A Song Across the Sea

by Shana McGuinn

  She was not going to give up this easily.

  All of these thoughts whirled through her mind in mere moments.

  “Pssssst. Tara. Come on, kid. You’re through.” It was Mr. Glass hissing from the wings, motioning to her to leave the stage.

  She ignored him. Behind her, the audience waited expectantly. The jeers had stopped, and a few curious whispers lingered in the air. This was something new. The pretty girl in the dark blue dress had sung, flopped, and started to leave the stage. Suddenly she stopped with her back to them. What was going on? Was she crying? Anticipation intensified. Everyone was wondering the same thing. What was she going to do next?

  Tara turned around and started singing again. Not “Little Lou-Lou,” the comic up-tempo number she’d started with the first time, at the suggestion of Mr. Glass. No, this time she broke into “Does He Ever Think of Me” and from the first note, she knew she had command of her voice again.

  Can you forget the lilac evenings

  When we first did meet?

  The raindrop flavored kisses

  The sounds of cobbled streets

  She glided back toward the spotlight. The midnight-blue gown was exactly right on her, perfect for the occasion. She could feel, rather than see, how the white beam of the spotlight set the crystal bugle beads to dancing. The orchestra leader, startled by her change in selections, fumbled through his sheet music to find the other song. To his credit, the orchestra picked up the song midway through the first verse. Tara wouldn’t have cared if it hadn’t. She could sing it a capella, if she had to.

  You’ve pledged your love to another

  And taken her far away

  And yet sometimes I wonder

  Do you ever think of me?

  Was the audience waiting for her to fail again? She found that she didn’t care. The stage was hers. Nothing bad could touch her here. With her rich contralto voice soaring easily to the last row of the balcony, she reached inward and pulled the second verse straight out of her soul.

  When she turns to you on a midsummer day

  Is it ever my smile that you see?

  When you linger over dinner

  Do your thoughts turn back to me?

  While walking in the garden

  Do you feel some small regret?

  Does a stranger’s voice remind you

  Of a girl you can’t forget?

  With the harsh spotlight in her eyes, Tara could see only the first few rows of people in the audience. The rest, their pale, featureless faces, blended into an anonymous fog. She realized that it was really Reece she was singing to, even though he was far away. The chorus she called up was lushly emotional, awakening bittersweet memories in everyone listening.

  For I’ll never love another man

  However long I live

  To those who ask, I answer thus

  My heart’s not mine to give

  It belongs to him who left me

  To him I never see

  And still each day I wonder

  Does he ever think of me?

  When the song finally ended, she felt as if she’d awakened from a deep trance. Complete silence reigned over the vast theater. For a long moment, not one person coughed, or hooted, or even shifted in his seat.

  Then applause erupted and headed toward her like rolling thunder, wave upon wave of it, punctuated by shrill whistles and ecstatic whoops. Tara, bowing, found that tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  She’d cried in front of them after all. And it was all right.

  • • •

  “So, what did he say? Tell us exactly what he said. Every word. Don’t leave a thing out.” Delores was beside herself with excitement. She finished pouring tea for Tara, Kathleen, Hap and herself and sat down next to Tara. Per her parents orders, Lotte had gone home directly from the theater, escorted by Conrad, who’d come to collect her.

  “He said I’m hired.” Tara still couldn’t believe it. “I start next week.”

  “Besides that. We already know that. The man would have to be an idiot, not to hire you after that song. Why, you were the best one up there all evening! No one even came close!”

  “Now Delores,” said Tara. “You’re exaggerating. The juggler was good. And those twin brothers—”

  “Nonsense! All amateurs.”

  “And so am I.”

  “Until now.” Hap commented.

  Kathleen asked: “How much is he going to pay you?”

  The girl knew how to get right to the point. Tara couldn’t think of any polite way to sidestep Kathleen’s rather blunt question. “Thirty dollars a week.”

  “You don’t mean it” Kathleen was stunned. “As much as that?”

  Tara was still pretty astonished herself by the figure Mr. Glass mentioned. It was more than three times what she and Lotte earned at the factory. Kathleen, who worked as a clerk in a shop, didn’t make much more than them. The knowledge that her new salary dwarfed that of her friends sobered Tara. It wasn’t really fair, to be paid that well for doing what she loved to do. But the others looked delighted for her.

  “That’s wonderful, Tara,” Kathleen said, with no trace of envy.

  Sure and she didn’t deserve friends like these! She’d use some of the money to buy grand things for them, she would.

  “How many performances a day?” Hap was interested in practical matters.

  “Four a day, six days a week. And Mr. Glass said I’ll have to change my act twice a week, with new costumes and songs, so the audience doesn’t tire of me. If things go well, I might end up travelin’ to different cities to perform. All over America, on circuits, he called them. And he wants me to wear powder and rouge.”

  Delores was indignant. “Next he’ll tell you to wear cologne, something a well brought up young lady would never do!”

  “Now, Delores,” Kathleen piped up. “That way of thinkin’ is behind us, don’t you know. I wear some meself, on occasion. Smell this.” She held out her wrist, and Delores sniffed at it reluctantly.

  “Well, it does smell nice,” Delores admitted.

  “Decent women wearing perfume!” Hap roared. “That’s what comes of all these suffragettes marching around, smoking cigars and demanding the vote. Next thing you know they’ll be wanting to drive automobiles.”

  “Now, Hap,” Delores broke in reasonably. “You told me yourself that there are women aviators in France, flying in airplane races, no less. And what’s wrong with women wanting the vote? We have as much sense as you men. Sometimes more.”

  Hap threw up his arms in mock surrender. “Oh, boy. I’m outnumbered here.”

  And so the evening ended with Tara finally out of the spotlight, turning, as it did, into a heated discussion of the place of women in society. Tara stayed out of it. She had to be granted American citizenship before she could march for the right to vote, although she certainly planned to march. It was thrilling to be here, and she intended to take advantage of every opportunity that came her way and even go after a few that didn’t.

  She set her tea aside and leaned back in her chair, exhausted. Auditioning had sapped her strength, as nothing else ever had, but it was a good sort of weariness.

  Later, when the party broke up and Tara bid her friends goodnight, Hap looked at her and said a funny thing. “You were great tonight, Tara. Sure wish Reece could have seen you.”

  So did she.

  She went to her room, got into her long white cotton nightgown and stood looking out the window for a long time before climbing into bed. New York City was no longer intimidating and indifferent to her. She’d found her place in it. A new layer of snow coated the pavement outside, untouched by footprints or tire tracks. It gleamed like diamonds under the glow of the gas streetlights, covering, at least until dawn, the sins of the city with a pearl-colored layer of innocence. It hushed sounds and kept at bay the loneliness that waited, always, just outside her window. It gave the city a fresh start, and granted Tara renewed faith in her future.

  He
r dreams were finally coming true. The little farm in Ireland seemed farther away than ever, but for once, no anxiety accompanied this thought. Maybe things had happened this way for a reason. If she hadn’t been starving, she never would have met Reece. He wouldn’t have brought her to this particular boarding house and she wouldn’t have met Kathleen, who took her to a vaudeville show. And without the encouragement of her friends tonight, she would have failed.

  The string of tragedies that had shadowed her life up to this point had no power over her anymore, except for Paddy. He would always be with her, a soft orange glow on memory’s horizon, a sun that refused to set.

  But her life was finally going on, in a groove of her own choosing. And Reece would someday hear her sing onstage. She’d find a way to get him there. She’d make him see that she was a woman he’d be proud to have on his arm. A vaudeville performer, not just a stray cat he’d rescued from the street. She refused to give up hope.

  From now on, things could only get better.

  • • •

  In another part of town, two men edged into an alley to avoid being seen by a policeman who was walking his beat. One of them held a bottle in his hand, stopped up with a rag that smelled strongly of gasoline. The other had an iron railroad tie clenched in his fist.

  “Is he gone yet?”

  “He is.”

  They left the alley and walked north, stopping in front of a tavern that was closed.

  “I do believe I’d like a drink.”

  “Sure and it’s a pity Lonnigan’s is closed for the night, isn’t it? A cryin’ shame.”

  The smaller of the two men chuckled mirthlessly. He removed his jacket, wrapped it around the railroad tie to muffle the sound and swung the iron rod at the tavern’s front window, shattering it. Shards of broken glass gleamed on the snowy sidewalk like uncut jewels.

  The other man climbed through the window, followed by his companion. A soft incandescent electric light falling over the liquor bottles lining the wall behind the bar was the only illumination in the large room, but the two intruders didn’t mind. The man carrying the railroad tie catapulted easily over the bar and helped himself to a bottle of whiskey. He opened it and drank straight from the bottle, then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his corduroy jacket.

  “Ah, you can’t say Lonnigan doesn’t serve fine whiskey.”

  “Can we get on with it?” the other man said nervously. “He sleeps in a room upstairs. It wouldn’t do to have him come down here and interrupt us.”

  “Is it frightened of Lonnigan you are, McGrath?”

  “He may keep a gun.”

  The other man launched himself over the bar and stalked up to McGrath. He caught his throat in a viselike grip and shoved him up against a wall, sneering into his face.

  “Maybe it’s me you should be frightened of. Have you thought of that?”

  McGrath tried to claw away the fingers locked on his throat, but he couldn’t free himself.

  “Who is it that you work for, McGrath?”

  “You, Muldoon.” McGrath wheezed. “I work for you.”

  Muldoon removed his hand and stood back as McGrath tried to pull air into his tortured lungs. “You’d do well to remember that,” he spat out contemptuously. He climbed back over the bar and swung the iron rod at the neat row of bottles, not bothering to dampen his noise this time. Glass flew everywhere. Whiskey and gin spattered the floor and countertop.

  McGrath picked up wooden chairs and smashed them against the wall.

  Within minutes, the interior of the tavern was reduced to a shambles. Everything that couldn’t be smashed with the railroad tie was stomped into rubble. Out of breath from their exertions, the two men stood back and surveyed their handiwork.

  “That’ll teach Lonnigan a lesson,” remarked McGrath.

  “Sure and he’s a fool for thinkin’ he doesn’t have to pay anymore, just because he got all his friends to join his Businessman’s Cooperative. It’s a dangerous idea that needs to be stopped before it goes any further.”

  While they were talking, they failed to notice a man slip in through a door at the rear of the tavern and creep stealthily toward them. Balding and barrel-chested, wearing only a long, pale nightshirt, he suddenly charged toward them.

  Muldoon leaped to one side as Lonnigan got off a shot that struck a wall, close to his ear, then whipped the iron rod in a brutal arc toward the side of Lonnigan’s head. The ugly blow dropped Lonnigan heavily to his knees, the gun spinning out of his fingers. He held his hands to the sides of his head, trying to stem the blood that streamed from a deep gash at his temple, staining his nightshirt bright red.

  “You thugs!” he ground out, trying to stand. “Parasites, feedin’ off an honest man tryin’ to make a livin’.”

  “A lesson needed to be taught,” said Muldoon. “You shouldn’t have made trouble, Lonnigan. Others might get ideas, too.”

  Lonnigan glared at him, unrepentant. “I’m goin’ to the police, I am! There’s still some in this precinct who aren’t on your payroll, Muldoon.”

  Muldoon smirked. “You won’t be goin’ anywhere, Lonnigan.” He swung the iron rod again. It caught Lonnigan across the shoulders and back of the head and laid him out flat on the floor.

  McGrath and Muldoon ran from the tavern. Muldoon grabbed the stoppered bottle from McGrath, lit the rag and reared back to throw it through the broken window, but McGrath caught his arm.

  “But he’s out cold, Muldoon! It’ll be murder, if you throw it. Pure murder.”

  Muldoon looked at him in icy contempt. “Sure and that’s why you work for me and not the other way around, McGrath. You’ve no stomach for the big decisions.”

  Muldoon heaved the bottle through the window. It crashed among a pile of broken chair legs and exploded into flame.

  The two men raced down the street and through a series of dark alleys. They were far from the scene long before a horse-drawn steam pumper fire engine clattered to a halt in front of Lonnigan’s tavern, which was, by that time, blazing out of control. Not until the following morning, when the embers had cooled enough for a search, would the charred body of Lonnigan be found.

  Muldoon was satisfied. Word would spread that Muldoon was no man to be trifled with, and collections would be made on time, with no argument about it. Perhaps he’d even increase the price of his “insurance.” After less than a year in New York, he was already a man of considerable influence among certain circles in the city’s thriving underworld.

  And when he wasn’t involved with his business interests there were plenty of idle amusements, and all the women he wanted. Prostitutes of all shapes and sizes frequented the tavern he used as his headquarters. They were skilled at pleasing a man, and easily enough forgotten afterwards, which suited him. Someday soon, though, he’d tidy up his image and procure a different kind of woman: a beauty, with whom he could step out into the kind of society he craved. A lady with class.

  His plans were all falling into place. From now on, things could only get better.

  • • •

  In another part of the city, in a stuffy room on the top floor of a crumbling tenement house, a young boy stirred in his sleep. The small hand that lay balled up alongside his pillow bore a strange scar: a puckered, discolored patch of pinkish, once-burned skin.

  Chapter Eleven

  Her first few weeks in vaudeville were a thrilling whirl to Tara. She used the advance Mr. Glass gave her to buy two new gowns, shoes to match and some sheet music. Kathleen insisted that she keep the midnight-blue satin dress, and the satin slippers that went with it, on the grounds that “it looks ever so much better on you than on me.” Her new wardrobe would do for a start, although she soon learned, from her fellow performers, that she’d need to change costumes and songs even more frequently than she’d anticipated if she was to keep her act fresh. People who loved vaudeville went to shows often. While they might grow attached to certain performances or numbers, they still expected to see new twists. A demandin
g lot, they were, she was told. She purchased a used sewing machine, figuring it would be less expensive to make her own dresses, and easier to add the flourishes and sequins that transformed an ordinary garment into a stage costume.

  She didn’t miss the factory in the least, although she missed some of her fellow workers, particularly Lotte. Sure and it had been wonderful to tell Mr. Van Zandt that she was leaving his employ, and watch an expression of surprise and perturbation come over his face.

  “Vaudeville? Well I’ll be damned!” He couldn’t bring himself to offer congratulations, or even to wish her luck, but before she left, he said, “If you ever need a job again, you come back here. I’ll find a place for you. You’re a good worker, Missy, in spite of the fact that you talk too much.”

  She’d thanked him, but she wouldn’t be back. Not if she could help it.

  Very soon, she was swept up in her new life. She loved being onstage! She sang after a comedic skit called, “The Vegetable Vendor,” and ahead of a wiry blond man named Jaimie Parrier who styled himself an equilibriust. She took to standing in the wings and watching every act on the bill. She loved the trained seals who opened the show by ringing bells and balancing red rubber balls on their noses.