She selected a bottle-green velveteen for the first act, a tailored dress that flattered her and also seemed suited for the American ballads she planned to sing her first round. She had exploited familiar songs, old songs children had learned from their parents. Her second act was often classical, sometimes operatic. And she welcomed encores.
Showtime.
August had donned his tuxedo and top hat, the white bib a little worse for wear, but no one would notice. She caught him gazing at her. He waved gently; everything would be fine.
Backstage, the acts readied themselves. The new one would be different. One of them was seating himself on an aisle seat. The other, Art, was wearing blue tights, a gymnast outfit, and looked pretty snappy, she thought. The Wildroot girls were looking glorious, as always; they were the real troupers in the show.
Ginger slid the curtain aside a bit so she could peer out from the edge of the proscenium at the gathering crowd. She couldn’t make out faces, nor did she see her parents. If they came, they would be front center, but they weren’t. Still, there were people she knew, people who knew her, who would puzzle at the transformation of Penelope Jones. They would know her voice, her style, her face, her walk, and her parents. She could not hide that, nor would she try. If there was trouble with her parents, she would cope—somehow. She wasn’t sure of it. The thought made her jittery. But she had songs to sing, and a voice to warm up, and she concentrated on readying herself. A few quiet scales, anything to loosen the tightness in her throat and body.
Then the moment came. An opening was always electric. It was just as electric to veterans of the stage as it was to new arrivals. An opening, new town, new audience, caught in the throat and held, as the curtain parted or rolled upward.
And there was August, his stride confident, pushing out to center stage as the crowd quieted.
“Ladies and gents, good evening. The Beausoleil Brothers Follies is proud to play in, what is it? Peoria? Billings? Ah, Pocatello, in the great state of Idaho, home of the potato,” he said. “And now, to warm your evening, the one, the only Wildroot Sisters, sweethearts of song.”
And away they went.
August returned to the shadowed wing, smiled at Ginger, and the show rolled ahead, one act upon another, a clockwork procession of song and athletics and talk. Wayne Windsor warmed up the crowd. The Marbury Trio did a jaunty tap dance. Harry the Juggler tossed his scimitars. And then August announced a new act, the one, the only Grab Bag. Art Grabowski sailed on, found the brightest spot, did a few flips, walked on his hands, did several cartwheels, and whirled around the stage on a monocycle. But there was a fellow out in the crowd who didn’t like it.
“What’s this, a joke?” he yelled.
Art stopped. “My good man, if you don’t like my act, you can always leave.”
“Leave? Then all these suckers would have to sit here for another ten minutes.”
“You’re interrupting the show, sir.”
“I’ll show you what it means to interrupt a show, pal.”
Harry, in street clothes, bulled up the aisle, found the stairs, pushed out onto the stage, while the audience waited breathless at what looked to be a fight.
Harry was about twice as big as Art. Harry pushed on, while Art backpedaled on his monocycle, a precarious retreat. And then Harry charged, but Art cycled out of the way, abandoned his one-wheel bike, and stood his ground. Next time big Harry swarmed in, Art unloosed a haymaker, and Harry did three backflips and a cartwheel.
Suddenly, the audience chuckled.
The act turned into a choreographed brawl, the little guy against the big tormentor, with the pair tumbling and rolling. Every time the big guy swarmed in, he overshot, or the little guy tripped him and he ended up doing cartwheels.
The audience soon was laughing, then hooting, then applauding each time the little guy foiled another assault and sent the big guy to the floor. But the moment came when the little guy won the fight, and stood with a foot on the big guy’s chest, and then the Grabowskis were up and bowing and looking a little sweaty.
This was a world that Ginger knew nothing about. She had never seen anything like it in her gently raised life, and at first she recoiled, but then the audience’s enjoyment tugged at her, and from her perch backstage she began laughing, too. The Grabowskis were not only acrobats but gifted comics, and their act was winning a lot of laughter from the crowd.
She knew something then: Vaudeville was for all people. It wasn’t a bit like her high-toned recitals for cultivated people whose tastes had been schooled and refined. Vaudeville was broad, earthy, universal, and fun. Which is perhaps why her parents were not out there; vaudeville was beneath them.
It had almost been beneath her, too. But in the few weeks of her touring, she had come face-to-face with thousands of working people, miners and shop girls and clerks, all of them laying out their dollars for an evening of fun.
She watched the two grinning acrobats slip off the stage, even as August, looking chipper in his top hat, trotted out as the applause faded.
“The Grab Bag, come out for a bow, boys,” he said.
And Art and Harry hurried out for one last bow, and then cartwheeled away.
“And now, the lady you’ve been waiting for, the singer with the voice of a silver bell, the one, the only Ginger! Please welcome our new nightingale, Miss Ginger.”
And then she was on. Her heart pattered. She heard an immediate buzz, the whispers, the questions as she made her way to the bright-lit center stage. Some of them knew her. Another name, an earlier time. She paused, knowing she looked good in that green velveteen.
She smiled. She bowed gently. There were three of the company’s musicians in the orchestra pit. An accordionist, a guitarist, and a banjo player. They would simply pick up whatever she started.
She filled her lungs. She chose some ballads first. Stephen Foster. “Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair.” And the more she sang, the more she knew that all those people were dreaming of Miss Ginger, and wildly curious about the girl they knew as Penelope.
39
STANDING IN the wings, Charles Pomerantz thought that maybe this show, this evening, was the finest the Follies had ever wrought. The performers, exhausted from the hard trip, had somehow drawn from their last reserves to delight the audience.
His surprising bride had done even better after the intermission, turning to ballads that evoked generous applause. And it was her audience. These were people who knew her, who were speculating about her new life and name.
She knew it. She sang with a warmth he had never heard in her. It was almost as if she had minted a new voice for this event; as if the new Ginger-voice would separate her from her Penelope self. Was she seeking their approval? It occurred to him that, yes, she wanted it badly. She was offering herself to them.
And still no sign of her parents. But the run in Pocatello had just begun, and if word had not yet reached them, it soon would. He thought she just might cope with it. But it worried him. He hoped to be on hand, to help, to defend, to encourage, and if there were tears, to wipe them away.
But it wasn’t just Ginger who was transfixing the crowd that night. The Genius and Ethel had them chuckling. The Marbury Trio was introducing tap dance to a lot of people who had never seen it, and they were swaying in their theater seats, and enjoying the svelte athletics. Even LaVerne Wildroot, doing a solo or two in front of the olio, was catching waves of applause.
August seemed to know the evening was rare, and fairly strutted out to introduce the acts, choosing to be conversational and quiet. And so it went on opening night in Pocatello Junction, Idaho. When at last the curtain rang down on a generous evening, the performers stood quietly, aglow. How long had it been since any of them had enjoyed an audience like this? A perfect show, like this? Even the newcomers, Ed and Harry Grabowski, who had contributed much, listened to the happy crowd in wonder.
It was only after a peculiar pause that the performers began to drift to the dressing rooms
. Ginger looked oddly restless; whatever she had been expecting hadn’t happened. Not yet, anyway.
Charles watched a bespectacled man work through the performers and close in on Ginger. He was a skinny drink of water with a polka-dot bow tie and gummy lips.
“Parkinson with The Tribune,” he said. “Like a word.”
Charles caught the flash of uncertainty in Ginger’s face, and watched her stiffen and nod.
“Okay, miss, you’re Penelope Jones, right?”
“Sir, I’m not miss. I’m Mrs. Pomerantz, and this is my husband, who’s an owner of the show.”
“How do you spell it?” the reporter asked.
Charles obliged him.
“Okay, the word is, you’re the same as left here a while ago, dodging the old lady, and now you’re an actress. Right?”
“I am Ginger now. I am not an actress.”
“You saying you aren’t the Jones babe?”
“I’m saying that I left her behind me.”
“So, your parents, they approve of it?”
“I haven’t talked with them.”
“So, you mind telling me how this happened?”
“I am of age; I chose to leave. I chose to make my way in the world, and I did.”
“You defying them, are you?”
“Thank you for your interest, Mr. Parkinson. Are you done?”
“Hey, relax, sweetheart. I’m just getting at the nitty-gritty. Word is, you flew the coop, and the old lady’s having a conniption fit.”
“I wouldn’t know, not having talked to them.”
“The buzz is, they put a fortune into your training, and now you’re wasting it all on, what is this? Sideshow. Carnival stuff.”
Charles was ready to barge in, but Ginger smiled at the reporter and touched his arm. “Thousands of people have enjoyed my singing since I joined the show. I’m proud and pleased that I’ve had the chance to sing for the whole world.”
He liked that, and scribbled it into his spiral-bound notepad.
“I’m grateful for the training. It gave me my chance to fulfill my dreams. Mr. Beausoleil, and my husband, here, have opened doors for me, given me a chance, brought me along when I was learning the ropes, and here I am.”
“Yeah, but sweetheart, your old man and old lady, they had different plans for you.”
“Yes, my mother did. And I’m sorry to disappoint her, but it’s my life, and my choice to enter vaudeville. I love vaudeville. I love the company. These are the sweetest people I’ve ever known. They have great gifts. They entertain. They have, well, a knowledge of how the world works, and what pleases an audience, and I’ve learned more from them than I ever learned from voice coaches and tutors. Singing is more than hitting the notes.”
“Holy cats, lady, that’s a mouthful,” the reporter said, scribbling away.
“Get it right. Write what I said. I’ve learned more about singing, and voice, since joining this company, than I ever did through my girlhood. These are my teachers.”
“Man, you’re gonna tick off a lot of people.”
Charles started laughing. Ginger was a champ.
“Get it right, Mr. Parkinson,” she said.
“Or what?”
“I like your bow tie,” she said. “I’m all for polka dots, but I prefer blue. Really good reporters get the facts.”
The skinny bird laughed. “Hey, you’re a story and a half,” he said.
He hurried off. Charles caught her elbow, and winked.
The company was too exhausted to head for the usual watering holes, and Charles quietly walked Ginger back to their hotel in a darkness that seemed almost ominous. She wrapped her cape tightly about her, and then they were safe in the thin warmth, and soon entered the quiet privacy of their room.
He helped her out of her cape and then hugged her.
“You’re my star,” he said.
“You’re my heaven,” she whispered.
“I’m still trying to figure out how we ended up hitched,” he said.
“Destiny,” she said, and kissed him.
He hugged her, and she melted into him.
“I need to lie down a little,” she said.
He helped her to the double bed and eased her down. She smiled up at him, her eyes full of promise, and she clasped his hand and held it.
And fell asleep.
It took him a moment even to realize it. One moment, full of promise, the next, surrendering to exhaustion, the conclusion of one of her hardest days. Her body seemed to sink into the mattress, and she was gone, her breath gentle, the rise of her chest steady and quiet.
He undid some of her buttons, giving her room and air, and stared down upon her, his miraculous bride of just a few weeks. There were dark circles under her eyes.
“My shooting star,” he said. “A comet across the dark.”
He was disappointed. He had been looking forward to this night, for many nights. But there would be more nights, each more delightful, and for now, sleep was best. The kindness of the quiet night was the best tonic for the long trip and the brave front before the people of her hometown.
She wasn’t dozing; she had slipped over the cliff, her weariness at last compelling her young heart to rest. He felt closer to her than he had ever felt, and marveled at it. There she was, exhausted and asleep, and he was watching over her, keeping her safe from harm. He had never been in the guardian angel business, and was liking it.
A sharp rap on the door halted his reveries. The rap soon became a clatter.
“Tomorrow,” Charles said at the door. “Whoever you are.”
“Police. Open up.”
Charles stood, knowing what this was about. He eyed Ginger, who had barely stirred, and opened the door. There indeed was a large, blue-uniformed policeman. And a hawkish, small woman with blazing eyes. And a tall, lantern-jawed man with a stern look to him.
“You have my daughter,” the woman said, pushing in.
“My wife,” Charles replied.
She ignored him, pushed to the bed, where Ginger was stirring.
“Penelope, you’re coming with me,” the woman said.
“Madam, who are you? You are talking to my wife.”
“If you interfere we’ll throw you in jail and toss away the key,” the woman said.
“Jones here, and that’s my daughter and we’re taking her.”
“Taking her? She’s my wife.”
“She’s not anymore, if she was at all,” the woman said.
She reached over, grabbed Ginger’s left hand, and swiftly stripped it of her wedding ring, and tucked the ring into a pocket. “Get up,” she said.
“Now just a minute. This is my wife. She’s of age. She’s committed no crime. And she’s staying right here. You’re in my room. Get out. Right now.”
“Get up,” the woman said.
Ginger, groggy still, finally realized what this was about. “No,” she said. “You can’t do this. You don’t own me.”
“We’re taking you away from this filthy carnival. They abducted you and we’re taking you away. We’ve sunk a fortune into your career, and they’re stealing you from us.”
“I’ll stay right here,” Ginger said, sudden ferocity in her. “It’s my life. My choice.”
The woman turned to the cop. “Carry her out.”
“Get out! You’re kidnapping her,” Charles said.
“I’m me!” Ginger cried.
That was the most poignant cry that Charles had ever heard.
A crowd had collected at the door, among them the reporter, Parkinson.
“Hey, what’s the deal?’ he asked.
“None of your business,” Jones said, “and if you print a word, we’ll sue.”
“You kidnapping her? How come you got the right to do that?”
“Get away from here, Parkinson.”
Outside the door, the Grabowskis were watching, and so were Harry the Juggler and The Genius.
“Go on, get away from here,” Jones said.
>
“You gonna kidnap her in front of all these witnesses?” the reporter asked. “That’s front page. We’ll use the war type.”
“She’s coming home, and that’s that. Pick her up and get her to the carriage,” Jones said.
The cop slid his arms under Ginger, who refused to cooperate, and lifted her from the bed. She lay inert, resisting.
Charles saw how it was. The prominent Joneses had the cop on their side. Nothing else mattered, including wrong or right.
Ginger suddenly struggled. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked her mother.
“You’re going to return to the concert hall.”
“No. I’ll never sing again. Not as long as I’m your slave.”
“A few days of bread and water will cure that,” the mother said. “We’ve spent a ransom on you. We’ll get it back.”
“I’ll never sing again,” Ginger said, and there was something so strong in her voice, in the forceful way she said it, that it sent a shiver through Charles.
“Don’t think this is over,” he said, directly to Jones. “You’ll be dealing with me every day of your life.”
“Hey, copper, put her down,” The Genius said. “Or you’ll spend a few years behind bars.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m the voice of conscience, the whisper in the night, the wrath of the gods.”
The cop ignored him, and pushed through the crowd carrying Ginger, wrapped in a sheet that pinned her like a straitjacket.
“Holy cats,” Parkinson said. “Stop the presses. This’ll sell a lot of papers.”
The big cop bowled through the door, into the hall, scattering spectators like tenpins, and carried Ginger away. She was squirming now, struggling, no longer sleepy, fighting to break free. The parents followed behind, the hawkish woman glaring at everyone, her gaze withering, while the Union Pacific superintendent Jones, with balled fists the size of hams, walked behind, daring anyone to resist.
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