Crestmont (27 page)

“I started out singing in a movie theater between the films. Then, when I was nineteen, my sister Carmella and I were booked as an act on a vaudeville circuit starting in the
Bronx
.”

“The letters on the steamer trunk. The R and C intertwined.”

“Yes, Carmella and I packed together in those days. We sang popular songs and some classical pieces. It was a hard life.” She sat at the vanity, checked her makeup, and sprayed herself with lavender water. “We went on strike in 1918 because they presumed to pay us less than we were worth, so during the strike I auditioned for the Metropolitan Opera. I’d never had a voice lesson in my life. They signed me immediately and assigned five opera roles for me to learn in so many months. In 1918 I made my debut opposite Caruso in
La
Forza
del
Destino
. My manager changed my name from
Ponzillo
to Ponselle and I have sung at the Metropolitan ever since. There’s more out there than vaudeville, Gracie. The public is flocking instead now to films and floor shows. You do dance, don’t you?”

Gracie’s jaw dropped. She stopped asking questions, ascertained whether
Rosa
needed anything else, and flew down to the laundry porch.

****

When Bessie entered the kitchen she heard funny tapping sounds coming from inside the pantry. She tiptoed over to the chest of tiny wooden drawers where the spices were kept. Running her finger over the little labels, she located the cloves, pulled out a handful and put them in her apron pocket. Riotous laughter told her Isaiah and Sam were headed right for her. She ducked into the pantry just as they came through the kitchen door. Isaiah was singing like a girl. Sam drummed the prep table in time.

“I don’t know how I do it, but sometimes in the song the girlfriend speaks, so when I do her part, I make my voice go way up into falsetto like a woman. Pretty good imitation, huh?”

“Maybe with your singing and my tapping we should get an act together,” Sam said.

“We’d be wiser to stick to cooking. Now, let’s figure out what kind of fancy dinner we can create for this opera singer. The Woods want something special the night of her concert because a lot of the town people will be dining here. We could do the crown roast of lamb with roasted potatoes and radish roses. Get it?
Rosa
—roses. Or we could try some of that new Italian food. It’s all the rage now. Don’t opera singers sing in Italian?”

“You’re supposed to be the singing expert, Isaiah. And I don’t know a thing about cooking Italian. Maybe we’d better see to what
hor
d’oeuvres we’re going to serve at the dance tonight,” Sam said.

Once her eyes adjusted to the dark, Bessie saw Eleanor on the floor surrounded by brown and silver candy wrappers, her mouth covered with chocolate. Eleanor cocked her head to the side and studied Bessie curiously as she unpeeled another chocolate bar.

“
Whadya
doin
’ here?” Bessie asked angrily.

“Well, I was practicing my tap dancing and it was so good I treated myself to a snack,” Eleanor answered proudly. She wrinkled her nose. “You smell funny. What is that, cinnamon or cloves?”

“
Ain’t
none of your business, Eleanor.”

“It is if my parents paid for the cloves.”

“I have a toothache and if I chew on a clove the pain goes away.”

“Uh huh.” Eleanor picked up her mess, stood; brushed chocolate bits off her dress and burst through the pantry door. “
Da
,
da
,
da
,
da
,
da
da
!” Isaiah and Sam gave her a round of applause. “Something smells funny in that pantry,” she said coolly as she left.

****

Miss Ponselle sat in the
Adirondack
chair, her head resting against the back. Her straw hat was decorated with white gossamer fabric tied under her chin. Inhaling deeply, she waved a single peach-colored rose back and forth under her nostrils. Snapdragons, daisies and wild roses surrounded her. “I never smell things like wild roses in the city. Thank you for this chair, this place.”

Margaret smiled, set down her basket of flowers and said, “It was a simple request. I should put a chair out here for myself sometime. My private garden is not shown when we give the
Crestmont
tour because I cut so many of the flowers for arrangements. Most guests don’t dare to venture in here. I guess they are happy with the flowers planted elsewhere on the grounds.”

“As it should be, Mrs. Woods.”

Margaret put her finger to her lips and pointed to a diminutive bird hovering over the languid red petals of a bee balm blossom. She whispered, “A ruby-throated hummingbird.” The bird noticed the movement, gave a mouse-like squeak and fled.

“Its wings beat so fast it literally hums,” Miss Ponselle commented. “This truly is your sacred retreat to be treated with reverence. Thank you for sharing it with me. You have been so accommodating to my needs, and that young woman, Gracie, is very sweet. I have just one other thing to ask of you.”

“Yes?”

“When we pray, do we not do it in private? It is the same for singers. I have nowhere to discreetly warm up my voice and coax it forth. The scales I sing to prepare for the demands of my music are not for the public’s ears. The concert is for them. Where might I go to do this alone, for my voice?”

Margaret was dumbstruck. People were everywhere at the
Crestmont
. She promised to find a suitable place and excused herself to return to the big house.

****

Clouds of distress that Mrs. Woods was overworked racked Gracie’s brain, but she felt she could be most helpful by making Rosa Ponselle’s stay as pleasant as possible. She was proud of herself for thinking of Mrs. Cunningham’s and the church as private places for the singer to practice. Madeleine was relieved for a reason to leave the house on an additional day and her mother promised to stay upstairs in her room to afford the singer privacy. Miss Ponselle seemed eager to walk down to the “charming little town,” so on Tuesday Gracie left her at Mrs. Cunningham’s piano, promising to disappear for two hours. Sneaking back early, she sat quietly on the front step to listen to the singing. The voice was deep, rich and velvety. Even though the words were in a foreign language, Gracie was so moved she didn’t feel the need to understand their meaning.

After lunching at the Sweet Shoppe, Miss Ponselle made a little joke about her agent being upset that she was walking all over Eagles Mere. Gracie telephoned PT immediately to fetch them in the car after the hair appointment. He was polite to Miss Ponselle as they motored back to the
Crestmont
, but he looked right through Gracie like she was glass. Too busy to fret about how he was ignoring her, she couldn’t help notice that he was never around. Even though he surely missed playing the piano, he was noticeably absent from the staff lounge. Isaiah said he often took his meals on a tray back to the bowling alley. Putting her feelings about him aside, she decided she no longer felt hurt. He was hiding from her and she was fed up.

****

Gracie opened the door after hearing two polite little taps.

“Ah, the dressmaker.” Miss Ponselle welcomed Olivia. “Let me see what you have created since our first meeting.”

“Good morning, Miss Ponselle. Mrs. Woods said you had some free time for a fitting?” Olivia wore a linen shift with a pleated bodice and cap sleeves. In her right hand she carried her sewing basket and her left arm was draped with large pieces of light teal silk. “May we pin up your hair until I fit the dress and then we can let it down and see the whole effect?”

Gracie assisted in removing the singer’s day dress and Olivia pieced the dress sections together, remarking though pins in her mouth, “This light teal you have chosen will be stunning with your dark hair. I kept the dress simple and close to the body as you desired.”

“I like the three tiers on the skirt. I am tired of the shapeless effect of today’s fashions. Show me what you have done about a waist.”

“Yes, I remembered.” Olivia wound a long cord of twisted silver and black threads tight around the waist in the front, crossed it in the back, and returned it to the front, knotting it three inches below where it began. The extra cord fell loosely.

“Let us see the dress with the cape, please.” The dressmaker attached a floor-length cape to the shoulder straps, draped it over the back of the gown and pulled the hem around in front. She moved the mirror so the whole effect could be seen.

Miss Ponselle turned to view the dress several ways in the mirror. “It needs something.”

“Yes, I agree. I suggest that I knot some rhinestones into the ends of the cord to move and sparkle as you walk, and embroider the edges of the cape with black and silver silk thread to complete the design.”

Gracie unpinned Miss Ponselle’s long, wavy hair and spread it out over one shoulder. She and Olivia stood behind the opera star, all three of them gazing in the oval mirror.

Miss Ponselle gave Olivia an impulsive hug. “Magnificent.”

“May I bring it back on Saturday for the final fitting?”

“You are an artist. I look forward to it.” Gracie helped her friend gather the dress pieces and her sewing supplies and walked her to the door as they exchanged excited smiles.

****

After lunch, Miss Ponselle worked at the desk, humming while she ran her fingers over each page in her opera score. “I would prefer a tray brought up for my dinner tonight. Three women and two men sit at a table behind mine and discuss me constantly. Granted, sometimes their conversation is complimentary, but really, how rude to talk behind one’s back.”

Gracie sat at the vanity, polishing some brooches.

“Oh, them. I heard them say something negative about Mrs. Woods once. I wanted to give them a piece of my mind, but they wouldn’t have heard it anyway. That’s why the staff calls them the Rude
Regals
. They act like royalty and gossip about everybody.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh honestly, I shouldn’t have said that.”

Miss Ponselle turned around in her chair, slapped her thighs and giggled like a schoolgirl. “Gracie, you are so funny. Don’t ever be afraid to be human. You can’t like everyone, you know.”

“Me, funny?”
 

“Yes. The refreshing part is that your humor is genuine, not contrived. Now, concerning my dinnertime commentators, I may complain about those people, but their gossip is a harmless part of their vacation relaxation. Don’t take anything they say to heart. You may want to read that new F. Scott Fitzgerald book if you want to understand why people like your Rude
Regals
resort to such charades to be accepted socially.”

“Now the press, they are the ones who do damage. Gossip is child’s play next to their shenanigans. Once they contrived that I was having an affair with a tenor to elevate box office sales for an opera we were to sing together. An executive from the Met told me about an advance tip that the tenor was going to divorce his wife the next week and marry me. The notice was rushed to
New York City
and posted immediately. Box office sales soared. It hurts to be used so.”

“It sounds like you needed a vacation. I am glad you came here. Will you sing an opera on your concert here?”

Miss Ponselle closed her opera score. “Oh, no, not a complete opera. I would need more singers to do the roles of the other characters. I could never do that alone with just my pianist. I have planned a varied program, however. You like the popular songs, yes?” Gracie nodded. “Those composers write for the masses; songs to sing along with during everyday life. So when I plan a concert, such as the one I will perform here next week, I program something familiar like some Stephen Foster songs to make the people happy. Then I sing my favorite arias on the second half, to stretch the audience, to take them to a place they have never been. The great operatic composers explore the depth of the human voice, emotion, musical and orchestral complexity to paint pictures in sound. If sung well, opera can take you to a magical place, just as when you study a beautiful painting or read an absorbing book.”

Gracie was afraid she was being too inquisitive, but it seemed that the opera star wanted to talk, so she asked, “Isn’t it a lot of pressure?”

“It is hard work, but I love to sing.” She stood up, closed her eyes and gave her head an imperceptible shake. “The rigors of performing, learning new roles and traveling are great, and they pay me well, but to do all of that and not lose my joy of singing—very challenging. I have to work at finding a balance.”

“How?” Gracie sat very still as Miss Ponselle paced from one side of the room to the other, stopping from time to time, quietly talking to herself.

“By singing meaningfully, hoping to touch another soul. The voice is a powerfully communicative instrument. God has given me an amazing gift and if I use it correctly, someone in the audience, perhaps just one, may be lifted above their everyday struggle and refreshed for a few moments. And when I truly listen to the music and allow it to move me, I am taken to a magical, blessed place where I find that my own soul has been replenished. This is what feeds me and keeps me centered as an artist and as a person.”

****

William quick-stepped to open the door, cupped his hand around his mouth and called, “Okay, boys, bring it in. Careful.” Giving his wife a snappy nod, he said, “You will love this, Margaret.”

Otto and Sid hauled in a six-foot-tall cherry filing cabinet with fifteen narrow drawers and set it against the wall. Speechless, Margaret stared at her husband. He nearly burst with excitement. Perspiration trickled down his temples.

“Look,” he said, pulling on several of the brass knobs. “I have taken the liberty of labeling each drawer alphabetically. I was so impressed by your attention to detail when you told me about the person that required four pillows, I bought you this. You can keep all of your notes concerning the guests’ preferences organized in these drawers.”