Ella of All-of-a-Kind Family (12 page)

That’s La Verne talking, Ella’s ears registered, then couldn’t help listening for Irene’s answer.

“But I ain’t dressed up for a date.”

“Aw, go on! Hey, Sally, could you lend Irene that snazzy hat you bought? We’re going out on a double.”

“Sure. Irene, you want my green beads, too? They’d go real nice with your red hair.”

Now Ella’s attention was caught by a burst of staccato giggles from Dolly. “So, he says, ‘Never mind about the sugar, baby. Just stir your finger in my cup.’ ”

“I ever tell you about the time the manager skipped out with the whole week’s take?” Sally’s voice floated again into Ella’s consciousness.… “All our dough gone!”

“So what’d you do?”

“What do you think? The hotel had our suitcases. Wouldn’t give ’em up till they got paid. I had to wire home for more dough.”

“There ought to be a law.”

The words blurred on the page of Ella’s book. Suppose she had to wire home for funds.…

And now Jack was bending over her, his head so close, she twisted away. “Miss Highbrow, with her cutesy nose always in a book. Whatcha reading now, kid?”

He flipped the book over in her hand—“
My Ántonia
by Willa Cather.… Not my
aunt
! Get it? Ha, hah! What’s it all about?”

“Oh, about people in Nebraska. Homesteaders. Their hardships and …”

“How do you like that?” Jack cried, holding the book up for all to see. “As if we ain’t got enough hardships of our own without havin’ to read about some yokels in Nebraska.” He tossed the book back in Ella’s lap and wandered over to where several of the girls were playing cards on an up-ended suitcase.

Ella set the book aside. Suddenly it seemed so stuffy in the room. “Sally,” she cried in exasperation, “I just can’t get used to this waiting around between shows!”

Sally yawned comfortably. “It don’t seem to bother me. I’m just lazy, I guess. That Jack! Don’t pay any attention to him. Go on back to your reading.”

“In all this commotion? I can’t keep my mind on it.” She indicated the players. “And I don’t know how to play cards.”

“Well, maybe you oughta learn,” Sally advised. “It’s a swell way of passin’ the time. Especially on long train rides.” Her mouth stretched wide in another yawn.

Passing time—passing time—the phrase kept revolving. That’s exactly what I’m doing. And that’s what I will be doing for months at a time. No chance to go on with
music lessons—no place for practice by myself—no time or energy for anything. She looked around the room, engulfed by the realization of how it would be. “I’ve got to get out of here!” she burst out. “I’m going down for a breath of air.”

“You’ve only got fifteen minutes,” Sally shouted after her.

Down the stairs, out the stage door, into the alley she fled, and then miraculously, she was in Jules’s arms!

“Jules!” she exclaimed, half laughing, half crying. “What in the world are you doing here?”

“We have so little time left to be together, I had to see you.”

They stood there wordless for several minutes. Ella could feel his quiet strength flow through her, all her vexation melting away.

“I’ve got to get back,” she murmured. She pulled away reluctantly. “I’ll meet you here right after the show.”

As the company was lining up in the wings, Sally looked at her intently. “Say, you look like somebody just handed you a million bucks.”

Ella smiled happily. “Jules was in the alley! Imagine!”

Sally regarded Ella’s shining face. “You know,” she observed dryly, “he’s not gonna be waitin’ for you outside every stage door. It’s none of my business, but you can’t have your cake and eat it too. You’d better make up your mind, kid, one way or the other.…”

Slowly, unwillingly, plowing her way through clouds of sleep, Ella awoke. She lay still, breathing in deeply the peace and quiet of the house.… Charlie and the girls must all be in school. And Mama, as usual, busy in the
kitchen. These past weeks, how many things about the family have I missed?…

I’m grateful for these two weeks off before we go on tour. I must devote every minute to the family—to Jules.… When I think of leaving, I feel my insides all runny like an egg. She reached for her robe. I think I’ll get up and lend a hand right now.

The kitchen air was filled with the delicious smell of baking which ordinarily marked Mama’s preparations for the Sabbath. Against the bright sunlight streaming through the open window, Ella could see the waves of heat corkscrewing up from the stove.

“Good morning, Mama. It’s so hot! In your condition, why are you baking? It’s not Friday.”

Mama looked up, smiling. “I’m almost finished. It didn’t take too long. After all, it’ll be quite a while before you’ll be tasting your Mama’s pies and filled cake.” She wiped her forehead and went back to her work.

She’s doing this for me. She knows I’m simply crazy about filled cake. It’s utterly silly but I could just break down and weep over the mere thought of filled cake. She turned away quickly and went to the window.

A little sparrow was balancing its toothpick feet on a swaying clothesline. “Trr-reet!” Its tiny throat swelled with the effort. Somehow she was reminded of Professor Calvano. Strange. I haven’t given a thought to my singing teacher all this time. He’s like someone from another world. I must get to see him before I leave.… She turned back. Mama was already getting her breakfast for her. “Never mind, Mama,” she cried. “Let me. I’ll do it.”

While Ella sipped her coffee, Mama’s nimble fingers fluted the edges of dough around the rim of a pie plate.
Mama’s always so capable, so strong, she thought … still …

Aloud she said, “Mama I feel so awful that I won’t be here when the baby comes.”

“It’ll be all right, Ella,” Mama assured her. “There’s nothing for you to worry about. Tanta’s coming to look after the house as always. She’ll take perfect care of Papa and the children while I am in the hospital. She’s even offered to stay on for a couple of weeks when I come home.” She smiled a bit wanly. “It’s funny but I must admit I feel a little strange about a hospital. All my other babies were born right at home with just the doctor and a midwife tending me.”

Ella carried her breakfast dishes to the sink. Her hands fell agreeably into the rhythm of washing and drying. Washing dishes, she mused, putting them away in their accustomed places one by one—there’s a kind of contentment in such homely tasks. Pleasure even, in seeing everything emerge clean and sparkling. Why should anyone think that homemaking hasn’t creative aspects about it also? Like that pie, for instance. Only a real artist could turn out such creations. And the way we all enjoy them, I’m sure it must give Mama a tremendous sense of satisfaction.

“Ella, are you happy?”

Mama’s unexpected question startled Ella out of her thoughts. Do mothers have a sixth sense about their children? she wondered. She fumbled about for a reply.

“Well,” she responded finally, trying to measure every word, “I do enjoy performing. I enjoy it a lot. Naturally, I’m upset about going. Not really panicky, you understand,” she amended quickly, “just a bit scared.”

It isn’t exactly the answer Mama may have hoped for, I know, but at least I’m trying to be honest—up to a point anyway.

Mama’s breath was a faint sigh. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she inquired. “Some washing or ironing?”

“No, Mama. I can take care of those things myself. Well,” she added with a show of briskness, “I’ll go make up my bed.”

Back in her room, Ella smoothed the sheets, plumped up the pillows, and flipped the bedspread. In the morning breeze the crisp white window curtains kept billowing out, then pressing back against the glass. The sun slanted across the bed as little dust particles danced up and down its golden band of light.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and let her eyes linger over each familiar detail—the dark mahogany desk polished satin-smooth—the comfortable armchair in which she curled up so often with a book—the small rug, its reds and greens and deep blues sharply outlined against the parquet floor—the bedstead with its gleaming brass rods and knobs. A little stab of pain pinched her heart. She was going to miss this tiny room so long shared with Sarah.

The umpah-pah of a small German band floated up from below. She hummed along with the folksy melody for a while, then took a nickel from her purse, wrapped it in a bit of paper, and tossed it down.

A moment of silence and the band was playing the old favorite—“O Fir Tree Tall.” … She was a little girl again and it was Mama who was singing the tune to her.…

Suddenly she felt as if she were stifled. She had to get
out. Hurriedly she dressed and dashed down the stairs into the street.

As she walked along, she found herself looking at everything with eyes that seemed brand-new. The little old woman watering her flower pots on her stoop—a horse clip-clopping by, patiently pulling a cart laden with fresh fruit and vegetables—the butcher on the corner in straw hat and white apron, hanging a rope of sausages in his window …

She strolled on. Up ahead was the squat red brick schoolhouse which Charlotte and Gertie attended. It must be recess time, for the schoolyard was alive with little girls. Some were playing tag or bouncing balls. Others stood around or chased one another. A small group just in front of Ella was chanting to the slip-slap of a rope.

All I want is a nice young man. Ella squeezed her eyes shut. Are you sure that’s all you want? A solitary tear made its way down her cheek.

Ella’s finger reached for the door buzzer. She hesitated. Why had she come? she wondered. All she could feel was that she had a compelling need to talk to Professor Calvano. When finally she pressed the button, she could hear him calling out, “Come in, come in, Ella! The door she is open.”

As she entered, the professor was busily scooping up assorted music sheets from his sofa. He greeted her warmly, all the while looking around his cluttered studio for a
place to put the accumulated pile. It ended up being dumped on the piano.

Bounding back to the sofa, he patted the faded cushion beside him and said, “Sit now, Ella, and we talk. You look a little more thin than before. Tell me, are you excited about starting on your tour?”

Ella shook her head. “No, Professor.”

He eyed her keenly. “You’re sad maybe about leaving your Jules?”

“Yes. But it’s more than that. I keep wondering whether what I am leaving him for is worth the sacrifice.”

“I think I understand. I didn’t tell you but I went to see the show. You were very good. But”—his shoulders lifted—“after all, there’s music and there’s music. Is it not so?”

Ella’s head lowered. The professor took her hands in his. “My poor little Ella,” he murmured. “What is it you want to make of your life?”

When at last she could look up, her face appeared almost stricken. It seemed an effort for her to speak.

“I want so desperately to sing, Professor. But I feel trapped in a world that somehow is not for me. It’s gotten to the point where I have come to hate what I’m doing.”

The professor nodded. “Yes, I see.” He rose and strode to the piano. Ruffling his fingers over the keys, he began to play the opening bars of “Knowest Thou That Fair Land.”

“Your favorite,” he said, giving her a broad smile. He continued to play softly. “Ella, there is a way out for you. I did not want to say something before, because you and your mother were so excited by the big chance. There is a place in my choral group. Look, this spring our final concert is in Town Hall and we do Mendelssohn’s
Elijah.

“Few of us will ever be famous. I can tell you none of us will be rich. But we will have more important riches—the joy of making the beautiful music.”

The playing ended. “You think about it, Ella.”

As Ella and Jules entered the park, her hand in his, Ella could feel the disquieting thoughts of the day receding. She felt suddenly lighter than a bubble, freer than air. She could hardly contain the happy little laugh that kept springing from her throat.

They sauntered past the entrance gate into the broad expanse of inviting green. Already the setting sun had enkindled a scarf of blazing colors—violet, crimson, and gold—along the horizon. From behind the darkening trees there came the faint hum of traffic. In the distance they could see the twinkling chain of lights which was the elevated station. The moment was magical; the world was remote.

They sat down on a bench near the small pond. The air was damply cool. Around them was stillness, and now the impatient moon, wheeling across the opposing sky, trailed silver on the placid water. Jules held her close.

All at once a voice inside her enunciated loud and clear—vaudeville is not for me. She drew a deep breath, her gaze losing itself in a scattering of leaves whirling by.

“A penny for your thoughts, Ella.”

“Jules,” she responded quietly, “I’ve made up my mind. I’m leaving the show.”

“Leaving the show?” he repeated.

She nodded. “I know now it’s not the kind of career I really want.”

Jules stared at her. “Ella, are you sure you know what you’re saying?”

“Yes.” She groped for the right words. “Somehow—it doesn’t seem important to me—any longer. Don’t think I’ve decided this on the spur of the moment. I’ve been thinking and thinking about it night and day. I just wasn’t sure up to now.”

“Then how can you be sure now?”

She considered for a long moment before answering. “I went to see Professor Calvano today. He helped me clear up my own misgivings. He opened up my eyes to what I was unwilling to admit to myself. I realize now that I couldn’t be completely dedicated to that sort of life. I’d be willing to make all kinds of sacrifices if I thought it was worth it. But it just isn’t—for me, that is. There’s nothing wrong with the vaudeville act. It would be a lucky break for another kind of person. It was just me that was all wrong.”

Jules cupped her face in his hands. “Ella, to have you stay here makes me very happy. But I wouldn’t want you to give up your singing.”

“I won’t have to. Professor Calvano has asked me to join his choral group.”