at sugar and cream.
“I thought this job would be so exciting.” Sylvia rolled her eyes. “ ‘Wardrobe mistress’ is only a fancy term for chief laundress and mender. And all the travel. After this, we’re off to San Francisco.” Elbows on the table, she rested her chin on her hands, wearing a decidedly glum expression.
Imagine feeling blue about going somewhere like San Francisco. Think of the doings in such a place! A person could write news stories there till her arm fell off. “Why do you keep with it?” I asked, sprinkling flour over the top of the potatoes in the baking dish.
She glanced around, then ducked her head close to mine. “Cecil,” she whispered.
I wrinkled my forehead, trying to think. See sill? What? Then it hit me. “You mean Mr. Hall?”
Sylvia put her finger to her lips. “Our secret, promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
“You’re a peach.” She gave me a friendly wink. “The coffee hit the spot. Thanks. Back to the salt mines.”
She paused with her hand on the swinging door. “Say. Would you like to come to the show tomorrow night? I can get you a ticket. On the house.”
A live vaudeville show. I’d never seen one before. And for free! “That’s kind of you. I’d love it.”
“It will be quite the performance.” She flashed a mysterious smile. “One you won’t want to miss.”
Thanks to Sylvia’s generosity, the next night I found myself in a plush maroon seat in the tenth row, center section, of the Grand Opera House. I held the printed program in gloved hands. Out of loyalty to my benefactor, the first thing I did was look for Cecil Hall’s name. There it was, in minuscule print, near the bottom of the last page. Taking up most of the program were the names of Ellington Lancaster—”Founder and Principal, Venturing Varietals” and “Marquis of the Footlights”—and Vera Clare, who was not only “Empress of Emotion” but also “Queen of the Varietal Stage.”
My neighbor was a chatty woman whose hat would’ve been better suited to someone with a face less like a pumpkin. She pointed to Cecil’s name on the program. “I saw him in Helena,” she confided. “He plays a magician that makes himself disappear.” Her eyes twinkled. “My nephew told me how it’s done. It’s called a Hamlet trap. They rig up this door in the stage floor. The actor steps on it just so and poof! Gone.” She sighed. “I come all this way to see him again.”
The burgundy velvet curtain began to rise, earning me a poke in the ribs from my neighbor. For a plump woman, she had sharp bones. “Show’s starting,” she stage-whispered.
I nodded, edging myself a bit farther away from that pain-inflicting elbow as I settled in to enjoy the evening. The opening act was a comic duo from Great Falls. They performed a skit involving an accordion, a ridiculously large woman’s hat, and a wheelbarrow. I laughed so hard, I thought I might slip right out of my chair and into the aisle.
Vera Clare was stunning in her role as a grieving mother in a short play called Mama’s Boys. I wept as hard as I’d laughed earlier. For a small woman, she radiated great stage presence. All around me, audience members—even men!—were dabbing eyes with handkerchiefs. To think that Sylvia found traveling with such a troupe to be wearing! From my plush seat, the dramatic life seemed nothing but thrilling.
After the intermission, Cecil’s time in the spotlight finally arrived. I had to admit, he did look dashing in that black top hat and red-satin-lined magician’s cape. I found his delivery a trifle melodramatic, but my neighbor could not take her eyes from him up there in the footlights. She grabbed my arm as he moved center stage. “The line will be ‘Exemptum exactum,’ ” she murmured. No sooner had she uttered the words than Cecil, too, pronounced them, though much more theatrically.
“Exemptum exactum!” His baritone voice rang out over the hall. Then, with a swoosh of his cape, he vanished. A woman behind me shrieked in surprise. My heart raced and I gripped the seat arms. Even though I’d been forewarned, Cecil’s departure was exceedingly dramatic.
It wasn’t until later that I would learn exactly how dramatic it had been.
Excerpt copyright © 2013 by Kirby Larson. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
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