“Oh, thank God,” she said to Harry. “We’ve been found.”
The figure waved them toward the truck, and they discovered that the inside had been cleared out and done over as makeshift living quarters, with a few cots and a table and chair. A gas lamp was burning on the table, and Bess could make out the rounded, sweating face of the figure who had called them over, a heavyset man in greased black pants and loose suspenders.
“I’m Welsh,” he said. “You’re the Houdinis, right?”
Harry nodded. “Harry and Bess.” His uneasiness was noticeable immediately to Bess. She had known him only a short time, but she already felt she could read his slightest expressions. Welsh was intimidating, and much larger than Harry.
Welsh sat down at the table and thumbed through a notebook. He didn’t motion for them to sit, but even if he had, there were no other seats besides the bed, and Bess certainly did not feel comfortable sitting on another man’s cot. “What do you do?” he asked, pulling out a pen.
Harry shrugged. “Anything.”
Welsh nodded. “You two do Punch and Judy. And mind reading. Houdini, you do the magic, the wife singing and dancing, and of course your trunk trick, and the handcuff act. Twenty-five a week and cakes.”
Bess glanced at Harry to see if he knew what cakes were, but she couldn’t catch his eye. Harry didn’t seem concerned. He pushed his hand forward and grasped Welsh’s. “That’s fine.”
Welsh led them to another car, where their own living space had been partitioned off from another, larger space, which appeared to house a group of men. The men were playing cards and nodded to them as they passed through but didn’t look up. There was nothing in the room they had been assigned but a narrow cot—no space even for a table. The division between their space and the men’s was nothing but a thin piece of wood. She could hear every word they were saying. They seemed to be the rougher ones that Harry had called canvas men.
Harry was horrified. “This is worse than Coney Island,” he said. “I thought we were here for something better.”
Bess took his hand and led him over to the bed. “This is fine,” she said, pulling off his soaking shirt and handing him a dry one. “This is all we need.” She smoothed his hair and kissed him. “We’re living simply, remember? We’re on the road life.” She tried to disguise her own nervousness—especially about the men living right on the other side of the thin wall—but she couldn’t bear to see Harry so hopeless, sitting beside her with his head in his hands.
“It will get better,” she added, although she couldn’t stop shivering in her wet dress. “Once we do the act and people start noticing us, there’ll be more and more money coming our way.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Bess wasn’t sure she did. But she nodded anyway.
“I’m afraid—” He lowered his voice. “I’m afraid I may have failed you already. And we haven’t even begun.”
“We have to start somewhere.” She nodded toward the wall. “And you better start by making friends with some of those men. They’ll tell you how things are run around here.”
Harry bit his lip. “How do I do that?”
Bess stared at him. “Haven’t you made a friend before?”
He shrugged. “Dash was always the social one, not me.”
Back in Coney Island, she had seen how his stage charm wore to awkwardness offstage. But she hadn’t realized the extent of Harry’s shyness until now. “When I met you, you were so confident. You have to be like that.”
“I’m always like that after a show. It’s the act—it stays with me for a little while.”
“Pretend you just got offstage,” she said.
But Harry only shook his head. “It’s not like that.”
“Well, I can’t make friends for you—” she began, then stopped herself. Or could she? She poked her head around the partition. The men were deeply engaged in their game. “Hello, gentlemen,” she called over the pounding of the rain outside. “Does anyone know where I could find an oven around here? I was going to make an almond cake in the morning if anybody wants some.”
The men put down their cards and looked up. One of them eyed her suspiciously. “Who are you?”
“I’m Bess.” She pulled Harry out behind her. She realized she must look a mess with her hair matted to her head and her dress dripping, but she forged ahead. “This is my husband, Harry. We’re the Houdinis.”
The heavy, bearded man at the head of the table pushed back his chair. “You’re the Houdinis?” He stood up and went to shake Harry’s hand. “I’m Eddie Saint. I heard you do some damn fine performing.”
Harry seemed to find his footing. “Well, it’s my wife, really, who’s the star.”
“He’s being modest,” Bess said. “He’s head billing.”