The Tumbling Turner Sisters

by Juliette Fay

  “Thanks for getting me out of there,” he said.

  “He’s an idiot.”

  “He didn’t know.”

  “He’s still an idiot,” I said.

  “True.”

  We were quiet for a while then, and it seemed perfectly natural, the two of us sitting in the darkened park in the middle of the night.

  “I feel so good with you,” he said finally. “I’ve been feeling so bad, feeling good is . . . I don’t know. Confusing, I guess.”

  “Life is full of good and bad, all mixed up together.”

  By the light of the streetlamp, I could see his face relax. “You’re pretty young for a philosopher.”

  I smiled. “I guess I should wait until I’m an old coot of nineteen, like you.”

  He turned to look at me, his face sad and happy, all mixed up together. “Mind if I put my arm around you?” he said. I moved into the crook of his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm behind me, resting his hand on my ribs.

  If I die now, I thought, if the Lord takes me right this minute, I will go to my reward feeling as good as any girl has ever felt in the history of the world.

  “I’ve been trying not to like you too much,” he murmured.

  “Why?”

  “Because three days from now, I may never see you again.”

  There was a physical pain in my chest at his words, like someone clamping it in a vise. “I’ve been trying not to like you too much either,” I said, “but not because of that.”

  “Why then?”

  “Because I wasn’t sure if you liked me.”

  I felt a little snort of laughter in his chest ripple into my back. “Trust me,” he said. “I like you. Lucy’s been teasing me for days.”

  “She has? How?”

  “Yesterday when we came down to breakfast and I saw you up close for the first time without your makeup, Lucy kept pecking at me afterward. “Why were you startled? What did you see?’ ”

  “What did you see?”

  “It’s a little embarrassing.”

  “Tell me!”

  “I said . . . well, without all the paint, your eyes are so green. They’re like sea glass.”

  A tiny gasp of joy filled my lungs. He must have felt it, because he held me a little closer and murmured, “She keeps saying “sea glass, sea glass’ at me whenever she thinks no one’s listening.”

  My heart knocked against my chest like it might break right through my ribs.

  “Winnie,” he whispered. “Would it . . . would it be okay if I kissed you?”

  I turned toward him, and he loosened his grip, only to tighten it again when I faced him. His lips brushed my cheek and landed gently on my mouth. My hand went up to his chest and I could feel the pounding of his own heart. I pressed my lips against his and then they seemed to part of their own accord. His lungs filled suddenly under my hand, a little gasp of pleasure.

  No, I thought, this is the best any girl has ever felt in the history of the world.

  And there wasn’t a blooming lilac bush within miles.

  24

  GERT

  Perfect love is the most beautiful of all frustrations

  because it is more than one can express.

  —Charlie Chaplin, actor, writer, and director

  That awful coon shouter had rounded up Mother, Winnie, and the others and made off for Minty Molly’s or whatever the damn place was called. Little Harry wailed for his bedtime as Nell hustled Kit and Lucy along to the hotel.

  Tip’s dressing room door was almost closed, but not quite. I’d only meant to say good night, needed one last look at him, one last word between us, like some sort of silly schoolgirl mooning over the star basketball player. You’re being ridiculous, I told myself. But I needed the sight of him like I needed air.

  When I peeked through the narrow opening into his room he was standing in front of the rusty old mirror, staring into his muddled reflection. I could almost hear the words in his head. What are you doing with that girl?

  What was he doing? And what was I doing?

  In my own head, I called the whole thing off right then and there. There were a hundred different ways things could go bad, and it wasn’t fair to him. It wasn’t fair to either of us. I did not want to feel this way about a man I could never have, even if vaudeville would’ve torn us apart in three days anyway. I did not want to long for him when he was gone.

  I stood there another moment, just long enough to take a breath and let it out, a silent ending to the whole hopeless thing.

  That’s when he turned and caught me.

  “Gert.” His voice was a murmur, almost a prayer. I couldn’t help but put a finger to the door and nudge it open just a few more inches.

  When he stepped back to let me in, his heel hit that monster of a trunk, and he went spilling backward, arms flying out behind him to try and stop his crashing fall. His cheek hit the arm of the chair as he went down, and blood bubbled up from the small gash. I was beside him in a heartbeat, clutching his thick muscular arm, helping him up as he muttered at himself.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Course I am.” He pulled himself up to sit on the trunk. “Just clumsy.”

  “You’re the least clumsy person I ever met. Let me see what I can find for that cut.” I dashed next door to our dressing room, grabbed a little undershirt of Harry’s, and went back to sit in the chair by him.

  “Bring your face over here.” I took his chin in my hand and dabbed at the cut. “It’s not too big, but you might end up with a scar.” A scar on that beautiful brown cheek. I hated the thought of it. “Let me just press it for a minute to make the blood stop.”

  My chair being higher than the trunk he sat on, our faces were at an even level and I’ll admit I took the opportunity to really look at him. It was over, after all. This would be my last chance.

  Slowly his hand rose to my arm that held his chin. His long fingers gently circled my wrist. His eyes watched me for any hint of hesitation.

  Hesitation? It was all I could do not to slide into his lap and put my arms around him. This man who seemed to know me better than anyone—who loved my fearlessness but also saw my hidden softness. For whom I would’ve done anything, given anything.

  “Tip,” I breathed.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were memorizing me.

  Then he opened them and looked away. “It’s late,” he said. “I better walk you back to your hotel.”

  25

  WINNIE

  By and large, jazz has always been like the kind of a man you wouldn’t want your daughter to associate with.

  —Duke Ellington, musician and bandleader

  When Joe and I got back to the hotel, I waited until I was safely in my own room to lay both hands over my mouth and contain a silent squeal of happiness. His kisses—oh my! As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw Kit sprawled out as usual, both feet and one hand hanging from various edges of the bed. Dainty Little Lucy, true to her billing, was curled sweetly into a crescent around her pillow.

  Further into the dimness was the bed I shared with Gert. It was as smooth and freshly made as we’d left it that morning, and Gert was nowhere to be found!

  I had no idea of what to do, but I most certainly could not lie down and go to sleep. I headed back out into the hallway and down the stairs, with faint hope that she might be in the first-floor sitting room reading a book. Except Gert didn’t generally like to read.

  The sitting room was empty. My next hope was that if she was with Tip, they were tucked quietly into some corner of the hotel, hidden from the world, but findable by me. I moved silently through the downstairs, grateful that the hotel clerk had closed up the front desk and gone to bed himself. I searched and searched, but there was no sign of them.

  Gert! I sent my thoughts out like rockets into the night, hoping they would land on her careless self. Gertie, come back here right now. You’re starting up a world of trouble!

  I went upstairs, i
n hopes of waking Nell without alerting Mother. I turned the knob and slid through the smallest possible opening of the door into the pitch-dark room.

  “Mother?” Nell’s voice was thick with sleep.

  I slipped over toward the sound of Nell’s voice. “No, it’s only me,” I whispered.

  “Is Mother with you?”

  I stared hard into the darkness to the bed where Mother should’ve been. “Isn’t she here?”

  Nell sat up. “I thought you were keeping an eye on her!”

  “Well, I was, but then I left, and when I got back, Gert wasn’t here, so I went to look for her, but I can’t find her.”

  “Mother and Gert are both missing?”

  I told Nell that I had searched the hotel. “I’ll have to go out and look for them.”

  “Should we call the police?” she asked.

  We both knew we couldn’t do that unless we were willing to risk Tip going to jail. Or far worse. “You can’t go out into the night alone,” said Nell. “Who knows who’s out there.”

  “I’ll get Joe.” Nell raised her eyebrows at me.

  “You have another idea?” I said sharply.

  “I’m just glad you two have become such good friends that you feel you can ask a favor as big as this. Now, when did you last see Mother?”

  “At the bar with Jackie O’Sullivan.” I winced at the thought. “She’d been drinking.”

  “Why on earth did you leave?” Nell had never spoken so harshly to me, and my face went warm with shame.

  “It was a bit of an emergency.”

  “An emergency involving Joe Cole?” she said pointedly.

  “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Right now, I’m going to get Joe and try to find Gert.”

  “I’ll look for Mother,” said Nell.

  “She isn’t in the hotel,” I said. “I’ve searched all the public areas.”

  The thought struck us both at the same time. Nell’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll check O’Sullivan’s room.”

  26

  GERT

  There are three kinds of men. The one that learns by reading. The few who learn by observation. The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence for themselves.

  —Will Rogers, actor, singer, comedian, and social commentator

  We left through the stage door and out into the cool of midnight, my wrist still warm where his fingers had held it. He turned left toward Williams Street, but I turned right toward a little alley in back of the theatre.

  “Hotel’s this way, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Let’s go a different route.”

  He stood there, broad chest rising and falling. “Gertie . . . ,” he murmured, and shook his head.

  Gertie. Only Winnie had ever called me that.

  I turned and walked down the alley, praying—knowing—he would follow. In a moment he was in step next to me. The alley brought us out to another street behind the town. We walked in silence down the empty sidewalk past darkened houses.

  We came to another street. “Your hotel’s in the other direction,” he said, but he kept walking beside me, as the houses got farther and farther apart with no streetlamps to light the way. We came to a baseball diamond, and I wanted to go and sit on the players’ bench and maybe just talk for a while. Just be with him, away from prying eyes and peoples’ opinions of what might or might not be right.

  Tip stopped. “Gert,” he said. “Where are we going?”

  “Away,” I said. “Can’t we just go away, even for a little bit?”

  He sighed. “Aw, Gertie. There’s no such thing as “away’ enough for us.”

  He was right, of course. If word got out, we’d never work again, my family would be shamed and shunned, I’d be branded as some sort of deviant.

  Tip, of course, would face far worse.

  We might as well write our suicide notes right now, I thought. That, or wait for Mother to save us the trouble and do the job herself.

  But there he was. Tip, the most beautiful man—the most beautiful soul—I’d ever known.

  I took his hand in mine and pressed it up to my cheek. “I want there to be. I never wanted anything so much in my life.”

  “Lord, I want that, too,” he breathed, his thumb stroking my cheek. “You are something, Gert Turner. Since you stood up for me back in Wellsville, I can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t stop wanting you by my side. But you got to understand. There is nothing in this for you. Nothing but trouble.”

  I took his hand from my face and let it drop. “Is that what you think? That I’m here with you in a strange little town in the middle of the goddamned night because I think there’s something in this for me?”

  “Well, why are you here, I’d like to know!” His voice was hard with doubt.

  “You know why. And you know how you know? Because you’re here for the same fool reason. There isn’t anything in it for either of us, and yet here we are.”

  We stood there staring each other down, breath rising into the blackened sky.

  Then he took my hand.

  “Come on,” he said softly, almost regretfully, as if he couldn’t keep his body from rebelling against his mind’s better judgment. “Let’s go find “away.’ ”

  27

  WINNIE

  Love is like playing checkers.

  You have to know which man to move.

  —Moms Mabley, comedian and singer

  When Joe opened his door, his eyes flicked up and down the hall. “Winnie, what are you—?”

  “Gert’s missing,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I really can’t go out looking for her in the dark by myself.”

  “You should call the police.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why can’t—”

  “I can’t say why. If we find her, you’ll know, but I can’t tell you. Can you just trust me?”

  In another moment we were hurrying down the hotel stairs and back out into the night. We headed to the theatre. The front doors were locked, as was the stage door. We picked our way through the weeds and old bottles along the back of the building, listening for voices in the dressing rooms. All we heard were the plaintive whines of Mike and Mary.

  “O’Sullivan should be put in a cage himself,” muttered Joe.

  “And shipped to Africa,” I added.

  We searched the park and the few taverns that were still open, little by little making our way toward the outskirts of town. There was a baseball diamond, and I thought maybe they’d gone to sit on the players’ bench, but it was empty. I sat down, wobbly with fatigue, nearly hopeless that we’d find her, and scared about what we might see if we did.

  “Are you ready to call the police now?” asked Joe as he slumped down onto the rough wooden bench beside me.

  I was ready to call out the National Guard, except that I couldn’t. If she was with Tip—and where else would she be?—I couldn’t jeopardize him by alerting the authorities.

  “Winnie, I don’t mean to pry, and maybe I’m all wrong . . . but I’ve noticed your sister has struck up a . . . a friendship with the tap dancer.”

  I nodded. “We met him a couple of weeks ago in another town. He was very nice to us.”

  “Is it possible . . . I mean, are you worried that he might have . . . ?”

  “No! Tip’s not like that.” I sighed. “If anything, it’s Gert.”

  His face fell. “Has she been known to . . . ?”

  “No. I mean, she likes men, and men certainly like her. But she’s a good girl.” As far as I know, I thought, because now I wondered how far she might go to have something she wanted.

  “Sometimes a man will take a woman’s attention the wrong way,” said Joe, “and assume she’s thinking things she isn’t thinking.”

  I looked up at him. Was he thinking things I wasn’t thinking? After all, here I was alone in the middle of the night with a man I’d met only three days ago. Who could say what that might lead him to assume?

  “I do
n’t mean me,” he said quickly.

  “I believe you’re honorable, Joe.” I did believe it, but I also dearly hoped I was right to.

  “I am,” he said. “More than ever. I’m the man of the family now.” His words were filled with anxiety and pride in equal measure. “Lucy and my mother are my responsibility. Everything I do, I have to think of them first, just like my father always did.”

  I thought of my own father, who went to a job he disliked every day (until, of course, he couldn’t) and put up with Mother’s schemes and our bickering, and any number of other aggravations, to try and give us a decent home and a chance at happiness. It made me wonder what kind of life he would have chosen if he hadn’t had us to consider.

  “Were there things your father might have liked to do that he couldn’t?” I asked.

  Joe sighed. “He wanted to be a farmer. He grew up on a farm in Sala Consilina, and loved growing things. But my mother was from Salerno, and she had heard stories of women going to live on the plains and being so bored and lonely and exhausted from all the hard work. She only agreed to marry him and move to America if he promised she could live in a city.”

  “That must have been a disappointment for him.”

  He smiled. “Not really. He found a way to keep his word and have his farm, too. He put some money down on a piece of land west of Boston, in a little town called Belham. He took the train out there every Sunday and tended his garden. He hoped that someday she might be willing to live there, and he would build her any kind of house she liked.”

  Sadness swept over him, and me, too. “Did you have to sell it when he died?”

  “I should have. Everyone told me to. My mother wouldn’t think of going there now, and there’s still money owed on it.” He pulled in a heavy breath and let it out slowly. “I couldn’t, though. I just couldn’t. I went with him most Sundays to help with the garden, and he taught me all he knew. At first I loved it just because I was with him, but I suppose over time I came to love growing things, too. When I’m there, it feels like he’s with me.” He shook his head. “Vaudeville was the only way I could think of to pay for it. But of course, it broke my mother’s heart all over again that we had to leave her to save his dream—and mine. ” He’d been pulled in more directions and known more tragedy than anyone his age should have to face. I squeezed his hand in sympathy.