The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [22]
“Knock ’em dead, Vinnie,” Solomon Taylor, the plate spinner, said with a gallant bow, a stack of plates balanced precariously on one hand.
“Yeah, knock ’em dead,” echoed one of the specialty dancers, a thin woman with legs so long they reached past the top of her head when she kicked them. Her smile was desperately gay, but it only deepened the spiderweb of lines around her eyes; she was obviously trying to look younger than her years. Her hair was dyed a vivid yellow not found in nature, and her cheeks were painted bright red. Oh, if Mama could only see her! I had to giggle at the notion. My poor mother would have fainted dead away.
Of course, I had not painted my face, although I did allow Mrs. Billy Birch, the wife of one of the minstrels, to rub a soft chamois cloth over my face “to take the shine off.” Despite my excitement and my eagerness to begin my new career, I admit to a few opening-night (or rather, day, as it was only two o’clock in the afternoon) nerves. Singing in front of my schoolmates was one thing; performing in front of a mob of strangers on a floating stage docked in Madison, Indiana, was quite another. Would my voice even carry the length of the boat? Placing my hand upon my diaphragm, I took several deep breaths and reminded myself not to strain on the higher notes.
When we reached the cluttered area in the back of the stage, Billy Birch and his minstrels were in the midst of performing a lively number. I couldn’t see them, as they were in front of the curtain, but I heard the banjos strumming gaily, felt the whole stage shudder beneath the stomping of their feet.
Oh! I just come afore you,
To sing a little song;
I plays it on de Banjo,
And dey calls it Lucy Long.
“You ready, Sylvia?” Mr. Lawson, the stage manager, asked my friend. Sylvia nodded, and as soon as the minstrels were done—I heard some scattered applause, a few shouts from the audience, and something hit the stage with a loud thump—Sylvia turned to me.
“Vinnie, I think I should lift you up somewhere. It’s awfully dark back here, and you might get hurt.”
I looked around; it was quite dark, the only light wafting through rips in the red-velvet stage curtain or spilling in when someone opened the door to the outside. Scattered about were tangled nests of ropes, musical instruments, and heavy pieces of scenery stacked, not very solidly, on top of one another. Stagehands and performers moved frantically to and fro while the entire floor undulated ever so slightly upon the water. Mama had never seen the backstage of a floating theater, but if she had, she would certainly have added it to her list of things to fear on my behalf.
“I suppose so. How about that trunk?”
Sylvia nodded and carefully picked me up and placed me on top of the trunk. Then she bent down—I still was no higher than her waist—to speak to me. “Now, stay here, and I’ll come back for you when I’m done, just like we practiced.”
“Sylvia!” I had a sudden panicked thought.
“What?”
“Do you think I should sing the ballad first, instead of ‘The Soldier’s Wedding’? Which do you think would go over best? I do want to make a good first impression.”
“Vinnie, it doesn’t matter what you—Whatever you think, dear. Whatever one you like the best.”
“I suppose the ballad, then.” I smiled up at her, but she only peered at me quizzically, an expression I could not interpret in her sad blue eyes. Then she straightened up, sighed, and moved slowly toward the curtain, as if she were on her way to her own execution. I couldn’t understand her reluctance. Why, we were in