The Ladies of Garrison Gardens (10 page)

Chapter Seventeen

MRS. RAIN

2004

T
HE HOUSE WAS DARK
and she was supposed to be asleep. But her legs ached. More important, so did her heart. Not the pumping muscle her young doctor was so diligently preserving, but her real heart, that non-organ that was somewhere deep inside. Her heart was where the music had come from, the singing and the laughing, and it was where the memories were kept—memories that were triggered easily because they were so much more real than anything that was going on in her life today. The death of Peggy Garrison had started a flood of them.

Clearly, sleep was out of the question. She got herself out of bed and went into her closet. It was big—in her time she'd slept in rooms that were smaller—and there were two shelves above the clothes racks, far too high up for her to reach. She fought her way through the robes and nightgowns that seemed to make up too much of her wardrobe these days, until she found a stepladder folded up in a corner. She opened it and carefully climbed up—her boy doctor would have a fit—feeling around on the top shelf through a mess of scarves, gloves, sweaters, bits of string, old newspapers, and other debris she refused to let Essie touch until she found a large gray envelope hidden behind some shoe boxes. Clutching her prize, she climbed back down and settled herself in the large wing chair where she sat to watch television. She turned on the lamp, opened the envelope, and pulled out an ancient sepia-toned photograph of a young girl wearing a long old-fashioned dress with roses printed on it and a white pinafore with ruffles, a wide sash, and a big artificial rose. If the picture had been in color, the roses and the sash would have been pink.

She slid the picture back in the envelope and made her way downstairs to the living room where the piano was. She'd never actually learned to play the thing, not more than just fooling around and picking out a melody with one finger, but she'd always liked having it in her house.

She put the envelope in the piano bench, sat down to play, and she caught sight of her hands resting on the keyboard. When you were young you never believed that the day would come when your fingers would be twisted and your pretty voice would become a croak, something you couldn't bear to hear. Still, you had to do the best you could. Slowly she began to tap the notes with one finger while, in a soft voice, she sang the lyrics she knew by heart:

“Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee.”

Chapter Eighteen

IVA CLAIRE

1927

B
EAUTIFUL DREAMER,
wake unto me,” Iva Claire sang, as she walked slowly across the stage of the New Court Theater. She sang loudly into the empty house, checking for dead spots, those places onstage that seemed to swallow up the sound of your voice so it never reached the audience. A civilian wouldn't know what to look for, but at twelve Iva Claire was a seasoned professional who could tell when her voice had stopped carrying. Whenever she and Mama played a town for the first time, she always went to the theater before rehearsal to run through their numbers so she could warn Mama about any problems. Mama never thought of things like that.

Iva Claire and her mother were vaudevillians. Their last name was Rain—Mama's full name was Lily Rain—so their act was called Rain and Rain: The Sunshine Sisters. Mama called it their
nom de théâtre
. Being in show business was Mama's dream. Getting out of show business was Iva Claire's dream.

“Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee,” Iva Claire sang, as she finished working her way across the stage. There were no dead spots in the New Court; it had been well built seventy years ago. Now it was old and dirty, and it had the peculiar smell Iva Claire had come to associate with the South. She was used to the normal backstage odor of dust and sweat; she'd been breathing that since she'd started working at five. But theaters in the South—the New Court was in Beltraine, Georgia—also smelled from dampness that never completely dried because of the hot, humid air.

Actually, Iva Claire didn't mind the heat or the dampness or even the smell. She'd been wanting to play a southern circuit ever since she found out she and Mama had family below the Mason-Dixon line. But no matter how broke they were, Mama would never take a booking in the South. Iva Claire was pretty sure the reason had to do with Mama's family, but Mama refused to talk about it, and if Iva Claire pushed her she would get one of her headaches. There were lots of things that Mama wouldn't talk about. Like the fact that she was scared to be in Georgia. She said she wasn't, and she had screamed at Iva Claire for suggesting it, but Iva Claire knew that ever since they'd gotten to Beltraine, which was their first stop in the state, Mama had been having trouble breathing—a sure sign she was upset. And it was all Iva Claire's fault.

Don't think about that
, she told herself firmly.

She walked to the middle of the stage where the movie screen was to see how shallow their playing space would be. The New Court was a vaud-and-pic house, which meant they showed motion pictures and offered a live vaudeville show in between. It wasn't a great booking, but it was a miracle that the Sunshine Sisters had gotten it. They wouldn't have if another act on the tour hadn't dropped out in North Carolina. Mama and Iva Claire had joined the troop there two months ago. They were what was known as a disappointment act.

If she was honest about it, Iva Claire knew the Sunshine Sisters were a disappointment in more ways than one. Their act was terrible—what performers called a
fish
because it stank. Part of the problem was their material. Vaudeville audiences liked funny patter, snappy songs, and pretty girls who showed a little leg. The Sunshine Sisters wore old-fashioned costumes with long skirts, they sang droopy songs by Stephen Foster, and they didn't have any patter at all. Then there was Mama's performance. Mama had a pretty voice but she tried too hard, which made her movements stiff and her singing shrill. When the audience didn't like her, she tried harder—and got stiffer and more shrill. Iva Claire sighed. The Stephen Foster act was new; Mama had put it together and she loved it with all her heart. She'd never see how bad it was—and Iva Claire would never tell her.

“The sight lines in this old dump are as good as the sound,” a light high voice called out from the darkened house. “I've been watching you while you were singing, and there's no place where the audience can't see you.” Iva Claire whirled around to see Tassie walking up the center aisle of the theater. Tassie was about a year older than Iva Claire, and she traveled with a couple known as Benny Ritz and Irene DeLoura. Ritz and DeLoura were the headliners of the troupe. Their comedy routine was the best thing in the show.

Iva Claire and Tassie hadn't said more than a couple of words to each other since the Sunshine Sisters joined the troop, but Iva Claire had been curious about the older girl and her connection to DeLoura and Ritz. Tassie was way too young to be their daughter.

“I brought you your sheet music,” Tassie announced. As she came closer, Iva Claire could see through the gloom that she was carrying a pile of papers. “And I got us a couple of gum erasers,” she added.

Iva Claire felt herself stiffen. “How did you know . . . ?” she stammered, too embarrassed to finish the sentence.

“It's okay,” the other girl soothed. “I know what you do before the show each time we play a new house. I've seen you erase what those jerks write.”

The jerks were house musicians. Each vaudeville theater had its own orchestra, and sometimes if an act was really bad, like the Sunshine Sisters, the men in the pit would amuse themselves by writing notes in the margins of the music.
This act is a bomb
, the clarinetist in one town would scrawl on the clarinet part.
A real Thanksgiving dinner,
his counterpart in the next town would add. Each guy would try to be wittier and meaner than the last one. It would have hurt Mama to read what they wrote, so as soon as they hit a new town, Iva Claire would sneak into the orchestra pit to clean up their sheet music.

“Don't feel bad. I'd do it, too, if I was you,” Tassie said.

Iva Claire tried to smile, but she was too embarrassed. She might not want to be in show business, but since she was, she hated being the worst act on the bill. Going out in front of an audience five times a day and dying was bad enough. Getting caught erasing comments from her sheet music was downright humiliating.

But Tassie was trying to make friends, that was clear. Iva Claire had never had a friend her own age. There had been people in the boardinghouse back in New York that she'd loved. But that was before she and Mama had had to run from New York and the boardinghouse, because of what Iva Claire had done. Now she'd never see any of her old friends again.

Don't think about that
. “Thanks,” she said to Tassie.

Tassie climbed up on the stage and they divided up the music. Each of them took an eraser and went to work.

“How long have you and your ma been doing a sister act?” Tassie asked, as she flipped through the pages.

“About a year. When I got taller than Mama, we switched from mother and daughter.”

“Benny says you're the glue that keeps your act together.”

“Really?” It sounded like a compliment, but Iva Claire knew she was no performer.

Tassie nodded eagerly. “Benny and Irene like to keep an eye on the show, so they watch all the acts. Benny says you and your ma get away with playing sisters because you're such a good mimic.”

That was another secret of hers. Iva Claire had learned if she could copy Mama's gestures and poses, the audiences seemed willing to believe their age difference was closer to ten years than twenty. Makeup and distance from the stage helped, of course, but it was the imitating that did it. It wasn't just that she could copy Mama's movements either; she could also get inside Mama's head and think like her. For some reason that made it work. Iva Claire wasn't much of an entertainer, but she had trained herself to be good at getting inside other people's heads.

“What gets me is, you and your ma don't even look alike,” Tassie went on.

It was true. At twelve, Iva Claire was already two inches taller than her mother, and her dark hair was stick-straight. Mama's hair was dark too, but it was so curly it wouldn't lie flat even after she'd just had it bobbed. Iva Claire's eyes were blue, her perfectly proportioned nose was straight, and her face was square with a jaw that Mama said made her look determined. Although she wasn't heavy, she looked solid. Mama was tiny and looked like you could blow her away just by breathing hard. Her eyes were dark brown, her delicate little face was heart shaped, and her button nose turned up at the end. The only feature mother and daughter shared was a full curvy mouth. Yet they passed as sisters. It was proof—if Iva Claire had ever needed it—that you could make people see what you wanted them to.

Tassie echoed her thoughts. “People will believe anything if you do it right. We toured with a two-headed boy once. He turned out to be twins who worked behind an illusion curtain. The one who played the second head told me the whole trick was in the way he held his neck—in the angle. Can you believe that?”

Iva Claire did believe it. Completely.

“How did you start traveling with Benny and Irene?” Iva Claire asked.

“Benny and Irene knew my mother because she was in the business. When she died, they took me in. They got it all written up legal that they were my guardians. That was Benny's idea. It took us a couple of months to find a lawyer who would do it, since I was so young and we were trooping, but Benny wouldn't quit until he had those papers.” She said it calmly, as if being taken in by strangers was the most natural thing in the world.

Tassie wasn't really pretty—her round blue eyes were too big for her face, and her front teeth stuck out a little—but even though she was small, she already had the kind of curves Iva Claire was learning were to be envied. At first Iva Claire thought she was tough. Tassie smoked cigarettes and played craps with the stagehands, but she was actually very sweet. The big dream of her life was to be in show business, and her idols were Gracie Allen and Irene DeLoura. She stood backstage in the wings at every performance, watching all the acts, laughing at jokes she'd heard dozens of times, sometimes clapping louder than the audience.

Now she looked over at Iva Claire. “So why are you doing this tour? Your ma hates playing this part of the country. She says so all the time.”

For a brief crazy moment, Iva Claire played with the idea of telling her the truth. But she could never tell anyone what she'd done back in New York.

“You've seen our act.” She shrugged. “We have to take whatever we can get.”

“You're not that bad.”

“Then why are we sitting here cleaning up my sheet music?”

“Are you going to let a bunch of hillbillies calling themselves musicians get you down? The hick playing base in Wynward was the town barber, for Christ's sake. It's not like we're playing houses with real orchestras.”

“Our act is a bomb,” she said flatly.

That stopped Tassie. Iva Claire put down her eraser. “Your songs are real pretty,” she said carefully. “I still like listening to them, and I've heard them every night for two months. Hell, I can sing along with you by now.”

“But the act is a bomb.”

“Well, it could be a little more . . . loose. The way your ma has every hand gesture worked
out. . . .” She smiled apologetically.

“I know.” Iva Claire picked up her eraser and started working again, but she could feel Tassie watching her. Finally, she looked up. “Thanks for helping me,” she said, with a smile. “It would hurt Mama if she saw this.”

Tassie smiled back. “I like your ma. I like the way she loves the business, you know?”

“Oh, yes,” Iva Claire said. Her voice had slipped into what Mama called her
snide tone.
“One thing you can say about my mama, she loves the business.”

Tassie was fidgeting with the piece of paper in front of her; there was something on her mind. “Benny and Irene, they're quitting,” she finally said. “This is their last tour. Irene says they're too old. They bought a little piece of land in New Jersey, and they want to try to grow vegetables. If you can believe that.”

“It'll be nice for all of you, living out in the country.”

“The hell it will!” The big blue eyes were filling up with tears. “I don't know how I'm gonna stand it, Iva Claire, living out in the middle of nowhere. And they're so happy, I don't know how to tell them—” The tears were starting to overflow; she blinked them back. “I was thinking maybe you and your ma . . . well, maybe you might need someone to go around with you. She has trouble helping you carry the trunks sometimes, and I'm very strong. And I could keep up the costumes, I can sew.”

It was the first time in Iva Claire's life that she'd had something to give someone. She was always on the other end, begging for a job or a paycheck. But now Tassie was doing the begging. The new role of Lady Bountiful was too heady to resist. “I'll talk to Mama,” she said recklessly.

The response was instantaneous and gratifying. Tassie threw her arms around Iva Claire, then started dancing around the stage. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she said.

“I can't promise anything.”

“Your ma will do it, if you ask,” Tassie said confidently. Which only went to show how little she knew about Mama. Tassie sat back down and started piling up the sheet music. Mercifully for Iva Claire's pride, they'd both finished erasing. Suddenly Tassie looked up. Two shrewd blue eyes were studying Iva Claire. “Now that we're going to be traveling together, you want to tell me why you and your ma really took this gig?”