by Matt Braun
“Oh, Papa,” Lillian said, taking his arm. “You’ll be just wonderful, wait and see. You always are.”
“To quote the Bard,” Fontaine replied. “ ‘When he had occasion to be seen, he was but as the cuckoo in June. Heard, not regarded.’ I am about to become the cuckoo of Pueblo.”
Fontaine began drinking that afternoon. The more he drank, the more his perception of things became clear. He realized that, but for Lillian’s voice, they would not open at the Tivoli tomorrow night. Even more, he toyed with the idea that the West was no place for a thespian and thought perhaps it was true. He felt as though he’d lost control of some essential part of his life and wondered where and how. By early evening, he was too drunk to stand.
Chester put him to bed shortly before seven o’clock. Lillian was waiting when he returned, seated on the sofa. Her features were taut with worry, and she looked on the verge of tears. She waited until he sat down.
“I feel like I’m responsible. Why didn’t I let Father deal with Varnum? He must resent me terribly.”
“No, you’re wrong,” Chester said. “It’s something else entirely.”
“What?”
“You’re the only thing keeping this act together. Varnum was right when he said we’d be out on the street except for you. Dad finally saw it for himself today.”
“Oh, that simply isn’t true! I don’t believe it for a minute.”
“Yeah, it was true in Abilene and Dodge City, and it’s true here. Like it or not, you’d better get used to the idea. You’re the star of the show.”
A tear rolled down Lillian’s cheek. Her father was so proud and dignified, so defined by his years in the theater. A Shakespearean who had devoted his life to his art. She swore herself to an oath.
She wouldn’t let him become the cuckoo of Pueblo.
CHAPTER 17
A TEAM of acrobats gyrated around the stage. The Tivoli was packed for the opening night of the new headliners. Handbills had been plastered around town and an advertisement had appeared in the Pueblo Sentinel. The boldest line left no question as to the star of the show:
LILLY FONTAINE & THE FONTAINES
Lillian waited in the wings. She watched the acrobats as she prepared to go on with her opening number. Her hair was stylishly arranged in a chignon, and overnight she’d sponged and pressed her gowns. She looked radiant, her checks flushed with excitement.
Yet, appearances aside, she was worried. The Tivoli was the largest theater they’d played since leaving New York, and hopefully, their entrée to bigger things in Denver. Her father had read the ad in the newspaper and passed it along with no comment whatever about his second billing. She was deeply troubled by his silence.
The audience rewarded the acrobats with modest applause. The curtains swished closed as they bounded into the wings, and Lillian moved to center stage. As the curtains opened, she stood bathed in the glow of the footlights, and the orchestra segued into We Parted By The River Side. Her voice sent a hush through the crowd.
The lyrics told the story of lovers biding fond adieu until they could be reunited. Lillian sang the ballad with ardent emotion, her eyes lingering here and there on members of the audience. Down front, seated at separate tables, she noticed two men dressed in frock coats and expensive silk cravats. Their attire set them apart from the other men in the crowd.
On the last note of the ballad, the audience exploded with applause. She bowed her way offstage, aware that the two well-dressed men were on their feet, trying to outclap one another. Her father was waiting in the wings, dressed in costume for Macbeth, and she gave him an encouraging kiss on the cheek. She smelled liquor on his breath.
Fontaine walked to center stage. He had been nipping at whiskey all day, and it had taken the edge off his hangover from last night. The liquor had dulled his dismal mood as well, for he was still unsettled by the ad in the morning newspaper. But he was determined that his sudden demotion to a supporting role would not affect his performance. His voice boomed out over the theater.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing… .
Lillian was overcome with emotion. Her eyes teared as she watched from the wings, never prouder of him than at this moment. She prayed there would be no catcalls or jeers from the crowd, and her eyes quickly scanned the theater. The two men she’d noted before, seated close to the stage, were following the performance with respectful interest. She got the impression that the audience, though restless, was looking to the men to set the example.
After a moment, she hurried backstage. She’d been given a tiny dressing room, and she began changing into her costume for the melodrama. She hung her teal gown on a hanger and slipped into the clinging cotton frock she would wear as a love-stricken young maiden. As she was brushed her hair to shoulder length, one of the chorus girls stopped in the doorway. Her name was Lulu Banes.
“Sweetie, I hafta tell you,” she said with a bee-stung smile. “You got a real nice set of pipes.”
“Why, thank you, Lulu.”
Lillian had met her at rehearsal earlier in the day. Some of the chorus girls kept their distance, waiting to see if Lillian thought herself a prima donna. But Lulu was bubbly and outgoing, and they’d immediately hit it off. Lillian looked at her now in the mirror.
“Do you really think the audience enjoyed it?”
“Are you kiddin’?” Lulu said brightly. “You had those jokers eating out of your hand. They love you!”
“Oh, I hope so.” Lillian paused with her hairbrush. “Did you see those nicely dressed gentlemen down near the front? The ones who look like bankers?”
“Spotted them, did you? That’s Jake Tallant and Hank Warner, the biggest ranchers in these parts. And, sweetie, they’re both rich as Midas!”
“I thought the crowd was watching them with unusual interest. Now I know why.”
“No, that’s not it,” Lulu said archly. “Everybody was waiting to see which one pulled a gun. The crowd probably had bets down.”
“Are you serious?” Lillian asked. “Do they dislike each other that much?”
“Hate would be more like it. Those two have been fighting a range war for almost a year. They’re sworn enemies.”
“Well, I must say I’m surprised. They look so refined.”
“Not so refined they wouldn’t shoot one another. They’re on their good behavior tonight.”
The stage manager called Lillian. She joined her father and Chester onstage for the melodrama The Dying Kiss. During the performance, she kept sneaking peeks at the two ranchers and found it difficult to concentrate on her lines. They were both handsome in their own way, one dark and the other fair, their mustaches neatly trimmed. She thought it a shame they were enemies.
The crowd applauded politely at the end of the melodrama. A juggler kept them entertained while Lillian rushed backstage and changed into her royal blue gown. She had rehearsed a new number most of the afternoon, and when the curtain opened her demeanor was totally changed. Hands on her hips, she gave the audience a saucy look as the orchestra launched into a sprightly melody. She belted out the tune.
Oh, don’t you remember sweet Besty from Pike
Crossed the great mountains with her lover Ike
With two yoke of oxen, a large yellow dog
A tall Shanghai rooster and one spotted hog!
The lyrics about Betsy and Ike became suggestive, though never openly risqué. Lillian danced about the stage, with a wink here and a sassy grin there. She was enjoying herself immensely, and the audience,
caught up in her performance, began clapping in time to the music. She ended with a pirouette, revealing a dainty ankle, her arms spread wide. The crowd went wild.
Lillian took four curtain calls. Finally, with the audience still cheering, she waved and skipped into the wings. Fontaine and Chester, along with Nate Varnum and the rest of the cast, were waiting backstage and broke out in applause. Her features were flushed with the thrill of it all—the freedom of letting go with a snappy, foot-stomping number—and she threw herself into her father’s arms. His eyes were misty with pride.
“You were magnificent,” he said softly. “How I wish your mother could have seen you tonight.”
“Do you think she would have liked it, Papa?”
“My dear, she would have adored it.”
A waiter appeared from the stairs by the stage. He nodded to Lillian. “Ma’am,” he said formally. “Mr. Jacob Tallant sends his compliments. He requests you have champagne with him at his table.”
A second waiter appeared. “Miss Lillian,” he said, beaming. “Mr. Henry Warner extends his most sincere congratulations. He’s asked you to join him and celebrate with champagne.”
“Good God!” Varnum howled. “You can’t pick one over the other, Lilly. We’ll have a riot on our hands!”
Lillian shrugged. “Perhaps I should accept both invitations. The three of us could share a bottle of champagne.”
“Never work,” Varnum told her. “Jake Tallant and Hank Warner at the same table would be like lighting the fuse on a powder keg. They’d kill one another.”
Fontaine stepped forward. “May I make a suggestion, my dear?”
“Yes, of course, Papa.”
“There is no reason for you to become involved in other people’s problems. Politely refuse both invitations.”
“That’ll work,” Varnum quickly added. “Gets them off the premises without a fight. Smart thinking, Fontaine.”
“You should read the Bard,” Fontaine said with a mocking smile. “His plays are a treatise on the art of masterful scheming.”
Lillian turned to the waiters. “Please inform Mr. Tallant and Mr. Warner that I decline their invitations—with sincere regrets.”
Varnum heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”
“No, old chap,” Fontaine reminded him. “Thank Shakespeare.”
The Pueblo Sentinel gave the show rave notices. Fontaine and Chester were mentioned in passing, but Lillian was the centerpiece of the review. The editor rhapsodized at length on her voice, her stage presence, and her ethereal beauty. As though anointing a saint, he dubbed her the Colorado Nightingale.
Fontaine read the paper over breakfast. He’d arranged with the hotel to have room service in the suite every morning. The waiter brought the paper along with a serving cart loaded with eggs, ham, fluffy buttermilk biscuits, and coffee. The article was on the bottom fold of the front page.
Lillian wandered into the sitting room, still dressed in her robe and nightgown. Her face was freshly scrubbed, and her hair, cascading about her shoulders, was lustrous and tawny. Fontaine never ceased to marvel that she had the gift of awakening so exquisitely attractive that it took a man’s breath. She was her mother’s daughter.
Chester, who had finished reading the article, was slathering butter on a biscuit. He looked up as Lillian poured herself a cup of coffee. “Here she is,” he said with a broad grin. “The Colorado Nightingale.”
“Chet, really, it’s too early for jokes.”
“No joke,” he said, spearing a hunk of ham with his fork. “Have a look at the paper.”
Lillian sat down on the sofa. She placed her cup on the table and scanned the newspaper article. Then she read it again, more slowly. Her expression was pensive.
“Well, it’s very nice,” she said, folding the paper. “But I wasn’t that good.”
“Indeed you were,” Fontaine corrected her. “I believe adding a number with quicker tempo inspirited your performance. You’ve found your true mêtier, my dear.”
“Oh, Papa!” Her face was suddenly suffused with joy. “I’m so happy you think so. I felt so … so alive.”
Fontaine nodded. “There is no question you held the audience enthralled. They would have listened to you sing all night.”
“Why not!” Chester said, grinning around a mouthful of biscuit. “She’s the Colorado Nightingale.”
“I rather like it,” Fontaine observed. “There’s a certain ring to it, and it’s catchy. Not to mention the metaphoric symmetry—the nightingale.”
Lillian laughed. “I only wish it were true. I’d love to sound like a nightingale.”
“Never underestimate yourself,” Fontaine said, wagging his finger. “You have a lovely voice, and a range few singers ever attain. I see no limit to your career.”
Lillian felt a stab of pain. She knew he was speaking as her father, and the pride was evident in his voice. Yet the newspaper article had scarcely mentioned his name or Chester’s, and she sensed her father’s hurt, the wound to his dignity. She sensed as well that she could offer no comfort, nothing to soothe his hurt. Anything she said would only make it worse.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Chester asked, buttering another biscuit. “A singer needs to keep up her strength. We’re sure to pack the house tonight.”
“Oh, nothing for me,” Lillian said. “I’m having lunch with Lulu Banes. She’s such a nice girl.”
“Yes, I thought so, too,” Fontaine remarked. “She struck me as a cut above the other girls. I’m delighted you’ve found a friend.”
“She’s really quite—”
A knock sounded at the door. Fontaine rose, crossed the room, and opened it to find a bellman in the hallway. The bellman gave him a sheepish smile.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Fontaine. We’ve got sort of a problem.”
“Yes?”
“Well, sir, there’s two cowhands downstairs. One sent here by Jake Tallant and the other from Hank Warner.”
“How does that concern me?”
“Not you, your daughter,” the bellman said nervously. “They’ve both got horses for Miss Fontaine.”
Fontaine frowned. “Horses?”
“Yessir, outside on the street. Appears like Mr. Tallant and Mr. Warner both sent your daughter a present. Couple of real nice horses.”
“One from each, is that it?”
“Yessir, and those cowhands are down there fit to fight. I mean to say, both of them showing up with horses at the same time. They’re hot under the collar.”
“Wait here a moment, young man.”
Fontaine turned back into the suite. He looked at Lillian with a wry smile. “I believe you are being courted, my dear. Did you hear what was said?”
Lillian walked to the window. Fontaine and Chester followed, and they stared down at the street. Outside the hotel were two cowhands, studiously trying to ignore each other. One held the reins of a glossy sorrel gelding and the other those of a chocolate-spotted pinto mare.
“Horses!” Lillian said uncertainly. “What kind of gift is that?”
“Hardly the question,” Fontaine advised. “More to the point, do you wish to accept gifts from men you’ve never met—albeit admirers?”
“No, I don’t,” Lillian said, after a moment’s thought. “I think it would be inappropriate.”
“Quite so.”
Fontaine returned to the door. “If you will be so kind,” he said to the bellman. “Inform the gentlemen downstairs that Miss Fontaine declines the gifts. They may so advise Mr. Tallant and Mr. Warner.”
“Yessir, Mr. Fontaine,” the bellman replied. “I’ll tell’em just what you said.”
“Thank you so much.”
Lillian was flattered but nonetheless embarrassed. Chester attempted to josh with her about her new beaux, and she went to her bedroom. She stayed there the rest of the morning, emerging shortly before noon in a fitted cotton dress and carrying a parasol. She smiled at her father.
“I’m going to meet Lulu
for lunch, Papa.”
“Enjoy yourself, my dear.”
“Take care, little sister,” Chester called out. “Don’t talk to men with strange horses.”
“I wonder that I talk to you, Chester Fontaine!”
Lillian slammed the door. She was still steaming when she joined Lulu at a restaurant some ten minutes later. After a waiter took their orders, she told Lulu about the horses and how upset she was by the entire affair. Lulu was of a different opinion.
“Sugar, you ought to count your blessings. I wish I had those two scamps after me.”
“Oh, honestly!” Lillian said. “Whoever heard of offering a lady horses? Everyone in town will be talking!”
“Who cares?” Lulu scoffed. “If they’re wearing a skirt, they’re just jealous. They’d give their eyeteeth to catch Jake Tallant or Hank Warner.”
“Money isn’t everything.”
“A good-looking man with money is definitely everything. Take my word for it, sweetheart.”
Lillian was silent a moment. “Tell me about them, will you? Why are they such enemies?”
Lulu quickly warmed to the subject. Jake Tallant was a widower, with two children, who owned an enormous ranch on the south side of the Arkansas River. Hank Warner, a bachelor, owned an equally large cattle spread on the north side of the river. For years, they had disputed water rights where the river curled through their separate spreads. Then, just within the last year, it had developed into a range war.
“I don’t know all the details,” Lulu concluded. “Something to do with one of those old Spanish land grants. You’d think either one had enough land for one man.”
“How did the range war start?”
“Warner sued Tallant in court, and don’t ask me what for. All that legal stuff makes me dizzy.”
“How rich are they?”
“Sugar, they’ve both got more money than God!”
Lillian vaguely wondered why she’d even asked the question. She was still somewhat offended by the incident with the horses. Lulu finally uttered a sly laugh. “One thing’s for sure.”