Have Your Ticket Punched by Frank James

by Fedora Amis

  “A few stitches will make the gabardine good as new. I’m glad I wore something sturdy instead of silk. Still, I feel a bit self-conscious among all these lovely gowns. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer dancing with a lady dressed in satin?”

  “I’m sure you’d look equally charming in burlap bags, as long as you emptied the potatoes first.”

  “You pay outrageous compliments, Mr. Rafferty. How’s a girl supposed to believe anything you say?”

  “I hope you won’t find what I wish to ask you tonight too . . .”

  “Here comes Hal. We have to find Mr. Lesser to tell us where we might get the best view of the Confetti War.”

  Hal smiled at Tom as if the actor were making him a gift of a five-year-old fruitcake. “Rafferty, I thought you’d still be at the theatre.” The pair shook hands with all the warmth of January water in a baptismal font.

  “I left before curtain call. I was unable to converse with Miss McBustle this afternoon, but it’s imperative that I see her today.”

  “Well, you’ve seen her. We’ve got work to do. Come on, Jemmy. Where do you want me to set up?”

  “I have to go now. Perhaps we can talk later, Mr. Rafferty.”

  “I look forward to a moment alone with you. There’s a very particular question I’d like to ask.”

  “Jemmy, get a move on. I see Lesser by the burlesque booth.”

  Heavens in a handbag! Is Tom going to ask me to marry him?

  For the next hour, excitement kept Jemmy’s mind bouncing back and forth from the merits to the demerits of marrying Tom Rafferty—not that he was about to propose, of course.

  Every thought she birthed both pleased and vexed her.

  My family want me to marry, but they’d be appalled if I married an actor. They believe theatre people are sinful—somewhere on the scale between Jack the Ripper and men who tuck their napkins down their shirt collars.

  Hal tapped her on the shoulder. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Did you say something, Hal?”

  “I said, do you want to stand beside President Lesser when he drops the flag to start the Confetti War?”

  “I don’t know. Would that make a good picture?”

  Traveling from town to town would be exciting; but a nomadic existence seems unsettling and so confined—even if we could afford grand hotel suites. If we had children, how could I launder the diapers?

  Hal shook Jemmy’s shoulder. “Do you want your picture taken with President Lesser?”

  “What?”

  “Do you or don’t you?”

  “Do what?”

  “Do you want your picture taken with Lesser? It’s not a hard choice. I’m not asking you to pick out a china pattern.”

  “What, where?”

  Hal shoved her in the right direction and picked up his camera gear.

  Being Tom’s wife would make me the envy of droves of women, but having a husband so admired would make me jealous. What if I were great with child? Would I have to hide in a hotel room for months on end?

  “Not that way. Lesser is on the reviewing stand.”

  “The what?”

  “The reviewing platform—with the bunting in front. What’s the matter with you?”

  Jemmy’s feet moved in the right direction, but her mind didn’t.

  Being alone with Tom would be glorious, but the thought of being far from my family scares me. What if I took sick? Nothing is more comforting than Mother’s care.

  “Aren’t you going to say something to President Lesser?”

  “Say something?”

  “Pardon us, President Lesser, my partner would like her picture taken with you. Please ignore her gaping mouth and vacant eyes. She always wears this expression to important celebrations.”

  Hal twirled her by the shoulders and backed her into place. “Mr. Lesser, could you hold the flag a little higher. No, not in front of Jemmy’s face.”

  I wouldn’t have to work, but I love the newspaper. How could I leave St. Louis? I haven’t even exposed the Combine for their dirty deeds.

  Hal shook the fair president’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Lesser. Might I ask where you think would be the best place to photograph the Confetti War.”

  “I believe by the east door would show the hall off to best advantage.”

  “Thank you again. I’m sure you’ll enjoy our coverage of the fair. Tell everyone you know to buy an Illuminator on Monday.”

  He’s an eager suitor now, but what about later? Would he tire of me when my looks fade? How would he treat me when my hair is gray and I grow a second chin?

  “What’s got into you?” Hal muttered into Jemmy’s good ear.

  In his presence I’m cursed by clumsiness. Tom enjoys rescuing me now, but he might tire of caring for such a lumbering fool. And what if I stopped being ungainly? Would he find me ordinary and boring?

  Hal gave Jemmy a little shove toward the east door. “I don’t understand you. You never let me talk.”

  “Are you talking?”

  “According to you, I always say something stupid.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You say a snail with brain damage makes more sense than I do.”

  Tom Rafferty is easily the handsomest man in the state, but look what happened the last time I nearly married the handsomest man in the state. I don’t want to end up in a mental institution.

  In a huff, Hal marched off alone toward the east door of the Coliseum. He muttered, “Females—now I have two headstrong young females to answer to—not to mention an Irish mother.”

  For every reason to marry Jemmy could think of, at least two reasons not to wed popped into her head.

  The band played a fanfare to announce the start of the Confetti War. Where did Hal go?

  All of a sudden, Tom was at her side. He swept her, stumbling, out to the middle of the dance floor. “This seemed like the perfect time to wrest you away from your job.”

  New Year’s Eve was more than a month away, but the Jewish fair borrowed that occasion’s most colorful tradition. Fairgoers bombarded each other with little coils of paper. The hall blossomed with colored streamers thrown at friends and strangers alike. Tom draped a spiral of white paper around Jemmy’s neck. “I wish this paper were pearls, for that’s what you deserve.”

  “Paper is all the vogue tonight.”

  “You look better in paper than other ladies do in diamonds.”

  “More outrageous compliments. I swear, you could turn a girl’s head.”

  “I mean my words most wholeheartedly. In fact, there is something which, in all sincerity, I wish to discuss with you.”

  “I’m hanging on your every word.”

  “Perhaps you know that tomorrow’s matinee is the end of our St. Louis run of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. From here we perform in Denver, then Indianapolis, then someplace else for the next six months—and the tour keeps getting extended.

  “I am gainfully employed, and I’m a good actor. I’ll have steady work as long as I live. My success has enabled me to put a little money by, so you see I’m not a pauper, nor am ever likely to be one.

  “I’ve found no other woman like you, Miss McBustle. When you’re in the room, I find myself gazing at you and dreaming we might find great pleasure in each other’s company. If you wished, with my tutoring, I believe you could be an actress without peer. Together we could be the Madame Sarah Bernhardt and the Joseph Jefferson of the new century. In short, Miss McBustle, will you come with me to Denver?”

  “Are you proposing marriage, Mr. Rafferty?”

  Tom’s head snapped up. Shock lit his face. He reminded Jemmy of a barking dog doused by a pail of water from a second-story window.

  For the first time, he fumbled his words. “I hadn’t really—that is—you said you are a virgin but . . . you work at a newspaper so I thought . . .”

  “I don’t understand what you mean, Mr. Rafferty.”

  He stood erect and pulled down his vest. “Of course I’ll marry you, Miss Mc
Bustle, if that’s what you want.”

  Jemmy blinked back her tears and held her lower lip between her teeth to keep it from trembling. “I’ve had more elegant proposals.”

  He took her hand as he slipped to one knee right in the middle of the Confetti War. A purple streamer landed on his head in the shape of a flower garland crown. “Miss Jemima Mc-Bustle, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Fedora Amis has won numerous awards including Outstanding Teacher of Speech in Missouri, membership in three halls of fame—state and national speech organizations and her own high school alma mater. Her non-fiction publication includes educational magazine articles as well as books on speaking and logic. Her Victorian whodunit, Jack the Ripper in St. Louis, won the Mayhaven Fiction Award. Mayhem at Buffalo Bill’s Wild West was a finalist in the Missouri Writers’ Guild “Show Me” contest. In St. Louis, she performs as real historical people and imagined characters from the 1800s.

  She has one son, Skimmer, who partners with Fedora in writing science fiction, fantasy, and magical realism.

  “Why do I write? I love words. Kind words are the greatest gifts we humans give each other.”

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