since she'd started working at five. But theaters in the South—the New Court was in Beltraine, Georgia—also smelled from dampness that never completely dried because of the hot, humid air.
Actually, Iva Claire didn't mind the heat or the dampness or even the smell. She'd been wanting to play a southern circuit ever since she found out she and Mama had family below the Mason-Dixon line. But no matter how broke they were, Mama would never take a booking in the South. Iva Claire was pretty sure the reason had to do with Mama's family, but Mama refused to talk about it, and if Iva Claire pushed her she would get one of her headaches. There were lots of things that Mama wouldn't talk about. Like the fact that she was scared to be in Georgia. She said she wasn't, and she had screamed at Iva Claire for suggesting it, but Iva Claire knew that ever since they'd gotten to Beltraine, which was their first stop in the state, Mama had been having trouble breathing—a sure sign she was upset. And it was all Iva Claire's fault.
Don't think about that
, she told herself firmly.
She walked to the middle of the stage where the movie screen was to see how shallow their playing space would be. The New Court was a vaud-and-pic house, which meant they showed motion pictures and offered a live vaudeville show in between. It wasn't a great booking, but it was a miracle that the Sunshine Sisters had gotten it. They wouldn't have if another act on the tour hadn't dropped out in North Carolina. Mama and Iva Claire had joined the troop there two months ago. They were what was known as a disappointment act.
If she was honest about it, Iva Claire knew the Sunshine Sisters were a disappointment in more ways than one. Their act was terrible—what performers called a
fish
because it stank. Part of the problem was their material. Vaudeville audiences liked funny patter, snappy songs, and pretty girls who showed a little leg. The Sunshine Sisters wore old-fashioned costumes with long skirts, they sang droopy songs by Stephen Foster, and they didn't have any patter at all. Then there was Mama's performance. Mama had a pretty voice but she tried too hard, which made her movements stiff and her singing shrill. When the audience didn't like her, she tried harder—and got stiffer and more shrill. Iva Claire sighed. The Stephen Foster act was new; Mama had put it together and she loved it with all her heart. She'd never see how bad it was—and Iva Claire would never tell her.
“The sight lines in this old dump are as good as the sound,” a light high voice called out from the darkened house. “I've been watching you while you were singing, and there's no place where the audience can't see you.” Iva Claire whirled around to see Tassie walking up the center aisle of the theater. Tassie was about a year older than Iva Claire, and she traveled with a couple known as Benny Ritz and Irene DeLoura. Ritz and DeLoura were the headliners of the troupe. Their comedy routine was the best thing in the show.
Iva Claire and Tassie hadn't said more than a couple of words to each other since the Sunshine Sisters joined the troop, but Iva Claire had been curious about the older girl and her connection to DeLoura and Ritz. Tassie was way too young to be their daughter.
“I brought you your sheet music,” Tassie announced. As she came closer, Iva Claire could see through the gloom that she was carrying a pile of papers. “And I got us a couple of gum erasers,” she added.
Iva Claire felt herself stiffen. “How did you know . . . ?” she stammered, too embarrassed to finish the sentence.
“It's okay,” the other girl soothed. “I know what you do before the show each time we play a new house. I've seen you erase what those jerks write.”
The jerks were house musicians. Each vaudeville theater had its own orchestra, and sometimes if an act was really bad, like the Sunshine Sisters, the men in the pit would amuse themselves by writing notes in the margins
Actually, Iva Claire didn't mind the heat or the dampness or even the smell. She'd been wanting to play a southern circuit ever since she found out she and Mama had family below the Mason-Dixon line. But no matter how broke they were, Mama would never take a booking in the South. Iva Claire was pretty sure the reason had to do with Mama's family, but Mama refused to talk about it, and if Iva Claire pushed her she would get one of her headaches. There were lots of things that Mama wouldn't talk about. Like the fact that she was scared to be in Georgia. She said she wasn't, and she had screamed at Iva Claire for suggesting it, but Iva Claire knew that ever since they'd gotten to Beltraine, which was their first stop in the state, Mama had been having trouble breathing—a sure sign she was upset. And it was all Iva Claire's fault.
Don't think about that
, she told herself firmly.
She walked to the middle of the stage where the movie screen was to see how shallow their playing space would be. The New Court was a vaud-and-pic house, which meant they showed motion pictures and offered a live vaudeville show in between. It wasn't a great booking, but it was a miracle that the Sunshine Sisters had gotten it. They wouldn't have if another act on the tour hadn't dropped out in North Carolina. Mama and Iva Claire had joined the troop there two months ago. They were what was known as a disappointment act.
If she was honest about it, Iva Claire knew the Sunshine Sisters were a disappointment in more ways than one. Their act was terrible—what performers called a
fish
because it stank. Part of the problem was their material. Vaudeville audiences liked funny patter, snappy songs, and pretty girls who showed a little leg. The Sunshine Sisters wore old-fashioned costumes with long skirts, they sang droopy songs by Stephen Foster, and they didn't have any patter at all. Then there was Mama's performance. Mama had a pretty voice but she tried too hard, which made her movements stiff and her singing shrill. When the audience didn't like her, she tried harder—and got stiffer and more shrill. Iva Claire sighed. The Stephen Foster act was new; Mama had put it together and she loved it with all her heart. She'd never see how bad it was—and Iva Claire would never tell her.
“The sight lines in this old dump are as good as the sound,” a light high voice called out from the darkened house. “I've been watching you while you were singing, and there's no place where the audience can't see you.” Iva Claire whirled around to see Tassie walking up the center aisle of the theater. Tassie was about a year older than Iva Claire, and she traveled with a couple known as Benny Ritz and Irene DeLoura. Ritz and DeLoura were the headliners of the troupe. Their comedy routine was the best thing in the show.
Iva Claire and Tassie hadn't said more than a couple of words to each other since the Sunshine Sisters joined the troop, but Iva Claire had been curious about the older girl and her connection to DeLoura and Ritz. Tassie was way too young to be their daughter.
“I brought you your sheet music,” Tassie announced. As she came closer, Iva Claire could see through the gloom that she was carrying a pile of papers. “And I got us a couple of gum erasers,” she added.
Iva Claire felt herself stiffen. “How did you know . . . ?” she stammered, too embarrassed to finish the sentence.
“It's okay,” the other girl soothed. “I know what you do before the show each time we play a new house. I've seen you erase what those jerks write.”
The jerks were house musicians. Each vaudeville theater had its own orchestra, and sometimes if an act was really bad, like the Sunshine Sisters, the men in the pit would amuse themselves by writing notes in the margins
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