Judy reached out and rubbed the sleeve of the jacket. “I’m sure this will give us good luck.”
“Okay, everybody!” a man wearing chinos and a white button-down shirt called out. “We’ve got to get a move on here.”
“You’ll stay and watch, won’t you?” Mary Smith lightly touched Maud’s arm. “Let me show you where you can sit without getting in the way.” She led Maud to a viewing platform set up atop a scaffold, with a flight of wooden stairs leading to it. Maud settled on a wooden folding chair to watch.
In her younger days, Maud had spent many hours in the back of darkened theaters watching rehearsals, but she soon realized that this was quite different. The set was not a stage but, rather, a large area broken up into several different regions—a bridge with real water under it was on one side, and a wooden caravan with a small burning campfire next to it was on another. Dozens of people milled around, several clusters of cameramen perched on high stools, men fiddled with the thick power cords that snaked everywhere, clipboard-carrying assistants darted to and fro. Judy’s mother, Ethel Gumm, leaned against a far wall, lips pursed in concentration.
The scene they were filming involved the girl crossing the wooden bridge, an empty basket in one hand, a suitcase in the other, as Toto followed at her heels. The bright-eyed terrier looked as if he’d leapt straight out of the pages of the book. As Judy crossed the bridge, the dog had to walk just behind her, and then, at just the right moment, run down the path toward his handler, who stood just off camera with a small bag of treats. Girl and dog were patiently enduring endless takes of the same short series of actions. Each time, something seemed to go wrong, which necessitated more fiddling with the lights, the power cords, and the cameras. When the cameras were rolling, Judy was the focal point of everyone’s attention, but as soon as the cameras stopped, everyone ignored her. Between takes, Judy knelt down and stroked the dog, the only one who paid her any mind.
After a while, even this repetitive action ceased. It appeared that one of the cameras wasn’t working, and Judy waited, speaking to no one, while the key grip and gaffer conferred. Judy was standing alone, her back to Maud, holding Toto, when a dark-haired man approached the girl from behind and tried to slip his arm over her shoulders. As he did so, the little dog growled, then let out a series of short barks. The man quickly retracted his arm.
“Now, Toto,” Judy said. “Don’t do that! That’s not nice!” She turned bashfully to the dark-haired man. “I’m sorry, Mr. Freed.”
The dog’s trainer snapped his fingers, and Toto leapt down from his perch in Judy’s arms and jumped up into his trainer’s. Freed stepped back in, slipping his arm around her waist this time and leaning in close. Judy edged a step away, but he drew her nearer, whispering in her ear. Maud couldn’t hear what the man was saying, but there was something about the heavy drape of his arm around the girl that bothered her.
The well-behaved terrier hadn’t moved from his trainer’s arms, but Maud noticed that the dog was watching Judy and the man carefully. When the director called out that the cast was breaking for lunch, Maud hoped to catch up with the girl, to have a private word with her and tell her something about the character of Dorothy—perhaps something she could use to help her develop the role—but Maud had no chance of reaching her. Judy, not even five feet tall, was dwarfed between the full-grown men who hurried her out the sound stage door.
CHAPTER
7
FAYETTEVILLE, NEW YORK
1880
Maud placed her bags on the sidewalk, ran up the front steps, and threw her arms around one of the big white pillars on her front porch. How odd that she had flown out of this house just a few months earlier with scarcely a look back and now felt her heart leap at the sight of it. There was something so solid and comfortable about its square frame with the four white columns out front, the wide porch, the beveled windows. The house looked anchored to the ground, the street, the neighborhood. Home. She opened the front door.
It was Christmastime, and the place was bedecked. Evergreens hung from the mantel and looped up the banister. The scent of a baking chicken floated in from the kitchen. In a sudden flood of relief, she felt her entire body go limp. It was so good to be home, away from all the worries and exhaustions of school.
With a rapid bustle of skirts and petticoats, Matilda swept into the front hall as if transported by a secret force. She was diminutive but such a strong presence that, as always, she seemed to fill the room with her aura. Maud flung herself against her mother as Matilda gathered her in her warm embrace.
“My coed is home at last!” Matilda exclaimed. “I can hardly wait for you to tell me all you’ve learned.”
Maud blew at her bangs with a puff of breath from between pursed lips.
“I’ve learned a great deal about mankind,” Maud said. “None of it good.”
“You’ll have to share every detail,” Matilda said happily, seeming not to notice Maud’s bleak tone.
“Let’s let Maudie get herself settled before we pepper her with questions, shall we?” suggested Julia, and Maud flashed her older sister a grateful glance.
“Where’s Papa?” Maud asked.
“Sleeping,” Matilda said.
Maud felt a flicker of worry. “Fevers? Again?”
Matilda nodded. “I’m afraid so, but he’s been a bit better these last few days. He’s been waiting eagerly for your arrival. Now, let’s have some dinner, shall we? You must be tired and hungry!”
* * *
—
JULIA SAT AT THE FOOT of Maud’s bed, watching as she unpacked her traveling bag. Maud’s older sister had a small head and ears that stuck out a little too far from the sides of her head. Her hair was very long, below her waist, and she always braided and coiled it, taking care to cover her ears. Somehow, the combination of the top knot, protuberant ears, and ruddy round face had always reminded Maud of a jolly teapot just about to boil. Right now, her beautiful hazel eyes, her best feature, were lit up with enthusiasm at Maud’s return.
“What was it like?” Julia asked. “Tell me everything!”
“I guess that depends on what you mean.”
Julia leaned forward, her face full of interest. “Did you meet any special young men?”
Maud sighed. “?‘Special’ might not precisely be the right word for it…”
“I imagine that there must be quite a social whirl? Parties and dances?”
Maud, seeing her sister’s eager face, did not want to disappoint. “Well, they call Sage College ‘the henhouse,’ and the young men do come around quite a bit. They join us for dinner—and some of them aren’t so bad…”
Maud flounced back onto her bed and stared at the ceiling. “The truth is, most of them are horrid. The classes are interesting, and I wouldn’t mind school so much if it were just us girls. Do you know how hard it is not to bring too much attention to yourself?”
Julia tucked a lock of Maud’s hair behind her sister’s ear. “I suppose we’ve all indulged you,” she said. “Mother and Papa both—they’ve always let you be such an unfettered spirit.”
“I’m an unfettered spirit? I’ve been indulged? What is that supposed to mean?” Maud sat up again, and with her stocking-toed feet sticking out in front of her on the bedspread, she looked like a child about to start a tantrum.
“Nothing, my beautiful. You are perfect the way you are—the beautiful lark of the Gage family.”
Maud’s lower lip trembled. She pinched her arm. “Do you mean to tell me that everyone even in my own family considers me to be a flighty bird? Did no one think to share this with me before sending me out on my own?”
Julia closed her eyes and drew a slow breath. “Maud, you are not a flighty bird—not at all. You are like a beautiful canary with all its shining plumage, and everyone delights at the sight. Mother never clipped your wings. I think she simply couldn’t bear to do it….I wasn’t sure that was wise.”
“Brilliant plumage? Clipped wings? If you are trying to make me feel better, rest assured that it is not working! Maud Gage, odd bird!”
“When you are a girl, it is a good idea to have a firm grasp of your expectations. Our lot in life is restricted, no matter what Mother and her friends might say. Sometimes it’s better to know that and learn to live with it.”