At the Twilight's Last Gleaming

by David Bischoff

  “Oh yes, he’s tall all right!” said Emory, chuckling. “My Daddy says he likes to bring short people into the White House pool with him for a swim. Then he stands in an area where’s he’s touching the bottom, but they can’t. So he kind of gets the upper hand.”

  “Has he done that to Senator Clarke from Alabama?” I asked, unable to hide my curiosity.

  Emory raised an eyebrow. “My Daddy is too smart to get into any silly swimming pool with a man like LBJ.”

  “Well, I for one, would sure like to know when he’s coming....and if the students are going to be able to see all this.”

  “Probably not. Only for a select few and newspeople,” said Emory. “I know these sort of affairs.”

  “You’d think the principal would know,” said Gail.

  “Canthorpe?” I said. “Sure he knows.”

  “I hear you’ve been to his office.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “So he knows you?”

  “He does. But that office trip wasn’t a pleasant one.”

  Gail nodded. “He is kind of intimidating, isn’t he? I mean, he’ll probably bite your head off if you just go up there and ask him if about when the ceremony is and when President Johnson’s coming.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” I said.

  “Well, there he is, Rebecca” said Gail. She smiled slyly and pointed over to the small door between the auditorium and the main entrance. He was talking to a teacher, but you could tell he had one eye on the students bustling in, and crowding around the tables. He looked a bit agitated too, as though he was not only waiting for trouble, but hoping he found it so he could pounce and take this noisy bunch down a peg.

  I looked back at Emory and company. They shook their heads, wordlessly advising “No!”

  But I was curious

  I was curious and frustrated.

  The curiosity got the better of my natural fear of Principal Canthorpe. I also had been egged on by Gail in a sly and disparaging way that could very well be some kind of test of the Newish Girl in School’s mettle.

  I looked up at the clock.

  There was a good six minutes to go before the bell. What the heck, I thought. I’d been fighting with a comic book for Emory’s attention, and the comic book was winning. At least this way I’d be doing something that interested him and that we could discuss later.

  “Sure, why not?”

  There were plenty of reasons ‘Why not’, but I just shoved them straight out of my head and marched forward.

  The auditorium was full of tables and restless noise. Winter was full upon the land, and what with school and all, it kept people inside. Outside, snow covered everything except for the parts that snowplows had cut through or had been melted with rock ice. I’d looked outside the window the night before and the moon had been shining down from a sky striped with cirrus clouds, like something on the cover of one of my Gothics. Only on my Gothics, it would be a full moon. There’s been something in the air then, and yesterday and I’d felt it again now -- it was some kind of restlessness, yes -- and it lived inside of me.

  Principal Canthorpe ignored me as I casually approached. Either that, or he just plain didn’t see me. In any case, I noticed there was a spot beside the door where I could edge into and not be missed.

  I took a deep breath, and stepped into that spot.

  “...oh yes. I’m thinking we’re going to have to get a hell of a lot of rebounds to beat Northwestern...” The teacher, a bald glad-handing Spanish teacher named Smith was saying. He was short and he had to look up and up and some more up at Principal Canthorpe.

  I figured it was better to interrupt Mr. Smith talking than Principal Canthorpe talking.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Canthorpe,” I ventured, putting on a great big I love America smile. I have a yo-yo kind of self confidence, and that day it must have been in top form, because I certainly stepped right up to the bat. Just inches from the towering fellow. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Smith. I just have a very important question for Mr. Canthorpe.”

  “Good morning, Miss Williams.” said Principal Canthorpe.

  “You’ll notice, sir, that I’m wearing something more to your liking today?” I said. Which, in truth, was part of the reason I was up there at all, since as it happens I was wearing a pretty pink blouse and a nice demure skirt.

  “That’s good to see,” grumbled Mr. Canthorpe. “Just what is your question?”

  “Well sir, there’s been this rumor going around about the Vocational School Dedication. I mean that President Johnson’s going to attend. Gosh that’s swell!” I said, remembering a line that always worked for Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland. “And I hear that a date and time has been made for the ceremony. When is that, sir? And are the students going to be able to witness this great moment in American history?”

  Principal Canthorpe’s eyes flashed. I could see the anger there at my impertinence, but it was a controlled, almost respectful anger. What could he say? It was a fair question and after all, I was playing the role of a Good Student. In front of a teacher, he couldn’t do anything else but answer in a controlled way.

  “I am not at liberty to disclose any of that information,” he said.

  “Oh yes! Of course not! Miss Williams, really!” chided Mr. Smith. He turned the Principal. “Naturally, though, there will be a reception for the President. Perhaps in the Faculty Lounge. I’d be happy to organize that.”

  “When this happens .... If it happens,” Principal Canthorpe said. “And I say “If” because in these times the President has been known to cancel such engagements.....or send LadyBird or god help us, Hubert H. Humphrey. It will not....I repeat not....be something that will be for the general faculty and school!”

  I put a pained and disappointed expression on my face. “Oh dear. I’m really sorry to hear that.”

  “So am I,” said Mr. Smith.

  “Be assured that if it happens, it will be taped and filmed for posterity,” said Mr. Canthorpe. “It will be a proud moment for Crossland Senior High School. And we all will share in the moment in some pertinent way.”

  “That’s great sir,” I said. “Thank you. And thank you sir, for taking the time to point out to me the error of my ways. I’m feeling much prettier these days in pink!”

  The Principal grumbled again and gave me a suspicious look like he didn’t really believe me.

  I walked back to the group at the table and managed to make this announcement before the bell rang.

  Gail said, “You’ve still got your head! He didn’t bite it off!”

  “Good job, Rebecca,” said Harold. “I’m proud of you.”

  Emory was immersed in his comic book. He did, however, look up for a moment. There was an oddly different look in his eye.

  He suddenly seemed much older than eighteen years.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THAT NIGHT AFTER that look in Emory’s eyes, I dreamed about him.

  The dream was a nightmare.

  The look was one, I think of re-evaluation. Of appreciation. And also, there was an odd kind of interest there.

  A kind of interest that disturbed me in troubling ways.

  Most troubling, I think, because I liked being disturbed.

  I liked it a lot. It filled me with a bouyant feeling, that somehow felt grounding as well. After that look I felt like a great big balloon, flying with the eagles, darting amongst the clouds, but held down by an anchor.

  What with my new dress, my light attitude and all, even came up to me at rehearsal to compliment me.

  “You’re looking very nice lately. And I like the skirt today, Rebecca. And by the way -- stop making us all look bad. The acting is pretty darned good!”

  “I went to a lot of plays in England, and took a drama class there,” I said demurely.
“I think it’s all coming back to me. Some of the tricks, I mean.”

  “Oh yes -- you really can upstage other actors if you want to. But you don’t.”

  “I try to stay right where Mr. Crawley tells me to.”

  “The English accent really puts you over, though.”

  “Its fun. It’s just the most fun play, isn’t it?”

  And, shock of all shocks, I caught Peter Harrigan giving me a look too.

  An appreciative look.

  Nothing like Emory’s of course. It was more twinkle than smoulder, and it was as gone as soon as it came, as Peter dove back into his usual Thespian narcissism. Nonetheless, I was very happy I didn’t have to do any acting right then and there, and I could just go to get a drink of water, because, frankly, I was not used to a lot of attention from boys, and it was going to take a little bit of getting used to.

  Not, I thought, as I stood over the fountain of water gurgling up and into my mouth, that I minded it.

  Hmm, I thought, swallowing my sips down.

  There would seem to be some advantages to colorful fashion at times.

  When I came back, who should be sitting there, but Emory. We weren’t rehearsing any scenes with Dracula that day. We were honing the long scenes with Lucy and Van Helsing and family. So I was very surprised to see him.

  “I was doing a little homework in the library,” he said. “And I thought I’d drop by.”

  “Dracula does enjoy lurking, doesn’t he,” I said, smiling. “Where’s Cheryl.”

  “Oh she’s home. We’re not attached at the hip, you know.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  The smile lingered, and I could feel a Southern cordiality coming on. “Rebecca. I’ve been telling my Daddy about you.”

  “Senator Clarke? Why would he be interested in me?”

  “We, he --- I mean, I guess we have family in England. Going way back.”

  “My family doesn’t exactly have the best of pedigrees, Emory!” I said. “I’m not exactly descended from the throne of Scotland or anything. Polish immigrants on my Mom’s side, some Irish and French on my Dad’s I think.”

  He got that look in his eye again, but this time it was clear and good humored, with no undertones.

  “Oh, it’s nothing like that. He’s just fascinated with the idea of an American being able to do a good British accent.” Emory’s voice grew fond. “My Daddy, he’s got the grandaddy of all Alabama accents. It’s not that he’s not proud of it, and for certain there’s been nobody that wields an Alabama accent better than my Daddy. “ Emory looked very proud of his father at that moment, and I immediately suspended all thought of asking him if his father was ever called “Big” Daddy, like in that Tennessee Williams play, Cat on A Hot Tin Roof.

  “I’m sure I’d like to hear that Alabama accent sometime,” I said.

  “Oh you can, you can,” said Emory, enthusiastic but oddly shy. That’s what I guess I’m trying to say here, Rebecca. What I was thinking was -- would you like to come over tomorrow evening.”

  “You’re inviting me to your house?”

  “I am. I don’t want it to be a big to do or anything, so perhaps dinner’s not a good ideas. Besides, Congress is in session and Daddy’s hardly ever at dinner these days.”

  “You want me to come over and meet your father?”

  “Well, he wants to meet you, Rebecca. He’s usually home around nine on Friday nights, and tomorrow is a Friday night. Next week the play starts its performances, and I guess tomorrow night would be the best. That is, if it’s all right with you.”

  “Well....I suppose so, Emory,” I said.

  “Good. It’s settled then. I’ll get to show you my house and some other things. And maybe we’ll get to know each other a little better.” He smiled slightly. “Just you and me.”

  I nodded. “Uhm...gosh, Emory. Is this...this...like, a date?”

  Emory cocked his head and frowned.

  I suddenly wished I could have turned back time and not asked that question. Sometimes there are things that you don’t say, because you really don’t want to know. Knowing would just be too much. If Emory was having absolutely no feelings about me, and this was just a informal and friendly thing and Big Daddy (the name was sticking) really wanted to meet me, I’d be devastated. On the other hand, if I was right, if there was some kind of bizarre but powerful mutual attraction going on and this was the next step into a rollercoaster romance through a Nightmare Funhouse beyond all imagining, I’d be overwhelmed. I wasn’t sure. How I would cope.

  “Let’s just say that I come from a very traditional background, Rebecca.” He said it a bit formally. “And I should say that this is not your traditional ‘date‘. I hope that doesn’t make a difference, though. I hope you’ll come meet my Daddy.”

  His eyes were suddenly huge.

  His eyes were suddenly, very, very demanding.

  And suddenly, very very commanding.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I WAS DEVASTATED.

  I was overwhelmed.

  I had the worst of both worlds.

  “Rebecca!” called my Mother. “Your ride is here!” Her voice was filled with excitement and enthusiasm. It was almost as if Emory had come for her, and not me.

  “My, my, my,” said Dad. “I’m just never going to get over that darned Rolls Royce.”

  I looked in the mirror.

  I put the brush through my hair one more time. Sleek and sexy? Actually, kind of wavy and and wiry if you asked me, but I suppose a lot of brushing had helped it some. I put on one little more dab of light make-up. I didn’t want to have a mask on, but a little eye makeup was becoming kind of a trademark. I was dressed in a nice black turtleneck and vest ensemble over jeans. Very bohemian and sleek, I thought, especially since my scale had shown I’d dropped about ten pounds since January first. I’d wish I could put it to will power and New Year’s Resolutions. In fact, it was just plain old can’t eat infatuations, starting with Peter, and then kind of blending into Emory.

  I knew Emory liked black, but just to keep up the colorful mode, I put on the pretty red zircon pendant Dad had given me for Christmas as a stocking present. Mom said it set off the auburn highlights in my hair and the green in my eyes -- but Dad said he’d just liked it and thought it would make me feel like he thought I was:

  Beautiful!

  Me, I’d settle for kinda cute, in person. In persona though -- as Lucy in my blonde wig, I acted beautiful -- and that was the way to go I guess. Peter had certainly finally taken notice.

  But Emory?

  I was devastated.

  I was overwhelmed.

  I had the worst of both worlds with Emory!

  This wasn’t a “date” date, he’d said. So I wasn’t sure at all what he really felt. But on the other hand, there was this incredible “something” going on between us. It was like we were both plugged into the same surging electrical current. I could just feel it.

  And then, there was that dream last night!

  That nightmare.

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming!”

  I got my coat on.

  I took a deep breath.

  I opened the door and headed out to the living room.

  Sure enough, Emory was there, looking casual but unusually normal in jeans, madras shirt and a different cashmere sweater. He seemed to be wearing his hair a bit differently. I realized as I looked at him that he’d had it cut and combed. It gleamed a bit with some kind of hair product.

  My parents were just eating him up.

  “I’ve been to Alabama many times,” my father was saying. “Wonderful state! The people are just so nice down there.”

  “I hope you’ll tell your father that I’m a Democrat, and I’ve always voted for Democrats,” said my
Mom.”I’m an big Adalai Stevenson fan If we’d gotten Adalai into the White House back in the fifties, we wouldn’t be having this Vietnam mess now, let me tell you!”

  “Too bad Ike couldn’t have stuck around two more terms is all I have to say,” said my father.

  “I’m sure my Daddy wishes there were more folks like you down in the South, Mrs. Williams. I’m afraid Lyndon Johnson lost a lot of Southern Democrats when he rammed those Civil Rights Bills through Congress,” said Emory. “And yes, sir, President Eisenhower was a good president!”

  “So I hear about Civil Rights,” said my father. “Had to be done, and maybe too little too late at that! Still, maybe it had to be a Southerner to do it.”

  “President Johnson’s not a popular president, but he does try and do the right thing,” my Mom added.

  “Are you guys buttonholing Emory?” I said.

  “Just making conversation with the boy. Hope you two know you’re right in the middle of an important part of history,” said Dad.

  “That’s what you told me when we moved here,” I said. “You still haven’t taken me to Congress or the White House or the Supreme Court like you said you would.”

  “Now then, you went to the Library of Congress!”

  “Under my own steam. For research!”

  “And what,” ventured Emory, “Did you think of the Library of Congress reading room?”

  “Big! Echoey! Boring! Doesn’t make reading at all exciting!”

  Emory let a great big grin spread over his features. “Alas, I have been around Washington D.C. all my life. Although I suspect it may be the most fascinating place in the world, to me it’s always been just that. Big and echoy and boring. Lately, I’ve just longed to go home to Alabama!”

  “I hope it’s gotten more interesting lately,” I said

  “My Daddy said to me, Emory! You need to have some fun! Sign up for a school play,” said Emory. “And guess what!”

  “Voila!” said my Dad.

  “Exactly. And look who I get to meet? A splendid young lady and her splendid family.”