drive until evening. The sky changes from the great, trumpeting blue they have seen since dawn into a regal, courtly purple that comes blooming up from the horizon. Every crevice and pothole is filled with deep violet hues: it is as if some painter has spent so much time working on the sky they did not notice the colors dripping to pool on the earth.
Then, slowly, the stars come out.
“Slow down,” says Gracie.
“There’s a speed limit,” says Mona.
“Just for a bit.”
Mona tsks. “Okay.”
Mona slows down. Gracie sticks her head out her window and looks up. “Wow,” she says. “There are so many. I never saw them all, not all of them. Because of the lightning.”
“I guess you wouldn’t have.”
Gracie’s awe is infectious. Mona waits for a straightaway and leans out her own window.
Thousands of them. As if someone smashed a jewel on the fundament of sky.
It is all like a dream. Like a dream she had long ago and forgot, of a dark road through the mountains, and a million lights ahead and all that lay beyond them, waiting for her, waiting for them, waiting for everyone to see.
“What will we do tomorrow?” asks Gracie.
“I don’t know,” says Mona. “Something.”
And they drive.
extras
introducing
If you enjoyed
AMERICAN ELSEWHERE,
look out for
THE TROUPE
by Robert Jackson Bennett
Vaudeville: mad, mercenary, dreamy, and absurd, a world of clashing cultures and ferocious showmanship and wickedly delightful deceptions.
But sixteen-year-old pianist George Carole has joined vaudeville for one reason only: to find the man he suspects to be his father, the great Heironomo Silenus. Yet as he chases down his father’s troupe, he begins to understand that their performances are strange even for vaudeville: for wherever they happen to tour, the very nature of the world seems to change.
Because there is a secret within Silenus’s show so ancient and dangerous that it has won him many powerful enemies. And it’s not until after he joins them that George realizes the troupe is not simply touring: they are running for their lives.
And soon… he is as well.
Friday mornings at Otterman’s Vaudeville Theater generally had a very relaxed pace to them, and so far this one was no exception. Four acts in the bill would be moving on to other theaters over the weekend, and four more would be coming in to take their place, among them Gretta Mayfield, minor star of the Chicago opera. The general atmosphere among the musicians was one of carefree satisfaction, as all of the acts had gone well and the next serious rehearsals were an entire weekend away. Which, to the overworked musicians, might as well have been an eternity.
But then Tofty Thresinger, first chair house violinist and unofficial gossip maven of the theater, came sprinting into the orchestra pit with terror in his eyes. He stood there panting for a moment, hands on his knees, and picked his head up to make a ghastly announcement: “George has quit!”
“What?” said Victor, the second chair cellist. “George? Our George?”
“George the pianist?” asked Catherine, their flautist.
“The very same,” said Tofty.
“What kind of quit?” asked Victor. “As in quitting the theater?”
“Yes, of course quitting the theater!” said Tofty. “What other kind of quit is there?”
“There must be some mistake,” said Catherine. “Who did you hear it from?”
“From George himself!” said Tofty.
“Well, how did he phrase it?” asked Victor.
“He looked at me,” said Tofty, “and he said, ‘I quit.’ ”
Everyone stopped to consider this. There was little room for alternate interpretation in that.
“But why would he quit?” asked Catherine.
“I don’t know!” cried Tofty, and he collapsed into his chair, accidentally crushing his rosin and leaving a large white stain on the seat of his pants.
The news spread quickly throughout the theater: George Carole, their most dependable house pianist and veritable wunderkind (or enfant terrible, depending on who you asked), was throwing in the towel without even a by-your-leave. Stagehands shook their heads in dismay. Performers immediately launched into complaints. Even the coat-check girls, usually exiled to the very periphery of theater gossip, were made aware of this ominous development.
But not everyone was shaken by this news. “Good riddance,” said Chet, their bassist. “I’m tired of tolerating that little lordling, always acting as if he was better than us.” But several muttered he was better than them. It had been seven months since the sixteen-year-old had walked through their doors on audition day and positively dumbfounded the staff with his playing. Everyone had been astonished to hear that he was not auditioning for an act, but for house pianist, a lowly job