"See what you've done," Clara Sue accused, the self-satisfaction written all over her face. "You're always causing some sort of trouble."
"Clara Sue!" Randolph chastised.
"Well she is. Look at all the terrible things she did at the hotel last summer. I told you I didn't want to take her out to dinner," she said, sitting back hard and folding her arms under her bosom, her face in a quick sulk.
"Clara Sue, please," our mother begged. Clara Sue's face folded into a small smile. She was very satisfied with herself and what had occurred.
"I feel very sorry for you," I said to her. "You have nobody but yourself and you know you can't stand yourself."
Her mouth dropped open, but before she could reply, Randolph had paid the check and helped my mother to her feet. We all started out. The ride back in the limousine was dreary. It was like riding in a hearse. No one spoke to anyone and the whole time, my mother sat there with her head on Randolph's shoulder, her eyes shut tight. Clara Sue glared out one window and I glared out the other.
When we pulled up in front of the apartment house, only Randolph stepped out with me.
"I'm sorry our dinner wasn't more pleasant," he said. "Perhaps when we return from our trip, we will be able to stop by and try again. If Laura Sue is up to it, that is," he added.
I looked back at the limousine. My mother was still lying back on the seat with her eyes closed and Clara Sue was gazing out innocently.
"I doubt she will be," I said, turned to go up the stairway and then spun around on him. "But you should demand to know why your mother fired Sissy," I cried and ran the rest of the way up the stairs and into the house without turning back.
After the holidays and the termination of my punishment, the school year moved more quickly for me. Each week I looked forward to receiving one of Jimmy's letters from overseas, and fortunately, the letters came like clockwork. He filled them with detailed descriptions of Berlin and European people and their customs. He always ended his letters with his vows of love and promised to return as quickly as he could. I filled pages and pages of notebook paper, describing every little thing I did, down to what flavor ice cream soda I had at George's Luncheonette and mailed it to him.
Daddy Longchamp hadn't written me for a long time. Then in April, I received a short letter from him which left me feeling cold and unhappy.
Dear Dawn,
I'm sorry I haven't written to you much, but I've been busy with my new work among other things. One of the other things that's kept me busy is getting to know Edwina Freemont who's had a rough life herself with her husband dying and all.
Anyway, we got to know each other real well and been keeping each other from suffering too much loneliness. One day we just looked at each other and both thought why not up and get married? Also, I've been talking to a lawyer who says if there would ever be a chance of me getting back Fern, it would improve a whole lot if I was married and there was a mother in the house. So there it is.
I hope things been going well for you. I wrote Jimmy and told him too.
Love,
Daddy
After I read the letter, all I could think about was Momma. I kept telling myself I should be understanding and think about Daddy Longchamp being all alone, especially with Jimmy off to Europe. But every time I told myself that, I saw Momma's face. Finally, all I could do was bury my own face in the pillow and bawl. I cried until my tears dried up and I could cry no more. I buried the letter with my other mementos and didn't tell anyone about it, not even Trisha.
A few weeks later, Jimmy wrote to tell me about Daddy Longchamp's marriage. He said he had expected it so he was more prepared for it than he imagined I was. He had met Edwina Freemont and said she was a very nice woman, but he admitted it still hurt him inside to know that his daddy had a new wife. He swore he would never get used to Momma being gone.
And neither would I, I wrote back, no matter how much time passed or how many new families I had.
For a while afterward, I felt there was a constant dark cloud hovering over me. The only things that made me happy were my vocal and piano lessons, receiving letters from Jimmy, and listening to Trisha go on and on about other girls. When I didn't have any lessons after school, I often stopped by to watch her at dance practice. I thought she was very good.
Trisha's seventeenth birthday was in early April. Her parents came to take her out to dinner and a Broadway show and invited me to join them. Her mother was a very pretty woman with big, green eyes and her father was a handsome, tall man who did dote on Trisha and lavished gift after gift on her, including a promise that as soon as she graduated from Bernhardt, he would buy her a little sports car.
Her parents asked me questions about my family. They had heard of the Cutler Cove Hotel and had even thought about staying there for a week one summer. Trisha threw me a glance or two when I replied to the questions, not revealing how unhappy I had been at the hotel. We went to see Pajama Game and after the show we went for coffee and cheesecake at Lindy's. It was a completely glamorous evening in every way and although I knew I was lucky to have been invited along, in my deepest secret heart I was jealous of Trisha. My mother had barely acknowledged mine with a short phone call and a check stuck in a card in the mail, instructing me to buy myself what I wanted.
As April drew to a close, the excitement about Performance Weekend grew. Trisha and I often remained after school to watch the seniors rehearse.
Arthur Garwood became even more withdrawn as Performance Weekend drew closer and closer. It got so he wouldn't even come out to talk with me. I stopped by and knocked on his door a few times to try to reassure him that all would go well, but each time he didn't acknowledge my knock. Once, he even turned off his lights.
I was worried about him and told Agnes, but she said it was just performance jitters.
"We all get it," she explained. "Even the greatest performers still have butterflies in their stomachs just before they go on, even though they have performed and performed hundreds of times. In fact, they say if you are not nervous, you won't do well. Overconfidence is a liability in the theater," she declared.
"It's more than just performance jitters with Arthur," I said, but Agnes wouldn't listen.
Then, the morning before Performance Weekend, we all came down to breakfast and noticed immediately that Arthur was unusually late. Agnes became concerned and went up to his room to see if he was sick. She returned quickly and announced in a panic that Arthur was not there; that he hadn't slept in his bed.
"Does anyone know anything?" she asked frantically.
"Maybe he lost more weight and disappeared," Donald Rossi quipped.
"That's not funny," I snapped.
"No, it isn't," Agnes said. "It's so unlike Arthur. He keeps to himself and he is quiet, but he is not irresponsible. Oh, dear, and with his solo coming up tomorrow night," she cried and ran off to phone his parents.
Neither I nor Trisha saw Arthur anywhere in the school all day. Toward the end of the day, I deliberately walked by one of his classes to look in to see if he was there. He wasn't. When Trisha and I returned to the apartment house after school, we found Arthur's parents with Agnes in the sitting room.
"Oh girls, thank goodness you're here," Agnes declared. She was wringing her hands. "There hasn't been a hint as to what happened to Arthur. We were hoping he might have said something to one of you," Agnes said, looking particularly at me. Trisha shook her head.
"Dawn?"
I looked at Mr. and Mrs. Garwood. They didn't look worried as much as they looked angry and that got me angry.
"He was very nervous about his performance," I said. "He was afraid he would make a fool of himself and embarrass everyone. He's probably off hiding somewhere."
"Oh, that's ridiculous," Mr. Garwood said. "He would never do such a thing."
"Yes he would," I insisted and so vehemently, everyone turned sharply to me. "He was desperate," I said, "desperate because you wouldn't listen to his pleas."
&n
bsp; "Dawn!" Agnes cried and looked quickly at the Garwoods. "She doesn't mean to sound insolent," Agnes started to explain.
Anger blazed through me. "Don't tell them what I mean, Agnes. Arthur has told me often how he has pleaded with you to understand. He knows he doesn't have the musical talent that both of you have, the abilities that you expect and demand in him."
"That's absolutely untrue," Mrs. Garwood snapped. "Arthur is quite talented. He . . ."
"You're more right than you know! He's enormously talented but not the way you think."
"How dare you say such a thing?" Mr. Garwood's eyes grew small and took me in slowly from head to toe in a way that frightened me but I hoped and hoped I wouldn't back down. "Who does this child think she is?" he asked.
"I'm not a child," I snapped. "Arthur is very unhappy and he is desperate. You should listen to him. He doesn't want to disappoint you, but that's why he doesn't want to continue with the oboe."
"That's enough!" Mr. Garwood cried, rising to his feet. "If you know where Arthur is, you had better tell us, young lady."
"I don't know," I said, "and if I did, you would be the last person I would tell," I cried and ran from the room.
"Dawn!" Agnes screamed.
"I'll talk to her," Trisha said and followed me up the stairs. I slammed our bedroom door behind me and stalked around the room, fuming.
"I just knew something like this might happen," I said. "I just knew it. I warned Agnes, but she wouldn't listen, and you saw what his parents are like. They're horrible, horrible!"
"Wow. You really told them off," Trisha said.
"I couldn't help it. Arthur is in trouble; he's crying out for help and all they can think about is themselves and their own reputations. I'm sick of parents who don't really love their children. Sick of it!" I cried and flopped on my bed. Trisha sat down beside me.
"You don't know where he is though, do you?" she asked. I shook my head.
After the Garwoods left, Agnes came to our room.
"I'm so embarrassed," she began. "Nothing like this has ever happened before. The Garwoods are heartbroken."
"They're not heartbroken," I insisted. "They're worried about what their friends and relatives will say, friends and relatives they have invited to Performance Weekend. They don't really care about Arthur."
"You were absolutely rude and insolent down there, Dawn. I won't have such behavior in my house. If you don't tell me this instant where Arthur Garwood is, I will call your grandmother and inform her I have to have you expelled from this residency."
"I don't know where he is," I moaned. "He has no real friends to go to. He's just hiding out somewhere until Performance Weekend is over. Then he'll return. You'll see."
"Did you encourage him to run off?" Agnes demanded. "His parents suspect you did."
"I didn't have to encourage him. It's their own fault he did. They wouldn't listen to his pleas. Honest, Agnes," I cried through my tears, "I'm telling you the truth."
She stared at me and then shook her head.
"What are we to do?" she asked, her gaze growing distant.
Trisha and I looked at each other. Whenever anything unpleasant occurred, Agnes fell into one of her old roles. I could tell that she was drifting into some memory now, posturing and taking on the demeanor of some character in some obscure drama.
"Young people are so troubled these days. Their lives are so complicated. Don't you long for the simpler times, the quieter times? Don't you wish you could go to sleep and wake up a little girl again? I do. Oh, how I do," she said and turned to leave slowly, gracefully from our bedroom.
"She's losing it," Trisha remarked, shaking her head. "She can't handle turmoil."
"Who can?" I asked. "Who wants to?" I added.
Performance Weekend came and went and Arthur Garwood did not return. The Garwoods had the police come to the apartment house to question everyone, especially me. I told them everything I had told the Garwoods. They listened, nodded their heads and left. Agnes went off wringing her hands and Donald Rossi tried to invent new jokes about the situation.
Then, nearly a week later, I received a letter without any return address on the envelope. Something about the handwriting on the front, however, made my heart beat faster. I ripped open the envelope and read.
Dear Dawn,
There's no one else I care to say goodbye to. I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye in person. I have been putting away my money for a long time to do this. The only reason I remained as long in Bernhardt as I did was because I enjoyed being around you. But you have your own life and I know that I won't be part of it.
I've decided to go off and try to become a writer. Maybe, if I succeed, my parents will forgive me. I hope you were being honest when you told me you would always cherish the poem I wrote about you. Maybe someday we will meet again. Thank you for caring.
Love,
Arthur
Trisha thought I should give the letter to Agnes. "But then they might hunt him down and drag him back and he will hate me for it," I said.
"There's no return address on it," Trisha pointed out. "All they know is it was mailed in New York City. This way," Trisha continued, "Agnes will know it's not your fault and Arthur's parents won't be able to blame anything on you."
"Poor Arthur," I said. Trisha shrugged.
"Maybe he's going to be happier now. He might even gain some weight," she added. I smiled, folded the letter back into the envelope and did what she had advised: brought it to Agnes, who sighed and sighed over it and thanked me.
We heard no more about it. Like so many unpleasant things that happened at Agnes Morris's resident hall, the events were never again mentioned, or if they were, they were indistinguishable from real events and fictional ones occurring in dramas. But I didn't have time to worry too much about it.
Madame Steichen began to include me in her monthly Saturday recitals showcasing her students. I sang with the chorus in two school musicals. The competition for solo parts was fierce and the seniors usually won them, even though other students often told me that I should have been chosen.
Toward the end of the school year, Madame Steichen informed me that she had selected me to be her featured student during next year's Performance Weekend. We would dedicate our summer classes to it. Everyone congratulated me on the honor and I was very proud. Even so, I promised Trisha I would find time to visit with her and her parents.
On the last day of the regular school year, Trisha met me outside the music suite, her face so red with excitement she looked like she would explode.
"Guess who's coming here next fall to teach vocal music," she cried, hugging her books to her bosom and spinning. "I just heard. Just guess!"
"Who?" I asked, shaking my head and smiling at her exuberance.
"Michael Sutton, the opera star!"
Michael Sutton was the rage of the opera scene in Europe; he had been a star in America the year before his European tour and had been and still was featured in magazine after magazine. He was young and handsome and as talented as anyone could be.
"He's going to hold auditions the week before school starts to choose his students," Trisha declared. "And even though I can't hold a note, I'm coming back early to try out. Of course, you'll have a wonderful chance, you lucky thing. You're a senior now!"
My heart began to pound in anticipation. I shook my head. Events in my short life had taught me never to count on anything, especially not a rainbow after the rain.
Still, why not hope, I thought. After all, Michael Sutton!
6
GETTING TO KNOW MICHAEL
Trisha and I were very excited the day of the audition for Michael Sutton's vocal class. We rose a half hour earlier than usual and tried on a dozen different skirt and blouse combinations before we both settled on our baby-pink blouses and pleated ivory skirts. We had bought them together during one of what Trisha called "Our weekend shopping safaris in the city." We would spend hours and hours going from one department store to anothe
r trying on different clothes, some dresses so expensive or outrageous we knew we could never buy them. But it was fun pretending even though salesladies with disapproving eyes glared down over their pinched noses at us.
Wearing identical outfits to the audition was Trisha's idea.
"Because we look like twins, we'll catch his attention," she said.
We washed and conditioned our hair and then brushed it until it seemed to glow, finishing with pink silk ribbons. Then we put on just a touch of lipstick. Neither of us needed any more color in our faces; we had both been tanned by the summer sun. We decided to wear white sneakers and Bobby socks, too. Giggling more out of nervousness than anything else now, we bounced down the stairs to breakfast and listened attentively as Agnes strutted up and down the dining room giving us advice for auditioning while we ate.
"Look confident; be businesslike, and whatever you do, don't be first," she warned.
We didn't need the warning. By the time we arrived, the music suite was so crowded that the candidates were told to line up and were given cards with numbers on them to use instead of their names. The line that had been formed stretched from the piano all the way on the other side of the long room to just outside the door. Richard Taylor, a senior and one of Madame Steichen's prize pupils, greeted us. Richard was talented but somewhat arrogant about it. He had been assigned to Michael Sutton as his teaching assistant and he was swollen with self-importance.
Richard was a tall boy, as lanky as Washington Irving's Ichabod Crane with long legs and arms and very long fingers. it was a sight to see him play the piano because his hands were so large, they looked like independent little creatures dancing over the keys. He had a narrow face with a nose that reminded me of a weather vane and a long mouth with corners that -tucked in so tightly, they resembled dimples. His lips were naturally bright; it always seemed like he was wearing lipstick. He had a very fair complexion with tiny streams of freckles running through his cheeks and across his forehead. His light brown eyes were deeply set. He kept his rust-colored hair long, with strands going down his neck and under his collar.
Secrets of the Morning Page 11