The Ladies of Garrison Gardens (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

MRS. RAIN

2004

M
RS. RAIN? MRS. RAIN?
I've been looking everywhere for you. What are you doing in the living room?” Cherry's voice, shrill with anxiety, sliced through her dreams and woke her.

She opened her eyes and looked around. The child's question was an excellent one. She was indeed in her living room, in one of the most uncomfortable chairs she owned, and had obviously dozed off. What the hell she was doing there was a mystery. She forced her brain to address the issue.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Seven.”

That wasn't much help. “Day or night?”

“It's morning, Mrs. Rain.”

She continued prodding her unwilling brain until it produced the memory of yet another sleepless night in which she had come downstairs to the living room. She leaned back, the mystery solved. Then she frowned and straightened up again. Her brain, now panting to be helpful, had just provided another memory. She had taken her picture out of the piano bench where she'd stashed it a couple of nights before, and she'd been looking at it when she'd drifted off. But now it wasn't in her hands, which meant—

“What's this?” Cherry asked. The girl leaned down to pick up the picture, which had fallen with its envelope on the floor.

“That's mine.” She held out her hand.

The girl was staring at the publicity still. “Who is that?” she asked.

“Just a picture.”

“Is it you? The eyes are the same.”

She could have lied. But she'd never been any good at that. “It was me. A long time ago.”

“What's that weird thing you're wearing? Did people dress like that back then?”

“That, my dear, was a costume.”

“For Halloween?”

Before Peggy Garrison died she might have let it go at that. But now there wasn't much point. Besides, she hadn't talked about the old days in so long. “It was a theater costume. I was in an act called the Sunshine Sisters.”

“You had a sister? I've never heard you say anything about your family.”

She looked down at the picture. “Yes,” she said. “I had the best sister anyone could ever ask for.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

IVA CLAIRE

1927

A
T
FIRST, IVA CLAIRE
went to the theater, because she didn't know what else to do. She sat in the dressing room while her mother and Tassie put on their makeup and waited to see if Mama needed her. Mama often had headaches and had to have her back rubbed. When the Sunshine Sisters were onstage performing, Iva Claire stood where Mama could see her and know she was there. But Mama's headaches seemed to have vanished and she never looked to the wings for reassurance anymore. Finally, on the third day, Iva Claire stayed away from the theater as an experiment. Mama didn't seem to notice. The sharp object in Iva Claire's chest twisted a little, but the heady prospect of freedom balanced the twinge. Mama wasn't her responsibility anymore; Tassie was making her happy now. Long empty days with nothing to do—no performances, rehearsals, or making the rounds of the booking agents—suddenly stretched out ahead of Iva Claire.

She read every book, magazine, and newspaper she could get her hands on. When she could find a radio, she listened to the news. She walked around the little town of Beltraine and looked at the civilians' houses with their gardens and trees and front yards. She began to dream again, about living in one place and going to school. There were so many new professions opening up for college girls in these modern times. Iva Claire already knew she wanted to be a social worker. Back in Hell's Kitchen there was a neighborhood settlement house run by a social worker named Miss Forsythe, and Iva Claire had admired her even more than Big Hannah. But you had to have a real education to be a social worker, and Iva Claire knew she'd never get one if she was always on the road.

Meanwhile, as she was dreaming about her future, Mama and Tassie were knocking 'em dead at the New Court Theater five times a day. Mama was happier than Iva Claire had ever seen her, and Tassie was walking on air. But when the company left Georgia and moved on to Alabama, Iva Claire was supposed to go back into the act.

After a whole week of freedom, Iva Claire didn't want to be a Sunshine Sister ever again. She knew Tassie was dreading having to leave the act as much she was dreading having to go back into it, but she'd thought of a way that they could both get what they wanted. There were schools—they were called boarding schools—where a kid who didn't have a regular home could live. She knew about them because she and Mama had once played the same circuit as Ethel Barrymore. When most vaudevillians went on tour, they just stuck the whole family into the act, whether they were talented or not. But Miss Barrymore was a classy legit actress, and her daughter went to boarding school. Iva Claire was going to try to convince Mama to let her go to one too. But she had to do it fast. They only had two more weeks in Georgia, and Mama wanted her to start rehearsing to take over from Tassie.

“Benny can teach you what Tassie's been doing,” Mama said.

“I'll never be able to do what Tassie does.”

“Of course you can. All she does is stumble around and fall down.”

“Mama, Tassie's wonderful. She changed the whole act.”

“That was an accident.” After all the hours of rehearsing with Benny, Mama still didn't see how hard it was to do Tassie's shtick. “Besides,” Mama added, “the audience laughs because I'm standing in front of her singing. We'll be just as funny when you're doing Tassie's part.”

Mama was taking credit for the laughs Tassie was getting.
Well, of course she was,
Iva Claire thought.
I should have known.

“I'm not a comic like Tassie. You know that.”

“You can do it, Claire de Lune!” Mama smiled happily. “I know you can. Start working with Benny tomorrow morning, and by the time we get to Alabama you'll be perfect.”

“Mama, you're a hit now. Why do you want to change things?”

“This is
our
act!” Mama was pleading now. “We're the Sunshine Sisters, Claire de Lune, you and me.”

“But I'll ruin everything.”

“You have to come back! It's supposed to be you and me together! That's the dream, Claire de Lune. You and me!”

And that was why Mama couldn't see that Tassie was the real star of the act, because it didn't fit her dream. She'd never see that her Claire de Lune didn't want to be in show business, because that didn't fit her dream either. So they'd drop poor little Tassie and break her heart, and Iva Claire and Mama would be back where they'd always been, broke, with a stinker act and no bookings, waiting for the checks that came twice a year.

It was such a waste. All three of them could have had exactly what they wanted, but Mama was going to throw it all away. Suddenly Iva Claire knew she couldn't go along with it. Somehow she was going to go to school. She'd make the plans behind Mama's back and tell her about it after it was all settled. Mama could cry and yell, but there wouldn't be any way she could stop Iva Claire once the school was paid for. And if the act was a really big success, eventually Mama would get over feeling bad. She hoped.

Obviously there were big hurdles to be overcome, the first and most important being money. Going to a boarding school had to be expensive. But Iva Claire thought she knew where she could get help. She was going to get in touch with the mysterious benefactor who sent their checks.

She knew the person's address; she'd seen it dozens of times on the back flaps of the long white envelopes: a street, a street number, a town, and the state of Georgia. The sender's name was never included, but Iva Claire had always assumed that it must be a member of Mama's family. Over the years she'd pictured a grandmother who looked like Miss Barrymore and a grandfather who was a taller version of Pete Massoni. Or maybe it was an aunt or uncle who had been supporting her all these years. Whoever it was, if she could contact them, she thought maybe she could persuade them to help her. They had been generous in the past. And there was the possibility that they might even like her. She decided it would be best if she could meet her unknown relative—or relatives—face-to-face.

At the railroad station she learned that Beltraine was an hour south of Atlanta and the address from the checks was an hour north of the city. She could go and come back in the same day. The fact that she would have to steal money from Mama's purse for the ticket made her feel guilty, but it was for a good cause.

She didn't want to show up unannounced on her family's doorstep, they might not like that. So, even though it would take time she didn't have, she wrote a letter. Finding the right words when she wasn't sure who she was writing to was hard. She couldn't figure out how to begin.
Dear Person Who Has Been Sending Checks to Mama and Me
clearly wasn't right. Finally she wrote a brief note in which she told them who she was, said that she was in Georgia, and offered to come to their house to meet them if they would tell her how to get there. She told them she was staying in Beltraine and asked them to contact her at General Delivery. She thought about giving them the name of her hotel but decided it was too risky; the desk clerk might give her mail to Mama.

Two days after she sent the letter, she went to the General Delivery office to see if there was an answer, even though she knew it would take at least a week. She and Mama had never been churchgoers, but she was praying for a reply before they left for Alabama.

Meanwhile, because Mama insisted, she began sitting in the wings and marking Tassie's moves in the act—and trying not to see the pained look on Tassie's face. She wanted to tell Tassie how she was going to save them all, but she was afraid Tassie might say something to Mama by mistake.

It took four days. The answer wasn't a letter, it was a cablegram that the telegrapher at the railroad station took across the street to the General Delivery office. The message didn't start out, “Dear Iva Claire,” and there was nothing in it about being glad to hear from her. There were just instructions. She was to go to Atlanta to the Georgian Palace Hotel. She was to look for Room 1021.

At first she was disappointed. The tone of the cablegram was so cold, and a hotel room wasn't exactly what she'd pictured. But then she read the final sentence and saw the way the sender had signed off. And she didn't think anymore about how bad it was to steal money from Mama. She'd do anything to go to Atlanta now. Her whole life could change after this.

Chapter Thirty

T
HE STREETCAR WAS MOVING
up Peachtree Street. Iva Claire got up from her seat and made her way to the conductor at the front.

“Are you sure the Georgian Palace Hotel is on this street?” she asked, for the second time in three minutes.

“Yes, miss. It's just up a ways.”

She sat down behind him so she could ask again if she had to. She couldn't miss the hotel. She just couldn't.

This might be the most important day of my life.

She still wished the meeting wasn't taking place in a hotel. It felt a little too much like going to a bank or a booking agent, neither of which had been pleasant experiences for her and Mama. But she had to take what she could get. The important thing was to make a good impression today. Her hands were sweating. Just in time she remembered not to wipe them on the skirt of her dress.

If things went really well, maybe she wouldn't have to go away to school after all. Maybe she'd have a real house to live in, full time, and she could go to school in her own neighborhood with kids who were her friends. The possibilities were endless, if she played this right. She hugged the suitcase she was carrying to her chest.

Bringing the suitcase had been a last-minute idea. She knew how dirty you could get on a train, even for a short trip. If the person sitting next to you was dumb enough to open a window, you'd get a face full of smoke and cinders, and the seats were never clean. So she'd packed her best dress in her suitcase with a hairbrush and some soap. At the station she'd washed up and changed into the clean dress.

I need to be pretty and charming and as smart as I can be.

But how could you stay pretty when the air was so hot and sticky that your hair which you'd set in rags the night before had gone stick straight? She could feel herself start to panic, and she knew right away what was wrong.

I'm having stage fright
, she thought with a start. She'd never had it before. She'd watched Tassie and Mama standing in the wings, hands shaking as they waited to go on. She'd seen performers throw up from stage fright. But the fear had never touched her because she'd never cared if a bunch of strangers liked the Sunshine Sisters. Today she wouldn't be able to stand it if her audience didn't like her.

The streetcar stopped. Across the street was a big white building.

“That's the Georgian Palace Hotel, miss,” said the conductor.

She grabbed her suitcase and got off. The hotel rose in front of her, ten stories high with a wide terrace across the front. It was the kind of place where only rich people went. The Sunshine Sisters could never afford to stay at a fancy joint like the Georgian Palace. But she was going in. She had to. And she was going to go in as if she belonged there. No matter what happened. Heart pounding, she crossed the street.

She made her way across the hotel lobby, not looking left or right, holding her head high the way Mama did when she went out onstage. Some part of her brain registered a green and white pattern on the floor beneath her feet, lots of polished marble, and many doormen, bellhops, and other hotel personnel in uniforms. A man in a particularly elaborate costume asked if he could help her, but she smiled regally and said no thank you, and he melted into the air. She reached the elevator and got in. She was committed now.

She found Room 1021 quickly—too quickly. Now that she was here, she wanted to run. Ever since she'd set up this meeting, she'd been trying to believe it would be wonderful; now she would find out if she'd been right. She watched her hand reach out and knock on the door. It opened right away. She couldn't look up.

Please let him like me. Please.

She raised her eyes and looked into her father's face.