A Song Across the Sea (17 page)

Kathleen’s face registered disbelief. “You mean Reece would marry a woman just to get his father’s money? He doesn’t seem like that kind of man at all to me.”

Hap shook his head. “Me, neither. Not really. But Reece wants to design and build airplanes, and that takes capital, and lots of it. The kind of money his father has.”

Delores shushed them all firmly. “Good heavens! If we gossip this way about a good friend like Reece, think how badly we’d talk about someone we
didn’t
like.”

“I just want to see what’s best for him. And Miriam Sedgewell ain’t it.” And that was Hap’s last word on the subject.

It was not surprising that Hap was so in the dark about his friend’s motives, Tara thought. Men didn’t talk to each other the same way women did.

She didn’t know which possibility bothered her more—that it was true love between Reece and Miss Sedgewell—as Delores suggested—or that it was a business merger, as Hap maintained. Both existed in a realm beyond her ken. Love between a man and a woman was something she’d only wondered about, like a child with her face pressed against the windows of a store, able to see the shiny new toys inside but knowing they were not hers. Even silly, good-natured Kathleen, who usually couldn’t see beyond the end of her nose, was better off than Tara. She had James. He existed, had substance, came calling for her and took her on outings where, Tara imagined, he pretended to listen as she prattled on and on. One Sunday he even brought Kathleen a nosegay of violets. Despite those improbable ears, inside that thin man lurked a dash of tender romance.

Of the other possibility Tara was equally in the dark. The rich did things differently, and for different reasons, than everybody else. As comfortable as Reece was at the boarding house or strolling down Hester Street, he would always inhabit a different level of society than hers. To pretend otherwise would be madness.

But for one night, at least, he’d held her, and stroked her hair, and made her feel cared for. She would have to content herself with that memory.

•  •  •

“GET OFFA THE STAGE!”

“GO BACK TO IOWA!”

The quaking comedian who stood center stage tried one joke after another, but it was an act of futility. The audience decided during the first two minutes of his routine that they had no use for him, and so began the merciless barrage of shouted insults.

“…and so the angry father said, ‘You’re an idiot.’ ‘I know,’ said the young man. ‘But I don’t suppose you’d mind having another one in the family’.”

The poor man mopped his brow with a red-and-white polka-dotted handkerchief and waited for a reaction. A few people tittered halfheartedly. The rest jeered and hurled ridicule at him. Some hurled worse. An overripe tomato whizzed past him and struck the curtains with a muffled thump. The next one found its intended target, landing above his left eyebrow with a wet-sounding splat.

Now the audience laughed. They roared, in fact. Tara, from her waiting place in the wings, observed the audience’s mean-spirited merriment with horror as the would-be comedian was escorted from the stage, stumbling as he tried to wipe tomato juice from his eyes. These were not the same polite people who’d attended the vaudeville show she’d seen. Far from being an exaggeration—as she’d thought—Mr. Glass’ description of an audition night audience now struck her as brutally accurate. Every timid vaudeville aspirant who stepped out in front of them was fair game for their barbs and vegetables.

She should just leave now. What kind of insanity compelled her to hold herself up for this kind of ridicule? No one was forcing her to do it. And besides, everything was wrong. The songs she’d selected really weren’t in her range. Her throat didn’t feel clear. Was that a cold coming on? Maybe the conductor would misplace the sheet music she’d given him and she’d have an excuse for not going on. She felt absurdly overdressed in the midnight-blue satin gown. They’d realize that she was a fraud, a mere working girl in a borrowed dress. The shoes felt large on her even with tissue stuffed into the toes. Surely she’d trip and go sprawling, as soon as she took her first step onto the stage.

Two black-haired girls who gamboled clumsily through a song and dance act fared little better than the lisping comedian. The next three acts were shot down viciously, like unarmed peasants who’d wandered clumsily into the path of some savage, advancing army.

And then it was Tara’s turn. She’d lost her chance to flee.

How could she feel this nauseated when she hadn’t even eaten dinner? Her stomach lurched and did a half-double wagon wheel of its own. A sickly chill circulated through her arms and torso. She knew that if she raised her hand at that moment, it would shake uncontrollably.

The unruly audience was still making noise when Tara walked slowly to center stage and stood in a spotlight. She swallowed convulsively and cleared her throat, knowing that if she attempted a smile they’d see how badly her lips were trembling. She waited a moment for them to quiet down, then nodded stiffly to the orchestra leader. He tapped his baton on the wooden music stand in front of him and lifted his arms, leading his musicians into the opening bars of the song.

Tara started singing, but the tremulous, pathetic croaking she heard didn’t sound like her voice at all. It was thin and quavery, lacking the power that controlled breathing—the technique she’d practiced for hours and hours with Mrs. O’Shaughnessy—would have given her. It could not be summoned now. She felt as if invisible hands were gripping her throat, slowly strangling her. Each note was a struggle, each line of the song like falling deeper into a dark abyss.

Little Lou-Lou said, leave an extra pint

when you come again tomorrow…

The audience was brutal. “GO ON HOME TO YOUR HUSBAND, SWEETHEART!”

“I BET YOU GOT OTHER TALENTS BESIDES SINGIN’!”

Someone in the balcony laughed, a few others hissed. Tara bowed her head in defeat and hoped she could make it to the wings before the tears came. She’d not give them that satisfaction. The walk to the wings felt a thousand miles long.

“Sing, Tara!” Was that Lotte’s usually demure voice, shouting from the back of the house? It couldn’t be quiet Lotte, could it?

“Sing, Tara!” That was definitely Hap. There was no mistaking his raspy bellow.

Tara stopped dead in her tracks. In an instant of suspended time, dozens of thoughts and images raced through her mind. The wrinkled, patient face of Mrs. O’Shaughnessy flickered and was gone, but not before smiling encouragement to her from an ocean away. The memory of Molly’s somber brown eyes, fixed on her as she sang, was replaced by that of her parents, still alive in her heart, and the utter conviction that they dearly wanted the best for her. A lifeboat full of weary, demoralized people was adrift in the distant reaches of her mind. She thought of the Titanic, and Padraig. She’d been through much worse than this, and had survived. What was singin’ a ditty on a stage, compared to what she’d already endured?

She was not going to give up this easily.

All of these thoughts whirled through her mind in mere moments.

“Pssssst. Tara. Come on, kid. You’re through.” It was Mr. Glass hissing from the wings, motioning to her to leave the stage.

She ignored him. Behind her, the audience waited expectantly. The jeers had stopped, and a few curious whispers lingered in the air. This was something new. The pretty girl in the dark blue dress had sung, flopped, and started to leave the stage. Suddenly she stopped with her back to them. What was going on? Was she crying? Anticipation intensified. Everyone was wondering the same thing. What was she going to do next?

Tara turned around and started singing again. Not “Little Lou-Lou,” the comic up-tempo number she’d started with the first time, at the suggestion of Mr. Glass. No, this time she broke into “Does He Ever Think of Me” and from the first note, she knew she had command of her voice again.

Can you forget the lilac evenings

When we first did meet?

The raindrop flavored kisses

The sounds of cobbled streets

She glided back toward the spotlight. The midnight-blue gown was exactly right on her, perfect for the occasion. She could feel, rather than see, how the white beam of the spotlight set the crystal bugle beads to dancing. The orchestra leader, startled by her change in selections, fumbled through his sheet music to find the other song. To his credit, the orchestra picked up the song midway through the first verse. Tara wouldn’t have cared if it hadn’t. She could sing it a capella, if she had to.

You’ve pledged your love to another

And taken her far away

And yet sometimes I wonder

Do you ever think of me?

Was the audience waiting for her to fail again? She found that she didn’t care. The stage was hers. Nothing bad could touch her here. With her rich contralto voice soaring easily to the last row of the balcony, she reached inward and pulled the second verse straight out of her soul.

When she turns to you on a midsummer day

Is it ever my smile that you see?

When you linger over dinner

Do your thoughts turn back to me?

While walking in the garden

Do you feel some small regret?

Does a stranger’s voice remind you

Of a girl you can’t forget?

With the harsh spotlight in her eyes, Tara could see only the first few rows of people in the audience. The rest, their pale, featureless faces, blended into an anonymous fog. She realized that it was really Reece she was singing to, even though he was far away. The chorus she called up was lushly emotional, awakening bittersweet memories in everyone listening.

For I’ll never love another man

However long I live

To those who ask, I answer thus

My heart’s not mine to give

It belongs to him who left me

To him I never see

And still each day I wonder

Does he ever think of me?

When the song finally ended, she felt as if she’d awakened from a deep trance. Complete silence reigned over the vast theater. For a long moment, not one person coughed, or hooted, or even shifted in his seat.

Then applause erupted and headed toward her like rolling thunder, wave upon wave of it, punctuated by shrill whistles and ecstatic whoops. Tara, bowing, found that tears were streaming down her cheeks.

She’d cried in front of them after all. And it was all right.

•  •  •

“So, what did he say? Tell us exactly what he said. Every word. Don’t leave a thing out.” Delores was beside herself with excitement. She finished pouring tea for Tara, Kathleen, Hap and herself and sat down next to Tara. Per her parents orders, Lotte had gone home directly from the theater, escorted by Conrad, who’d come to collect her.

“He said I’m hired.” Tara still couldn’t believe it. “I start next week.”

“Besides that. We already know that. The man would have to be an idiot, not to hire you after that song. Why, you were the best one up there all evening! No one even came close!”

“Now Delores,” said Tara. “You’re exaggerating. The juggler was good. And those twin brothers—”

“Nonsense! All amateurs.”

“And so am I.”

“Until now.” Hap commented.

Kathleen asked: “How much is he going to pay you?”

The girl knew how to get right to the point. Tara couldn’t think of any polite way to sidestep Kathleen’s rather blunt question. “Thirty dollars a week.”

“You don’t mean it” Kathleen was stunned. “As much as that?”

Tara was still pretty astonished herself by the figure Mr. Glass mentioned. It was more than three times what she and Lotte earned at the factory. Kathleen, who worked as a clerk in a shop, didn’t make much more than them. The knowledge that her new salary dwarfed that of her friends sobered Tara. It wasn’t really fair, to be paid that well for doing what she loved to do. But the others looked delighted for her.

“That’s wonderful, Tara,” Kathleen said, with no trace of envy.

Sure and she didn’t deserve friends like these! She’d use some of the money to buy grand things for them, she would.

“How many performances a day?” Hap was interested in practical matters.

“Four a day, six days a week. And Mr. Glass said I’ll have to change my act twice a week, with new costumes and songs, so the audience doesn’t tire of me. If things go well, I might end up travelin’ to different cities to perform. All over America, on circuits, he called them. And he wants me to wear powder and rouge.”

Delores was indignant. “Next he’ll tell you to wear cologne, something a well brought up young lady would never do!”

“Now, Delores,” Kathleen piped up. “That way of thinkin’ is behind us, don’t you know. I wear some meself, on occasion. Smell this.” She held out her wrist, and Delores sniffed at it reluctantly.

“Well, it does smell nice,” Delores admitted.

“Decent women wearing perfume!” Hap roared. “That’s what comes of all these suffragettes marching around, smoking cigars and demanding the vote. Next thing you know they’ll be wanting to drive automobiles.”

“Now, Hap,” Delores broke in reasonably. “You told me yourself that there are women aviators in France, flying in airplane races, no less. And what’s wrong with women wanting the vote? We have as much sense as you men. Sometimes more.”