by Jamie Ford
As he stared at the posters and portraits of Willow in her elaborate gown and dramatic makeup, he wondered what he’d say to her. Will she remember? And if not, will I be forced to beg for answers? She was famous and he was nothing. He began to doubt, suddenly bereft of hope, contemplating what he’d do if she weren’t his ah-ma. What then? He’d be on his own, but at least he wouldn’t feel so rejected. There was strange comfort in that.
WILLIAM AND CHARLOTTE spent the afternoon skipping from store to store, savoring the freedom they’d been starving for back at the orphanage. They wandered like curious dogs with broken leashes. They lingered at Mozart’s Cigars until they were kicked out for loitering. And they played downstairs in the Bon Marché’s vast toy department, where Charlotte delighted in touching and squeezing the stuffed bears. They even tried on hats at Best’s Apparel, until a customer mistook William for an Indian and a security guard was roused to chase them off. Neither of them seemed to mind. The city was noisy, and smelly, and fragrant, and even though poverty and joblessness had consumed whole boarded-up neighborhoods, the downtown district was alive. Plus, there were storefront theaters on almost every block—sometimes three or four in a row, showing second-run talkies, newsreels, cartoons, and a mix of silent photoplays. Motion pictures seemed to be the only business that was thriving.
By the time they got back to the 5th Avenue Theatre, William’s legs were tired and his feet sore from walking in shoes one size too small. But that discomfort diminished with each minute that ticked away, bringing them that much closer to showtime. As they waited, some of the people in line gave them queer looks or commented under their breath, especially when they saw William’s Oriental face or Charlotte’s cane. William ignored them.
And when the ornate doors finally parted, everyone fell silent.
“What is it?” Charlotte whispered.
“It’s …” William blinked as his mouth hung open. “It’s …” He was at a loss for words. As the crowd marveled, William took Charlotte’s hand and walked through the entrance into another world. They sank into the lush carpet of the lobby, promptly greeted by usherettes in Mandarin costumes of red, blue, green, and gold. The walls were draped in shimmering ribbons of crimson and jade. And as they entered the massive theater, William felt as though he were setting foot in China’s Imperial Palace, overlooking the landscape of his ah-ma’s wildest fairy tales. He looked up, in awe, gushing his amazement as he beheld an enormous, lavishly sculpted five-toed dragon that had been carved across the center of the high, deckled ceiling. An opulent pearl chandelier dangled from the creature’s gaping mouth.
“From all the gasps I’m hearing, I take it this theater is quite impressive,” Charlotte said, squeezing his hand. “I can feel this place—the way it smells, the way the air moves, the way our voices carry. It must be huge.”
While waiting in line William had overheard someone mentioning that the 5th Avenue had nearly three thousand seats, but he’d never envisioned a place this large. The interior resembled the Temple of Heaven he’d once seen in National Geographic. The décor felt like a confirmation, a sign that Willow was indeed sent from somewhere on high.
It’s the most breathtaking place I’ve ever seen! William thought. But he said, “It’s so fantastically … ornate.” As he led Charlotte to their seats, he struggled to figure out how to describe such rich colors to a sightless girl. “The curtains are blue velvet, like the sky at night, the golden pipes from the organ stand tall above the arch of the stage, it’s huge, but with fine details in every corner. And it’s all … Chinese.”
“Like your mother.”
Like Willow. William had never seen anything this majestic, this exotic, even within the few square blocks of Chinatown. “And the people here to watch the show, they’re all … white.” The contradiction left him feeling strangely proud.
Charlotte closed her eyes and beamed as the pipe organ filled every corner of the theater with sound. “Now I can see it,” she said with a smile.
William watched as patrons found their seats while the main floor filled up, almost to capacity. He felt himself drifting between two worlds: the austerity of his childhood, the orphanage, the poverty of Pioneer Square—and the magical realm of the stage, with its decadence, its overwhelming opulence. Most of the other people in the audience wore suits or dresses, but no one was twinkling with sequins or dripping in diamonds. Some were dressed no better than he was, in his old jacket and tie. But everyone seemed rapt, nearly bursting with excitement. The theater was an escape and an amusement—a welcome, celebratory respite from the harsh, cold reality outside.
As the houselights faded and the audience clapped, William imagined that they had all stepped into Charlotte’s world of sound and music and infinite space. But then a spotlight illuminated a dashing fellow in a dark tuxedo.
“Laaaaaaadies and geeeeeeentlemen, children of all ages, shapes, sizes, flavors, and levels of sobriety …”
William recognized him from the advertisements, even before he introduced himself as Asa Berger. He cracked a few jokes and then broke into song and dance as the curtains parted to reveal the Ingénues, who began to play. William didn’t quite know what to make of them. They were fantastic, though strangely comical at times as one of the girls strutted across the stage in glittering heels while playing an ivory accordion.
The all-girl orchestra was followed by an act billed as Straight and Crooked Magic, in which a magician named Blackstone made a birdcage vanish, leaving a squawking canary in the hands of Pete, his jocular assistant. For their finale they made a lightbulb levitate from a table lamp. The radiant orb flew above the audience while the musicians in the pit played “I Know That You Know.” As William described the illusion to Charlotte, the man sitting behind them said, “I hear Thomas Edison himself is trying to figure out how he does that.” Magic made William nervous. He hoped it was just a trick.
Blackstone was followed by a duo who performed “Indian Love Call” from the hit musical Rose-Marie. A broad-shouldered man dressed as a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police rode in on a wooden horse and sang to a blond woman dressed as an Indian maiden. William couldn’t help but think about Sunny, who would probably change his name to Sunny Does-Not-Approve.
After that a high-kicking dance number called “Hot Cotton” took over the stage. William counted sixteen leggy ladies in enormous feathered hats and floor-length tutus that were nearly transparent. The men in the audience whistled and hooted.
Asa, who had the crowd rolling with laughter, introduced each performance, though most of the jokes were beyond William’s level of appreciation.
Finally, the emcee said, “Well, folks. It’s that time, time to reintroduce you to a local doll who’s done the extraordinary, the nearly impossible—she’s been able to put up with me for two months on the road!”
“This is it,” Charlotte whispered.
This is it. William sat spellbound as Asa teased and the audience chuckled while timpani drums rolled louder and louder and louder …
“Here she is—the one you’ve been waiting for, from the silver screen to the airwaves above us, and finally to the grandest stage on the West Coast, I give you the one, the only, the inimitable, Miss … Willow … Frost!”
Charlotte clapped wildly and cheered, more than the rest of the audience, who seemed interested but less enthused. William became a statue, a gargoyle staring at the slender figure in a lavender gown with flowers in her hair. She began to sing, softly, deftly, in a whisper that quieted the audience, as the orchestra followed her lead.
A pair of sailors shouted, “Take it off, sweetie!” and “How much for a private dance?” prompting a male usher to ask them to refrain.
I should have rented a pair of opera glasses, William thought, because from his seat in the middle of the theater he couldn’t see her face or define her features. But something about the way she carried herself, her walk, looked familiar. She seemed profoundly stylish, standing out as the one Chines
e performer in a Chinese theater—but in a modern dress, before a modern audience. She sang her version of “Dream a Little Dream,” her voice rising and rising until the rich, powerful notes filled every corner of the theater and people began clapping, cheering. William caught his breath.
“That’s her?” Charlotte whispered.
That’s her. The hair stood up on the back of his neck as William recognized her voice. And when the song ended he watched as Willow blew kisses and waved while the audience continued their lusty applause and Asa whisked her away.
It has to be her. It has to be.
Then Asa was back, only to trip over a shadowy figure sleeping onstage, just below the following spotlight. The crowd roared when Stepin Fetchit sat up, yawned, stumbled to his feet, and dusted himself off. He looked elegant yet comical in a skimmer and coonskin coat. “Man, is it showtime already?” Stepin scratched his head. “My hotel is right across the street, so I called me a cab. When I told the cabdriver to take me to the Fifth Avenue Theatre, he said, ‘But it’s right over there,’ and I said, ‘I know, hurry up, I’m gonna be late!’ ” The audience laughed and clapped while he stripped off his long coat to the sound of a scratchy trombone. Beneath the fur he wore a tuxedo covered in purple sequins. The tuxedo’s tails touched the floor.
“How do you like my outfit?” Stepin asked as the audience clapped and whistled. “I bought it from Rudy Valentino.” The men groaned as the women cheered. “He wore it on his wedding day. He and the bride both wore lavender!” The audience roared, but William didn’t understand the joke. “Brother, it’s good to be here—we just rolled in by train. You know, I love riding the train, which is much better than traveling in the South. You know how we travel in the South?”
Asa yelled from offstage, “No, how do you travel in the South?”
William listened numbly as Stepin paused, drawing the audience in. “Fast. At night. Through the woods! That’s how a colored man travel in the South …”
The audience ate up the comedian’s jokes, laughed at his pratfalls, marveled at his dancing, was surprised by his singing, and begged for more. He even took a turn conducting the orchestra, directing them through a medley of Mozart and ragtime.
But William didn’t smile. He hardly noticed. He sat spellbound, staring into the wings of the stage and the back of the house, hoping to catch another glimpse of Willow Frost, his ah-ma, whoever she was.
For the grand finale all of the performers, including Willow, came back onstage. William was still mesmerized by seeing and hearing her in person, along with the other living, breathing movie stars—figments from the silver screen, walking, floating across the stage like ghosts from his haunting, faded daydreams. Then the curtains sighed.
As the houselights came on and the usherettes appeared, William sat staring at the stage. You have to come back. Charlotte took his arm, and he reluctantly led her up and out onto the sidewalk, where a man with a cart was selling bunches of flowers and directing autograph seekers to the stage door, tucked in the alley. William thought about how much the flowers must cost, then shrugged and bought a small clasp of purple and blue.
“They smell lovely,” Charlotte said. “For your mother?”
“For Willow,” he said. Then he led his friend around the block to where the stage door was crowded with reporters and other fans, some of them holding their own bundles of flowers or elegantly wrapped gifts. Together they waited patiently behind a doorman and a velvet rope. William could hear the band playing, tuning, and clearing their valves for the evening performance while an airmail plane droned overhead. Then he heard clapping and cheering as performers began to mill out, the musicians, the Ingénues, the dancers—all of them smiled and waved, hugged the locals they knew, and graciously accepted gifts before they were ushered toward a queue of waiting taxis. William heard a crashing sound, like glass breaking, and then Asa Berger burst through the door. Ever the showman, he posed for the cameras and shook the hands that stretched beyond the velvet barrier. William touched the comedian’s sleeve and could smell alcohol on his breath, even from an arm’s length away. William looked at Charlotte, who had her nose scrunched though no one else seemed to mind. He smiled as the comedian stumbled back to the door, unsure if the clumsiness was all part of Asa’s act. The man held the door open for Willow and then Stepin. William’s heart pounded in his chest. He rubbed his eyes as blue flashbulbs popped again and again in the shadows of the alley while reporters peppered the headliners with questions.
She’s right here! William thought. So close I can almost touch her.
He held on to Charlotte as they struggled near the rope to keep from being pushed aside by pale women with ruby lips who gushed over the black showman and the many Caucasian gentleman admirers who offered their flowers to the coy Chinese actress. William watched Willow accept several of the bouquets, smiling graciously as if each gift were of singular importance. Then she handed them to Asa, whose arms were quickly filling up. He pretended to collapse under their weight.
As Willow turned to leave, William blurted, “Wait!” He waved frantically from behind the velvet rope, standing on his tippy-toes, desperate to make eye contact with the woman who turned and smiled knowingly, as though comforted to see a young Chinese fan with flowers. “Aw, morning glories are my favorite—how did you know?”
She was inches away, but he couldn’t speak. I’ve always known. Don’t you know who I am? The words stuck in William’s throat. He could barely think. This was his moment, but he stood paralyzed by the thought of rejection. Was it better to keep hoping, dreaming, than to be disappointed forever? He looked up with desperate eyes, watching as her wide Hollywood smile, her perfectly painted face, shrank into an aspect of stunned, devastating sadness. William offered the flowers, and she took them slowly, raising them to her nose, staring back at him over the wide, bluish petals.
A reporter interrupted. “Miss Frost—can I ask you one more question?” He spoke as he scribbled in a small notebook. “How’s it feel to be back in Seattle?”
Willow didn’t answer. She didn’t move. She closed her eyes, tightly, then opened them and looked toward the sky as tears traced her soft cheekbones. She wiped the wetness away and sniffled, half-hiding behind the flowers.
Everyone, even the chattering newsmen, fell silent, all of them hanging on her answer, as though this dramatic pause were merely the foreshadowing calm before a typhoon of song and melody and heartrending drama—as if her entire life were an act.
“It’s …” She seemed to be searching for the words. “All so, unbelievable …”
“And how is that, Miss Frost?” another reporter asked.
William stared into her eyes as she gazed back. He was close enough to see his hopeful reflection in the murky hazel. The rope was all that separated their two worlds.
“It’s the people,” she said. “Not just the fans, but the familiar …”
“When did you leave?”
“Five years ago.”
“And do you still have family in the area?”
You do, Ah-ma. I never left. I’ve been here all this time.
William watched as she slowly, almost absently, shook her head and whispered something so softly that he almost didn’t hear her say, “How could I …”
“Miss Frost,” the reporter said.
“Could you repeat the question?” she asked, wiping away more tears.
“I was asking about your family. I know you grew up here. I was wondering if they were planning to come to any of your performances—I was curious as to what they must think—family, friends, relatives. I’m sure they’re incredibly proud of all of your success and how far you’ve come. Miss Frost?”
Charlotte whispered in William’s ear, “Get her autograph.”
As though waking from a dream, William blinked, once, twice, and then took out the folded, dog-eared photograph and handed it to the movie star whose likeness it bore. He watched, spellbound, as she held the paper, regarded it for a moment,
and then quickly scribbled her signature with an ornate fountain pen. She handed the autograph back and paused for a moment as a reporter snapped a picture of the movie star and the young boy, staring at each other from opposite sides of the plush red velvet rope. He took the photo with both hands, then looked up as the woman stood gazing back at him. She didn’t let go until a taxi driver blared his horn and revved his engine. William sank beneath the padded shoulders of his jacket as Asa flashed Willow his wristwatch and pulled her away.
She hastily said, “This was the best performance of my life. One I will never, ever forget—for as long as I live. And if there were any friends or old fans in the audience, I hope they can forgive me … for being away so long.”
William found his voice as she turned her back toward him. “Ah-ma?”
She paused while her companions, Stepin and Asa, climbed into the taxi.
“You were wonderful,” William said in Chinese.
Willow hung her head. It started to rain, and thick, heavy droplets dotted her cape and cloche hat. She peered back over her shoulder and then stepped into the car, wiping a tear from her cheek as the door closed and they pulled away.
William stood like a statue placed on a muddy shore, sinking deeper and deeper as the current washed away the sand beneath his feet. While the assortment of reporters, well-wishers, and stargazers slowly drifted elsewhere, he remained transfixed, holding Charlotte’s hand, wondering what exactly had happened.
“Was it really her?” she asked. “Was Willow … you know …”
William drew a deep, weary breath. He jogged his memory as he looked at Willow’s autograph and ran his fingertips across her signature, which was written in Chinese. He recognized the characters: Liu Song.
Greenroom
(1934)
William and Charlotte sat in the alley long after the crowds of fans and reporters had drifted away, slowly, like cotton in the air. To William, it seemed as though everyone else had someplace to go, someone to be with, some duty to attend to. He, on the other hand, couldn’t move, couldn’t leave. He sat on the dirty, broken pavement, his shoulders against the stage door, waiting. I have no place else to go.