The Tumbling Turner Sisters

by Juliette Fay

  The other performers were a mime troupe, a string quartet that played ragtime, a mismatched pair of older comedians named Case and Wheeler, and a vampy singer with long, black, Theda Bara hair and even more eye makeup than the Chungs.

  “We’re closing,” Kit whispered.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Look at this place. And look at the other acts. They’re flashier.”

  I cut my eyes to Gert, hoping she would tell Kit to stop being ridiculous, and maybe pinch her again. Gert just crossed her arms tightly over her chest in that way she did when she was nervous. Which made me nervous. I started tapping the knuckles of my left hand like I do when I worry, playing a little flesh-toned keyboard.

  The theatre manager, Mr. Barnes, had hair parted in a razor-straight line down the middle of his head, spackled to either side by pomade. He announced the lineup, studying his notes through pince-nez glasses that clung to the bridge of his nose as if they were afraid to invoke his wrath by falling off. Kit’s assertion had been accurate—we were closing. But since we’d make more money as chaser in Fredonia than we had as second opener in Cuba, it wasn’t that hard to take.

  “There are six dressing rooms below stage,” he said smoothly, peering over his glasses at the eight acts before him. “Two acts will have to prepare themselves backstage.”

  That’s us, I thought, and wondered who else would share the area with us.

  Apparently it was to be Case and Wheeler, the comic duo. “Now hold on there,” said the tall, thin comedian, Mr. Case, after Mr. Barnes had finished his announcements. “We’re the deuce. We should get the dressing room.”

  “Case, is it?” said Mr. Barnes with a look of dubious disdain. “Well, Mr. Case, we’re going to be gentlemen and let the ladies have a dressing room.”

  “That’s not how it goes,” insisted Mr. Case. “It’s by—”

  “It’s by my authority that anyone has a contract at all.” Barnes’s face was placid and his tone was light, but derision seeped like gutter water from his words.

  “Nat,” said Mr. Wheeler, Case’s short, round partner. “Natty, let it go. Don’t ask for tsuris.”

  Mr. Barnes gave a perfunctory little nod, a pretense at being polite, and strode off.

  “Schmuck,” muttered Mr. Case.

  Mr. Wheeler gave his partner’s back a little slap, and the two of them headed backstage.

  “Schmuck?” said Kit. “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m pretty sure it isn’t complimentary.”

  We settled onto various stools that had been left backstage. Mr. Wheeler opened a newspaper with boxy squiggles in neat rows, The Jewish Daily Forward on the masthead. His legs were short, so his feet—like mine—didn’t reach the ground. He hooked his heels into the top bar of his stool. Mr. Case, sitting closest to us, stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles, his short boots revealing socks that could have used a good darning. He put out his hand, and Mr. Wheeler gave him a section of the paper without even looking up. The two men, so opposite in form, cocked their papers identically in front of them.

  Nell’s stool was closest to Mr. Case, and she sat with Harry, who, after a little patting and coaxing, offered up a fantastic belch. Mr. Case looked up from his paper.

  “My goodness, Harry,” Nell fretted. “Not so loud.”

  Mr. Case smiled. “An admirable achievement! Every man needs to let some air from his belly when he’s had a good meal.” He leaned a little closer, studying the baby. “How old?”

  “He’s just eight months.”

  “Such a big healthy boy! You must be eating well, too, if your baby is so nice and fat.”

  She was barely eating at all, and shame rose like a fever on her face. She lowered her eyes and stammered, “I . . . well . . .”

  “Ach, I’m so stupid. A lady doesn’t boast about how much she eats. Let’s just say you’re taking good care of him, and leave it at that.” He offered his hand to shake. “Nathan Klippfisch.”

  She shook it, looking as confused as I felt. “I thought you were Mr. Case.”

  “I am either the fourth or fifth Case, I can never remember which. The act started so long ago, back then it might have been Noah and the whale!” He laughed and slapped his thigh.

  “You’re not really Case and Wheeler?” I asked.

  “No, no. You know how it is in vaudeville. Somebody gets married, or comes into some money, or can’t take the life anymore—they quit. What’s his partner going to do? Start over when he’s already built a reputation? That’s crazy! He gets a new partner and keeps the old name.” He cocked a thumb toward Mr. Wheeler. “I picked up Benny Weisberg here six or eight years ago.”

  “Nine,” said Mr. Weisberg from behind his paper. “But who’s counting?”

  “How can you say it was nine?” Mr. Klippfisch gave us a knowing look and shook his head. “It wasn’t nine.”

  Mr. Weisberg laid his newspaper on his lap. “I can say it was nine because it was nine. I was with the Castleman Brothers at Keith’s in Boston. That’s where we met.”

  “It is not. If you were in the big time with the Castlemans, why would you leave?”

  “On account of the bruises.”

  “You left because of the bruises? Who leaves because of bruises?”

  “Me, that’s who. It was a knockabout routine, and I was the shortest, and I wasn’t a Castleman, so they knocked me about. I had enough.”

  “But Keith’s is big-time!”

  “This I know. You know how I know? Because I was there!” He snapped up his paper.

  Mr. Klippfisch shrugged. “He could be right. My memory’s not always so good.” He gave a sly little smile and raised his finger in the air. “But even if I was dead, I would still remember our act, and that’s what matters!”

  Mr. Klippfisch—Nat, as he insisted we call him—wanted to know all about what had prompted such a nice family of lovely, well-brought-up young ladies to enter this crazy business, and entertained us with stories of growing up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

  “I left school after the fifth grade,” he said. “I tried bootblacking, but it was so boring. All these muckety-mucks over on Wall Street had nothing to say except, “You missed my heel,’ or, “Why should I give you two cents when that other kid’ll do it for a penny?’ ”

  “That’s not very much money,” said Nell. Harry was sitting in his new play yard, chewing on a little red celluloid horse that we’d found in one of the donation bags back in Cuba.

  “I knew there was something else I didn’t like about it! Thank you for reminding me, darling girl.”

  He had been married once, but his wife got lonely while he was on the road. “She wrote me long letters, half of which I never received because I had left for the next town before they arrived. I wrote her short letters with jokes. She said my jokes made her cry in the end, because she couldn’t remember the sound of my voice anymore and imagine the way I would tell them.”

  Nell’s face went pale and she looked away. Nat stopped talking and gazed at her, perhaps guessing her unfortunate marital status from her reaction. He waited for a few moments, and then he said, “There’s no pain greater than the pain of missing. To me, my wife was a hero. I understood when she needed to put the pain away and move on with her life. In fact, I loved her so much, I was glad for her.”

  There was a message for Nell in his words, and she glanced up at him.

  He gave her a look of fatherly kindness and said, “Any man who truly loves a woman would be.”

  14

  GERT

  All my life I have been happiest when the folks watching me said to each other, “Look at the poor dope, will ya?”

  —Buster Keaton, actor, acrobat, and comedian

  That guy wormed his way into Nell’s confidence so fast I could almost have admired his skill, if she weren’t my sister. As a waitress, I’d seen older men smooth-talk younger women a hundred times (in addition to the hund
red times it’s been tried on me). If the state of his overcoat was any indication, he had nothing to offer. But he had charm and soft words aimed right at a poor widow’s heart. Oh, I had my eye on him, all right.

  I may not have trusted them, but even I had to admit their act was pretty funny. For their bit, they got all dolled up in bushy blond wigs and tacky suit jackets. Nat’s was too short, and his wrists stuck out like long hot dogs from short buns. Benny’s was too large. The cuffs were rolled at the wrists, and the front panels flapped around his big belly.

  The act went like this: the two men galumphed onstage and greeted each other. Benny clapped Nat on the back. “Well, Sven, aren’t you glad you come to New York to spend your vaccination?” He did it in a heavy Swedish accent. The audience chuckled at his mistake.

  “Yah, sure, Ingemar,” said Nat. “It’s very magnesium here!”

  “Have you got any money?” asked Benny.

  Nat pulled the pocket linings out of his trousers. “No, I’m busted.”

  Benny nodded with concern. “I see. Well, tell me this. Are you thirsty?”

  “No, Ingemar, not a bit.”

  “Good, good,” said Benny. “You see, I’ve only got five pennies and I’m dying for a glass of beer. Now, it wouldn’t look nice for both of us to go into the bar here, and one of us drink, and the other gets nothing. So when we go inside, I say to you: “What you going to have?’ And you say, in sort of a careless way, “Ooooh, I don’t care for it.’ Then I will have some beer, and when we walk out the bartender won’t know we only had enough money for one drink. Understand?”

  Nat shook his head no, but said, “Yah, sure.”

  Benny patted Nat’s lapel. “Good. Now, let’s practice. When we get inside, I’ll say, “What are you gonna have?’ And what do you say?”

  Nat thought for a moment, then grinned foolishly. “I say, “Ooooh, I don’t care for it.’ ”

  “Yah, yah! That’s perfect. Except . . . except . . .” Benny frowned. “See, something tells me you’re not gonna do this right. Let’s practice again. Now, what you gonna have?”

  Nat flung his arms out sideways. “I don’t want a ting.”

  Benny cocked his head to one side. “Aw, go on, have something.”

  “Oh, no, no, no.” Nat wagged his head back and forth.

  “Take something small.”

  Nat shrugged. “Well, all right, I’ll take a small bottle.”

  The audience laughed, and the men waited so the next line could be heard.

  “What! Small bottle!” Benny threw his hands into the air. “With my poor five cents?”

  “Well, why do you wanna coax me for?”

  “I wasn’t coaxing. I was only making a bluff!”

  “Why don’t you say, “What you gonna have?’ and I don’t have it?”

  Benny shook his finger up at Nat. “I’ll say anything I like—it’s my five cents! All you gotta say is: “Ooooh, I don’t care for it.’ Now. Pay attention. What you gonna have?”

  “Ooooh, I don’t care for it.”

  “Aw, go on, take something.”

  Nat shrugged. “Well, I’ll take a cigar.”

  Still tickled by Nat’s last mistake, the audience laughed even harder at this one.

  “What! A cigar?” Benny turned to the audience, arms outstretched, inviting them to join in his frustration, then back to Nat. “You want to burn up my five cents?”

  “Why? Do I gotta give up smokin’ now, too?”

  Benny clenched his hands in front of his chest. “Sven, please, I beg of you, do me a favor: use your brain. Remember, you don’t drink, and you don’t smoke! Now, we go in.”

  They walked arm in arm into the pretend bar.

  Benny turned to Nat. “Sven, my good friend, would you like to have a drink?”

  Nat nodded enthusiastically. “Ooooh, yah, Ingemar, I don’t care if I do!”

  The laughter was hearty and Benny threw his hat on the floor. “You’re supposed to say, “Ooooh, I don’t care to’! You said you weren’t thirsty! How come you asked for a drink?”

  Nat smiled innocently out at the audience. “All that talking and practicing . . . it gave me a thirst that would sink a ship!”

  The audience exploded with applause and laughter, cheering the two silly Swedes. They took their bows and trotted offstage. As they collapsed back onto their stools, Kit asked, “How’d you learn to talk like that?”

  “Oh, we played the Orpheum circuit out west a couple times,” said Nat.

  “Four times,” corrected Benny, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Lot of Swedes in the Midwest, and we’re good at picking up voices,” said Nat. “We used to do German accents, but then the war came, and let’s just say not everyone found it funny anymore. Some guys in Baltimore thought we were real Germans, and that was not funny at all.”

  “What did you do?” asked Winnie.

  Benny shook his head. “We told them we weren’t German. And they said, “Well, what are you then?’ We were idiots, that’s what we were, because we told them the truth. “We’re Jews!’ we said, like that would get us out of the soup kettle.”

  “Feh,” said Nat. “Barbarians.”

  “It’s like the Rus Urban Hotel,” said Benny. “Used to be called the Germania. They changed the name because no one would stay there, which is silly. Plenty of good German Americans. Plenty who fought in the war on the American side, against their own homeland.” He shrugged. “But still, people get angry, and they need someplace to aim it. Swedes, though—who could hate a Swede? They’re so quiet and hardworking, it’d be like hating a shovel.”

  Nat grinned. “And who could hate a shovel?”

  My sisters laughed, even Nell. Those old guys were charmers, all right.

  Mother got up to get us some sandwiches, and asked Nat and Benny if she could pick anything up for them, as she had done for performers at the other towns we played.

  “It’s too much to ask,” Benny said, folding his newspaper on his lap.

  “I don’t mind at all,” she said. “I always run out and get things for the other acts.”

  “You’re an angel.” He put on a gallant tone. “An angel should not tire herself with other people’s errands.”

  Oh, Mother ate that right up. “I’m just going around the corner to the drugstore.”

  His round face fell. “The drugstore?”

  “You don’t like the sandwiches there?”

  “I don’t mean to be difficult,” he said. “It’s just, well, there’s a reason they call it a drugstore and not a sandwich store. There’s a little place a few blocks down, very reasonable. They slice the corned beef very thin”—he pressed his thick fingers together to show just how thin—“and the rye bread is so fresh.”

  Nat shrugged. “It’s no Katz’s, but this isn’t New York.”

  We looked at one another; weren’t we in the state of New York, where we’d been stuck our whole lives?

  Nat explained, “By New York, I mean the city. You know, the real New York. And Katz’s is the best deli on the planet.” These two definitely had strong feelings about sandwiches.

  When Mother returned, she handed Nat and Benny their supper, thick slabs of brown bread speckled with seeds, bursting with juicy pink meat. Ours were the same fifteen-cent cheese and white bread we’d been eating since we’d gone on the road.

  “You didn’t like the food at the deli?” said Benny, sounding offended.

  “Oh, it looked fine,” said Mother. “We’re just watching our pennies.”

  “Because that’s all we have,” Kit muttered. “Pennies.”

  “Katherine,” Mother warned.

  Nat looked at Nell’s pale sandwich, then up at her, his eyes asking a silent question.

  “We were robbed,” Nell said quietly. “We’ll be all right when we get paid at the end of the week.”

  He handed her half of his sandwich.

  “No, no,” she said, embarrassed. “I’m fine with
this. Honestly, I like cheese.”

  “Look at me. Now look at Benny,” he said, hooking a thumb toward his partner. “I’m the skinny guy! If I start gaining weight, the gag doesn’t go over so well.” He held out the sandwich half. “For the good of the act, please, I’m begging you—take it.”

  She took it. And she ate it.

  Even I had to admit it was a miracle.

  15

  WINNIE

  When you take a joke away from Milton Berle, it’s not stealing, it’s repossessing.

  —Jack Benny, comedian and actor

  I saw a strange and unlikely friendship bloom that day between Nell and Nat. From then on, while the rest of us watched the other acts, played with little Harry, read, sewed, or dozed, Nell and Nat sat on their stools talking quietly to each other, rising only to perform. I tried to concentrate on Little Women, but my ear kept perking to the sound of Nell’s laugh, or to Nat slapping his thigh when he made a point.

  Gert didn’t like it. “Not one bit,” she muttered as we stood in the wings, watching the sultry Theda Bara copycat wind her arms seductively above her head. “Nell’s a young widow, and he’s too old for—” Gert’s lip curled in disgust.

  “I don’t think that’s what he’s after,” I said.

  “No? Well, what’s he after then?”

  “I don’t know. He seems to just . . . like her for her own self. Maybe she reminds him of his wife, and he wants to do a kindness to make up for how he left her alone.”

  Gert shook her head and muttered, “You’re even younger than you look.”

  Uncharacteristically, Mother dozed off several times during the day, her needle half threaded into a seam of one of the new costumes she was making. By evening her face was flushed. I put a hand to Mother’s forehead, which was quite warm. “I think you may have a fever starting,” I said. “I’ll go and get the sandwiches and I’ll pick up some aspirin, too.”