It Had to be Good! - Christmas at Famous-Barr 1929 - 11. XII. Week Four – Chapter 1: Intended

XII. Week Four –

Chapter 1: Intended

The 'brown' smell of Lysol disinfectant was pervasive.

Everyplace Bettina raised her head to look, glints of enameled white metal shone. That and the starched white crispness of linen fabric panels from privacy screens and bed sheets.

She sat on a chair by Singer's bedside and felt forlorn. He was resting on top of one of the Famous-Barr employee hospital beds, still wearing his Sadsack Clown Cop uniform and makeup. His fingers were laced together up near the oversized brass star of his police badge, and his eyes were closed.

To his daughter's non-clinical inspection, the man seemed to be napping comfortably; his breathing was stable and his regular intakes and exhales of air raised and lowered his chest in a comforting rhythm.

Bet thought it was a good thing the doctor had already seen him. He would be back in a few minutes with the diagnosis, and hopefully the news that Singer could at least go back to the boarding house, if not back to Santaland.

She consulted her watch: 1 PM. It was a pretty slow time of the day for kids and their folks visiting Santa, but still, it was December the twenty-third, so their visitors would be steady all day. The good news was that tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and by the time the store closed at six, their job would be done except for the pack-up and final paycheck. But, that notion held fear as well; the clock was ticking on Glen and Bettina. He'd have to get Carmen and themselves on a train tomorrow night to make his next gig in Amarillo. She'd have to 'confront' Singer with the information that she'd be on that train with him, however, with her father's sudden illness… How could she bring up that Glen Curtis was now her intended?

'Idle hands,' she thought, trying to rouse herself out of a malaise. Bet lifted the beaded handbag from her lap and pulled out two items: her handkerchief, and a half-dollar-sized tin of Pond's cold cream. She kept that tin filled, and always carried it; she had gotten in the habit after years of learning from Lorna that the boys of the troupe can and do often miss little spots of grease paint when taking off their own makeup.

She dabbed one corner in the emollient and leaned over her father. As gently as she could, she wiped the white goop off of his closed eyelids.

As it transferred, she adjusted her cloth and got more cold cream on a fresh corner of her hankie. Wiping his mouth next, Bet was thankful the employee clinic was next to the service lobby with the freight elevators, but she was sorry they had taken the open-air 'lift,' which was just an exposed, old-fashioned elevator of green wrought iron. Being on a thing that was essentially a giant moving birdcage had only made Singer dizzier. This happened after he glanced up, realized he could see through the metal curlicues which provided the only barrier of its cupola roof, and saw the shaft rising twelve stories over their heads.

Her father inhaled sharply and opened his eyes. His fingers parted, and in the same motion, seemed to want to pull himself to the side.

"No, Dad. You stay in bed."

He slumped back on his pillow. "Is the doctor – "

"He's not back yet. You rest."

She let him see her handkerchief – so he understood her purpose – and used it to go back to work.

His eyes would not leave hers.

"What is it, Dad? Are you feeling better now?"

"Somewhat."

"I think taking that lift-contraption made it worse; I could barely get you in here. What happened, Singer?"

"I don’t know, Bet." His vision grew cloudy in remembrance. "It's the funniest thing, one moment I'm riding my tricycle, performing, next thing I know, I'm laying on the floor, cold as a clam."

"Well," she said, removing the last of his rouge. "This store will take care of you. Rest."

His eyes showed a prelude to tears. "The pressure for money, Bet – It's so great. Since I bought out Doershunk in '23, he's been getting a lot of what we make."

"Shush, Dad. It's best you bought him out. This troupe is yours, and you can make the decisions."

The man chuckled all at once. "Hanzy, that Ole So-and-So – I do all the work, and he gets a tidy little retirement income."

Bettina joined in on the chuckle, mainly to help cheer Singer up, but the truth was, she had her own troubles to think about.

"Maybe," recited the carny veteran with a mixture of joke and earnestness, "the old man will die soon."

That bit of darkness snapped Bet back to him. "Dad – please don’t think bad things."

"You're right. I'm sorry. You know, Bettina, you're always right. If she could see you now, I know your mother would be so proud."

Bet thought that was another intrusive piece of darkness from Singer, but stopped thinking altogether once she saw her father's eyes filling with tears.

"Have I done all right by you, girl? You see, your mother got scared of me and ran from us – from you and me. She told me, at the top of her lungs, that she pitied you, Bettina, because she knew I'd be a lousy father. Have I done all right by you?"

She grasped his hand, fighting back tears of her own. "Singer Martin, you've been the best father in the world to me. I never wanted for nothing, and you know, I'd never want to trade my childhood for any other. So yes, you've done good by me. Really, very good."

That evidently comforted him, and allowed Bet some relief of her own. A small smile flickered across Singer's lips. His tone deepened, and he clutched tightly onto Bet's digits.

"Your mother ran from me, Bet. Escaped… You wouldn't do that, would you, Bet – run from me…?"

˚˚˚˚˚

Lowell Fredricks sat in the Santaland green room and watched the troupe's diminutive Lion Tamer eat a sandwich. The young man's face was coated in pancake makeup, and two red dots rode his cheeks in an uneasy sense of forced jollity. The low-height top hat had come off and been set on a dressing table, but the red swallowtail coat and yellow vest in satin were still in place. All in all, being this close to him for the first time, Lowell had to admit Dandiprat Dave had a rather attractive 'shock' of chestnut-colored hair framing a face that was fairly decent looking, despite the poor teeth.

Just before Singer's collapse, Bet had returned with the afternoon snacks from the employee cafeteria.

Dandiprat Dave took his sandwich break, but there was an oddly unconcerned attitude coming from him about the health status of his employer.

"So…" Dandiprat took a slug from his open Coke bottle. "Let's get this show on the road. You have questions – shoot!"

The adman opened his sketchpad, asking, "Two days before Christmas, how's the crowd?"

"Just great," he said sarcastically. "Snot-nosed brats tugging on my pony crop, knowing I can't use it on them with 'Mother' watching – but, in a back room, WHAP! The small man roared with laughter, bits of ham and pimento cheese clinging to his teeth; and Lowell formed a pat dislike for him.

He began to sketch the particular scowl that lived in the corner of the sham Lion Tamer's eye.

"I guess my first question is, how did you get your name within the troupe?"

"Alden," he explained matter-of-factly. "Singer wanted to call me 'Midget Mike,' or 'Dwarf Dwayne,' or some other idiotic, offensive thing. Alden…" The young man suddenly extended his pinky as he took a 'delicate' gulp of pop. "…Came up with Dandiprat. At first I didn’t know what it meant, then he showed me in a book. It means the same thing as a smaller-sized fella, so I was fine with Dandiprat Dave."

"What's your real name?"

An instant guard came up. He deferred answering by taking a bite of sandwich and shrugging. Through his grin of half-masticated bread, he told Lowell, "Sorry. Don’t remember it."

The adman let the immature 'boy' finish his mouthful of food as he turned the page and began a new sketch of him.

"And how old are you – if you remember that."

"Twenty-five," he snorted, apparently liking pushback.

"How long have you been in the troupe?"

"You wanna know my story, is that it?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Here it is: Born and bred in Kentucky, and my dear old Pap basically sold me into bondage. At age twelve, he took me to a racetrack, got a hundred dollars for me, and left me there. The men there 'educated' me – not only on being a stable boy. I slept on the straw, in empty stalls next to the horses themselves. Shit, it's ironic. They were worth thousands, and I could be bought and sold for a c-note… Anyway, eventually they thought they'd train me up to be a jockey. Cute idea, right? Except I kept falling off the horse. One summer's night, about six years ago, a carnival was set up by the county next to the racetrack. I snuck out at night, wandered around, and Singer and Alden approached me about what I did for a living. I told them I shovel out stalls and in my spare time got thrown from horses. They started laughing; I confessed how much I hated it; I told them what my father did to me, and that I was basically enslaved. That led to a job offer on the spot, so the last night of the carnival, I slipped away from my stables with nothing but the clothes on my back – the only things I owned – and an hour later I was on a train heading North as Doershunk-Martin's newest troupe member."

"And your character?"

Dandiprat Dave took his last swig of cola before making a loud AH! sound and continuing. "Well, that's a funny thing too. See, Singer wanted Lorna to make me a set of jockey silks, but Alden, maybe seeing how mad and sad that notion made me, suggested the unexpected would be funnier. Thanks to him, 'Dandiprat Dave' appears in satin Lion Tamer duds."

Lowell chuckled. "And who came up with the pony crop and doll's chair?"

"Bettina. That was all her contribution, and I appreciated it. She's a good girl."

"Are you close with her?"

"Not particularly. I feel closer to Singer."

"Why's that?"

"I owe him. I ain't no psycho-analyst or whatever, but likewise I know I see him as a father type to me, and that's okay. He's a good man who works hard to keep us fit, fat and together. That's what a dad should do, right?"

"Yes, I guess you're right."

"In fact…" Dandiprat's tone lowered. He dropped his sandwich on the wax paper 'placemat,' placed his elbows on the table and leaned in a bit. "Times are lean, and I tried to pitch in."

"What do you mean, exactly?"

"Truth is, that man will probably fall apart if Bet ever left his side, so I let him know last night: I tell him that 'sinning cowboy' and his precious daughter are planning mischief."

"You told on Glen and her?"

"Damn straight. He's under enough pressure to hold things together. I don’t think Singer could stand to lose her on top of all the rest."

"But, don’t you want her to be happy?"

He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest dismissively. Through a conceited sneer enlivened and deformed by his makeup, he told Lowell, "She's happy enough right where she is."

A cold realization entered the adman's brain. Here they were concerned about Lawrie being a risk to Bet's future happiness, when the whole time it was this little guy who posed the more pressing danger.

"I've been asking everyone," said Lowell, trying to collect his wits. "So, I'll ask you – do you think people are right to worry about the economic situation we're in?"

Dandiprat Dave scoffed. "Idiots. It's all based on fear – that's what I think."

"What do you mean?"

"Fear – it's the great, unholy motivator of man's actions; that and lust. Lust for control, for sex, for power, money, you name it. I think we're in for it – gonna be just one rat stepping over another to keep from drowning. That's why guys like me gotta work so hard. In uncertain times, it's only family that you can cling to and trust. It's family that has to be kept together at all costs."

"Not everybody is afraid of change."

Dandiprat Dave appeared hurt. "Most folks have more than they can lose and not feel it. What do I have in this life? Nothing, only family, and I don’t want it to change."

A spark of insight flashed into Lowell's head. "So, tell me again…" the adman asked with narrowed tone "…why'd you snitch her out to her dad?"

The word 'snitch' was an unmistakable editorial cue to Dandiprat Dave that Lowell thought it was a cowardly move.

The young man lowered his arms and raised his defenses. "Look, the world's going to hell in a hand basket; the dolts on Wall Street are fixing to make all they can and sell the rest of us to the work farm – we regular folks gotta stick together, and for Singer – and for his family – us – we gotta keep Bet around so the old man will want to go on. His livelihood is our livelihood… But, maybe a rich guy like you can't follow that logic."

"I can follow it. I'm not a psychologist either, but I can see you want a father, and you'll do what's necessary to keep one too."

The carny Lion Tamer swallowed. The tension left his body like a relief valve had been thrown. He continued, "Okay, then. Maybe you do get it. It ain't a 'sin' to want things to stay the way they are, is it?"

"No, not a sin at all. Unless it winds up hurting somebody else's shot at a better life. You wouldn't begrudge Alden and Singer the chance to rescue you from the racetrack, would you?"

While Dandiprat Dave let that soak in, Lowell asked, "And what about Alden; you hardly mentioned him."

"Alden?" he asked suspiciously. "He's all right, I suppose. But I don’t trust him."

Lowell was floored. "Why not?"

Dandiprat Dave rocked his shoulders from side to side, looking uncomfortably left and right. "I'm not one to tell tales outta school and all, but that Alden, be careful with him. He's queer, and you know none of them can be trusted worth a darn. Some of 'em…" his tone cracked emotionally "…were down on that racetrack, and, and – " He stopped abruptly.

A light bulb went off in Lowell's head. Dandiprat Dave's early life had probably been marred in the same or similar ways as Lorna's had. He applied a soothing tone, one he hoped would reach out to the young man in the comforting realization that Alden was not like 'them.'

"Dandiprat, listen to me here – just because Alden may, well, that's his business anyway. My point is that what those men may have done to you as a youngster was not about them being 'queer.' It was about them being criminal, and down right despicable. I doubt very much they gave a damn if you or others like you were a boy or girl – they just took advantage – "

"All right, stop now. You've said too much." The tough little carny's protective shell was fully back up. "As I said, I just don’t trust Alden. I've never known what he's intended with me. And you can't trust queers – can't trust none of 'em!"

Feeling all at once that the young man was both beyond reach and a genuine threat, the adman fought the almost overwhelming urge to run. He wanted to find Alden at that instant so they could go together and warn Bettina Martin before it was too late.

The door opened…