Chapter Thirteen #2
Mr. Scharf looks as though he’d like to sigh, but he dutifully turns back toward the piano. “I don’t see why not.”
“All right, then.” Mr. Martin hoists a hand in the direction of the stage. “Miss Talbot, let’s see what you got.”
“Now?” I thought he was bringing me up to see the rehearsal space.
I didn’t realize he wanted to see me. But I know how to do this; I know how to perform.
And knowing, too, that this is my one shot, I draw in a deep and fortifying breath, pulling back my shoulders.
I answer, sounding more confident than I feel: “Sure thing.”
I march across the large hall, climbing the steps and striding out onto the stage.
Mr. Martin and Mr. Scharf are watching, as is Mamma.
The footlights are still on from the rehearsal, and I can feel their warmth like a row of small fires.
It’s strong, the bright heat, almost searing my legs, my chest, my cheeks, but rather than edge back as I might like to do, I step to the center of the stage and allow the lights to wash over me. I find my light.
I’ve thought so long and hard about getting this chance, all those days when I walked up and down Broadway, dreaming of getting not only a ticket into one of these theaters but a place on the stage.
Here I am. I know what I’ll sing for them.
It’s a song Daddy often sang to me as I sat perched on his knee at our piano.
Or late at night while I was tucked into bed, when I had a hard time falling asleep.
I can still hear his beautiful voice, feel his gentle embrace.
And now the words strike me with a raw and ferocious poignancy as I pull in one more deep breath, filling my belly with air, and begin.
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by and by,
we shall meet on that beautiful shore.
I’m singing a cappella, without any music, but I allow my body to sway. I close my eyes and raise my hands out at my sides, and I carry on, even louder now.
And our spirits shall sorrow no more,
Not a sigh for the blessing of rest.
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by and by,
we shall meet on that beautiful shore.
The words pour through and then out of me.
So does the melody as it rocks me with the force of a massive wave.
How much I miss him, how much I long to meet Daddy again, as the words of this song say.
How much I wish to be done with sorrow. To have a rest. Even to have someone who cares about me enough to know that I need one.
All of my pent-up feelings come surging out of me. This is the opposite of those hours where I have to sit like a statue, wiping myself clean of all thought and emotion. Here, not only am I allowed to feel, but it is encouraged and entirely necessary.
I finish, allowing the words to carry my voice to the very end of the wave, and then I open my eyes.
Blinking, I come back to the theater, where I stand alone on the stage in a halo of hot light, and I see the men whispering in the corner.
Then Mr. Scharf troops off, and Mr. Martin beckons me down from the stage, back to where Mamma stands at his side.
I can’t read Mamma’s expression, but Mr. Martin’s is plain enough.
The skeptical grin he’s been wearing throughout our time together has been wiped off, replaced now by a far more earnest, even approving expression.
When he speaks, his tone is no longer abrasive.
“The light loves you.” It’s all he says, at first.
Thank you, Leah.
“And you’ve got pipes, kid, I’ll give you that,” he adds.
“Her father always had a nice voice,” Mamma interjects. The remark nearly knocks me off my feet, but then she goes on, speaking as though I can’t hear. “She got that from him. He played the piano with her before she was knee-high. She can sing like a songbird when she gets going.”
My insides go warm, and I can feel that my face does, too. Mamma’s eyes meet mine at last, and there’s something in there that looks almost soft when she holds my stare. And terribly sad. So she remembers. My own eyes begin to sting.
But Mr. Martin waves a hand and nods, his mind clearly at full thrum, and the tender cord between Mamma and me snaps.
“We’ve got a doll, Lucia. She’s leaving us in a bit of a bind.
Heading over to the Knickerbocker to dance in another show, with our opening night only a month away.
” Mr. Martin glances toward the now-empty stage, then back to me. “We do need to fill the spot.”
My heart clamors as Mr. Martin looks to Mamma, letting out an audible exhale.
He leans toward her and says, his voice low, “I figure, with the costume on, the makeup, the company of the other gals…But let’s keep it down a bit, shall we?
On her age, I mean. Mr. Scharf didn’t ask, and I don’t want to talk about it.
Better that way. We don’t need Comstock and his vigilantes raiding our theater.
All that balderdash about the stage being depraved.
” Mr. Martin makes a swatting motion with his hands.
“You can come tomorrow for rehearsal, Miss Talbot. We can give it a try. Let’s see if you crack up there when the pressure’s on. ”