by Joanna Scott
The river appeared suddenly in front of them as Sally pushed aside the screen of brush. A set of uneven steps carved out of the sandstone led from the path to the edge of the water, which flowed out from a cavelike opening into the broad stretch between the wooded slopes. A hawk circled high overhead. The far side of the ravine was blanketed in a solid shadow, but the water sparkled as it rushed against huge boulders, foaming and splitting into transparent cords, cascading over wide stone shelves into foaming pools.
Here’s your treasure, Sally wanted to say. But the river wouldn’t be enough for her daughter. They’d come all this way, walked for an hour or more, and she would be expecting a real reward, not just something to look at, but something to own.
Penelope was crouching at the edge of a graveled ridge that jutted out into the water, poking with a stick, stirring the submerged pebbles into a smoky stew. She didn’t need to be warned to be quiet. She was silent, concentrating intently on the water, so Sally relaxed, closing her eyes, breathing in the rich smell of moss. She thought it remarkably strange that this was the river that came bubbling out of the spring on Thistle Mountain, the same river that crawled past Mason Jackson’s house in Fishkill Notch and flowed below the Barge in Helena. It looked too pure and too contained by the high walls of the gorge to have covered that distance. But she was certain it was the Tuskee because she’d been following it the whole way north.
Pressing her tongue over the jagged edge of the broken tooth and pushing at the loose tooth next to it, she imagined that she was being healed in this remote spot on the bank of the Tuskee. And then, partly because she was curious to hear how her voice would sound in this isolated place and partly because she just felt the urge, she began to sing in a soft voice.
It’s simple to wish…
Singing softly, eyes closed, swaying slightly, drifting through the verses, she didn’t hear her daughter’s sudden gasp or see her arm freeze in the air. Not until Penelope whispered, “Mama!” did Sally open her eyes and look down.
At first she thought she recognized the same kind of fish she’d seen in the shallows below the platform in Tuskee. But she was mistaken. It was some kind of water snake or maybe a salamander or a newt, yes, like the one she’d seen years ago at the spring, with the weeds clinging to it like wet hair, the sleek bronze-colored strands matted on its head and wavering below the surface. How dark and staring its eyes were — brown buttons too large for its head and heavy lids fringed with a fuzzy line that almost looked like lashes. And how humanlike its tiny forelimbs were, the webbed, long-fingered hands clinging to the curve of a rock, tensing when she leaned forward, as though it were preparing to bolt.
Funny little creature, too strange to be real, and yet it was real, too real and outlandish to be any kind of animal that could be named. Why, it almost looked like it would open its mouth and talk. But it didn’t want to talk. It wanted exactly what they wanted, to understand what it was seeing.
And simple to dream…
The murmur of song came from within Sally, but at the same time the sound seemed separate, impossible to stifle, as though she weren’t responsible for it. She guessed that the music had a soothing effect, for the creature seemed to be straining to listen even as it stared at Penelope, holding the girl in its gaze as though admiring her beauty.
Either Sally was mad or there was a magical being that lived in the river. Yes, she’d decide, she must be mad to believe that she’d seen something that couldn’t really exist, and she was mad to think that she’d seen its kind before, upriver, in Tuskee and Helena and even at the spring on Thistle Mountain. All right, then, she was mad, but she couldn’t help it.
Her daughter shared her awe. For those few seconds they were both equally fascinated. Surely this was the treasure they’d come looking for, perched before their very eyes. Don’t move. Don’t startle it. Engrave the sight of it on memory — too late, there it goes, cocking its head as though hearing its name called, slipping down the rock and disappearing into the water.
Sally would always consider that day momentous because of the encounter in the park. But Penelope would mention the park only when questioned, and then she didn’t remember much about it. For her, that particular day — October 25, 1957 — was significant because it was the day she and her mother arrived in the city of R.
It took them until evening to get there — to Rondo, as Sally would insist on calling it, though not because the city was far away. Following Route 15 along the river, it should have been no more than a three-hour drive. But Sally wasn’t driving. She and her daughter traveled to Rondo in a bus that day rather than in the Mercury that Sally had bought secondhand in Tuskee. The car, she was told, wasn’t worth the expense of repairing it. It was old, with corroded pipes and a worn-out engine. She had no other option, no friend who would fix the car for free, no mechanic around to offer a second opinion. The owner of the garage where it had been towed gave her fifty dollars — a generous sum, it seemed to Sally — and kept the car as salvage. When the boy in the tow truck came to the motel to deliver the money, he offered them a lift to the bus station in the nearby town of Sarabelle.
Sally heard the name of the town with an odd sense of déjà vu, though she couldn’t recall ever having heard it before. Why, she wondered as they boarded the bus, did the name of the town even matter?
She’d bought a bag of potato chips for Penelope to eat on the bus and for herself, a pack of cigarettes. She smoked slowly, lazily, entertained herself by blowing the smoke through the gap of her broken tooth, while her daughter played with a pair of little dolls. Sally felt lazy, and while she regretted giving up the car, she also felt relieved to be on a bus, where she could regard with a pleasant calm the ribbon of the river on one side coming in and out of view behind a row of shingled houses.
She didn’t fight the urge to doze. She closed her eyes and reminisced dreamily about her life in the city of Tuskee. She was comforted remembering that time at the Rotary Club when the audience called for an encore, and the memory revived in her the desire for success. It was a good sign that she’d thought up a new name for herself so easily, a name people would want to say aloud but that Benny Patterson wouldn’t recognize.
Sally Bliss. Yes, Sally Bliss would do just fine.
They were both asleep as they moved through the grid of streets in the city. When Sally woke at the jerking movement of the bus turning into the station, she was startled by the different setting outside the window — a wet sidewalk; fog shrouding the streetlamps; dark stone buildings; a display window glowing, lighting up mannequins nestled in wool coats; a theater announcing showtimes for Back from the Dead; and a neon sign above a doorway flashing the name of the Cadillac Hotel.
The Cadillac Hotel was only a couple of blocks from the bus station, so that’s where they stayed while they were looking for a permanent residence. Sally didn’t much like the association in her mind with that particular make of car. But it was a pleasant hotel — a bargain at thirty-five dollars a week, with fine cotton sheets on a queen-size bed, a modern shower in each room, a full-time attendant at the lobby desk, and a doorman who always had a lollipop to give to Penelope. And thanks to the fifty dollars from the mechanic on Route 15, Sally wouldn’t have to spend any more of Mason Jackson’s money.
The next day they went to the address listed in the classifieds for Neimurs Cabaret, but it was closed. The marquee announced that a new performer, Big Betty, would open the following Saturday. The poster on the wall labeled Big Betty’s show “The Sassafras Burlesque,” and a message posted diagonally across the poster informed the public that Neimurs was under new management.
With her daughter in tow, Sally spent the rest of the day taking care of important business. She opened a bank account and had her money wired from Tuskee, she visited the chamber of commerce, and she contacted several landlords advertising in the rental section of the paper. She was dismayed by the steep rents. But judging from the job listings, the salaries were better here than
she was used to, and once she was working, she’d be able to afford lodging in a good neighborhood.
Mother and daughter went back to Neimurs the following day. A man sweeping the lobby told her to knock on the door of the manager’s office, but when she did, there was no answer. They waited outside the office for half an hour; Sally was just about to leave but thought she heard a voice from behind the door, so she knocked again, and the door was opened abruptly by a tall woman, a fancy woman with a blond beehive that added three inches to her height.
Pulling her daughter close to her, Sally said she’d come regarding the waitress job. The woman declared that she didn’t know what she was talking about. Sally would have left, but a gray-haired man, shorter than the woman, appeared beside her, casually adjusting his tie. He gave Sally the once-over, ignoring the little girl scowling beside her. It seemed he didn’t notice the fading bruises on her face, or else he didn’t care. He told Sally to come back at three thirty the next day for auditions.
It was strange, Sally thought — auditions for a job waiting tables. But the ad had indicated performance potential. If they gave her a chance to sing, why, this could be her break, she thought as they walked out onto the street, the rise from rags to riches that’s described in every movie magazine. All a girl needed was one chance to let her talent shine.
They returned to Neimurs the next day, right on time, just as a pair of stately, long-legged young women left the theater. They must have been dancers, Sally thought. And she found a crowd of girls gathered in the lobby — girls wearing flowing feather boas, girls in leather boots and tight dresses, girls with false lashes and bright red lips. The manager came out and directed the group to line up on the side of the stage. Sally left Penelope at a table at the back of the theater and told her to stay there, in a voice that was more pleading than commanding. The child, too bored by the situation to do anything but accommodate her mother’s wishes, shrugged and danced her dolls along the arm of her chair.
The room was dark, with cocktail tables pushed close together, but the stage was illuminated by footlights. The girls were directed to stand in the wings and, when signaled, approach the woman who was sitting at a table on the far side of the stage — the same woman who had answered the office door the day before. The manager himself took a seat in the middle of the room and folded his arms in a manner that suggested he was waiting for the beginning of a show he’d already seen too many times.
The woman beckoned to the first girl, a pretty young blonde who strode in all her high-heeled elegance across the stage, moving her hips expertly. She sat at the table and whispered excitedly while the woman took notes.
It was a quick conversation, and after the girl left, the woman at the table beckoned to the next girl. The manager said nothing.
Sally kept shooting glances at her daughter, hoping that her patience wouldn’t wear out during a process that slowed as it went on, with the whispered conversations lasting longer and the girls taking their time walking across the stage. Some didn’t just sway as they walked; they spun like models on a runway. One of them, an older woman, got impatient and broke into a run and then kept running past the table, up an aisle, and out the door. One girl turned silly and began squawking like a chicken and flapping her arms on stage. And one girl inexplicably buzzed like a bee and ran in spirals.
What strange world were they all trying to gain entry to? Was the whole city equally absurd? Sally started to weigh the consequences of leaving before her own so-called audition, but by then it was too late to change her mind. She was being called to cross the stage.
With her daughter watching, she wasn’t about to strut in a lewd fashion. She walked firmly, businesslike, and took a seat with the woman, who asked her name but didn’t bother to fill in the space for it on the form. She just rolled her pen between her fingers and with powerful indifference asked Sally if she’d ever had any experience waiting tables.
Sally already had an innocent lie prepared. She said she’d been a waitress at the Tuskee Diner. But that wasn’t good enough for the woman, who lifted a shoulder to indicate the exit, and thanked Sally for her time.
That was it? Not a missed opportunity — not an opportunity at all. She sat back in her chair, stunned by the dismissal. When she asked if she had any chance of being hired, the woman gave a mocking chortle.
Sally raged inwardly. You think you’re better than me, you with that flea nest on your head. A minute earlier she’d wanted to escape from the scene. Now she was supposed to agree that she was worthless. She’d been given the once-over and judged inadequate. Really? She didn’t measure up? Oh, yeah?
In defiance, she marched to the center of the stage and cleared her throat, the sound as good as an announcement that she was going to sing. There was a giggling murmur from the girls, a snort of disgust from the woman at the table. The gray-haired man was concentrating on his cigarette, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
It was a fine stage, grander than any she’d ever performed on, and she imagined the room packed with an audience of rich ladies in furs, men with gold watch chains. She would sing “Turn Around, Lou” to impress them. She would sing to court their goodwill. She would sing with a passion that anyone with any class would perceive as noble but to the girls waiting their turn would be nothing less than ridiculous. Sally was already ridiculous in their eyes. Even before she sang the first note, the girls’ rumbling giggles rose to a roar.
Just look at her.
What a square.
Slut.
Who said that?
It was impossible to differentiate between what she imagined she heard and what they were actually saying.
Whore.
Who?
Sally.
Sally’s gone away.
Run, Sally.
But she wouldn’t run, not this time. She would walk from the stage accompanied by hooting encouragement: “Go ahead and do something, lady!”
Sure, she’d do something. She tried to convey her fury with every step, thinking to herself, oh, she’d show them, she’d show them, and at the same time feeling more humiliated than she would have thought possible, shame searing her cheeks. Mottled by her blushing, in her dull dress, with no makeup and broken teeth, she must have looked as pathetic as she felt, there was no disguising it and no reason to hope that she’d show them anything other than what a thorough fool she was.
Walking up the aisle, she noticed that the manager’s chair was empty, though smoke was still rising from the cigarette he’d left in the ashtray. Obviously, he had better things to do than to sit there waiting for Sally Bliss to sing.
But Penelope was still there, dancing her dolls across the table as though she were hearing in her mind the song her mother hadn’t had the courage to sing. It helped Sally just to watch for a moment as her daughter made the funny little dolls somersault effortlessly through the air. It made her feel a little less humiliated, a little less responsible for her own embarrassment. At the same time, she didn’t need anyone to tell her that out in the real world, she didn’t stand a chance as a showgirl.
She was thinking expansively at the moment, desperate to ensure that she would never be laughed at again. The best way to protect herself was to give up her dream of singing in public. And at the same time she’d spite those who wouldn’t experience the pleasure of listening to her. She had quit singing before; she’d quit again.
Even if she sensed that she was letting herself be too easily defeated, she had a strong pragmatic side, roused by the sting of her failure at Neimurs. As much as she’d wanted to be the next Dara Bliss, she wouldn’t waste her voice on a futile fight for respect. There were better ways to earn a living.
The next day they spent three dollars on a big breakfast at the diner next to the Cadillac Hotel. They were lingering lazily at a table, waiting for their dishes to be cleared, when Sally recognized the older woman who’d been at Neimurs, the one who’d left the stage without stopping for an interview. She was at
the counter of the diner, sucking on a cigarette as though it were water for her parched throat. Sally walked right up to her and introduced herself. The woman seemed genuinely happy to see her and was eager to talk.
She was named Elena, she said, and offered an incomprehensible last name. Sally asked her if she’d found work yet. In a thick accent that Sally thought was Russian but later learned was Polish, she said she wanted nothing to do with doz Neimur bazturdz. And she generously shared the information that Sibley’s Department Store on East Main was looking for salesgirls. She’d been planning to go there as soon as she finished her coffee.
And so it was at Sibley’s where both Elena and Sally ended up applying for work that day. It was as easy as filling out forms in the personnel department. Along with her invented name, Sally Bliss was able to put down Elena’s address as her own. She listed Penny Campbell and Buddy Potter for references, and she said truthfully that she’d been an assistant at a hardware store for the past five years.
The personnel director hired them both on the spot. Elena was assigned to the dress department, Sally to household goods on the fourth floor. They were to start the following Monday.
