Indigo Doves

Journal Entry August 15, 2012 “’Ladies and gentlemen, for your evening’s enjoyment, it is my pleasure to introduce the lovely and the talented…Songbird of the Theater Baud-E-Lair!’” Marinda said that a man she cannot see yelled this, and she heard the crowd applaud. The woman wore a dress whiter than clouds, with delicate bluebirds and a heart medallion hand-embroidered at the waist. Am I to assume it was a performance she was doing in such a plain dress? Maybe for soldiers? Marinda clarified that the young girl was standing on a stage. She looked odd with her shoulder-length hair and plain bangs; all the other women had their hair up in “buns.” (That’s what Marinda called the up-dos she demonstrated by piling her hair on top of her head.) The girl was scared motionless. The girl’s voice left her, and she had no idea what to sing. The theater Marinda detailed to me was small but very ornate. Walls were painted turquoise (“bluish-green”). Pictures of winged, chubby babies (cherubs?) circled the ceiling. Candlelight fluttered in wall sconces. The stage lamps flickered white-hot, reddening the face of the fearful young singer. “’Oh Susanna, don’t you cry for me,’” the girl finally belted out. “’I’ve come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee. Whoo-hee!’” She barely got past the chorus before the crowd jeered and booed. The girl was startled by the aggressive audience. A drunken man tossed a bottle. Other people hurled insults. “’Go back to the farm.’” “’Aren’t there some cows need milkin’?’” “’We want a real singer. A real woman.’” (These were some of the phrases Marinda could confidently and completely articulate.) The girl would not give up. With a high vibrato (Marinda described her voice as “very shaky”), she sang something a bit more soothing. ‘”I dream of Jeanie with her light brown hair…Floating like a spider on someone’s hair…Happy as daisies that dance away the day.’” (Check Marinda’s unusual lyrics. Stephen Foster seemed to be the singer’s whole songbook so far.) The crowd was again seated, temporarily placated, but she held them off only one silly verse more. Then the mostly male audience (Marinda said there were only a couple ladies in attendance) stood and chanted, “’Liza… Liza…Liza.’” Elizabeth BEND-DER-TON, Marinda said that’s the name she received. This woman positioned herself at the side stage. “’Show them your ankle,’” Liza shouted at the novice. “’Lift your skirt, let them see something. It will calm them down.’” The girl in the white dress pointed her toe and lifted her skirt as directed. The men were mesmerized by the tantalizing sight of her laced-up ankle. “’Now, sing,’” shouted her gown-bedecked coach from the side stage. “’Very sweetly. Soothe the beasts, child.’” “’Oh my eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the lord,’” the girl began singing the only other tune she knew in an ungodly register that Marinda could not tolerate, so she covered her ears. Waiting in the wings, Liza shook her head in despair for the new girl. The prodigy nervously walked to the other side of the stage. She revealed her boot-bound ankle, and twisted and turned it for the crowd to see. She crossed the stage again, and then sang the entire Battle Hymn of the Republic while pointing her diminutive toes, first left and then right, with a hop in between as she spanned the expanse of the stage. Marinda said she looked like a sparrow hopping back and forth on the windowsill. The singing was horrible–too high for such a song. Marinda said at least the patrons were quieted by the song and contentedly gazed at the singer’s playful feet, though Marinda couldn’t really understand why. And I did not dare explain it to her. I did tell her that I knew the song, so she didn’t have to continue guessing the words or singing it in that awful voice of hers. When the girl was finished, the man who made the introductions joined her on the stage. He wore a bowler style hat. (Marinda described it as “round.”) She noticed a handlebar mustache. (It was “stiff” on both ends.) And he donned a shiny red and gold vest. He asked the crowd, “’How do you like our new lily-white songstress. So pure and yet so naughty. I think she might need a spanking.’” These positively must have been the man’s words. They could not have been Marinda’s. She asked me what the girl did to deserve such corporeal punishment and balked at the notion of such public humiliation. She said the men in the audience clapped and hollered. Finally, some of the other girls joined the man and The Songbird on the stage. They were dressed in any manner of costume. Marinda said one came out in an emerald green gown with ruffles aplenty. One wore red satin; very deep, the color of the darkest red roses. (Marinda pointed to the week-old fermented blooms in a nearby vase to describe the exact shade of red.) Two identical girls came out together, dressed only in pale-pink bloomers with head dressings of elaborate combs and cascading lace (twins, I suspect). The crowd erupted into laughter when they say the ill-clad duo, since their dresses almost covered less of them than the extravagances worn in their hair, at least according to Marinda’s depiction. Then entered the tall beautiful woman with the golden curls to match her gown. It was low in back so the curve of her whole spine showed. In the front, it was draped with a strand of wildly colorful flowers from the shoulder down to her skirts. More taffeta blooms finished the hem. She commanded the biggest audience response yet. The crowd roared, “’Liza…Liza…Liza.’” As the tall blond came onto the stage, Marinda recognized her as the woman who coached the novice singer earlier. The golden woman blew the audience kisses. She put her arm around The Songbird. “’How would you like to have her back again to grace our stage with her many indubitable talents?’” said the mustached man. (I love Marinda imitating this man’s voice. It is unbearable not to laugh.) The men’s whistles made the new singer smile, and she curtsied with her dress yanked up so her calves showed a little. “’Well, glory hallelujah, ladies and gentlemen,’” the emcee taunted. “’Come on back to see Miss Songbird tomorrow night. And tell all your friends.’”