An Appetite
Aurora liked the new number very well. She had not told Jimmy about the baby; had not spoken of it again to her sisters, nor they to her. But it was never entirely out of her mind. When she crossed the street she was careful of trams and horses; when she was hungry she ate; when she was tired, she curled up on coats on the dressing-room floor and slept. It seemed that she had to, now that she knew. But the knowledge did not stop her wanting Jimmy—she had such an appetite for him, for the energetic exchange of their lovemaking, that it shocked her. She expected a kind of holiness to descend, instead of greater greed for their snatched opportunities. In the St. Paul Walker Theatre, a closet full of velvet drapes made a dark red bower; in Bismarck, a loose button on a dark, unused dressing-room’s horsehair divan scraped the skin on her back till she bled. She felt terribly guilty about using Jimmy this way, as if he were no person but stood in for all men, as if somehow this action helped her to make
the baby grow. Nonsense, of course, but then the need would seize her and she would rise silently from the bed she shared with Bella, and knock very gently on Jimmy’s hotel room door.
It was exhilarating to be able to talk to him as an equal, to argue about the act, to confer, to dance and make the new steps work. But consciousness of the child turned her inward, and even when most enwrapped and invaded by Jimmy, she was alone again. In some sense she belonged only to what was inside her. When she felt guilty, she told herself that, after all, letters from Eleanor Masefield followed him from theatre to theatre, and he did not mention them to her.
Maske of Cupid
Julius was in Winnipeg at the Orpheum when they returned in the middle of March, working with East and Verrall on a new number, a dark little playlet they’d created.
On Drunkenness
, East called it, saying Julius was just the expert required; they renamed it
Tipsychorean Tales
for the stage. Before the Belle Auroras went back on at the Walker, Clover went to see the show, sitting by herself in the gallery and having the first good laugh she’d had in the longest time. After the matinee, she walked with Julius along the stone bridge that crossed the river not far from the theatre, glad of his bulk in the fierce wind and the warmth of his dark coat-sleeve, smelling of tobacco and rum, where her hand was tucked. He rambled and rumbled about the other artistes at the Orpheum:
‘The jolly company, in manner of a maske, enrangèd orderly.’
She did not recognize the lines but did not ask their source, and he fell silent. Silence suited her. They watched the water curling under and springing forth from the edges of ice, spring awakening with a faint smell of green, the sun warm though the air was brisk.
‘Your sister and this hatchling matinee idol, what of that?’
Surprised, Clover answered frankly. ‘I think it is a passing fancy, only. She is happy to be with someone young, after Mayhew, but—she is—’
‘With child, I know.’
She looked quickly at Julius’s face, but saw no judgement there. ‘They were legitimately married, as far as any of us knew, whatever the case may really be.’
‘Oh yes, nothing to say Mayhew had
married
that Spanish floozy in Frisco. Poor Syb was wrong to bring it up at all, but gossip was her meat and drink.’
His face was calm, and his hands, on the stone parapet, were still.
‘I heard your spontaneous monologue, at the Regina,’ he said, surprising Clover again. ‘Unplanned, I take it?’
She had almost forgotten that night when Aurora was so sick and did not come on; that must have been sickness from the baby, of course.
‘You have—a facility,’ Julius said. His mammoth head turned to pin her with an irritated glare. ‘Use that intelligence,’ he told her. ‘One must not waste one’s art.’
A carillon chimed from a church they could not see. Six o’clock.
‘A most delicious harmony, in full strange notes,’ he said. ‘
The fraile soule in deepe delight nigh dround.’
He tucked her hand in his arm and led her back towards the theatre. ‘We will warm ourselves by the stove and watch the maskers march forth in trim array. And if the first be
Fancy, like a lovely boy of rare aspect
, well, we will be kind to him. If he is
Desyre
, I congratulate your fair sister … I myself am
Doubt
, the broken reed. Now if it was Victor, your own infatuate, I should have no hesitation. I trust his penmanship suffices you for now.’
Clover fell silent again. No letter, no letter. She had not heard from Victor since the night they walked out into the country, when he did scales beneath the moon.
But on her return to Mrs. Jewett’s that evening, a small packet was waiting, sent over from the Walker. She slid a penknife along the manila and spread the packet open on the dresser, under the lamp’s light. A red silk scarf, like a cardinal’s wing—and something wrapped inside it.
She unrolled the scarf and out fell a picture postcard from Quebec, one from Montreal, and a steamship ticket for the SS
Alaunia
, sailing from Montreal to London, England, May 15, 1915.
On the back of the postcard depicting the port of Montreal:
I love you always. You know. My mother has a house, 24 St. Quintin Avenue, I wish you could
—then something scratched out, in black impatient strokes. On the back of the postcard of Quebec:
Come. Please come
. Attached to the ticket by a brass clip: a bank draft for fifty pounds.
Precious Prize
Settled at Mrs. Jewett’s boarding house again, Aurora would get up as if making a trip to the convenience when Bella drowsed off, then tap on Jimmy’s door and slip like a ghost down the wooden stairs to meet him in the dark back parlour. The doors slid soundlessly along the track which she had waxed with a candle stub; the heaviness of the doors matched the heaviness in her body, the ground-running depth of how badly she wanted him to drive inside her and make her climb that strange mountain again. One night she stayed in his bed almost all night, his velvety skin under hers. After Mayhew’s body she was surprised by Jimmy’s springing youth, and found a gratifying pleasure in giving him pleasure. The night sessions were driven, racing—for him too, murmuring in her ear,
precious, precious
. Since they did not ever make a public display, those night whispers were sweet.
She did not know what all this was doing to the baby. Now, in early March, a visible mound protruded when she took off her corset, so she stopped taking it off in anyone’s presence, including Jimmy’s. He laughed at her modesty, but was compliant. She could not lace tight any longer, the baby would not let her. Though cut in the new flowing line, the white dress was fitted enough that she could not bear to fasten the middle buttons. She made herself a bridging-piece to hold the edges together underneath the cummerbund. Clover helped her dress for the number and said not a word about it—but she had grown so silent, lately, that Aurora hardly noticed the kindness of that reserve.
As soon as the new number was ready, Walker had promised to slot the
Beautiful Doll
number in as his first-act closer. The Belle Auroras were
resting; Walker’s notion was to let Jimmy and Aurora have the limelight to themselves for a week first, and then put the girls back on to open the second act. Manager reports had been glowing as they played the western theatres, and Aurora believed he would be true to his word.
They refined the choreography with Mama on Monday morning till Aurora was out of breath and dizzy, begging for a rest. In the afternoon, she and Jimmy went over to the Walker to show their steps to Bert Pike, the orchestra leader, before orchestra rehearsal the next morning.
‘Hallooo!’ Jimmy called, pulling open the doors to the dark auditorium. Aurora shivered—an empty theatre always spooked her. Far in the distance they heard Bert answer, then a snap and the work-lights glowed onstage. More hard metallic snaps: a row of house-lights came up, enough that they could make their way down the aisle and up the moveable stairs onto the stage.
She set their sides on the rehearsal piano and showed Bert the modifications they’d made to the lyrics; he worked through it once while they footed the steps, as one might mouth the words of a song, marking out areas on the stage they’d be able to use.
Aurora put herself into the Eaton Beauty Doll position, eyes staring and arms stiff, to let Jimmy carry her as they moved into the singing break:
‘Precious prize, close your eyes
Now we’re going to visit lovers’ paradise
Press your lips again to mine
,
For love is king of everything.’
In the empty space, with only the tinny rehearsal piano, the song sounded weak, even forlorn.
‘If you ever leave me how my heart will ache …’
‘All right now,’ said Bert, and they ran for their marks as he chugged into the jaunty introduction, four chords, then one, two, three, four: step-step slide, step-step glide, sweeping farther than they’d yet been able to with this number. ‘Let
me put my arms around you,’
Jimmy sang in her ear. ‘I
could never live without you
—’
They locked together to begin their cakewalk twirls, and because she was tired, Aurora felt the hard mass of the baby gathered into a tightening ball. She knew she ought to stop, but Bert had come in especially, and they had to start tomorrow. She eased back from Jimmy, to give herself room to breathe. When the run was done, she stiffened and posed as he went into the chorus again.
‘I want to hug you but I fear you’d break
—
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, you beautiful doll!’
Then the man stood still, admiring, and the doll danced. Aurora put her mind to it and held herself up through the sixteen stiff-armed twirls of her solo, and then there was only one more chorus for them to sing together, until the music ran out and she could stop. They held the final pose for a moment, and broke off to bow to Bert—and then, hearing applause from the seats, out to the house.
Thinking Walker must have come to see, Aurora went forward to the footlights and shaded her eyes to ask, ‘Were we all right? Did you like it?’
‘Very much indeed,’ came the answer, in a voice like sherry-coloured velvet.
Aurora backed away. Not Mrs. Walker. Who was it?
The woman walked down the raked aisle into the spill of light from the stage, the prow of her dress leading, furs swaying behind her. A perfectly composed face looked up from under her shadowing hat-brim, great eyes glowing and hands held out to applaud again. Eleanor Masefield.
The two onstage stood still for a moment. Her hand still in Jimmy’s, Aurora felt the contraction in his fingers, and then a second, purposeful pressure, before he let her hand drop and walked to the lip of the stage. Between two footlights he vanished; as her eyes adjusted, his silhouette reappeared.
‘You, here!’ he said, cool and detached, with an underlay of warmth that might be anger or affection. ‘What brings you to the sticks?’ His light voice almost laughed.
Beads of jet dazzled on Miss Masefield’s bodice. Jet sparked in her hat as well, and as she lifted her skirt to climb the stairs, fabulously lovely black boots appeared. She was black-rimmed and beautiful; her complicated gown was a deep ocean-going blue. She beamed suddenly, showing the impish gap between her teeth as if she were a boy, and moved forward past Jimmy to hold out a hand to Aurora. ‘Why, it’s Miss—don’t tell me—Evans. Ainsley. One of the little sisters.’
Aurora touched the outstretched hand, seeing no way not to, then reclaimed hers to pull her skirt out and drop a brief ironic curtsy. The white dress was no longer pristine and crisp, after an hour of vigorous dancing, but she stood very straight and braced herself, not knowing exactly for what.
Miss Masefield turned, hat hiding her face as a cloud obscures the moon, and held out her other hand to Jimmy. ‘I’ve missed you so much, Jimmy,’ she said, the laugh-note in her voice now.
He waited.
‘You are the only one who understands me—I’ve had to fire that cub in New York.’
Jimmy came into the circle of light, taking Eleanor’s hand, with such a concentrated gaze that Aurora felt invisible. She had faded, in her white dress, into the pale backdrop.
‘Come, lunch with me, I’m famished from the train,’ the actress said, turning abruptly, and catching sight, as she did so, of Bert Pike. ‘Oh, Bert! How lovely to see you,’ she cried. Bert gave a brief, almost rude salute, and Eleanor moved gracefully towards him, her skirt somehow flowing, although, in the latest fashion from New York, it did not touch the boards.
The luncheon invitation had quite clearly not included Aurora; she smoothed her hands down her white lawn frock, trying to remember how nice it once had been. Her mother’s stitches amateur, but very tiny, very loving.
Miss Masefield had placed herself theoretically out of earshot, engaging Bert in an earnest (and to Aurora’s eyes, entirely sham) exchange.
Jimmy clasped Aurora quickly to him, his cheek on hers. He pressed her hand again and said, in a low voice, ‘I’d better find out what she wants.’
Asking for approval, which Aurora found cowardly.
‘I think we are quite finished,’ she said, cool in her turn. ‘If Bert needs no more.’ Bert’s face peered out from behind that cartwheel hatbrim; he gave a quick, dismissing nod.
Aurora went backstage. But she could not climb up the dressing-room stairs as yet. Her middle was clenched and unhappy, almost hot. She should not have danced so long this morning. When she heard the others leave (Eleanor Masefield’s mellifluous laugh easily floating up the aisle over the two men’s voices), Aurora went back out to the empty stage to retrieve their sides, walking through the circles of light the electrician had left on.
The footlights still glowed, and the overhead lights ghosted.
Do not be afraid or lonely
, she told the child inside her.
The dead space will be alive again tomorrow
. The house sat empty, waiting, and what a lucky girl she was to have this stage, this life. She stood staring into the black void beyond the lights, then sank down to the boards, skirt pooling around her, and pressed her hands over her eyes to black out everything.