Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.
~Helen Keller
My mother was a vivacious, attractive young woman. She was also strong-willed. She craved adventure and the spotlight — a characteristic not shared by her strait-laced folks. Her wealthy parents indulged their only child’s desire for piano, dance, and voice lessons, but the only venues available to display her talents were recitals — prim and proper affairs where the only recognition was polite applause.
My mother had ambitions, ones that extended way beyond recitals. Her adolescent imagination was fueled by the films of the time showing glitzy nightclubs where glamorous women in evening dress sipped martinis, their elegant red-nailed hands holding cigarettes, the smoke spiraling from their dark red lips. The men who accompanied these women were sophisticated and debonair, exuding just a hint of danger and intrigue. She imagined bright lights, dangling chandeliers, and white-clothed tables surrounding a tiny stage. The banter was witty, and laughter spilled over in the room like champagne.
When the lights dimmed, all eyes moved to the figure stepping onto the stage. Smoke from the many cigarettes swirling around her shrouded the woman in sensual mystique. The nightclub singer — that’s what my mother wanted to be.
After she read an ad in the local newspaper for auditions at a supper club, my nineteen-year-old mother took matters into her own hands. Feigning a headache, she excused herself and went up to her room. Then as soon as she saw the light go off under her parents’ door, she made her escape. Dressed in her prom dress — which she had altered to create a higher hem and lower neckline — and holding her high heels in her hands, she tiptoed quietly down the stairs.
When she got to the club, she was surprised and secretly pleased to see it filled with customers. She greeted the manager and, lying about her age, signed up to perform. If she was experiencing any apprehension, it soon vanished when she was led onto the stage by the chubby emcee with greasy, slicked-back hair and a pencil-thin mustache. He introduced her as Beautiful Beverly.
The lights dimmed, the audience quieted, and my mother nodded to the piano player that she was ready.
“The night is bitter; the stars have lost their glitter.” My mother belted out the lyrics to “The Man That Got Away.” Whatever she lacked in musical ability was more than offset by her movements. She cradled the microphone, pouting her lips. She swayed her hips and tossed her dark curls. Then, in a move that brought down the house, she sashayed down from the stage and, with the spotlight following, glided over to a man sitting near the front. Rubbing his bald head, she sang into his ear, and then kissed his cheek before coquettishly blowing kisses to the audience amid thunderous applause.
When she got home late that night, the house was quiet, her absence undetected. And her plan would have succeeded but for the call my grandmother received the following day from the owner of Le Club, raving about the audition and offering a certain Beverly Wilterding a year’s contract to perform at his establishment on weekends.
If there is such a thing as an escape gene, then my brother inherited it from my mother. Years later, my grounded teenage brother escaped from his second-floor bedroom by tying sheets together, only to be featured the next day in the local newspaper for scoring the most points during the previous night’s high school basketball game. Busted! Just like his mom.
~Martha Roggli
