At the Twilight's Last Gleaming

by David Bischoff

I wasn’t feeling well.

  I’d had a very hard time sleeping the previous night. The cold day had dawned with a rawness that I still felt inside of me. I felt empty and frightened, with a familiar sinking feeling sinking lower than I’d thought possible.

  I wasn’t sure why, which was the most frightening part. It was that fabled sensation, I think, of someone walking over your grave.

  In fact, the auditions had gone well. Very well indeed.

  The mood struck by Mr. Crawley had immediately infected the students. Everyone seemed to enjoy reading the dated lines from the playbook. Moreover, as there was always plenty of work to be done on a play and there no vocational students involved with the drama department, every student attending knew that even if they didn’t get a role in Dracula, they could be a part of the production in some way. And it wasn’t as though a role in Dracula was like a role, say, in The Glass Menagerie. Melodramatic acting was fun. Scenery was actually rather tasty.

  And Peter Harrigan! Peter had been fabulous!

  Mr. Crawley had specifically requested that guys reading the Count Dracula lines tone down any tendency to perform them with the famous Bela Lugosi Hungarian accent. In fact, he’d especially asked that if possible, they might do a more stately Christopher Lee version – upper-class British.

  Peter wasn’t that good at either of those, and his upper classness was more Bostonian than anything from across the Atlantic. But gosh, he was tall and majestic! He had a perfect stage presence, tall with perfect posture. Totally self-possessed, he read the lines in an interesting way, but also with extreme animal magnetism.

  “I don’t drink....wine.”

  The words, and that sly smile echoed in my mind even now.

  I got shivers thinking about it.

  No question about it, I thought. We have our Dracula.

  And my try-out?

  Perhaps if it was a more professional, or even more experienced group, it wouldn’t have gone well. I’d been an angel in a church production. That was it.

  But I had a trump card and I played it.

  I’d lived in Britain, and I could jolly well do a bloody proper English accent. I could do it because I’d worked at it over there while we were stationed in England.

  I’d donned my wig and I’d read my lines, and I could see that everyone was wowed. Mr. Crawley had insisted that the attempt was part of the fun – perfection wasn’t necessary. But by time I’d finished I could see that he was quite impressed.

  “Where did you get that accent?” he said.

  “Public school, if you please, sir,” I said. “Indeed, I should have you know, I’m quite the fan of R.A.D.A.”

  His eyes had opened wide at that name drop. (Royal Academy for the Dramatic Arts, of course, the acting school of Britain).

  So, I felt fairly certain I had the role of Lucy.

  I’d gone to sleep last night, cozily clutching my pillow, thinking about that cape again closing over me, those glaring eyes taking me in, that mouth descending upon me, those strong arms around me, holding me in their clutches.....and then our laughter afterwards. Oh that was so much fun, Rebecca, he’d say. You have such a soul, girl. Say, we really should see more of each other. A movie this weekend?

  But I’d woken up in the middle of the night, cold and frightened, and I slept fitfully all night.

  Something seemed wrong.

  Was it just simple stage fright? Had I actually started thinking of what it would be like standing in front of a large audience in nightclothes, my bloomers hanging out, and emoting those stiff Victorian sentences?

  Now, in the principal’s office, I felt vulnerable and alone.

  Perhaps that was because I was vulnerable and alone.

  A buzzer buzzed, startling me. A secretary picked up a phone, listened briefly, spoke briefly, and then set it back into its cradle.

  “Dr. Canthorpe will see you now,” she said glacially.

  “Should I just go in?” I said.

  “Correct.”

  I got up, feeling a little dizzy. I walked down the corridor of closed offices. Each office was clearly labeled with metal plates. At the end of the hall was the door with the largest plate, this one with black letters.

  DOCTOR CROYDON CANTHORPE

  PRINCIPAL

  I had expected Dr. Canthorpe to come out and escort me back. Somehow it seemed like the courteous thing to do. The notion of walking back alone was frightening. It wasn’t as though the hall was dark and gloomy, or that skeletal arms might reach out from the doors and grab me. No, the hallway was well-lighted. But the coldness, the sterility, the efficiency felt quite inhuman.

  My stomach churned.

  I got up, shivered a bit, and began my march.

  At the end of the hall, I tentatively put my hand on the door knob. It was cold, cold as ice. I drew my hand away, had a second thought – and knocked instead.

  “Come in,” barked a gruff voice.

  I used both hands this time, twisting the knob. The latch clicked, the door opened with no squeak of hinges and I stepped cautiously into the office.

  It was a large office, bigger than the vice principals, and certainly much bigger than the cubbyholes occupied by the guidance councilors. Much of the spartan linoleum floor was covered with a beautiful Persian rug. Behind the standard issue wood and metal desk were walnut book cases stuffed with old leather volumes that perfumed the air with a sense of college, rather than high school. I had expected a big Maryland flag and a bigger American flag to dominate the disciplinarian’s den. No such items. I had expected a portrait of Maryland governor Spiro T. Agnew or at the very least President Lyndon Baines Johnson. Instead, besides bookshelves, he had the usual array of certificates and awards, clustered around an old large old fashioned landscape painting of a what seemed to be a castle amidst a dense forest.

  Dr. Canthorpe himself was sitting at his desk, working on some forms.

  “Just a moment,” he said, peering down at the forms through wire spectacles. “Have a seat.”

  In front of the imposing desk was a solitary wooden chair. There was a winged armchair and a small couch and a coffee table to fill out the comfort aspect of the office, but that chair... That chair was clearly not designed for any comfort, nor for faculty or staff behinds. It was the hot seat, situated like a meager creaky platform for the accused, above which towered the judge’s bench -- the desk.

  I sat down.

  The chair was hard and awkward.

  Thus Principal Canthorpe kept me waiting another two minutes while he filled in the forms. His breathing was heavy and harsh sounding. As I sat, I became aware that the room was filled with a peculiar odor, a not unpleasant male muskiness that lurked beneath hints of pipe tobacco and Old Spice.

  Principal Canthorpe scratched out his last letter, and then peered up at me through his spectacles.

  “You,” he said, as though he knew me.

  “Pardon me.”

  He nodded. “You. I know you.”

  “You know me? I just moved here last year.”

  He smiled but I would not call it a friendly smile. “I’ve been looking at your grades and some of your tests. I’m very impressed. I hope that this will be a launching point for you to a good college and a fulfilling career.

  You’ve done work with debating and rhetoric. High, high marks in oral presentations and written compositions. Hmm. And all As in civics and history.”

  He sniffed.

  “The ability to speak and persuade is important, Rebecca. Now of course a good college and fulfilling career can be whatever you choose, as idyosyncratic, as wild and wilful as you please. But that is not now, Rebecca Williams.” He spoke my name as though he were chewing it before letting it go. “Now, you are in high school. Now you are at my school.”

 
; I was shocked and cowed, of course, but also had enough sense of self to get through my basic fear to speak up for myself.

  “Uh -- sir... uh... Have I killed anyone?”

  His eyes got cold. “What’s your point,” he snapped.

  “I haven’t broken any rules or laws, have I? I mean, I guess, with all due ...and considerable... respect, sir... I’m here to get your point, not the other way around.”

  He smiled again, craftily. “Hmm. Perhaps we can put you to use during your stint here. You might join the Debate Team.”

  “I’ll certainly consider that.”

  “Good. But you’ll have to dress much differently and have a different attitude if you’re going to represent this school, my school in any kind of forum beyond the antics of the Drama Club.”

  I sat back in my chair and took a breath.

  Oh, so that was it.

  I got it. I looked down and realized I’d pretty much worn what I’d worn yesterday, not the cheerful prep school garb of a happy healthy American teen, but the dour “Paint it Black” bohemian coffee house garments with my old tilt toward the Gothic.

  “Oh, I see. But sir.. I’ve read the dress code. And things have gotten more liberal over the years in high school. Culturally speaking.”

  “Liberal,” he said, snapping at the word. “Yes. Liberal.”

  He leaned back and steepled his fingers.

  “Yes, yes, and liberal is good!” he said sardonically. “This is a free country, after all, and everyone is entitled to their own religion and their own opinions.”

  The steeple collapsed.

  “However, this is not a free high school.” His eyes blazed. “And liberal dress code or no liberal dress code, I’d like you to consider the situation.

  “This world works this way. There are leaders and there are followers. Everyone is happier when leaders lead and followers follow. However, sometimes the born followers forget that. They must be brought back into line.

  “This school is a mirror of the world in some ways. A microcosm to the macrocosm. And, in this school, for everyone’s good, there must be order. There must be those who lead and those who follow. I am the king here. I am president. I’m in charge. Under me are my staff and the faculty. Beyond are the social forces inherent in a high school. This is a unique high school with its vocational program, but you get the idea, I hope. What we have is a kind a natural order here -- the leaders and the followers. Everyone has their place, and everyone is happy.

  “This is an important school. It’s an experiment. The nation is watching. Did you know, for instance, that President Johnson himself will be coming for the dedication of the vocational wing. This is a high school created to help in furthering the American Dream...

  “I have a duty here. To do my job, I must be in charge. I must have that power. It must not be in doubt. It is not an easy job, but I relish my role in the happiness of everyone. And who is happier than a good follower. What you represent, in your clothing, and in your attitude may seem to you to be individuality, hmm?”

  “I guess,” I said.

  “But to others it represents deviation from the flow that creates happiness for everyone. It represents not self accomplishment but selfish anarchy. Anarchy may feel good to you. But anarchy is a disease in a healthy system.”

  “As you’ve seen, I’ve taken history and political science, sir,” I protested. “And I’m no anarchist!”

  “Good! I’m happy to hear that. In that case, let me give you some advice. Use your intelligence and abilities to find out what works in a system. I have done that. You will be happy. And you will help others be happy.”

  He got up. He seemed somehow even taller and more imposing here, like a bear rearing up in his own den. He lumbered forward, went around to the other side of the desk -- and leaned over me, hands on hips. I reared back.

  Then, Principal Canthorpe leaned back and sat on the edge of his desk, beaming benignly.

  “You have a lot of promise, Rebecca. I’d like to help you with your promise. Now do help me. I would truly, truly appreciate it if you’d.... “ He shrugged. “Just wear more normal clothing and try and get along with the other students.”

  One moment he was a scowling bear, the next a big friendly puppy dog.

  I asked, “That’s all?”

  “That’s all. Some more color. And some black? Sure, but why don’t you accessorize. You know, colored pins, whatever. Teen fashion magazines will help, I dare say.”

  “Okay,” I found myself saying.

  He reached out and took my hand in his. “Thank you so much. This is not an easy job. I need the help of all my truly gifted students. And really, you should think about the debate club. I help out there a bit myself you know, and it would be such a pleasure to help you.”

  He smiled even more warmly.

  “And please, if you need any help, remember our guidance councilors are here for everyone. But to students like you, my office is always open. Thank you for coming.”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  I got up and started to leave.

  “Oh. And Rebecca.?

  I turned around. He was still smiling, but there was a bit of the old fire in his eye. “I’m going to be making sure you get the most out of your Crossland High years.”

  His voice sounded like a rumble from the depths of the woods.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I WAS STILL pondering my strange visit to Dr. Canthorpe’s office as I stood by the bulletin board with the Drama Club members. We were waiting for Mr. Mr. Crawley’s assistant to put up the cast list for the Crossland High School production of Dracula.

  “All I can say,” Harold said, finally breaking his silence. “Is that I definitely see some madras shirts in my future!”

  “Madras shirts!” I said. “Madras shirts?”

  Madras shirts were kind of a uniform there at Crossland in 1968, in the way that Ban Lon shirts were for many of the vocational students then. They were the uniform of the category of students generally known then as “collegiate”. You’d think that this meant that these were the honor roll students, already accepted at prestigious universities like Princeton or Harvard or Yale. In fact, it was just a fashion statement for students with parents who had money. “Madras” was a sort of linen from India, a rainbow of bright colors. These shirts were neatly tailored and then pressed, and looked quite spiffy on guys above khaki slacks, penny loafers and a narrow leather belt.

  Needless to say, Harry did not wear Madras shirts.

  “Sounds like a good way to stay out of the way of Principal Canthorpe,” said Harry. “I’ve just been musing on your story.”

  I said, “It was just weird. Wear what you want, Harold. Madras won’t go well with your complexion.”

  Harry nodded. Harry pretty much wore scruffy stuff, sometimes wrinkled. Lately,, under my influence, his garb tended toward grey and yes, black. In any case, both the “collegiate” and the “block” (which was the Ban Lon style favored by the vocational students, often above greasy slicked back hair) required one thing of which Harry seemed incapable.

  Neatness.

  “He’s very threatening,” said Harry.

  “Well, he’s intimidating,” I said. “But when you think about it, a lot of it is just bluster that works well.”

  “I’ve got to say that you’d look really nice in a dress.”

  “Well, you can be sure I’ll be wearing dresses if I get this part.”

  “What if you get the part of Mina?”

  I glared at Harry. I pulled down the ncck section of my black turtleneck sweater. “With this neck? Is this a Lucy neck....or what?”

  My neck has been called swanlike lately as I’ve grown taller, making me feel much less like the proverbial ugly duckling.

  “Oh, it’s a Lu
cy neck.”

  Only a few Drama Club students seemed to be milling around in the hall outside the teacher’s office. Although the final bell has long since rung, after my visit to the Principal’s office, I was a bit worried that’s we’d get detention hall for loitering. Crossland seemed less like a high school and more like a concentration camp.

  However, Peter Harrigan was not amongst us, the milling.

  Not that I’d expected him, really. I didn’t think he’d doubt he’d get the role of Dracula, so why hover? Not his style. Not his style at all.

  The day had been weird. After my odd visit to Principal Canthorpe, it was too late to go back to my biology class. I spent most of lunch and much of my library period with my head buried in a Victoria Holt novel.

  I was honestly half-tempted to get on the bus after the last class, go home and just park myself in front of today’s Dark Shadows and whatever soaps, game shows or cartoons that came across our crappy black and white Sylvania TV set.

  I was of course shaken by my office interview. I’d been intimidated and scolded and whatever. These were things that although de rigueur for a high school before the sixties, were now frowned upon. I would have confided all this to my parents, but all they would have heard was “I had to go to the principal’s office,” and therefore responded with alarm.

  How could I have described Canthorpe’s behavior and speech? I wasn’t sure I could even take it in myself, much less tell anyone about it. He acted like some kind of great ape, pounding his chest and screaming orders for a young female to stay in line or get kicked into the quicksand.

  But as I got over my shock, I also started to get angry.

  I felt rebellious. I felt as though Canthorpe had tried to snuff out as best he could my individuality and identity. Sure, he suggested that I was better than the “masses”. But he’d also tacitly suggested that he was better than me, in charge, and there was a right way in life. His way.

  I also half-felt like suggesting to Harry that we go to his house and listen to some of his rock LPs. Usually I liked the Beatles, but now somehow the Rolling Stones seemed in order. I was kinda getting to like their Satanic Majesty’s Request.