by Liza Ketchum
“Amazing, no?”
Teresa startled. Papa stood in front of her. He looked like a chef with his starched apron pulled tight over his chest and belly. “Viens,” he said, beckoning. “Mr. O’Malley waits for us.”
They hurried through the rain into the next building and climbed a set of steep stairs. A tall man with a greased mustache waited at the top. “Mr. O’Malley: my daughter, Teresa,” Papa said.
“Pleased to meet you.” Mr. O’Malley shook Teresa’s hand. “Your father tells me that you’re sixteen—and that you have perfect pitch,” he said.
Sixteen? Papa had lied! Teresa couldn’t look at him.
Mr. O’Malley rubbed his hands together. “We don’t employ too many gentlewomen at Estey,” he said, “although they can be skilled at filing reeds. For tuning, however, the ear matters most.”
He led them down a hall. Soft, reedy noises sounded from behind closed doors. Mr. O’Malley stopped in front of the last door and gave Teresa a severe look. “We don’t want other companies to know how we make our reeds, so each tuner keeps his technique to himself. They say, when a tuner dies, the secret of his reeds dies with him.” He paused, as if to let the words sink in. “Can you keep a secret?”
Before she could answer, Papa said, “Don’t worry, Mr. O’Malley. You can trust our Resa.” He turned to her. “C’est vrai?”
She heard the threat in his voice. “Yes, Papa. It’s true.”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. LeClair, I’d like to test your daughter myself,” Mr. O’Malley said. “It won’t take long.”
“Of course.” Papa sent Teresa a warning look. She followed Mr. O’Malley into a small room lit by a tall window. He closed the door behind them, opened the drawer on a small table, and pulled out a handful of tuning forks. He tapped one against the windowsill. “Recognize that note?” Mr. O’Malley asked.
She hesitated. If she lied, Papa would never forgive her. “I’m sorry,” she said, and tried to laugh. “I’m nervous. Could you hit it again?” When the note rang out against the table, Teresa said, “Middle C.”
Mr. O’Malley tapped another fork. The rich sound reverberated in the quiet room. “F, below middle C,” Teresa said.
The test went on. Mr. O’Malley played some tricky sharps and flats, some low notes and a few shrill high ones. Teresa knew them all.
“Perfect,” Mr. O’Malley said at last. He opened the door and waved Papa in. “You spoke correctly—your daughter didn’t miss a single note.” He turned to her. “What do you think, Miss LeClair? Are you interested in working here? It’s a good living, and you’d bring joy to the people who play our organs.”
Teresa turned away. A cardinal flew past the long window, a flash of red against the gray slate of the next building.
“Resa—answer Mr. O’Malley’s question,” Papa said.
“I’m still in school,” Teresa said at last.
Mr. O’Malley nodded. “Of course.” He winked at her—winked! Teresa felt sick, but Papa didn’t seem to notice.
“Your father tells me—how shall we put it—that you don’t exactly enjoy school,” Mr. O’Malley said.
Teresa’s eyes burned. Papa had betrayed her, but she wouldn’t cry in front of this man. “I plan to finish the year,” she said.
“That’s admirable,” Mr. O’Malley said. “But summer will be here soon. Come see me some afternoon and we’ll see how you might work with the reeds. If your hands are as adept as your ear, we could use you here.”
Adept with her hands? Hardly. The cardinal flew into an elm tree beyond the next building. It threw back its head and opened its beak, but Teresa couldn’t hear its song. She tried to picture herself alone in this room, wrestling with the reeds and hand tools. She could sing all day to the four walls and no one would notice or care. “I’m sorry, sir—but I can’t,” she whispered.
Papa flushed. “Resa. Don’t be rude.” His voice softened. “You don’t know what it’s like until you try. You’ll come in to watch Mr. O’Malley. I insist.”
Mr. O’Malley put up his hands. “We wouldn’t force you,” he said. “Go home and talk things over with your parents. I hope you’ll have a change of heart.”
The men discussed her pay, as if she weren’t even in the room. Teresa watched the cardinal through the glass. When it flew off, she sent a message to the bird. Take me with you, she begged silently. We’ll fly away. Down the river and then to New York City and the Great White Way. We’ll fly—and we’ll sing.
9.
Teresa avoided Papa that night and the next day. She practiced her songs in front of her mirror when Papa was home, and at the piano after school. She let Nonnie in on her secret, but told no one else. On Friday night, she tapped on Nonnie’s door and slipped into the musty room, carrying her great-grandmother’s clean laundry. Nonnie stood by the window, her nose pressed to the glass. “Nonnie—what are you doing?”
“I can’t open the window,” Nonnie said. “I want to smell the lilacs.”
The window was stiff and swollen. Teresa banged and jiggled the frame until she was able to lift it. The lilac was in full bloom, its purple blossoms weighing the top branches down. They both breathed in the sweet scent. “Lovely,” Nonnie said. “Nothing like it, is there?”
“Nothing.” Teresa took Nonnie’s stockings and underthings from the basket and set them in the top drawer. Something glinted in the pile of handkerchiefs. Teresa pulled out a gold locket, the size of her silver dollar. A curlicue design was etched into the metal, which felt smooth and warm on her palm. “Oh,” she whispered.
“What have you found?” Nonnie asked.
“A gold locket.” Teresa set it in Nonnie’s hands.
Her great-grandmother slid her fingers across the surface. “I remember this. It opens on the side. Go on, you try.”
Teresa wiggled a fingernail under the cover and found a heart-shaped photograph. She stepped to the window and held the picture to the light. It took her a moment to realize she was looking at a faded photograph of her family—or rather, her family as it used to be. “It’s Mama, Papa, and me—and Pascal, when he was a baby. I’m wearing that dress you made, with the smocking across the top.”
“The little blue dress,” Nonnie said. “It took me days to do those stitches. You looked so sweet in that frock.” She sighed. “Those times are gone now.”
Teresa agreed, although she and Nonnie had different “times” in mind. She studied the photo. Mama and Papa stood together, their shoulders touching. Papa’s fiddle was tucked up under his chin. His beard covered his mouth, but his eyes were smiling. Mama’s cheeks were round and full. She cradled Pascal in her arms. He was just an infant, with a smooth bald head. The three of them faced the camera, but Teresa’s face, half hidden by her knotted curls, was turned up to Papa.
She had adored him. Once.
Nonnie’s voice broke into Teresa’s thoughts. “Your papa was so proud of his little family,” Nonnie said. “He took you downstreet to the photography studio.” She smiled at Teresa. “The locket should be yours. Wear it tomorrow, for good luck.”
“Thank you, Nonnie.” Teresa slipped the locket, on its chain, into her pocket. As she helped Nonnie back to her chair, she noticed the mannequin her great-grandmother had used when she still made dresses for women in Brattleboro. When Teresa was little, the mannequin—with her pretty chest, slender waist, and plump hips—seemed real. Teresa had named her Ethel. Nonnie stopped sewing when her eyes went bad, and usually the mannequin was bare—but today, Ethel wore a taffeta dress with ruffles across the bust. “Why is Ethel dressed up?” Teresa asked.
Nonnie turned her milky blue eyes on her. “You need to wear something fetching tomorrow, but I don’t think this will fit you. If only I could still sew.”
“The judges didn’t like my new shirtwaist. What should I do?”
“Come closer.” Nonnie reached up to Teresa’s shoulder and ran her hand down to her waist. “You’re taller than I am, but we’re both busty on top. L
eave my closet door open and hand me my cane, will you? Who knows what I’ll find in there. Come see me in the morning.”
“Thank you,” Teresa said, though she guessed that nothing in that crowded closet would fit her—or look right. “Did you hear me practicing?”
“I did.” Nonnie laughed. “What silly lyrics—heaven will protect the working girl.” She tapped her own chest. “Heaven didn’t protect this working girl.”
Teresa was quiet a moment. She hadn’t thought of Nonnie as a “working girl”—but of course she was, all those years stitching clothes for Brattleboro women. She felt a pang as Papa’s words rang in her head. If they went back on the road—what would happen to Nonnie?
“Go along, angel. You need your beauty sleep.”
Teresa kissed Nonnie’s forehead and left the room. She was no “angel,” but why spoil Nonnie’s sweet trust?
10.
Teresa woke before dawn, pulled on an old dress, and hurried downstairs to do her chores. Papa barely looked up from the newspaper when she went by. “You’re an early bird,” he said.
“Are you going to work?” she asked, as if she didn’t know what Papa did on Saturday mornings.
“Bien sûr,” Papa said. “Of course I’m working. Would you like to visit with Mr. O’Malley today?”
“I can’t.” Teresa grabbed the egg basket. “I’m busy.” True enough.
By the time she had watered and fed the chickens and collected the eggs, Papa was gone. Mama stood at the stove, frying bacon. Fire crackled in the wood stove and sweat trickled down her face. “We might have a new guest tonight,” Mama said. “You can make up the bed in the room next to Mr. Jensen.”
Teresa’s hands shook. “Mama,” she said. “I have to tell you something.”
Mama flipped the bacon strips and wiped her hands on her apron. “You sound so serious. Is it the sick headache?”
If only it were that simple. “Remember that contest I won, on choir night? I agreed to sing for them this morning. I have to be at the theater at nine o’clock.” Before Mama could argue, Teresa explained what the judges had asked her to do. “I promised I would come,” she said. “And they’re holding a ticket for me to this afternoon’s show. Mama, please. Let me go.”
Mama slid the frying pan to the cool side of the stove. “Of course you will keep your promise. And what a nice compliment.” Mama’s dark eyes twinkled. “It sounds like fun. What will you wear?”
“I don’t know. They asked for something—‘sophisticated.’ Nonnie said she might find something.” She clutched Mama’s hand. “What if Papa finds out?”
“Don’t worry. Nonnie and I will fix it.”
“Thank you.” Teresa hugged her mother tight and wiped her eyes. Nonnie always came through—and sometimes Mama did, too.
• • •
Half an hour later, Teresa stood in front of Nonnie’s full-length mirror, dressed in a burgundy skirt with buttons on the side and a cream-colored silk blouse with a high collar. The skirt skimmed her ankles. It wasn’t the latest fashion, but close enough. “I made the blouse for a woman who never picked it up,” Nonnie said. “And the skirt was your grandmother’s. She was your height.” Nonnie laughed. “She’d turn over in her grave if she knew you were singing on the street.”
Mama tied Teresa’s curls back with a pale blue ribbon and settled the gold locket around her neck. Teresa stared at the stranger in the mirror.
Nonnie touched Teresa’s hair and ran her fingers over her shoulders. “It fits you nicely. Not too tight? Does the skirt clash with your curls?”
“No. It’s perfect,” Teresa said. “And so is the blouse.”
“How does she look?” Nonnie asked.
“Beautiful,” Mama said. “I only wish you could see her, too.”
Pascal poked his head around the door. “Resa, why are you dressed up? Are you going to church?”
“I’m a song plugger today.”
“What’s that?”
“I sing on Main Street so people will buy tickets to see the shows at the Princess.”
Pascal’s eyes lit up. “Is it vaude, with dumb acts? Mama, can I go too? Please?”
“We’ll see,” Mama said. “I’ll bring you downstreet later, when I go to Miss Wilkins’s for bread. Now run along, Resa, or you’ll be late.”
Teresa patted her pocket to make sure she had the vial with Nonnie’s rouge. She would put some on at the theater.
“You’ll wow them,” Nonnie said.
“Let’s hope.”
Pascal followed Teresa down the hall and out the door. “Does Papa know?” he asked.
She turned on him. “No. Don’t you dare tell.”
“I won’t—if you get me a ticket to the show.”
“You’re a pest.” When his face crumpled, she ruffled his hair. “I’ll try,” she said. “Find me when you come with Mama.”
Butterflies fluttered in her belly as she climbed onto the trolley, gave the conductor her nickel, and found a clean seat, careful not to wrinkle her skirt. Even though Pascal would be a nuisance, she almost wished he had come with her. How could she do this alone?
11.
Teresa stood on the sidewalk outside the Princess clutching her music. She breathed deeply, as Mr. Tish always urged them to do at the start of choir practice. A sign under the theater’s marquee boasted that the Princess was Brattleboro’s Finest Place of Entertainment, a Place for Ladies and Gentlemen as well as Children.
The marquee itself gave Mr. Jones and Pietro top billing, in bold capital letters: “MARVIN JONES AND SON, A FIRST-CLASS SONG AND DANCE ROUTINE!” Their names were above the “ROSE OF ABILENE, THE KANSAS FLOWER WHO PLUCKS YOUR HEART STRINGS.”
What a silly slogan. The empty theater seemed even bigger than it had on Tuesday night. Teresa rouged her cheeks and lips in the washroom before walking down the center aisle. Her footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. She stopped, halfway to the stage apron, when a familiar tune sounded from the orchestra pit: the opening phrase of the “Working Girl” song. Mr. Quincy came out onstage, peered into the pit, and clapped his hands. The music stopped in the middle of a measure. “First band call!” he bellowed. “Everyone on stage.” He waved to Teresa. “That includes you.”
Teresa glanced at the empty rows of seats. Was she the only one here?
“Come along,” Mr. Quincy said. Teresa climbed the stairs and stood uneasily near the footlights. “Nice.” Mr. Quincy nodded. “You look like a young lady this morning.”
A rhythmic scuffling sounded from behind the scrim. Mr. Jones and Pietro danced onstage from the wings. They wore shiny shoes with spats, straw hats, and matching navy-blue suits with white flowers in their buttonholes. Mr. Jones brandished a cane, and Pietro snapped a silky red scarf in front of Teresa as he danced past. Teresa felt dowdy next to the dancers, in spite of Nonnie’s fancy clothes. The men clicked their heels and drew up beside her. Mr. Jones was breathing hard, but Pietro looked cool and calm.
Mr. Jones waved his gloved hand. “The girl with the fine set of pipes. You ready?”
“I guess.” Teresa lowered her voice. “Actually, I’m nervous.”
“Everyone gets stage fright,” Pietro said. “Even song pluggers.” He tapped out a short, syncopated riff, his shoes clattering on the wooden stage apron.
“What makes your shoes so loud?” Teresa asked.
“Metal plates.” Pietro’s shoes beat out a complex rhythm that took him across the stage, behind the curtain, and back out again. He drew up in front of her and gave her a bow. “You learn your music?” he asked.
“Of course,” Teresa said.
Mr. Quincy bustled across the stage and exited into the wings. “Enough chit-chat,” he said. “Miss Stanton! We’re waiting on you.”
“Coming! Coming!” a high voice trilled. A short blonde woman appeared at stage right. She wore a pink dress that showed most of her legs. Her curls bounced as she minced to the edge of the apron. “Who turned off the heat?” she demanded.
Mr. Quincy tugged his mustache. “We don’t heat our dressing rooms in May,” he said. “Now, if we could get started—”
Miss Stanton rubbed her bare arms and puckered her mouth. “Mr. Quincy. I’ve played Hammerstein’s Victoria Theatre, in New York City. I’ll have you know I am not accustomed to this sort of treatment.”
Teresa glanced over Miss Stanton’s head in time to see Pietro imitating her, tipping his head back and forth in a simpering way. Teresa bit the inside of her cheek and studied the floorboards to keep from laughing.
“I’m sorry about the dressing rooms.” The manager rubbed his bald head. “I’ll see what we can do.”
“That’s the least of your problems.” Miss Stanton flicked her hair off her collar and turned to stare at Pietro and Mr. Jones. “I’m used to top billing. Taking second place to white minstrels is bad enough. But billing me after two—” she swallowed. “After two men of inferior race. I simply don’t see how you can expect me to perform under these circumstances. Why—they’re not even wearing cork!”
“We know who’s inferior here,” Pietro muttered.
Mr. Jones sent Pietro a warning look and Mr. Quincy sighed. “This is only the rehearsal, Miss Stanton. They’ll be in blackface later; don’t worry. And we billed you as your agency suggested.”
“Excuse me. Mr. Keith would never put me second to . . . to these . . .”
Before she could finish her sentence, the bandleader rapped his baton on a music stand. “Time’s a-wasting, Ma’am. We’re only paid for an hour’s rehearsal.”
“Right.” Mr. Quincy loosened his tie and pointed at Teresa. “This young lady is going to plug your songs around town this morning. We need to be sure she knows the tunes before we send her out.”
