Hattie Ever After (2 page)

I’d written about the children’s story times at the public
library and the Sons of Norway parade, and had even tried my hand at writing a review of the last movie I’d seen at the Gem.

It was all in secret. Not a soul knew about my efforts. Had I tried, I might have been able to get one or two of my stories published in the
Great Falls Tribune
.

I paused in midscrub of a window, vinegar water dripping down my arm.
Might have
. But shopping dogs and stubborn men are hardly topics to occupy a real reporter’s time.

My thoughts were interrupted by voices below. Many voices. Melodious voices. The Varietals had arrived!

I finished the window, ditched bucket and rags, and hurried downstairs. Several people, bearing an inordinate amount of luggage, were crowded into the front hall. A young dandy with Brylcreemed hair struck a pose by the coat tree. An ingénue with pouty lips fussed with the hem of her jacket. An older actress wore an overcoat of midnight-blue wool that tapered to an impossibly thin waist before ending a fashionable four inches above her shoe tops. She caught me gawking and I was rewarded with a queenly nod.

Their leader, Mr. Lancaster, stroked his waxed goatee as he parleyed terms with Mrs. Brown. “We have a train to catch on Saturday,” he said.

“Only three nights?” Mrs. Brown’s voice registered disappointment.

“Regrettably, that is the case.” Mr. Lancaster bowed to Mrs. Brown, reached for her hand, and planted a kiss there. “Such is the life of the wandering performer. Now, would you be so kind as to show us to our rooms?”

I headed to the kitchen to start noon dinner as Mrs. Brown settled everyone to rights. The door soon swung open and the Brylcreem man popped his head in. “Might I trouble you for directions to a tobacconist’s?” His smile was straight from an advertisement for Pepsodent toothpaste, it was that white. “I myself do not indulge. But Miss Clare is convinced that Milo cigarettes help relax her vocal cords.”

I gave him directions; for which my reward was another glittering smile.

He had barely exited the room when one of the young women of the troupe slipped in.

“Tobacconist’s?” I asked, anticipating her question.

“What?” She looked puzzled.

“Sorry. That young man with the white smile was just here, asking for directions. I assumed you might need them, too.”

“Cecil?” Her cheeks flushed pink. “I mean, Mr. Hall?”

I started in on a stack of spuds that needed peeling. “I hope I didn’t sound rude. Can I help you?”

“I noticed the clothesline out back. Might I hang some of the costumes for tonight’s performance out to air? You can’t imagine how”—she waggled her eyebrows—“aromatic they get with all those wearings.”

“The neighbors will appreciate the change of scenery,” I said. “Much more interesting than Mrs. Brown’s bloomers.”

She laughed. “I can imagine.”

I showed her to the bucket of clothespins and she went after the costumes, hanging them out to air.

“Oh, you’re making scalloped potatoes,” she said, passing back through the kitchen when she’d finished. “My favorite.”

I took stock of her. There was none of the oiliness that I’d felt from Mr. Hall. And she looked to be about my age. I introduced myself. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Oh, I’d love one.” She sat at the table. “I’m Sylvia. The world’s worst wardrobe mistress, according to her nibs in there.” She took the coffee I offered but shook her head at sugar and cream.

“I thought this job would be so exciting.” Sylvia rolled her eyes. “ ‘Wardrobe mistress’ is only a fancy term for chief laundress and mender. And all the travel. After this, we’re off to San Francisco.” Elbows on the table, she rested her chin on her hands, wearing a decidedly glum expression.

Imagine feeling blue about going somewhere like San Francisco. Think of the doings in such a place! A person could write news stories there till her arm fell off. “Why do you keep with it?” I asked, sprinkling flour over the top of the potatoes in the baking dish.

She glanced around, then ducked her head close to mine. “Cecil,” she whispered.

I wrinkled my forehead, trying to think.
See sill?
What? Then it hit me. “You mean Mr. Hall?”

Sylvia put her finger to her lips. “Our secret, promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

“You’re a peach.” She gave me a friendly wink. “The coffee hit the spot. Thanks. Back to the salt mines.”

She paused with her hand on the swinging door. “Say. Would you like to come to the show tomorrow night? I can get you a ticket. On the house.”

A live vaudeville show. I’d never seen one before. And for free! “That’s kind of you. I’d love it.”

“It will be quite the performance.” She flashed a mysterious smile. “One you won’t want to miss.”

Thanks to Sylvia’s generosity, the next night I found myself in a plush maroon seat in the tenth row, center section, of the Grand Opera House. I held the printed program in gloved hands. Out of loyalty to my benefactor, the first thing I did was look for Cecil Hall’s name. There it was, in minuscule print, near the bottom of the last page. Taking up most of the program were the names of Ellington Lancaster—“Founder and Principal, Venturing Varietals” and “Marquis of the Footlights”—and Vera Clare, who was not only “Empress of Emotion” but also “Queen of the Varietal Stage.”

My neighbor was a chatty woman whose hat would’ve been better suited to someone with a face less like a pumpkin. She pointed to Cecil’s name on the program. “I saw him in Helena,” she confided. “He plays a magician that makes himself disappear.” Her eyes twinkled. “My nephew told me how it’s done. It’s called a Hamlet trap. They rig up this door in the stage floor. The actor steps on it just so and
poof!
Gone.” She sighed. “I come all this way to see him again.”

The burgundy velvet curtain began to rise, earning me a poke in the ribs from my neighbor. For a plump woman, she had sharp bones. “Show’s starting,” she stage-whispered.

I nodded, edging myself a bit farther away from that pain-inflicting elbow as I settled in to enjoy the evening. The opening act was a comic duo from Great Falls. They performed a skit involving an accordion, a ridiculously large woman’s hat, and a wheelbarrow. I laughed so hard, I thought I might slip right out of my chair and into the aisle.

Vera Clare was stunning in her role as a grieving mother in a short play called
Mama’s Boys
. I wept as hard as I’d laughed earlier. For a small woman, she radiated great stage presence. All around me, audience members—even men!—were dabbing eyes with handkerchiefs. To think that Sylvia found traveling with such a troupe to be wearing! From my plush seat, the dramatic life seemed nothing but thrilling.

After the intermission, Cecil’s time in the spotlight finally arrived. I had to admit, he did look dashing in that black top hat and red-satin-lined magician’s cape. I found his delivery a trifle melodramatic, but my neighbor could not take her eyes from him up there in the footlights. She grabbed my arm as he moved center stage. “The line will be ‘Exemptum exactum,’ ” she murmured. No sooner had she uttered the words than Cecil, too, pronounced them, though much more theatrically.

“Exemptum exactum!” His baritone voice rang out over the hall. Then, with a swoosh of his cape, he vanished. A woman behind me shrieked in surprise. My heart raced and I gripped the seat arms. Even though I’d been forewarned, Cecil’s departure was exceedingly dramatic.

It wasn’t until later that I would learn exactly
how
dramatic it had been.

Hattie Stay or Hattie Go

I switched on the kitchen light and was startled to find that someone had been sitting in the dark. It was Miss Vera Clare, all afroth in a filmy lavender dressing gown. Her face, cleansed of makeup, was weary and lined. No one would mistake her for a rare beauty of the stage at this moment.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “So I started the coffee.”

I got out mugs, sugar, and cream. The percolator gave a dainty
blurp
to signal it was done brewing. Miss Clare stirred four heaping teaspoons of sugar into the filled mug I handed her.

“You’ve heard the news, I would imagine.” She took a tentative sip, then stirred in another spoonful.

I nodded and began beating eggs in a bowl.

“Evidently, they’d been planning this since we played Chicago.” She closed her eyes, leaning her head against the chair back, and patted at the underside of her chin with the back of her left hand. After a dozen or so pats, she righted her head. “I recommend this exercise. With your round face, you’ll be prone to creping in the neck. Most unbecoming.”

I’d never given my neck much thought before, aside from the occasional wince when I got a crick in it. At Miss Clare’s words, however, I felt its flesh begin to loosen and wrinkle. I lifted my head a bit higher.

She fussed with the bow on her dressing gown. “Thank heavens, that’s not my worry.”

“A crepey neck?” I wasn’t following.

“No. No.” The look she gave me would’ve curdled milk. “A troupe of our stature simply cannot perform without a wardrobe mistress. It isn’t done. Would Sarah Bernhardt have been expected to perform without attendants?”

Her question was being asked of the air, not me. I poured the eggs in the skillet, stirring so they didn’t burn.

“Surely you can see our dilemma?”

I surely wished she could see mine! I had to finish preparing breakfast, and she was driving me to distraction with her conversation. “Surely,” I said, hoping her rant had run its course and she’d remove herself to her room to dress—on her own, without an attendant—for the breakfast that I would be expected to serve—on my own, without an attendant—in very short order.

“I thought so. Hazel eyes are the sign of a sharp intellect.” She finished her coffee, setting the cup on the table as she rose to her feet. “We would require a firm commitment until we reach San Francisco, where we will no doubt be able to find someone more qualified. The pay is adequate and your lodgings would be covered.”

I pulled a warmed serving dish from the oven and piled it full of eggs, scrambled to the color of yellow jonquils. It was as I stepped away from the stove toward the door to the dining room that Miss Clare’s words hit me. “Are you offering me a job?”

She pulled her dressing gown snug around her. “We need a wardrobe mistress, and you seem the likeliest choice in this one-horse town.”

I bobbled the serving bowl. Was I hearing correctly?

“We leave tomorrow. And you would need to leave with us.”

Like a tiny violet tornado, Miss Vera Clare spun from the room and up the back stairs, leaving me to consider her offer. Well, not so much an offer as a command. Did she even know my name?

My mind awhirl with her proposition, I twice refilled Mr. Lancaster’s teacup with coffee as I served breakfast. I was thankful when the meal ended and I could finally retire to the kitchen to stand in front of a sink full of suds. That was the best spot for thinking, I’d learned.

As I scrubbed, two voices whispered around me. Hattie Go spoke into my right ear: “Don’t you see? This is your chance to do something Grand.”

Hattie Stay buzzed in my left ear. “What about Charlie? What will he think if you move even farther away?”

“He’d want you to have that adventure,” urged Hattie Go. “Want you to pursue your dreams.”

“He wants you to marry him!” protested Hattie Stay.

“The Pacific Ocean!” sighed Hattie Go. “Think of it!”

I could almost smell salty air. Hear clanging cable cars. See Nob Hill. And fog. I’d only read about such things, in one of the books Uncle Chester had left behind. Sights and sounds and smells that would nourish my seedling writer’s dreams like water and sun.

I shook out the dish towel, trying to shake out the voices bickering in my head.

“Oh, Hattie.” Mrs. Brown stepped through the swinging door. “Here are my ideas for dinner today.”

I took them from her. “This looks pretty fancy.” I glanced
at the clock. How would I get everything accomplished in time for dinner at noon?

“My thoughts exactly.” She smiled. “I’m counting on Mr. Lancaster to spread the word about us to other troupes.”

I held up the menu. “In that case, are you sure you want
me
to bake the cake?”

“If you sift the flour twice, it should be fine. Now, I’m going to tidy up the parlor and answer some mail before my Ladies’ Aid meeting. If I’m not there to stop them, they’ll put Millie Sewell in charge of the Flag Day picnic.” She shuddered. “I’ll be back in time to help set the table.” She pushed out the swinging door, then pivoted right back in.