by Juliette Fay
“What’s all this?” I said.
“Costumes,” Mother replied, teeth clenched onto a couple of straight pins.
Winnie looked at me; I looked at the fabric. It was from the aprons that had ruffled the prissy feathers of the Ladies’ Guild. Mother took the pins out of her mouth. “Nell’s out back trying to straighten out her cartwheel. Go help her.”
“Where’s the baby?”
“Dad’s giving his cradle a rock upstairs.” Her lip flattened. “You only need one hand for that.”
It was warm for January (by which I mean above freezing) and we worked all afternoon in the yard, cooking up ways to add Nell to the act. We hadn’t practiced for three full months, since Harry died, and at first we could barely remember the act, much less perform it without crumpling to the ground every other minute. I never had so many bruises in all my life.
Nell was surprisingly good at splits, which the rest of us hadn’t yet conquered. Maybe it was because she’d gotten so thin that her muscles didn’t pull as tight anymore. She could do a full side split without trying too hard. We put that right into the act, of course.
We tried to teach her our leapfrog routine, but she didn’t clear Kit’s head and fell face-first into the brown grass. When she picked herself up, the front of her blouse was damp where her bosoms had leaked. Right on cue, a squawk rose from the upstairs bedroom.
“Little bloodhound can probably smell his dinner,” I muttered. Winnie shot me a look, virtue wrapped around her like an old lady’s shawl, as usual.
Nell limped toward the house, and Winnie helped her up the steps to the back door. “Are you sure you want to keep at it?” she asked. “No one would fault you for bowing out.”
“Mother says there’s a purse to be won at the Kalurah Talent Show, and I want to help if I can. I have to do something. I have no husband to pay my way anymore.”
I’ll admit, it got to me. She’d found her way to her brand of bliss, and through no fault of her own, she was suddenly more miserable than she’d ever been in her life.
I never want to feel like that, I thought. Not for the life of me.
“Stop lollygagging!” Mother called from the window. “You’ve got to get that jump right, or we’ll be the butt of every joke in Broome County.”
We practiced every free moment. When the snow flew we dragged the sofa and old wing-back chair out onto the front porch and took over the living room. Dad had to sit on the edge of his bed and hold the phonograph on his lap to listen to it at night.
There was a lot of crying, which was irritating. But I suppose it wasn’t all about the bumps and twisted ankles. The whole thing was such a roll of the dice. We might win a purse or two at local talent and variety shows, but there was just as much chance that we wouldn’t make a plug nickel. Then we’d be broke and bruised.
The costumes Mother made were scandalous. They had little cap sleeves, low rounded necklines, and fluttering skirts that fell only to our knees. We couldn’t wear corsets under them, either. Every lace and bone poked out like a shadow corset in satin, and we snickered at the tawdriness of it. Kit’s looked good, though—at thirteen, she didn’t wear a corset yet, and the snug fabric held everything in place just fine.
“I’ll add extra lining at the bosom,” said Mother. “And no one better gain a pound.”
It really improved the act—suddenly we could bend and twirl with freedom. Besides, it felt secretly delicious to be rid of the vise-grip corset that squeezed every rib so I could barely take a full breath, and have only the soft fabric against my skin.
The next week, we rode the trolley to Endicott, our scant costumes hidden under long coats. The Kalurah Shriners’ Temple was a huge building of blond brick, with a half-circle drive and three sets of glass double doors. We couldn’t figure out where to go at first, and asked a man with a high brimless hat made of stiff red felt. Kalurah was embroidered above a curved sword and the face of the sphinx. A ridiculous yellow tassel bobbed from the top.
“Performers, I assume?” he said.
Pride bloomed in my chest. We’d worked hard to turn ourselves from schoolgirls (or in Nell’s case, a mother) into sparkling entertainers. For eight minutes—with Nell, the act had several new stunts—we would put on quite a show. We were performers, all right.
But the man’s look wasn’t admiring. It was haughty. Well-bred young women didn’t wear skimpy costumes and prance around with their legs covered only in flesh-toned tights for all the world to see. I’d been on the business end of disapproving looks before, of course. Girls who turn men’s heads always are. But this was a new flavor of damnation I hadn’t tasted before.
When the show began, we waited backstage, fidgety with nerves. Winnie did her weird little tapping thing, pecking at the knuckles of one hand with the fingertips of the other. Nell bit her cuticles and Kit shifted back and forth on her feet. I crossed my arms so tight that my hands started to tingle. To distract ourselves, we watched a tiny girl dressed as a ballerina practice prancing on the tips of her toes, as her mother hissed at her to spin faster and kick higher
“My, isn’t she cute,” Mother said, nodding to the little girl’s mother.
The other woman put on a snooty face. “She’s more than cute. She’s talented.”
Mother’s eyes went steely. “She’s certainly good at following orders, I’ll give her that.”
The woman turned her back on Mother and steered her little puppet to another corner of the backstage. Mother gave her own haughty smile and murmured to us, “We all want that big purse. It’s war.” She didn’t seem to notice that Nell flinched at the word.
We kept to ourselves after that, and focused on the competition. A pair of jugglers tossed everything from cleavers to Wedgwood china between them. A ventriloquist threw his voice into a dummy of President Taft, telling jokes that were stale as week-old bread. The country had been through so much since 1912 it was hard to remember what had been funny back then.
Finally, the master of ceremonies announced, “The Tumbling Turner Sisters!” and I felt my stomach clench. It was our first real performance—maybe our last, if we flopped.
Our act began with Nell cartwheeling onto the stage, skirt flying through the air. I followed with handsprings and landed next to her, hands on hips. Then Kit trudged onstage lugging a large suitcase in her downstage hand, which we’d rigged with an internal latch. When Kit set the suitcase down, Winnie undid the latch, the lid flew open, and she rolled out onto the stage, landing with one knee down, arms outstretched.
Someday if I live to be very old and my mind starts to go, I might forget the stories of my life, maybe even the names of my sisters. But to my last breath, I will remember the wave of applause that crashed at our feet in those first few moments onstage.
We’re a hit, I thought, and we haven’t even begun!
It wasn’t a perfect performance, though. Kit didn’t crouch low enough during the leapfrog bit, and Nell once again went sprawling. For our finale, Kit held her legs wide, knees bent, while Nell and I balanced on her thighs. Then Winnie climbed up and was supposed to stand on Kit’s shoulders. She must’ve gotten scared or some fool thing, because I could feel her tremble. Instead of standing she knelt.
“Get up,” I hissed, stage smile frozen to my lips. “Stand up.”
But she just put her hands in the air, the signal for the stunt’s finish, then slid off the back. We all bounded to our places in order of height, held hands, and curtsied. To our shocked delight, the audience clapped and clapped. At the judges’ table, four men in silly red fezzes smiled and nodded. My heart pounded. Would we place in the top three acts and take home a purse?
“Curtsy again!” I whispered, and the others obeyed. We kept our hands clenched tightly as we trotted offstage, as if we might float away without the others for ballast. Backstage we grinned like fools, mouths covered by sweaty palms to keep the other acts from seeing how giddy we were. Even Nell smiled.
The next act was a boy whose tap
dancing was so sloppy the audience barely bothered to clap. Then an older woman with bosoms like loaded saddle bags sang “Bicycle Built for Two” as if it were tragic opera. You’ll look sweet upon the seat sounded like a plea, as if the words or I’ll die of consumption would come next.
“Nothing to worry about there,” Mother whispered.
At the end of the show, the judges put their heads together, yellow tassels dangling in one another’s faces, and we were all herded onstage to learn our fate. The master of ceremonies, a fat man with wobbling jowls, gripped a card in his hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s have another ovation for all of these highly talented performers, in thanks for the evening of joy and merriment they have so graciously provided!” The audience gave a forced round of applause.
Oh, get on with it, I thought.
“Each and every one of these men, women, and children has performed charmingly, and should consider themselves honorably mentioned here at the Kalurah Temple Amateur Talent Night. However, only three acts have been selected for the highest honors of third, second, and first place, with corresponding purses of five, fifteen, and twenty-five dollars, respectively.”
Twenty-five dollars. That would cover almost a month’s rent. The Turner sisters’ hands gripped one another, strung together like human Christmas lights.
“Achieving the honor of third place . . .” He paused dramatically, and it was all I could do not to take off my slipper and throw it at him. “. . . Betty Ann Bartholemew, our little ballerina!”
Betty Ann’s mother let out a shriek and hurried forward with the toddler slung over her shoulder, thumb in mouth, tiny feet dangling back and forth, as her mother stuck her chin out triumphantly. I couldn’t help but think the poor tyke had years of misery ahead of her, with such a harpy for a mother.
“Our second-place honor goes to . . . the Juggling Stephanacci Brothers!”
As they shuffled forward to accept their purse, Mother whispered giddily, “That’s it, we’ve won! They were the only real competition.”
“And now, for our highest and most prestigious honor, bestowed upon the contestant with the greatest talent of all those gathered here . . .”
Kit gave a little squeal and took a step forward.
“. . . our own Mrs. Beryl Jorgenson, wife of brother Shriner Karl Jorgenson, who gave such a stupendous performance of “Bicycle Built for Two’! Mrs. Jorgenson,” rumbled the master of ceremonies, “won’t you do us the kindness of reprising your song?”
I thought the roof of the temple might just crack open with the gust of hot air she blew, singing “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do . . .” The crowd began to sing along, and it was then that I noticed how many silly red hats there were in that audience. “I’m half crazy, all for the love of you!”
I’m half crazy, I thought. And I’ll go completely mad if I stay here one more minute.
Performers began to slip away, and we followed the unhappy herd to the dressing rooms to get our things, and right out the door to the street. As we all stewed on the rent money we hadn’t made, the only sound was an occasional sniffle from Kit. At thirteen, a girl just isn’t prepared for the kind of unfairness this world is ready to hand out every single day of the week.
We were just sitting down to a skimpy dinner the next night when there was a knock at the door.
“Morty Birnbaum!” said the small man, his voice scratchy and insistent. He stuck out his hand and pressed a business card on my mother. “Boy, are you all hard to find! I had to go through all the Turners in Johnson City. You got a lotta cousins?”
Mother blinked at him, dumbfounded, and that’s not a common occurrence.
“You’re the Tumbling Turners, am I right? You’d better be, because you’re the last address on my list.” He leaned his big nose around her and into the house. “That’s a lotta girls you got there. Yep. This must be the place.” He eyed the empty living room, and the kitchen table set for dinner. “Ah, now look, don’t let me keep you from your supper. I’ll just wait outside on the porch till you’re done. I notice you’ve got some comfortable-looking furniture out there.”
Mother glanced down at the business card in her hand, then passed it quickly to me. “Oh, Mr. Birnbaum, we can’t have that. Of course you’ll join us!” She cut her eyes to Kit and muttered, “Set another place, and get your father away from that phonograph!”
I looked down at his card. Morton G. Birnbaum Talent Agency, it said, and below it, Morton G. Birnbaum, President. There was an address in New York—on Broadway!
“How long are you in town, Mr. Birnbaum?” I asked brightly, taking the hat from his hand and the coat from his back.
“Oh, it all depends. Especially in this business!” He let out a harsh little barking laugh. The way he slouched, I wondered if he’d have a humpback when he was old. Unless he was old already. It was hard to tell. He was short and balding, with muddy-colored wisps of hair pomaded over the top, and his brown suit certainly hadn’t seen a good pressing anytime in the recent past.
Our dinner was patties made from lima beans, eggs, and bread crumbs sautéed in bacon grease. Mother was mortified, but Mr. Birnbaum didn’t seem to mind. When he wasn’t talking he was hoisting forkload after forkload into his thin-lipped mouth.
“So, it’s like this,” he said between bites. “I travel around, I see an act with potential—like I saw you girls at the Kalurah—I offer my services. You don’t want my services? No problem. There’s always another act that does. And there’s no guarantees, you understand. I get you a tryout at a small-time theatre to see how you do. If the manager likes you, we build from there.”
“What would it pay?” asked Mother, and I cringed. She didn’t see life as a chess match. She saw it as a shootout, and always tried to be the quickest draw.
Birnbaum sucked some beans out of his teeth and chewed a little more. I thought I caught a shadow of a smile behind all that chomping. “Well, now, Mrs. Turner, that remains to be seen. Your girls bring down the house, the sky’s the limit. They fall flat—hah! no pun intended—it’s back to the salt mines for all of us.”
Not you, I thought. Just the Tumbling Turners.
“Do you honestly think we’re good enough?” I asked him.
He eyed me to see if I wanted a straight answer or a fluffy one. He guessed right. “Good? No. Your tumbling ain’t exactly a fireworks show. Good enough? Well, that’s another story. Pretty girls in short skirts sells, even if you’re up there laying bricks. That’s what I’m banking on—that, and you girls picking up some new tricks along the way.”
If we hired him, he would get to work right away, looking for a tryout. This was a half week of continuous shows from eleven in the morning to eleven at night. “There are other acts, of course. You’ll probably only perform five or six times a day. How long’s your act—about ten minutes? That’s like getting paid for only an hour of work!” He’d let us know what the wage was when he cut the deal. “I get ten percent of your take, so believe me, I am highly motivated to get you the best possible dough. You can count on that.”
When he left, we had no idea where he was going—the fancy Arlington Hotel or to sleep in his car, we hadn’t a clue. But he’d be back in the morning for our answer, he said, after he made a few more “house calls.”
Mother nearly tackled him at the mention of that, but I fended her off, smiled my highest-voltage smile, and said, “We’ll look forward to rendezvousing with you in the morning.”
For a man whose color palette only went from brown to gray, it was hard to miss the blush in his cheeks. But it was gone as quickly as it came, and so was he.
“Rendezvousing?” Winnie said with a smirk. “Are we French now?”
“We’re whatever gets the job done,” I said flatly. Birnbaum had changed everything. In my mind, the act went from just another one of Mother’s half-baked schemes to a whole new world of possibility. I didn’t plan to squander it.
“What about school?” said Kit. “If it’s a ha
lf week, we’ll have to miss at least a day.” Her eyes brightened. “Maybe three!”
Suddenly Dad spoke up. “I’m not sure about this. He could be one of those shysters you hear about. He talks very fast for a man who appears out of nowhere with no guarantees.”
“No guarantees,” Mother said dryly. “Why, it sounds just like the institution of marriage.”
5
WINNIE
It wasn’t a career that I was after. It was just that I wanted a life that didn’t mean spending most of it at the cookstove and the kitchen sink.
—Sophie Tucker, singer
When Mr. Birnbaum explained the tryout, my heart sank. Missing three days of school wasn’t so bad; I could make up the work. But what if there were more engagements? Mother’s goal had always been vaudeville, but I’d never actually thought it would happen. Oh, we might win some purses, enough to tide us over until Dad could go back to work. But if we began to travel, and I didn’t finish high school, I’d never make it to college. And yet, if I didn’t make a boodle somehow, I wouldn’t get there anyway.
College. It was my deepest, darkest secret. Assuming I could convince my parents to let me go—an assumption so vast that if it were to fall off a cliff into the ocean, it would cause a tidal wave of historic proportion—the answer would still have been no because of the money. Cornell, the college of my dreams, would cost two hundred dollars. Per year. And that’s without factoring in luxuries such as room, board, and books. In 1919, I was a junior in high school, and figured I had a year to come up with a plan. Or to stumble upon a bag of gold coins.
I couldn’t sleep that night, my mind revolving on a carousel of unanswerable questions.
Could we wait until summer so we could finish the school year, at least?
But what if Mr. Birnbaum goes on his way, and we never get another chance?
What if Dad’s hand never gets better and this becomes our only source of income?
Kit snored beside me in the double bed we shared, probably sweet-dreaming about three days off from being teased about her height. I slipped out of our room and across the hall, hoping Nell was up with little Harry, and she’d help me untangle my snaking thoughts. But she was fast asleep, the baby content in his cradle.
