The Sweet Far Thing

“Yes. Thank you,” Ann manages to say.



Lily regards her for a moment. She puffs on her cigarette. Her words push out in a stream of hazy smoke. “Are you quite certain this is what you want?”



“Oh, yes!” Ann chirps.



“A quick answer.” She drums her fingers on her dressing table. “Quick answers often lead to quick regrets. No doubt you’ll return to your charm school, meet a perfectly respectable man at a tea dance, and forget all about this.”



“No, I shan’t,” Ann says, and there is something that cannot be ignored in her answer.



Lily nods. “Very well. I’ll secure you an appointment with Mr. Katz.”



“Mr. Katz?” Ann repeats.



Lily Trimble places her cigarette in a brass ashtray, where it smolders as she tends to her hair. “Yes. Mr. Katz. The proprietor of our company.”



“Is he a Jew, then?” Ann asks.



In the mirror, Miss Trimble’s eyes narrow. “Do you have an objection to Jews, Miss Washbrad?”



“N-n-no, miss. At least I don’t think so, for I’ve never met one.”



The actress’s laughter comes fast and hard. Her face eases into a pleasant mask. “You’ll have ample opportunity to get acquainted. You’re speaking to one now.”



“You’re a Jewess?” Felicity blurts out. “But you don’t look at all Jewish!”



Lily Trimble lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow and holds Felicity’s gaze till my friend has to look away. I’ve rarely seen Fee so cowed. It is a moment of pure happiness, and I’m enjoying it immensely.



“Lilith Trotsky, of Orchard Street, New York, New York. It was suggested that Trimble would make a more suitable name for the stage—and for the well-bred patrons who come to see famous actresses,” she remarks dryly.



“You’re lying to them,” Felicity says, challenging her.



Lily glares at her. “Everyone’s trying to be someone else, Miss Worthless. Here I have the good fortune of being paid for it.”



“It’s Worthington,” Felicity says, her teeth as tight as soldiers.



“Worthless, Worthington. Honestly, I can’t tell the difference. You sort all look alike. Be an angel, Nannie, and hand me those stockings, will you?”



Ann, the girl who can scarcely say the word stockings, rushes to give Lily Trimble hers. She places them in the woman’s hands with a reverence reserved for royalty and gods.



“Here you are, Miss Trimble,” she says.



“Thank you, honey. You’d better be off now. I’ve got a suitor waiting for me. I’ll send word to you regarding the appointment. Spence Academy, you say?”



“Yes, Miss Trimble.”



“Very good. Until then, don’t take any wooden nickels.” Ann’s brow furrows in confusion until Lily explains. “Look after yourself.” She casts a withering glance at Felicity and me. “Somehow, I think you’ll need to.”



Two gentlemen move a length of painted canvas past us as we scurry back to Felicity’s mother. This close, it doesn’t look at all like Birnam Wood, only blotches of color and brushstrokes. Ann hasn’t stopped talking since we left Lily Trimble’s dressing room.



“Wasn’t she frightfully clever? ‘Everyone’s trying to be someone else.’” She parrots the words in Miss Trimble’s broad American accent. I cannot decide if this habit will prove annoying or endearing.



“I found her common,” Felicity sniffs. “And overly dramatic.”



“She is an actress! It is her nature to be dramatic,” Ann protests.



“I do hope it won’t become yours. It would be unbearable,” Felicity mocks. “Ann, you aren’t in earnest about the stage, are you?”



“Why not?” Ann answers, a glumness creeping into her voice, her high spirits dampened.



“Because it isn’t for decent girls. She’s an actress.” Felicity gives the word a sneer.



“What other choice have I? To be a governess for the rest of my days?”



“Of course not,” I say, glaring at Felicity. For all her intentions, Felicity does not understand Ann’s dilemma. She cannot see that Ann’s life is a trap from which she cannot easily be sprung.



We’ve come to the foyer, which still boasts a small crowd. Up ahead, I see Mrs. Worthington looking about for us.



“And anyway, you’ve a bigger problem, Nannie,” Fee says, deliberately using Miss Trimble’s pet name for her. “You went wearing another girl’s face—Nan Washbrad. She’s the girl they expect to see, not Ann Bradshaw. How will you get past that?”