Rouge (3 page)

Teeny was asleep in the bed, a sliver of moonlight brightening her face from the small window above, and my earlier memory, the one I’d pushed down on the roof as I’d watched Evie smile, now flooded my mind.

It was four years ago, and Evie was dragging me around the backstage corridors.
We’d just finished our nightly show, and as always, she was too wound up to sleep. I was too afraid to leave the theater, my head full of
Rosa
’s horror stories of
New Orleans
after dark, so Evie forced me to explore the old building with her.

“Come with me and stop being a scared chicken,” she’d hissed, jerking my arm as we approached the left passage, down the back stairs.

“
Rosa
said never to go back here,” I argued, fear tightening my chest. Evie always managed to get me in trouble with
Rosa
. “And Roland said he wanted to go over one of my songs again.”

“You just want to go back ‘cause you’re in love with him,” Evie teased.

My face grew hot. “I am not!”

“Liar,” she shot back, jerking my arm again. “You’re hoping one of these nights he’ll kiss you.”

That was true, but I didn’t have time to protest. We were in the forbidden back hall, passing door after open door of the small, secret rooms. I peeked inside and saw beaded curtains, red-velvet settees, and mirrors all around beds—one on the ceiling!

“What is this?” I whispered.

Evie’s pace had slowed as well, and she stopped at a door leading to a room covered in purple, green, and gold chiffon scarves. Beads were everywhere and feathered black Mardi Gras masks. A heavy scent of sandalwood was in the air, and a gold lamp was lit on a small table. The room seemed to be prepared for something, but it was too late to wonder what. Gavin’s voice was moving quickly up the hall in our direction.

“Hide!” Evie shoved me through the door and into a tall armoire in the back corner of the room. She pulled the door closed behind us, holding it in a crack with her finger.

“I’ve changed my mind,” a female voice pleaded softly. “I can’t do this. I can’t. Please don’t make me.”

“Shut up,” Gavin’s low voice ordered. “You can and you will. He’s already paid and’s waiting.”

“Please, Gavin,” her voice was so desperate, it made my throat ache. “I’ll do anything.”

“Let go and stop this!” Gavin hissed.

I heard a loud thump as a body fell against the wall. Evie flinched. I pushed next to her, peering through the crack. It was the new seamstress who helped
Rosa
with our costumes. She was a pretty little thing with fair hair and blue eyes. Tonight those eyes were huge, and her cheeks were shining with tears.

“Please… it’s my first time,” she begged.

“Which is why he paid extra,” Gavin answered. Then he paused and seemed to soften. “Come here.”

He dug into his pocket and walked over to a small cabinet. There he poured a small glass of what looked like brandy, and he gave her two tiny white pills.

“First time always hurts,” he said. “But this’ll take the edge off.”

With trembling hands,
she did as she was told. I watched her put the pills in her mouth and drain the little glass.

Gavin continued, “Relax, and it won’t hurt as much.”

My eyes were wide.
What was going to happen to her?

Gavin withdrew from the room, and I watched her go to the bed and sit down, still crying. Then her lips began to move, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” the words were almost inaudible, but I knew them. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee—”

The door opened, cutting her off, and I watched her cheeks turn white with fear. A tall gentleman stepped into the room. His eyes avoided hers, and his face was expressionless. His hands fumbled at his waist, and Evie’s hand went to my chest, shoving me back against the armoire wall.

The girl made a tiny noise, and the man cleared his throat. The bed squeaked, and I heard a rustling of what sounded like skirts moving. Another low throat clearing. Another whimper. A few moments later the bedpost began tapping against the wall in a rhythm.

Evie’s eyes were wide in the sliver of light from the door, and I struggled to look, too, but she had me pressed against the armoire, her hand firm against my chest.

The tapping grew more rhythmic, the man’s breathing more ragged, until a low groan came from him. Then it was quiet again. The sound of fabric rustling was followed by a metallic clink of coins hitting a crystal dish. The door creaked open and then closed, and we were left with only the girl quietly sobbing.

She stayed that way a long time, her whimpering making my head ache, and Evie slowly leaned back against the armoire wall, staring at the crack in the door. After what felt like an eternity, we heard the girl rise from the bed and leave. We sneaked out and ran all the way back to our side of the theater. My heart was pounding, and from that day forward, my theater-home was forever changed, no longer safe.

As I stood gazing at Teeny’s copper head dreaming in the moonlight, the pressure to do something tightened in my throat. Her time was coming, closer with every birthday, and there was only one way I knew to save her.

Rehearsals started every morning as soon as it was light. Our breakfast consisted of stale bread and whatever else was headed for the trash bin at Pain Fraiche, the bakery across the street. The food was unceremoniously dumped on a few tables at the back of the stage, but we had no breaks to eat it. We were expected to steal time for food when we could. Coffee and day-old beignets, bruised fruit and water. Occasionally some meat would appear, but it was quickly devoured by the set designer Mastiff’s men.

Teeny was gone when I awoke, and I was moving slowly thanks to that second glass of champagne last night. I walked around our small room pulling on my long skirt and blouse when I noticed an old program covered in her doodles. She was always drawing, and as I stared at the sheet, I tried to formulate a way her love of art might bring money into the club. She had potential, but she needed instruction. I crumpled the page into a ball. No one would pay for scribbles like this.

Evie was absent when I joined the others. Frank and Carla were drinking coffee with a few dancers stage left, discussing the numbers, and everyone was milling about waiting to get started as if nothing had happened less than twenty-four hours ago. As if one of us hadn’t had her life permanently changed.

Last night was our first performance of Roland’s new show
Chat le Rouge
, so there was much to fine-tune. Our cabaret was known for its elaborate productions and Gavin demanded we constantly exceed audience expectations. It was one of the few clubs that had survived after the War of Northern Aggression, and it had continued drawing crowds through Reconstruction.

The theater was all I’d ever known, but I’d never met the previous music director,  my Creole father. The term
Creole
could mean any heritage in
New Orleans
, but in his case, it meant he was a freed man of color. And his relationship with my French mother was punishable by law.

Métissage,
or race-mixing, was common among our class, but my background was another secret known only by Roland,
Rosa
, and of course, Gavin. My father left for
Chicago
before my mother gave birth to me, and she died a few years later of a broken heart—or consumption, depending on who you asked.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come out.” Teeny appeared at my elbow. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Let me get my coffee.” I turned back to the table and caught Roland’s eye. He was sitting at the piano, and we exchanged a smile. I looked down again but Teeny was watching.

“That’s why you don’t care about Freddie,” she said in a low voice. “You’re in love with Roland.”

I shook my head and sighed. “I can’t be kind to anyone with you around.”

“Tease me all you want, I’m not blind,” she said. “There’s clearly something between you two.”

“Please, Teeny.” I rubbed my eyes with my fingertips.

“I have a headache. And why are you so obsessed with love all of a sudden?”

She picked up a shriveled orange. “It’s not so sudden,” she said. “And
Rosa
’s new book is full of it.”

A dreamy expression crossed her face as she peeled the fruit. “I can’t wait to fall in love.”

“Or for your first kiss, I know.
Rosa
and her education.”

Rosa
was a matronly former dancer who now handled costumes. Despite the prevailing view that educating women was a waste of time, she’d taught us to write and read—skills she’d picked up from the nuns at St. Margaret’s, the orphanage she’d run away from before ending up here. She kept us stocked with books we were required to read to her, and she had a penchant for romance, the more
risqué
the better.

“Besides,” Teeny continued. “You’re way overdue for a love affair.”

“Says who?” I tugged one of her copper locks.

“Says anyone who knows anything.” She batted my hand away. “So am I right? Are you and Roland secretly lovers?” Her blue eyes sparkled.

“No,” I said, sipping my coffee.

The warm liquid sent a tingle down my spine as it awakened me. I sniffed its bitter-chocolate scent mixed with that of sugary beignets, rosin, talc, and stale cigar smoke—the smells of home.

She poked out her lips and frowned. “I think you’re lying.”

I shook my head as I clutched my cup in both hands. “I’m not.”

“Hale, come try this for me.” Roland called from where he sat at the piano, erasing and rewriting notes. I walked over. “See if it’s easier for you like this.”

He played the introductory chords.

You’re in my arms and it feels so right;

but it’s simply an illusion…

He joined me in harmony on
illusion,
and our voices held the chord perfectly for eight beats. I closed my eyes, letting the beauty of it relax the pressure in my chest. When I stopped, he was smiling at me, and I noticed backstage had fallen silent. I smiled back at him.

“Perfect.” He returned to scribbling notes on the score, and everyone else returned to their conversations.

I leaned on the back of the piano watching him quickly writing, his brow furrowed as he thought. Teeny frowned. “And
that’s
supposed to convince me?”

Roland looked up at her and grinned. “What’s on your mind, shortcake?”

“Love,” I answered for her.

Roland’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve fallen in love, Teence?”

“More like Hale has,” she said to me. Then she turned to him. “And she refuses to confess.”

His eyes slid to mine. “Hale? In love?”

I shook my head and went around to sit beside him on the bench. Roland slid down to make room for me as he continued to play. Teeny leaned on the back of the piano and watched.

“And who’s the incredibly lucky fellow?” he asked, tilting his head toward me.

“Why you, of course,” I said.

His hands stilled over the notes for a split second, then he glanced up at Teeny and smiled. “Of course.”

“I knew it!” she cried. Then she sighed dramatically. “Oh, it’s so romantic! Do you write all your songs for Hale?”

“Yes,” he answered quickly.

I glanced at him and rolled my eyes. Then I stood and grabbed Teeny’s hand that had fluttered to her heart.

“Come on,” I said, but Gavin appeared, stopping us in our tracks.

“Roland, Mastiff, Fiona.” He said their names as if reading off a list. “I need to speak with you.”

Roland stood and moved toward Gavin. Mastiff appeared from behind a set and Fiona scampered with perfect poise from where she had been working with Frank and Carla.

“Hale,” Gavin said, noticing me. “Is this little Teeny?”

My mouth went dry, but she smiled at him all innocence. “I’m not so little!”

“No?” he smiled back at her, amused. I couldn’t breathe.
Shut up, Teeny.
“Let’s hear that voice,” he said.

Teeny opened her mouth, but I quickly clapped a hand over it. “She’s not ready. I’m still working with her.”

Gavin glanced at me. “You’re doing good,
cher
,” he said, turning on his heel and walking away. “Really packing ’em in.”

“Thanks,” I could barely respond.

“Back to work,” he barked, and everyone began moving.

From far away it seemed, I heard Frank and Carla do their
stomp-stomp!
I shook my head and turned to Teeny.

“Don’t
ever
sing for Gavin. At least not til you’ve mastered some dance steps.”