Anything Goes

by Richard S. Wheeler

  There was wrath in him. She’d never seen it, never imagined it, because Beausoleil was a man firmly in command of himself.

  “Go to Pocatello or not, but not on my stage,” he added. “Travel with Charles if you want, but not in my show. Sing on the streets if you want, but not in my show.”

  “Could I rejoin in Boise?”

  “Never. The best thing for Charles to do is ship you back east. Are we done?”

  She felt a wave of sorrow steal through her. Everything had gone wrong. She had fled her parents to find a new life, and now she had thrown away that new life, and there was nothing ahead. Not even if Charles loved her, not even if her sudden marriage bloomed, would it make up for what she had just done.

  “I deserve it,” she said. “But you deserve something, too. A warning. My father is a powerful man, and he and my mother can make trouble for you, and will. I was seen by a friend of theirs. They may know I’m in the company.”

  “I’ll deal with whatever comes.”

  But then he relented a little. “What should I expect?”

  “I don’t know. But it could be courts and lawyers.”

  “They’re like that?”

  “My mother … she’s poured all her ambitions into me, and the least of her ambitions is to join a vaudeville company. For her, that would be like—getting a bad reputation.”

  “I’ll deal with it. I’ve dealt with worse. I’ve opened in towns with officials who wanted to bust the company.”

  “What for?”

  “They see a company come in, make some good money, and leave town with a bag full of greenbacks. To them, it’s almost like we stole it. So they think of ways to break the company. Get the money before it skips town. Fines, jail, lawsuits. I’ve dealt with them all. And I’ll deal with your family, if it comes to that. Are we done?”

  This was a different man than the quiet one she had met only a few weeks ago.

  “I will sing tonight and each show in Missoula.”

  “I will expect no less of you.”

  “I will sing better than I ever have.”

  “I expect that from every person in the company. Those who don’t, they don’t last. I’ve hardly ever ended a tour with the same company I started with. And this is no exception.”

  He was softening a bit. But she knew better than to think that would affect her fate.

  “I’ve said what I wanted. Now I’ll go warm up,” she said.

  He grunted and left her there, and she made her way into the darkened theater. Not even a bare bulb lit the stage, but there were two small windows on the left-side corridor casting gray light into gloom. The place echoed and its hollowness caught her. Why were theaters so sad, so much of their lives?

  Backstage she found a simple light switch on the wall, and pressed the button. A lamp glowed up at the top of the flies. A deep chill weighed upon the dark interior.

  What would this be, a recital or a vaudeville act? Recitals barely needed an audience. The performer was looking for perfection, and if the audience assented or approved, that all was fine but not critical. There wasn’t a soul in the cold theater. She peered into the gloom, somehow comforted that no one was sitting there, not a single soul. That gave her liberty. She could experiment. She could perfect a note, a breath. Until recently, she had begun recitals with barely a nod to the auditors before her. Her task, her mother’s wish, was to prove to the world that her daughter was a prodigy.

  She would sing to the audience that wasn’t there. Not long. Even at her tender age, she could wear out her voice. She would have to pretend. She imagined that the opera house brimmed with gentlemen in tuxedos with slicked-back hair, the women in gowns and tiaras, all aglitter. She imagined that these people out there were urbane; they had seen a thousand performances and were hard to please. And her task would be to pleasure them, an eighteen-year-old girl wishing to triumph over all the jaded minds waiting for something to happen worth applauding.

  She pulled off her coat, letting the chill reach her. In a moment it wouldn’t matter. She ran a few scales, knowing that her vocal cords were muscles that needed warming, just as an athlete’s body needed warming.

  Then she sang this or that; pieces of song. She would try one, try another, discovering only the emptiness of the cavern that swallowed her voice. She sang her folk songs, not forgetting Stephen Foster. She was in good voice, the notes liquid and sweet, but they sailed into a great hollow, where each word was instantly doomed. It would live in no one’s memory. She sang an aria. It didn’t matter. The place was empty. She felt dissatisfied, and knew at once that she needed the audience. She could never return to recitals. Not until this quiet, hollow place was filled would she find what she was looking for.

  She left the building, having gotten more from her singing than the exercise. She had gotten a need and vocation. She had walked into the cold edifice a girl still fleeing her family; she had walked out changed. She was a vaudeville trouper. Nay, a vaudeville star. She might be married to Charles, but in fact her spouse was her audience.

  She didn’t know how it would work out, but she knew she had a destiny. And she was no longer afraid of going to Pocatello. Or having it out with her mother. If trouble came in Pocatello, her mother would find not a servile daughter, but a firebrand.

  That evening in Missoula, once the opera house had warmed, and the crowd had packed in, and the bright lights of the show were burning, she rocked the house. Whatever it was—and who could say?—she owned the stage from the moment she set foot before that crowd. She walked straight to the light, an arc light serving as the limelight, and there she poured out her ballads, some old and familiar to the heart, and then a little of Carmen, and finally a couple of love songs, the verses settling like velvet upon all those good people there.

  It was a dandy show. Ethel and The Genius finally found their stride, with The Genius insulting everyone in Missoula, and Ethel deflating The Genius at every opportunity. Just as surprising, LaVerne Wildroot was working a new repertoire, a little swing to it, and she was sporting a new smile, too. She was so good that Ginger felt a moment of envy—and fear.

  Wayne Windsor went hunting for robber barons in Missoula, and when he couldn’t unearth any in the audience, he settled for city council members who were saying smoke was good for the city, proof of its vitality, so what did it matter if it irritated the lungs? He punctuated all that with lingering left and right profiles. And the Marbury Trio, in blackface, tapped minstrel music into the receptive ears of an eager audience that eve.

  When Ginger had completed her second-half gig, to rolling applause and an encore, she discovered August Beausoleil staring from the wing, his gaze dark and maybe even bitter.

  She smiled but he stood rigid, in his master of ceremonies rig, scowling.

  “Well, August,” she said, “if you’ll let me sing in Pocatello, I’ll knock ’em flat.”

  He glared angrily, and walked away.

  36

  CROMWELL PERKINS waylaid August Beausoleil after the curtain call.

  “Want to talk to you, old sport. Did you notice? The wind has shifted. Ethel and I got thirty-seven good laughs. Thirty-seven belly-whoppers, in a few minutes. Quite a bit better than Wayne Windsor, I’d say. He got twenty-something.”

  “Yes, you’re coming along. I like it.”

  “I’m the top dog now, better than Windsor, but it’s not reflected in my pay.”

  Beausoleil caught the drift of this, and said nothing. Around him, people were packing up, heading into the night.

  “The Genius is your top draw now,” Perkins said louder, as if August were deaf. “And I’m not getting top pay. Windsor gets his hundred, plus top billing. The Genius gets fifty, split with Ethel, and fifth billing.” The last was almost a shout.

  Beausoleil chose his words carefully. “You’re coming along well. But Windsor is known, and draws crowds, and a veteran, able to change his act for any audience. That comes only from experience. This is your first tour. We�
��re proud to have you, and it’s my good fortune to feature you and Ethel.”

  “I’m requiring a pay of a hundred a week henceforth, sir. Ethel will get twenty-five.”

  He had used that unusual word, requiring, deliberately. It was a demand.

  “I see,” said the manager. “I’m afraid I can’t afford that even if there’s merit.”

  “Then you can’t afford the best talk act in the business. You can lock me in for the tour, or not. There’s never been a contract. You’re so short of acts that I’d think you would go out of your way to keep each act satisfied.”

  “Then the answer’s no.”

  Beausoleil was being a lot tougher than Perkins had expected. It obviously galled him. For weeks, he and Ethel had worked on their drill, spiffing it up, jumping on each other’s lines. It was not only rich comedy, it was also becoming a hit. Actually, Beausoleil had been delighted with the improvement.

  “You would also need to give me top billing, starting right now, sir.”

  “Then we are at a parting of the ways. I trust you will finish our Missoula appearance?”

  “I shouldn’t. I’m just giving away talent. The Genius part of it is real. Can you name any other act that comes close? Of course not. We can pick up any theatrical agent and soon have work at four or five times what you’re paying. Fifty dollars in a brown envelope for two. That’s called cheap.”

  “And Ethel would go with you?”

  “Ask her. She’s tired of her daughters. And LaVerne doesn’t need her. And she likes my, shall we say, bed and board. I’d rather be a barstool entertainer again than earn ten percent of what I’m worth.”

  “I can add ten dollars, make it sixty, and move you up to third billing, but only if you and Ethel commit to the entire tour, ending in Frisco in March.”

  “Not nearly enough. We’ll pull out when we close here.”

  Beausoleil smiled. “Your choice,” he said. “Your act means a lot to me, and I’m hoping you’ll stay.”

  “Your loss,” said The Genius.

  August thought that Perkins’ head had expanded several hat sizes.

  “I’ll wire New York for an act starting Pocatello,” Beausoleil said.

  If The Genius was disappointed, he hid it well. “And we’ll wire an agent ourselves,” he said.

  “You’re done with me? Definitely?”

  The Genius hesitated. “I have to talk it over with Ethel. She doesn’t always appreciate my contributions. Let you know.”

  “I’ll bring in an act,” Beausoleil said. He needed one in any case, with Ginger out. He was stretched way too thin.

  It was a costly option; he’d have to pay the freight. But when the opera house had emptied, he braved a cold night, hiked straight north to the rail station, found a sleepy telegrapher with muttonchops, composed his message to theatrical agents in Chicago, Weill and Branch, who used the wire address BWELL: NEED COMEDY OR ANIMAL ACT OPEN POCATELLO DEC 4 TOP SIXTY BEAUSOLEIL.

  “Thirteen words, twenty a word,” said the agent. “Two dollars and sixty cents, please.”

  “I should buy some Western Union stock,” Beausoleil said. And coughed up.

  He probably would be covered. Train to Pocatello took three days. He’d probably greet some eccentric with two talking dogs. Or a raucous parrot. Or a cat with two heads. Or two midgets with top hats taller than themselves. Who could say?

  He stepped into a harsh night, feeling the old melancholia again. He was alone; he had been on his own for as long as he could remember. Sometimes he caught glimpses of families, children at the table, the girls in pigtails, the boys happy and well fed. He had no family at all, but he had a good substitute for one, the talents who came and went. Just like The Genius and Ethel, and just like Ginger. All of them quitting at the end of the booking. Well, Ginger was a puzzle. Now she was saying she’d play Pocatello. Suddenly she was ready to take on her family and quit running. He’d think about it. He disliked talent that signed on, signed off, couldn’t be steady and reliable. But in spite of himself, Ginger’s new feistiness brought a little cheer to him.

  He headed back to the dark opera house, let himself in, headed for the safe with the evening’s take in the cashbox, lit the overhead bulb, and did his usual count, sorting the grimy bills and adding them. Five hundred and forty-seven this evening, very good. He made a small notation in his vest-pocket ledger, slipped the cashbox back in the Mosler safe, and locked it tight, giving the dial an extra spin. Hartley, the manager, would change the combination after Beausoleil Brothers pulled out. Each visiting troupe got its own strongbox.

  Payday was coming, and August would spend the next eve filling brown envelopes. One with fifty for The Genius. Same pay as most of the acts. The Genius was unique. There wasn’t another act like it in the business, some knucklehead turning himself into a genius, scorning everything, everyone, every hero or saint in history, all for a surprise and chuckle out there among those folks who often sat on their hands. August was tempted to add ten more to his offer, seventy, try to keep the act around, but he knew what the result would be … unless Ethel laid down the law. It really was Ethel who turned Perkins into an act. She figured it out, became his foil, sometimes puncturing him with a wild riposte. And that inspired an interesting idea. He would offer Ethel a fifteen-dollar raise, but nothing for The Genius. She might take it. And then The Genius would discover whose act it really was. The Genius was her prisoner, a thought that entertained August.

  It was late. Gust’s Saloon stood kitty-corner across from the opera house, and August headed in that direction. After each show, the place was packed. And before the show, too. It was a long, narrow place with a few tables and a dartboard at the rear, and a homespun bar and back bar forward. All pine cabinetry, made from local wood. No Brunswick mahogany bar furnishings here. The rear overhead light had been turned off.

  Almost empty. One old soak in a white shirt and corduroy coat occupied a seat. The saloon man was polishing glasses. He looked annoyed, probably because he wanted to close.

  “Make it fast,” the barkeep said.

  Moments later August was nursing a bourbon several stools away from the old soak.

  “You’re with the show,” the soak said. “I can tell.”

  “Manage it.”

  “We’re in the same business,” the soak said.

  “You? Variety shows?”

  “No, I teach rhetoric at the college. My task is to entertain about twenty bored students and stuff them with what they don’t want to know.”

  “How does that make us alike?”

  “I am a showman.” The soak sipped amber juice from his glass. “The enemy is boredom. They are eager to be entertained, but not educated. But if I fail to educate them, then it reflects on me just as bad box office reflects on you. No paying customers, and you’re done for.”

  “I can fire an act,” August said. “But you’re stuck. At least until grading time.”

  “No, no, I’m talking about my failings, sir. Some academics inspire students, draw them to their courses, turn them into good scholars who get good grades. But, sir, you are not talking to one of those. I’m the sort who drones through the hour, and the students avoid rhetoric the rest of their unnatural lives. I envy you. Entertaining well is a rare gift. Not one person in a thousand can entertain others.”

  He downed a mighty slug of amber.

  August scarcely knew what to say.

  “This is our fourth academic year, sir. A new college in the sticks. We’re missing an ear, have six fingers on one hand, and webbed toes. But we’re open. No scholar in his right mind would voluntarily come to Missoula. That says something about me, correct?”

  “Yes. It says you had the courage to come and build a university, sir.”

  The old soak laughed. “And everyone has a fairy godmother.”

  The barkeep set down his towel. “Drink up, gents; I’m closing in five.”

  “Professor, I’d like to give you two tickets to our show,” Aug
ust said, digging into his vest pocket for the front-center seats he always carried.

  “Have I earned them?” the man asked.

  “Anyone who survives classes of daydreaming students year after year has earned them.”

  The old gent stared, plucked them up, and smiled. “This is the best thing that’s happened to me in Montana,” he said.

  The professor tucked the tickets away, swallowed the dregs, nodded, and left.

  August was about to follow, but the keep suddenly poured another shot into his glass.

  “That’s for making the old sob-sister happy,” he said. “He’s got a cloud over him and leaks rain every time he comes in.”

  “We’ve all got troubles.”

  “Sure we do. And professors got more troubles than anyone else. If I had to deal with a lot of wet-behind-the-ear squirts I’d be a souse. You know what? You’ve got the best business on the planet. You open the curtains, and you make people happy. They forget their cares for a bit; you run your acts out, and they take us away from ourselves, and for just a little bit, the world is good.”

  “Well, you do that here, just listening to your customers.”

  “Nah, I just get them soaked enough so they quit complaining. No big deal.”

  “Life’s mostly drudgery. You open up your pub, and they come in and tell stories or make friends, and they go away content.”

  The keep didn’t argue. “That’s what pubs are for. And you’re what opera houses are for. I keep an ear out, you know. My regulars, they see whatever comes into town, and they’re talking about just one thing. The girl. The one in white. She comes out, into the limelight, and she’s just right. I mean, not brassy, not glittery, but like the girl most lads dream of, and she starts to sing, and she’s smiling at them, and she sees them, and she sings to them, and that’s how she’s got about half the men in Missoula in love with her.”

  “Ginger.”

  “That’s the one. She’s giving every lad in town a dream, including the married ones. You know what? They talk about her. They say they’d trade any two women for one Ginger. They say they’d never have a chance with her, because some millionaire’s gonna snap her up.”