The Singer's New Shoes

In 1913, when the touring company reached Bellport, Ada's shoes had cardboard in the soles. She sang in the chorus and earned enough to eat if the manager paid on Friday. Lately, he had preferred Monday.

The leading soprano sprained her ankle on a dark backstage stair. Her understudy had left the company in the previous town. At rehearsal, Ada sang the missing part from memory while the pianist searched for the score. The manager called her into his office afterward.

He offered the solo, a new pair of shoes, and a printed name on the bill. In return she was to sign a paper confirming that the company had paid every member in full. The theatre's owner required that declaration before releasing the next advance. It was a formality, the manager said.

Ada read the paper twice. The chorus women were owed eleven days. The scenery men had been buying their own nails. Her signature would turn those debts into an argument against a document with her name on it.

She asked to speak to the others. The manager said opportunity rarely waited for committee meetings.

Outside his office, the soprano sat with her ankle propped on a trunk. Ada showed her the paper. The older woman took off her stage shoes and pushed them across the floor.

“They're a size too big,” she said. “Stuff the toes.”

At the evening rehearsal Ada wore the borrowed shoes. She sang the solo all the way through, then told the company about the declaration. Nobody applauded. Several people looked toward the manager's closed door. Losing the engagement could leave them stranded without train fares.

The pianist suggested they ask the theatre owner to pay wages directly from the advance. The manager refused. The company asked anyway, sending the soprano, two scenery men, and Ada to explain the accounts.

The owner agreed to cover the current engagement's wages, but not the old debts. Half the company accepted. The rest stayed to argue, then accepted too. The manager never forgave Ada for making the accounts somebody else's business.

On opening night her name appeared on a strip of paper pasted over the old bill. She sang carefully in shoes packed with folded cloth. Afterward, the soprano asked for them back; she hoped to walk by the next town.

Ada bought her own pair the following morning. They were plain, practical shoes, unsuitable for a leading lady. She wore them to the station with her wages in an inside pocket and the unpaid eleven days still marked in her book. Before boarding, she copied the theatre owner's address beside the manager's name.