The Impersonator (3 page)

“And you would help me pull off a trick like that so I could claim the Carr fortune? How very generous of you!”

He twisted his lips into a serpent’s smile that would give Satan the shivers. “Just so, my dear. You’re so very clever, you realized some time ago where my interests lie. I have always had expensive tastes, and sadly, I find myself unable to continue in the manner to which I have become accustomed without regular infusions of cash. I am not, however, a greedy man. I also realize that transferring large amounts of money to my name would be impossible without alerting the trustees, lawyers, and bankers who are all vigilant minders of the Carr fortune.”

Now I was curious. “So how would you get the money?”

“Leave the details to me. I am the soul of discretion and, never fear, there is plenty to go around. We won’t be taking the money away from anyone—not really—we’ll just be sharing it among a broader group of people.”

I didn’t need to think this one over. Not for a moment. What Oliver was proposing was anything but a simple acting job. It was a crime—a serious crime, and fraught with peril. Punishable by a who-knows-what-length prison sentence. With millions of dollars at stake, no lawyers or relatives were going to smile sweetly, congratulate me, and hand over the dough without exhaustive background checks and a thousand sneaky little tricks designed to trip me up. One slipup with the pony’s name and I’d be breaking rocks in Sing Sing. Not to mention the hold dear Uncle Oliver would have over me should I ever object to his pulling my strings. Thanks, but no thanks.

Oliver continued, “Jessie Carr, vaudeville star, has come home for her twenty-first birthday. It will be the easiest role you’ve ever played. You need invent no tales about where you have been for the past seven years. You merely tell the truth. The private investigators who will be hired to verify your story will find everything you say is true.” He wet his lips as two large servings of baked Alaska were placed before us. “You must see that it’s perfect.”

Perfectly absurd. As soon as the waiter had stepped away, I burst his bubble.

“Thank you, Oliver, for your kind offer to make yourself rich. Sadly, I am booked for the foreseeable future with the Little Darlings, whose ironclad contract prohibits me from taking on other roles.”

I expected him to erupt in a great rage or at least continue to argue his point, but nothing, it seems, could divert this hedonist from the task before him. Into the mound of ice cream and meringue he plunged, inhaling it with such gusto I wondered whether he had even heard me. I looked in the direction of Angie and Sylvia’s table, but they were too engrossed in flaming cherries jubilee to notice that I was itching to leave.

When the plate was clean, Oliver sat back again, wiped his mouth on his napkin, and gave me a smirk I did not like at all. “Quite all right, my dear. I understand completely. Think on my proposal. If you should change your mind, you’ll know where to find me.”

I hadn’t a clue where to find the wretch. And that was fine with me.

Angie and Sylvia had finished their desserts. We stood up, and they followed us out of the dining room, back to the gilded lobby. Oliver took my coat from the maid and guided my arms into the sleeves as the woman helped the girls with theirs. He bade us good-bye at the hotel entrance, summoning the Pierce-Arrow to take us wherever we wanted to go next.

4

It was two days past my twenty-fifth birthday before I realized the date had slipped by me unobserved. Just as well. I needed no reminders of my advancing age. The example of Mary Pickford buoyed me up. Like her, I would play kiddie roles until my hair turned gray or lumbago made me hobble with a cane.

The Little Darlings killed ’em in Lincoln and Topeka, and we were jumping to Tulsa when the letter reached Francine. Our agent had earned his five percent and renewed our contract with Orpheum—hip, hip, hooray! Another thirty weeks and a slight rise in pay. I had never been happier.

The Darlings had become the family I had never had, the family I had always longed for. We celebrated that night with a meal at a decent hotel, then Jock went back to the boardinghouse and drank himself to bed. We were big time for another season. Audiences were not sitting on their hands. The act was good and getting better. The real reason was Darcy.

At five, Darcy was a born entertainer with a sterling silver future. Although his brother Danny was a year older, Darcy was the more sophisticated in every way. Danny sang like a child; Darcy crooned like a seasoned pro. Danny could hoof it a little; Darcy’s stair routine would make Bojangles Robinson sit up and gape. Danny could repeat a joke and get a chuckle; Darcy’s instinct for timing and facial expressions made audiences fall out of their seats laughing. I was already imagining their future as a musical comedy act as they grew older, with Danny playing straight man to Darcy’s lead. The Darling Boys, or maybe the Darling Duo.

We had a great week in Tulsa. Angie struck gold—the Cat Circus finally shared our billing again, and her young man was still making goo-goo eyes in her direction. It should not have surprised me at all, but it did, when Angie came to our room in the boardinghouse on Friday evening while I was getting ready to head over to the theater.

“I got some news,” she said, twisting her hands. Her face turned fiery red and she stammered a little. “I—I was just upstairs telling Francine and Jock. After them, you’re first to know. I’m leaving the Little Darlings. I’m joining Walter’s Cat Circus.”

“Why, Angie!” I had no idea the romance had progressed so far so fast. “Why, that’s … that’s … oh, my goodness, that’s wonderful news … are you—well, are you sure?”

She nodded fiercely. “I’m not leaving the act high and dry, don’t worry. I’ll stay on through Oklahoma City to give the Darlings time to train a replacement. Walter and the cats are billed there with us next week, then he goes to Canada and the Little Darlings are for Kansas and, well, I just couldn’t bear it, being separated from Walter again.”

True love. I’d caught it myself a couple times and knew its pleasures and its pains firsthand. I had my doubts about Walter’s staying power, but heck, I wasn’t about to rain on her parade. I collected my wits and said all the right things. I’d miss Angie.

Change is the only thing you can count on in vaudeville, my mother used to say. So I was prepared when on Saturday night after the last show, Francine and Jock sent Darcy to fetch me to their room.

“We need to talk about the act,” Jock began. He was standing at the fireplace, his hair still wet from his bath. One hand fiddled with the change in his pocket, the other drummed on the mantel. Francine’s hands were folded serenely in her lap and, as she occupied the only chair in the room, I perched on the edge of the bed.

I agreed with him. The addition of a new person to an act was a good time to make changes. I had some ideas to contribute.

“We’ve been thinking about this for some time. Angie’s leaving makes it come about a little quicker than we had planned but it’s where we were going anyway. We’ve decided not to replace Angie.”

Bad move, I thought. Everyone knows dancing acts need an odd number to look right on stage. Three, five, fifteen, whatever. Odd numbers allow for greater versatility in the choreography. I was about to say so when Francine spoke up.

“We’ve been working up some different routines, ones that play up to Darcy,” she said.

“I couldn’t agree more. That boy’s got the makings of a real star.”

Francine beamed. What mother doesn’t enjoy hearing her child praised? “Robert’s family wants him to come home,” she continued. At eleven, Robert played the third oldest Darling, the stair step down from me. He had been with us a year and a half. A nice boy, but he could be replaced without much difficulty. “His father is doing poorly,” continued Francine, “and his mother needs him on the farm more than she needs the money we pay him. He’s going home next Saturday.” She cleared her throat delicately. “And we’ve found a place for Stanley with an acrobatic act. He’s always been so limber. He’ll do well there.”

Oh, my God, she was breaking up the act! A sick, hollow feeling I hadn’t known in years settled in my stomach like a cold rock. She couldn’t be dumping me too? Surely they would keep me?

“And me?” My voice cracked on the question. I cleared my throat to cover up my rising panic.

“We’ve been keeping an eye out for something for you too,” said Jock without meeting my eyes. “We care about all four of you, and you’ve been with us a long while. You’re like real family.”

Not quite. Real family wasn’t being cast off. “So the Little Darlings are going to go on, but with only three kids?” I asked, hardly able to breathe.

Jock found something interesting about his fingernails.

“I see.” And I did. With Darcy taking on a bigger role, they could do as well or better with three kids as with seven. And the $50 a week they wouldn’t be giving me, Angie, and the boys would translate into a big raise for them. It was obvious. So obvious it made me want to throw up. How had I not seen this coming?

The betrayal cut into me like a dull knife. In my whole life, I had been with no act longer than the Little Darlings. I had practically raised Darcy and Danny, and I loved little Lizzie and her antics. Francine and Jock were only five or ten years older than me, and I thought of them as a brother and sister. In a flash, I saw how stupid I had been to let myself care and how gullible to think I was ever anything more than hired help.

Orphaned again. Why did each time feel like the first?

I got up off the bed, swallowing hard, determined to die before I let them see me cry. I didn’t want to hear what they had in mind for me. I didn’t need Jock and Francine. I could find my own jobs. Lord knows, I’d done it before. I’d been in this business a lot longer than they had, and I had friends. A lot of friends. And some money saved. There were loads of opportunities for someone with my talents. Right now, I just wanted to escape to my own room where I could be alone before my eyes spilled over.

“I know this has been a shock…” Jock began.

“Not at all,” I lied, swallowing hard. “I’ll find something else.”

“It’s just business. Nothing personal. No hard feelings, hon?”

“None at all.” I lifted my chin and left their room.

5

You can find the location of any act in big-time vaudeville simply by looking in the pages of
Variety
or
Billboard,
weeklies that list who, where, and when for the Orpheum and Keith-Albee circuits. The lesser circuits—the Pantages, Western, Interstate, and such—print similar broadsides, not as accurate but serviceable. So it was simple for me to write the larger kiddie acts and request an audition. From Oklahoma City, I sent word to the Darlings’ New York agent—agents are often the first to learn of vacancies—and had a polite reply. This was a particularly bad time for singles to try to break in, he advised. Stick to groups or a double. He’d keep me in mind. It was a good start.

I didn’t limit myself to juvenile. A versatile performer like me can fit into almost any routine. I could sing, dance most styles—ballet, tap, clogging, folk, or ballroom—play a little flute and clarinet, and act in comedies, tragedies, or musicals. I set out to find something good, something long-term. Someone with my talents could afford to be choosy.

Right away I was called to Denver to audition for a part with a troupe that specialized in Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. I adored Gilbert and Sullivan and knew most of their songs by heart. I’d performed “Three Little Maids from School Are We” when I was ten, dressed in a beautiful green silk kimono Mother had made for me. I did that number for them, minus the kimono. They needed two players, and I was certain I would be offered one of the spots, but I lost out.

In late May in St. Louis I tried for several roles, one with a kiddie song-and-dance troupe, one with the Russian Dolls, an ensemble that specialized in Russian folk dancing, another that put on famous scenes from Shakespeare, and a Wild West show that needed a cowgirl who could sing and do ropes. My rope twirling was weak, but I assured them I was a quick study. I think I’d have gotten that role if I’d been able to shoot a bow and arrow. I finally accepted an offer to assist the Great Adolfo, who seemed impressed with my previous experience in magic. Three days later I walked off—without pay—after it became clear that I was expected to perform in bed as well as on stage.

By then I was in Memphis where I picked up two weeks of work substituting for a girl who had gone home for her mother’s funeral and another week helping behind the scenes with a chicken act, getting my arms pecked bloody while rounding up those nasty creatures when they would try to escape into the wings. I auditioned for a Hawaiian song-and-dance act and was rejected.

I had my mail forwarded from Oklahoma City to Memphis, where I rewrote fifty letters to see whether anything new had opened up in the past few weeks. Friends sent their best wishes and said they would let me know as soon as they heard of a good lead, but most didn’t respond at all. You can’t bank warm wishes, and my money was running low, but I told myself there was plenty of time.

Even out of a job a while, I wouldn’t starve. Working with magicians had taught me enough sleight of hand to feed myself for free at any grocer’s. In my younger years, after Mother had died and no one was paying me much attention, I’d been a passable thief, stealing from department stores so vast that what I took was never noticed. Except once, when carelessness earned me two nights in a slop-bucket cell with roaches coming out of the cracks faster than I could squash them. I’d learned my lesson. I never stole anything ever again unless I was one hundred percent certain that I wouldn’t get caught.

In Minneapolis in June I teamed up with a man who had lost his female partner to another act. It was a routine full of silly patter where he delivered the straight lines and I provided the zany misunderstandings. We opened at the Hennepin in the dreaded number two position, which I blame for our meager applause. After our first matinee, the manager came backstage and handed us our publicity photos, brusquely uttering the most feared word in vaudeville: “Canceled.” We changed our name twice and tried again at a couple small-time theaters, but no dice.