I DON’T THINK I have ever been more nervous—Phoebe Dean, either. We arrived very early for dress rehearsal and she paced back and forth in front of the stage while I practiced my Mardi Gras music on the grand piano and Cal Green’s crew put the final touches on the stage set which they had constructed in Shop. “When the saints come marching in, oh when the saints come marching in, well I want to be in that number, when the saints come marching in!” Phoebe jumped up on stage to sing along with me in her big, churchy voice while Cal grinned at us and his crew of patients snapped their fingers appreciatively. “Yeah!” one large man yelled. It was amazing, really, what they had built—the sturdy wooden facsimile of a clock tower such as you would see in Europe, its plywood façade painted to look like ancient stones, Notre Dame in Paris or the Cathedral St. Louis in New Orleans. “Oh when the sun begins to shine, oh when the sun begins to shine—” Phoebe and I started in on the second verse.
Cal climbed atop a ladder while his helpers carefully handed up the big clock face we had all seen in the Art Room for weeks now, its black Roman numerals painted in Gothic lettering. Miss Malone herself arrived just in time to stand and watch this procedure, hands on her wide hips. “Oh Lord I want to be in that number, when the sun begins to shine!” We finished, and I switched over to “Tipitina,” which sounded good, too. Everything always sounded great on that piano. By then I was feeling better; a keyboard can always calm me down.
“That looks perfect, Cal,” Phoebe called out as he descended from the ladder.
Cal tipped his hat, that same old khaki hat he had worn for all the years I had known him at Highland. “Come on boys, let’s get out of here, we’ve got work to do.” His crew followed him reluctantly, with the big man dancing like crazy all across the stage, surprisingly light on his feet.
Then Miss Malone came up on the stage herself to look at the clock more closely. It seemed to pass her inspection. “Okay, Karen,” she yelled out suddenly, surprising me, “where are you?”
“Got it covered, Boss” came Karen’s voice from somewhere high overhead. “Here we go!” The first gossamer strip fluttered down from the catwalk far above the stage, waving behind the clock tower, followed by another, then another, then another, in shades of blue and red and yellow, Mrs. Fitzgerald’s favorite primary colors, I remembered. She always liked to paint straight from the little pots, never mixing the colors. The banners waved and shimmered nearly to the floor.
“Oh my goodness, how gorgeous, Rowena!” Dr. Schwartz cried out as she arrived, but Miss Malone was still not satisfied, calling up to Karen to move this one or that one in order to achieve just the right fantastical backdrop. Finally Karen was allowed to climb down, receiving a squeeze from Miss Malone for her efforts, and spontaneous applause from the rest of us.
I had just switched over to “Jambalaya,” tinkling the treble keys, when the back door opened and Phoebe leaned over the piano to say, “Uh-oh. Here comes trouble.” Of course we were all wondering this very same thing. Mrs. Fitzgerald entered, wearing her enormous purple shawl. I took my hand off the keys immediately, but Dr. Schwartz said softly, “No, no, Evalina, just keep playing, please, that’s a girl,” which I did, while Mrs. Fitzgerald strode purposefully down the aisle without a word and came to a stop before the stage where she stood dead still for a long second before finally clapping her hands together and crying “Bravo, bravo! Bravo, Rowena!” her face transformed, alight.
Miss Malone bowed her head in silent acknowledgment, according Mrs. Fitzgerald that great respect she always gave her. Miss Malone would have done anything—anything—for Mrs. Fitzgerald, I believe.
And Mrs. Fitzgerald was glowing as she stood transfixed before her festive tower.
“Oh, look!” “Wow!” “Look!” sang out the “hours” as they came tramping down the aisle, bundled up in their winter coats.
I kept on playing like a person possessed until Mrs. Fitzgerald finally waved her hand at me. “That will certainly do, Patricia!” she said, “That’s entirely enough out of you!” though with a smile. “It’s time to get down to business.” She threw her shawl across my piano and stood revealed in her black leotard and tights, with a swirling purple skirt that shone and moved as she moved, like liquid, like her banners.
“Come on, come on now, dears, it’s time,” she called out to the girls.
But the girls clustered together and hung back, keeping their coats on.
“What is it? Come on now!” Mrs. Fitzgerald moved toward the front of the stage.
“I think perhaps they are embarrassed,” Dr. Schwartz said softly. “This is the first time they have worn their costumes.”
Several of the “hours” nodded.
“What? Oh, that is ridiculous!” Mrs. Fitzgerald snapped.
But I understood perfectly. I would never have done what they were doing, not in a million years.
Mrs. Fitzgerald got that dangerous, smoldering look. “Places!” She clapped her hands.
As suddenly as that, electricity filled the air.
“Oh, okay—” Dixie was the first, laughing as she ran up the steps with her red skirt floating out around her like a full-blown rose; then Amanda in yellow—all yellow, her flying hair, too; then Karen Quinn, large and orange. Ruth surprised me by looking absolutely beautiful in her electric blue skirt, frizzy red hair pulled back into a tight chignon. She waved at me as she ran past my piano. Shy Pauletta was pretty and graceful in her pink skirt—and not crying, for once. But Nancy Morris was the big surprise. In her shiny white skirt she looked lovely and moved slowly, with perfect composure, a real dancer, heading into a future that seemed to stretch before her across the stage. Mrs. Fitzgerald smiled at her. “Nice. Very nice, dear.”
But then the thundercloud came back, as Mrs. Fitzgerald counted on her fingers: “—five—six—only six? Where are the others? Where is my Little Orphan Annie?”
“Probably in jail,” Ruth said under her breath.
“Perhaps you can improvise a bit,” suggested Dr. Schwartz.
“This is totally unprofessional. Where are they? It will not do!” Mrs. Fitzgerald seemed to swell before our eyes, dire and regal, a menacing queen.
“Jesus Christ!” from Ruth.
“He ain’t in this dance” came Jinx’s flat nasal voice as she ran down the aisle. “I’m in this dance! And you are, too—what the hell are you doing down there?” now grabbing up Myra, who’d been cowering between the seats. “Come on! If I’m coming, you’re coming, too—” dragging Myra down the aisle with her.
All the hours were laughing now, and Mrs. Fitzgerald clapped her hands. “Places!”
I switched into the upbeat intro as—at last—the great clock took form before us on the stage. And now I understood the purpose of the colors, as the girls in the pastel skirts took their positions at the small numbers, the palette darkening as time progressed around the clock toward Mrs. Fitzgerald herself at twelve.
“Come on, now, come on!” Jinx, in green, pushed pale-blue Myra across the stage, pliant as a pipe cleaner.
“Oh buck up, honey!” Ruth snapped, and surprisingly, Myra did, slipping in at five.
Jinx went over to seven and stretched, perfectly at ease, grinning out toward the empty auditorium that suddenly seemed to fill with people, a phantom audience, a full house. And it was again true, as it was always true, that once Jinx was onstage, you had to look at her. You had to. Her flaming red hair moved loosely all over her head as she stretched, limbering up, her green skirt swirled out and then clung to her legs.
Mrs. Fitzgerald took her own place at the top of the clock, then nodded to me. I played louder, moving into the actual music. Each hour turned in place, then twirled, all the skirts swirling about them, the many ruffling layers making them look like so many carnations. And then the great clock turned, the whole clock went round, all those carnations, including Mrs. Fitzgerald, now one of them. The kaleidoscope, I thought. Of course, the kaleidoscope.
“Now we’re in business!” Phoebe announced.
But no one heard her, or took any notice of her, as round and round they went. It’s amazing what a costume can do—the physical transformation that occurs—the liberating effect upon the psyche. Though each girl must have tried on her skirt at least once in the Art Room at some point, presumably—or even several times, for fittings—they had never worn them in public, or all together. Round and round and round they went, then sallied forth in their groups of three to dance charmingly, that first hard sequence now fully natural, like the routine of our lives.
Each hour was distinctive, each different from all the others, each very beautiful in her own way, and I can see them yet in my mind’s eye—Dixie the blooming red rose she had been all her life; sweet pink Pauletta, whom I didn’t really know; Ruth with all that energy focused for once, a blue bolt of lightning; bright orange Karen Quinn, practical and useful as a marigold; Jinx, a streak of green neon; pale blue Myra, fluid as water; pure white Nancy Morris, all talent and resolve, like a distant star; Amanda come into her own at last, a sunflower of Provence; and Mrs. Fitzgerald herself, regal and secret as an iris, born to dance—oh why hadn’t she joined the San Carlo company when they asked her? Why not? Why do we do the things we should not, and not do the things we should? But no matter. For the garden blooms, the seasons pass, the great clock turns.
I strike the time.
And ah, alas, now the hours must scatter, searching, searching, arabesque, arabesque, the plaintive notes, the frantic search until the clock strikes again and all the hours—all!—flutter offstage like a cloud of butterflies.
THE AUDIENCE WHISPERS, rustles, and several among them start to applaud, then stop in confusion. A deep hush descends upon us all—the audience, the empty stage. The moment extends . . . and extends . . . until the suspense becomes unbearable.
Then voila! I hit the jubilant C chord and here they all come back, leaping and strutting, laughing and smiling, to form a lineup straight across the stage, like the girls in the Moulin Rouge. Even Mrs. Fitzgerald is fully engaged, enjoying herself, face like a flame. She nods at me, I hit the C again, and suddenly it’s the cancan, the cancan! As surprising and improbable as anything in life. “Kick, one two three! Kick, one two three!” she cries out. “Kick high! Over your head!” The beautiful skirts are petals, they are wings, lifting my chums, the hours, oh fly! Fly away, fly away, fly away home.
Our little audience is on their feet now, holding on to each other, laughing and crying, as are we all. Kick, one two three!
Together the hours bow, together raise their clasped hands then stand exhausted, amazed by what they have just done. Mrs. Fitzgerald awards them with her rare smile. “Go, go home now,” she says to them. “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
THE MOUNTAIN TIMES, Asheville, N.C., March 11, 1948—A fire started in the kitchen of the Central Building of Highland Hospital last night and shot up the dumbwaiter shaft, leaping out onto each floor. It was discovered by nurse Jane Anderson who had earlier administered sedatives to all the patients on the 5th floor. At 11:30 she thought she smelled smoke and went downstairs to investigate. She opened the kitchen door to behold a bizarre sight—the big kitchen table burning all around the edges of its galvanized top with the flames rising over a foot high, making it look like “one of those fiery hoops animals jump through in circuses.” Confused and terrified, she did not try to extinguish this burning rectangle but ran back upstairs to the nurses’ station on the fourth floor and started trying in vain to telephone her supervisor, Willie May Hall, over at Oak Lodge, as she had been told to do in case of a fire or other emergency. But the hospital’s telephone exchange was not working properly, so finally she called the Asheville Fire Department.
The first alarm came into their headquarters at 11:44 according to Fire Chief J.C. Fitzgerald—fourteen minutes after Miss Anderson first smelled the smoke. He said that the fire had been burning for 40 to 45 minutes by the time they got there. “If the alarm had been given 30 minutes earlier,” he said, “there would have been no need for anyone losing their lives.”
But the heat had grown so intense by the time the firemen arrived that their gushing water had absolutely no effect on the leaping flames. For the fire had spread rapidly, racing along the halls and filling the stairways with smoke. There was no sprinkler system and no fire alarm system. The top floor was entirely locked down to insure the safety of all those whose insulin shock treatments were in progress. But most windows and doors on the other floors were locked as well, severely hampering the efforts of the hospital staff, local police and citizens, and firefighters who arrived in force when they finally got there. The fire filled the sky. Orange-tipped flames laced with black and white smoke shot up from the hospital like fireworks, lighting up the whole night . . .
I RAN UP the hill with Amanda and Ruth but then lost them amid the flood of shouting, converging townspeople. A sobbing black-smudged patient in his pajamas ran into me, going the other way. My eyes stung from the smoke.
The Central Building looked as if a child with a fiery crayon had painstakingly outlined it: the roofline, the walls, each floor, the windows in which black, gesticulating figures stood framed. I could feel the heat long before I neared the building—or got as close as I could get, I should say, for the police had cordoned it off to make way for those who were still going in and out, bringing patients to the waiting stretchers and ambulances. Everyone was screaming, or crying, or yelling—a huge moan went up as one of the burning fire escapes—for they were made of wood, too—broke loose and fell, with people on it.
Here and there I glimpsed familiar faces in the intense red glow, but not many, and not for long, and not Freddy or Phoebe or Dr. Schwartz or the Overholsers or anybody I really knew except for heroic Carl Renz, easily identifiable due to his size, who kept walking in and out of the burning building like a robot calmly carrying people in his arms. Two days later he would die as a result of his own burns. Mr. Pugh would be hospitalized for months.
The police were trying to disperse the crowd, but I could neither leave nor look away from the black figures in silhouette against the orange and red flames until the roof began to collapse and they were gone, my princesses, my chums, and it was over. Dixie died there, and Mrs. Fitzgerald, and Pauletta, and four other women. I remembered what Mrs. Fitzgerald had said in Art so long ago, about the danger of putting princesses in towers. Her body would be identified only by her charred ballet slipper, and Dixie’s by her dental work, that perfect smile.
Still I could not leave, for on the balcony still standing at the end of the top floor, several stockings hung out on a clothesline were dancing, dancing, dancing in the rising heat of the fire, and as I watched, I thought of Mrs. Fitzgerald and also of my own mother, and how much I had loved her, beautiful dancer, as I had loved my own big-headed baby girl. “Places!” I cried, clapping my hands as they danced on for as long as they could, Mamma and Mrs. Fitzgerald, through their hard, bright lives.