by Liza Ketchum
“Yes!” someone else called. “Where’s the girl from the shops?”
Pascal elbowed Teresa. “They want you.”
“We want the plugger! We want the plugger!” another man chanted, and others joined in until the theater rocked with the beat. Rose Stanton hurried into the wings. The heavy curtains swung closed, but the audience kept on clapping.
Mr. Quincy stepped out onto the stage apron, his high forehead beaded with sweat. “Stop! Stop!” he called. “The show is over.”
But the audience stomped and shouted until finally, Mr. Quincy squinted over the footlights. “Miss LeClair—are you out there? Could you give us a quick number?”
Teresa stood up slowly. Her heart skittered and she could hardly breathe. She edged her way out to the aisle while people around her clapped and whistled. Mr. Quincy hurried down the steps, grabbed her elbow, and steered her toward the stage. “Just sing one number, will you?”
“But what?” Teresa whispered. “Miss Stanton already performed the tunes I know.”
“How about the song you did on Tuesday night?”
“‘Hard Times?’ That’s so sad.”
“Doesn’t matter. Give them something—anything!”
The crowd was settling, but Teresa could feel their anticipation. She tried to catch her breath. A violinist’s bow waved like a beckoning hand from the orchestra pit. She leaned over the edge. It was Davey, his smile as bright as the footlights. “What can we do for you?”
“Can you play ‘Hard Times’?”
Davey glanced at the other musicians, who nodded. “’Course we can. Key of E-flat?” He played the chord.
“Perfect,” Teresa said softly. “I hope I can sing.”
“You’ll be fine. We’ll give you four bars. Watch Bert.” Davey waved to the pianist, who was not—thankfully—the clumsy piano player from the other night. “He’ll cue you in with a nod.”
Teresa climbed the stairs with lead in her shoes. The audience cheered, then went silent so quickly, she wondered if they had all disappeared, or if this was one of those dreams where you suddenly can’t hear anything. The apron seemed too narrow, the footlights blinding. Where should she stand?
“Find the spotlight,” a low voice called from the wings.
Was it Pietro, or Mr. Jones? Teresa breathed deep and stepped into the yellow pool of light in front of the curtain. Davey played the first few measures. Teresa watched Bert, who cued her in. She sang of a poor family’s sorrow, of the “sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,” but the family she pictured was her own. She heard the clackety clack of wheels and the lonesome whistle of the train that snatched them away from the stage so long ago. She remembered Papa, his head nodding, his bow arm curved as his fiddle played this plaintive tune. As she repeated the final chorus, a sweet tenor added harmony from the wings, so faint she might have imagined it.
The last notes died away. The audience was silent for a long pause, as if everyone had inhaled at once—and then the clapping began.
She’d forgotten! Forgotten the thrill of that deep hush, forgotten the spine-tingling joy of holding an audience spellbound. Teresa smiled, bowed—once, then twice—and then, unsure of where to go, found the gap in the curtain and slipped through. She nearly collided with Pietro. His dark eyes twinkled with mischief.
“That was you singing harmony,” Teresa said.
“Who, me?” Pietro’s right eyebrow lifted. “Of course not.” His face looked so strange, his painted smile so phony, that Teresa turned away.
“Ugly, isn’t it?” Pietro’s voice suddenly turned serious. “I hate cork.”
“Do you have to wear it?”
He waved her toward the stage. “Listen—they’re still clapping. Give them a curtain call.”
Teresa went back out, bowed at the waist, and ducked behind the curtain again. Mr. Jones waited for her this time. “You sure did ruffle that Miss Stanton’s feathers.” He laughed. “Did she ever strut downstairs to her dressing room!”
As if she heard them, Miss Stanton’s shrill complaints rose from the dressing rooms below.
“She’s ignorant,” Pietro said. “You won’t catch me onstage again with her, ever.”
“I’m sure Miss Stanton agrees with you one hundred percent,” Mr. Jones said. He turned to Teresa. “Take care of that voice,” he said. “You’ll go far.”
“Thank you,” Teresa said. “I loved your act. You’re such good dancers.”
“I have to work at it,” Mr. Jones said. “My boy here—he’s got natural talent. He’s the one persuaded me to add ragtime to our act.”
“You just saying that, Daddy.” It was hard to read Pietro’s feelings above his phony smile, but he lifted his top hat and turned to his father. “How about we do the next shows without the cork? We’ve only got one day in this two-bit town—who’s going to mind?”
Mr. Jones shook his head. “We’ve been through this, son. Even Bert Williams wears cork—and he’s the best comedian onstage, anywhere.”
“His partner, George Walker, was the finest dancer around. He never blacked up,” Pietro said. “Maybe Williams is a coward.”
“Or maybe smart,” Mr. Jones said. “How many other colored men you see playing the Ziegfeld Follies, the greatest theater pageant in New York?”
“Could be me, someday.” Pietro danced in place, his shoes ticking a lazy rhythm on the wooden floor. “Just you wait, Daddy. When I hit the big time, I’ll go onstage wearing nothing but my own brown face.” He pointed at Teresa. “Why should she go on as her own self when I can’t? Is that fair?”
Teresa cringed. Had she done something wrong?
“Hush,” Mr. Jones said. “You’re too smart for your own good. Can’t you see she’s just a girl?”
“Never too late to get educated,” Pietro said, and turned away without a word.
Teresa’s cheeks burned. Probably she was dumb about many things—but he didn’t have to rub it in! “I need to find my brother,” she told Mr. Jones. “It was nice to meet you.” She shook his hand. Pietro was bent over, changing out of his dance shoes. He didn’t look at her.
“I expect to see your name on the marquee one of these days,” Mr. Jones said.
Pietro’s laugh was cold. “Daddy, you kidding? She won’t see no lights, staying in this burg.” He stood up, pulled the curtain open, and peered out. “You want this to be as far as you get?”
In spite of his taunts, Teresa followed the line of his hand. With the house lights dimmed and people’s programs scattered on the empty seats, the Princess Theater did seem shabby.
“Everyone starts someplace,” Mr. Jones said. “And look at us. We’re performing in Brattleboro, aren’t we? She’s too young to think about leaving town.”
“Is she?” Pietro turned to Teresa, his eyes challenging her above the mask of his corked face. “New York is where it happens,” he said. “Where life begins.” He danced in time with his words. “Where the cream plays the Palace”—tappity tappity tap—“and the dregs play the honky-tonks—” tapetta tapetta tapetta.
“You’ll be dancing with the dregs yourself if you don’t behave,” Mr. Jones said. “Now hush. We have three more shows today, in case you forgot. Don’t give this girl a complex.”
“Last train to New York is at ten tonight.” Pietro cakewalked sideways, flicked his scarf at her, and disappeared into the wings. For a moment, Teresa wanted to cry—though she couldn’t say why.
Mr. Jones shook his head. “I apologize. His head’s too big sometimes.” He pointed toward the back of the theater. “Someone’s got a show of his own going on.”
Two, three, then four scarlet objects flew in wobbling circles behind the last row of seats. Had Pascal stolen bowling pins from the cyclist? Teresa groaned. “My brother juggles all the time.”
“Looks like performing runs in the family.” Mr. Jones touched the brim of his top hat. “I hope our paths cross again.”
“I hope so, too. Thank you for helping me.” Tere
sa lifted her skirts, descended the stairs, and ran up the aisle. But Papa’s words in the café gave her a sudden chill: Once he makes up his mind . . .
16.
Pascal’s bag of bowling pins, thrown away by the cyclist, bumped and clattered as they walked home from the trolley stop. “Wonder what chores Mama will make us do,” Pascal said.
“Papa’s going to punish me,” Teresa said.
“I know.” He wrapped one skinny arm around her in a quick hug.
Mama was in the front hall, hoisting a basket of clean sheets and towels. “Perfect timing,” she said. “Papa killed an old hen. She’s waiting for you to pluck her.”
Pascal held his nose. “No fair! My job is drying the dishes.”
“They can wait,” Mama said. “First get the hen ready for the stew pot. I’ll make up the bed for tonight’s guest.”
“Is it a new boarder?” Teresa asked. A permanent guest might save her from working at Estey. But Mama shook her head.
“She told Papa one night, maybe two. Still, every little bit helps.”
Teresa and Pascal changed into old clothes and sat on the back porch, the chicken set between them on a packing crate. “Yuck.” Pascal flicked a white feather into the bucket. “When I’m a famous juggler and acrobat, I’ll never touch a dead chicken again. Even a cooked one.”
“And when I’m a famous singer, I’ll make sure Mama doesn’t have to cook for boarders.” Teresa dug her fingernails into the rubbery flesh and yanked another feather out. Pietro was right. She would never amount to much if she stayed in Brattleboro. Maybe it was better than a “two-bit” town—but the Princess wasn’t a New York theater and never would be. Would she spend her days in the tuning rooms, her weekends plucking chickens and scrubbing pots until her hands were raw and chapped, like Mama’s? She glanced at her brother. Would Papa drag him to work at Estey, too? Pascal chewed on his lower lip as he worked at the chicken. “Let’s sing,” Teresa said.
“What song?”
“Down by the old mill stream,” Teresa sang, and Pascal joined in. If only they could travel down the stream, down the river—anywhere—to find their place in the big time.
• • •
Mama waited on supper, serving it later than usual, but their new guest didn’t show up. With Mr. Jensen at the table, Papa glowered, but didn’t mention the song plugging—which only made Teresa more nervous. Her few bites of potato sat in her stomach like stones, and the old hen was too stringy to eat.
“We need spoons for dessert,” Mama said. Pascal ran down the hall and came back with five spoons, which he tried to juggle as he walked. They fell to the floor with a clatter.
“That’s enough!” Papa roared. Mr. Jensen pushed back his chair and left the table without a word. They waited as his cane tapped on the stairs. When his door shut with a soft click, Papa glowered at Teresa. “Singing up and down the street like a common urchin—why didn’t you tell me?”
“I knew you wouldn’t let me go.” Teresa met Papa’s eyes. “Did people call you an urchin, when you and Mama eloped?”
“Don’t be fresh.” Papa’s Adam’s apple bounced up and down.
“What’s ‘eloped’?” Pascal asked.
“Mama and Papa ran away to get married without telling anyone,” Teresa said. “But don’t worry. No one wants to marry me.”
Papa spoke through gritted teeth. “As long as you are in our house, eating food your mama cooks and my hard labor pays for, you will ask permission to go out. You will tell us where you are going—and not lie about it. You will—”
“François.” Mama set a hand on Papa’s shoulder. “Calm down. Teresa won a singing contest. She sang on the main street. People enjoyed it. Don’t spoil her happiness.”
“Resa will not sing in public again. She will try her hand in the tuning rooms after school on Monday. If all goes well, she starts work when school ends.” He glared at Teresa. “This is for your own good. You can’t count on marrying a rich husband, and school doesn’t agree with you. Your history teacher told me you are failing. He said you didn’t know basic facts—about when the Civil War began and ended, or that Vermont was once an independent republic that forbid slavery . . . You are always somewhere else, he says.”
Somewhere else indeed. Teresa put her hands under the table to hide their shaking. She couldn’t speak.
Mama laughed. “Easy, François. Did you know the answer to those questions when you came down from Québec?”
“I knew my Québec history.” Papa punched his fist on the table, making the glasses bounce. “It was hammered into us. And that has nothing to do with Resa now.”
“Do you want to work at Estey?” Pascal asked.
Before Teresa could answer, Papa said, “She needs to. Then your mama won’t have to toil away here. Mama deserves a better life—don’t you agree?” He touched Mama’s hand, but she shrank away, as if he had burned her.
“I will have no part in this,” Mama whispered. “It’s a crime for you to take her out of school so young. Have you thought of that?”
“Is it criminal to provide for my family? To give my daughter a trade that pays well? You believe in working women—c’est vrai?”
“Yes, it’s true,” Mama whispered. “But not when it could ruin her health.”
Papa pushed back his chair so hard that it toppled over, and left the room. They sat, not moving, listening to the thump of his boots as he crossed the hall and slammed the back door.
No one spoke until Mama scraped the plates. “Pascal, go to Nonnie. See if she wants pudding.”
Pascal disappeared. Teresa sat still. “How can you let Papa do this to me?”
Her mother’s face twisted. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I tried everything I know.”
Teresa jumped up. “That’s not true! You could go to Mr. Estey, tell them Papa lied. He said that I’m sixteen! If you won’t do it—I will!”
“It’s not so easy,” Mama whispered. “Resa, think. If they realize Papa has lied—they might fire him. And then, where would we be?”
“Back onstage,” Teresa said.
“Please. Not that again. You heard your father,” Mama spoke quietly. “Anyway, we can’t abandon Nonnie.”
Mama’s words stung, but Teresa couldn’t think about Nonnie now. She gripped Mama’s arm. “Guess what happened today? The audience at the Princess wanted me to sing. They clapped and shouted until Mr. Quincy begged me to come onstage.”
Mama wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron and gave her a tiny smile. “And did you?”
“Yes. I sang our song—‘Hard Times.’” Teresa hugged herself. “Mama, I know I shouldn’t brag—but people whistled and stomped when I was done. I loved it.” She lowered her voice. “You loved performing, too. Didn’t you? Admit it.”
“Yes. But my voice was never as strong as yours.” Mama cupped her elbow. “I need to show you something. Bring the plates.”
Teresa followed Mama to the kitchen and set the dishes in the sink. Mama shut the kitchen door softly and pushed a chair up against the dish cabinet. She pointed to the big soup tureen sitting above the cupboard. “Climb up and reach inside.”
Teresa lifted her skirts, scrambled onto the chair, and took the lid off the tureen.
“Here, give me the top,” Mama said.
Teresa handed down the round lid and reached inside the big pot. She found Mama’s china piggy bank inside, so heavy she nearly dropped it. “Wow—it’s full.” Teresa held the bank in both hands. The pig’s green half-shut eyes seemed to smile at her. She looked down at Mama. “Is this all from your egg money?”
“Yes—and some of Mr. Jensen’s rent. Your papa doesn’t know,” Mama said. “Put it back and climb down.”
Teresa gave the pig a farewell pat and set it carefully inside the tureen.
“This will be yours when you’re sixteen and finish school, Resa. In the meantime, maybe we can find a way out of this Estey mess.” She raised her eyebrows. “Perhaps you won’t pass y
our next test at the organ works?” Mama gave her a tiny wink.
“Mama—what—?”
“Shh,” Mama touched her finger to Teresa’s lips, silencing her.
The doorbell rang. Mama didn’t finish her sentence. She brushed Teresa’s forehead with a kiss. “That’s the new guest. Will you greet her? I must look a fright.”
17.
Teresa hurried to the front hall as the doorbell shrilled again. “Coming!” Teresa opened the door—and nearly fell over. Miss Stanton stood on the doorstep, her blonde ringlets plastered to her forehead. A long coat covered her legs, although her pink tights showed at the ankle, and two leather valises leaned against the porch railing. Miss Stanton gasped and dropped a round hatbox. “You!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”
“This is my home,” Teresa said.
Miss Stanton fumbled in her pocket and brought out a piece of paper. “I must have the wrong address,” she said. “I was told this was a nice place to stay . . .”
Papa clattered downstairs. “Miss Stanton, is it? Come in, come in. I was just fixing your room. Teresa, where are your manners?”
Miss Stanton pulled herself to her full height—which wasn’t much—and puffed out her chest like a bird showing off its plumage. “I’m Miss Stanton. I thought I had a reservation here tonight. I must be mistaken. The ‘Rose of Abilene’ doesn’t stay in seedy hotels.” She bent to pick up her hatbox.
Teresa bit her lip to keep from laughing. She couldn’t decide which was more amusing—watching Papa’s discomfort or Miss Stanton’s temper tantrum.
“Papa!” Pascal leaned over the banister above them. “That’s the lady from the vaudeville show. What is she doing here?”
“Enough, Pascal.” Papa cleared his throat. “Are you looking for LeClair’s boardinghouse?”
“That’s what it says here.” Miss Stanton jabbed the piece of paper. “I sent you a note, asking for a place to stay.”
“Indeed you did.” Papa passed a hand over his hair. “I’m sorry for the confusion.” He picked up her luggage. “Pascal—show Miss Stanton to her room.”
