I suspected that the one who really missed his mother was Emory. That would explain a lot -- I thought then, anyway. A sheltered boy who didn’t see much of his parents? A recipe for a withdrawn boy, said Dr. Williams.
“I guess we won’t be seeing her tonight,” I said. “I would like to meet her sometime. She sounds quite something.”
“Oh, certainly! Certainly! But tonight we meet my Daddy. He practically lives in the library. That’s his study, you see. And that’s where I do think we’ll find him tonight. Come!”
The next thing I knew his hand slid into mine.
The effect was electric.
Added to the butterflies about meeting a U.S. Senator and being in a wonderful, atmospheric house, holding Emory’s hand made me catch my breath. It was a warm hand, and a really big hand. It seemed to engulf my little paw. I felt safe.
He pulled me down the side of the foyer, past the staircase. Past the doorways. One doorway, two doorways, both closed..
And then a hook down the hall to the left, a turn to the right.
A door was ajar, a ribbon of light shining through it.
“Okay,” said Emory. “Here we are.”
“Are you sure I look okay?”
“I absolutely assure you, you look just fine.” He paused. He tapped politely on the door, leaning in a bit. “Daddy? Daddy, are you here?”
“Emory!” called a voice. “Emory, my boy! You brought her?”
“I did.”
“Well, don’t you just stand there, dawlin’ . Come on in here right this instant, you hear?”
The voice was deep and resonant, full of character and good cheer.
Emory pulled me in.
The room was large, and very obviously a library. And what a library! There were rows and rows and shelves and shelves of boxes. In the corners, busts sat on pedestals. At one side of the room an old elaborate desk was set up, with a telephone and books piled upon it. On the other was a table with chairs, obviously for meetings. In a fireplace, a woodfire crackled cheerfully. The room smelled faintly of the woodsmoke, but more profoundly of pipe tobacco
On the far end of the room, though, was a large comfortable coach. A man sat on the couch in an old thick brown cardigan sweater over street clothes and a tie. The sides of dark full thatch of bushy hair were gray. He had a mustache, grey as well. But set of magnificent eyebrows were dark, below a large forehead.
He was perched on the edge of the coach, holding a copy of The New York Times and peering forward at us over half-frame spectacles.
“Well get yourselves in then, children. I’m not gonna bite.”
Emory laughed. “Daddy, I want you to meet Rebecca Williams.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” I said.
Being a daughter of an Air Force officer, I had some social training. I’d also paid attention when I was in England. I went forward, poised as possible, and extended my hand.
With a big grin on his features, Senator Clarke lunged forward and grabbed up my hand. His hands was even bigger than his son’s and had just the right amount of pressure in its shake to express warmth and friendliness. It was obvious this man had pressed a lot of flesh.
“My, my! You are the lovely young lady. It’s such a pleasure to meet you!”
Senator Clarke’s eyes were dark brown, with just a glint of green. They flashed with good humor and honest interest.
“Thank you, Senator. And of course it’s an honor to meet you,” I said.
I almost felt as though I should curtsey or something, but I managed to keep my cool. “Or would you prefer I call you Mr. Clarke?”
“What! No, my dear! Pshaw! Call me Beau. That’s short for Beauregard, you know. A hallowed Southern name.”
“Daddy makes everyone call him Beau, except family,” said Emory.
“That’s right. Beau. It’s ain’t a common name, but it’s short and easy to remember.” Those bright, intelligent eyes surveyed me appraisingly. “Now then, Emory tells me that you are quite the actress!”
“Well, actually, I do an English accent well.”
“Nonsense! Acting is a gift! Emory’s got it... I’ve known that since he was a toddler. But damn if I ever had much luck persuading him to do much of it -- until now!’
“You talked him into trying out for Dracula?” I said.
“Not just me. Whole family! He was getting too wrapped up in his own little world. Told him to get out and have some fun. When I was a boy, I had a fear of standing in front of people, so my Daddy, he said, get yourself on stage. So I joined the debate club! Next thing I knew, I was President of the Senior Class, and from that point on they just couldn’t shut me up.”
“Lyndon Johnson calls Daddy “Filibuster Clarke,” said Beau.
“That’s when you try and stop a bill by talking and talking and talking on the Senate floor?” I said.
“You’ve had your civics, I see. Good girl. Yes, that’s more or less what it is. I was Lyndon’s secret weapon by 1957.” He sniffed. “Kinda wish the son of a bitch had found someone another patsy!”
“Daddy,” said Emory.
“Sorry! I forget myself. There’s a lady present. Where was I. We politicians do love to slander one another in the privacy of our homes. Now then -- I understand that you wear a blonde wig for the show.”
“That’s right. Maybe that’s what else that got me the role. I brought it to the audition. I think it helps me get into character. Helps me -- be someone else.”
“Well said, well said. We all need props to help ourselves get into character. What’s my prop then, Emory?”
“Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde, Daddy?” said Emory.
“No Mister Macawber --- or Ebenezer Scrooge, you scoundrel! Son... Emory! You know what I’m talking about. My speeches, boy!”
Emory laughed. “Oh, that would be the lucky silver dollar, Daddy.”
“That’s my boy. It’s a lucky silver dollar. I keep it in a chain which I hang around my neck, under my tie. It’s a nineteen twenty six silver dollar, Rebecca. Mighty powerful.” He arched a shaggy brow. “Mah Daddy gave it to me. Do you want to see it?”
“Uhm -- oh -- of course!”
“Let me see if I can fish it out. Wearing it now, as a matter of fact. Had to do a little talk to my Committee today. I’m on the Social Resources committee in the Senate. Here you go.”
He untied his necktie and pulled out a chain. At the end of the chain, in a round frame was a silver dollar. “Son, my Daddy would say. This, sir, is like a talisman. Do you know what a talisman is?”
“Certainly. It’s some physical object with magic powers.”
“Yes, more or less. If you believe in magic. Silver also wards off werewolves they say,” Senator Clarke winked. He had a very charming wink. “Me? Well, I say, whatever works! And this seems to work for me! At least for speeches. Seems to give me that extra oomph.” He leaned forward. “Emory is quite taken with you, my girl. And not just as an actress. I am very pleased he’s been socializing more, is all I can say, and I like to approve of his friends. And I can see that I do approve of you! So do tell me something about yourself!”
His eyes somehow grew even warmer as he smiled and beckoned me to sit beside him.
“Emory, what are you doing standing there, twiddling your thumbs! Go and get this young lady a soft drink.”
“Got some very nice local Alabama root beer,” said Emory.
“That would be fine!” I said.
As Emory scooted off to see to my soda pop needs, I started telling the Senator about myself. I was quite surprised how easy it was. His cordial but extremely friendly way made me feel quite easy with him, and my words simply tumbled out quite fluidly. I told him about my family being from California orginally, and about my father’s career in the Air Force. I told h
im about my mother and my little brother and touched on some of the places we’d been and lived. I told him about my favorite place in all the world, which was Disneyland.
By that time, Emory was back, and we all sipped strong, snappy root beer. The bubbles seemed to tinkle merrily around the ice cube as I sipped.
“Oh wonderful. Emory loves Disneyland!” said Senator Clarke. “Don’t you son!”
“I do! I confess, I never thought to ask you about that!” said Emory.
I drank more of the soda and munched on the popcorn that Emory had brought. It had been sprinkled with a very sharp cheese and brought out the flavor of the root beer.
“Emory tells me that part of the reason for your thespian pursuits with DRACULA,” said Senator Clarke, “was your love of literature. Particularly gothic literature.”
That started me gabbing again, and I surprised myself at how easily the words flowed, and how emphatic and excited I was on the subject.
“I believe,” I said, “that the gothic novel is one of the foundations of all great literature. I suppose things like The Iliad and the Odyssey and all the stories of great journeys from long ago through Huckleberry Finn right to today symbolize man’s search for meaning. But what about women’s search for meaning? Ah! The gothic exercises that!”
Senator Clarke cocked his head at me and set his soda down. “I do believe, Rebecca, that all those narrative works of art concern the -- ah, human condition. Male or female.”
“But they don’t really speak to the female soul, do they? Okay, sure, they are all searches for meaning. But mostly they’re stories about quests and male needs.”
“Ah, I do see your point. Emory? Care to chime in at this point and save you’re dear old Daddy?”
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at English theme papers. Rebecca clearly is.”
“Well, son, it’s more than a theme paper! And come to think of it, I do understand what Rebecca is talking about. Take Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. Why there’s a remarkable gothic novel, no?”
“I guess some people would call it the model of the modern gothic novel, Beau!” I put in, quite pleased with myself.
“So let me see if I can guess,” said the Senator said. “A woman in love with a mysterious and handsome man -- that would be Mr. Rochester, no? A man with a secret. And there’s a sense of mystery and dread hanging about it all, usually symbolized by some item of architecture. I would imagine that there’s a great deal more going on, but then -- that’s not my specialty.”
“Oh yes,” I concurred thrilled to be able to lecture. “Symbolism! Theme! Wonderful, involving important matters. It’s all so..engrossing. But it all is a great background for detail and history and characters! It’s absolutely delicious! And so, I might add, is this root beer!”
“Such a gracious guest!” said the Senator. He slapped his knee. “And one great gal! I do approve! One day soon, after school, you must come down to the Senate. I’ll show you around. Might interest you. Then how about some dinner at a local watering hole? We’ll just call it a Civics Field Trip,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I’d love it!”
“Plenty of Gothic architecture in Washington D.C.,” said Emory. “The Smithsonian Institute, for starters.”
“Ah yes, the Castle. Wonderful place. How about some more of that root beer, then, Rebecca?”
I hadn’t noticed before, but Emory had brought a few more open bottles. As my glass was practically empty and the popcorn had kept up my thirst, I agreed and was rewarded with a full glass of the fizzy stuff. The fact that it was delicious indeed and quite sugary didn’t hurt much. My mood was ebullient.
We talked a bit more about Washington D.C. Both Emory and his father were surprised that I had seen hardly on of our nation’s capital. Oh yes, they said. You must see it! We’d be happy to show you some!
Then, as though, he’d decided that the interview was over, Senator Clarke yawned a great healthy yawn, stretched his arms above his and smiled. “Well, youngsters. It’s time for us old folk to get our hot toddy and stumble off to bed.”
“It’s been a real pleasure....Beau.”
“The pleasure, my dear is all mine,” he said, getting up and tucking the paper under one arm. “A pleasure I will have soon when I see the play you two are in. “ He grew thoughtful. “Emory. I just had a thought. Those old books of yours. The ones with the plates and illustrations and such. Don’t you have one of Dracula? Why yes, I think your grandfather gave that to you a few years back. Not a first edition, but British and a nicely done book. Why don’t you show it to Rebecca.”
“I’d like that,” I said.
Senator Beau bid his adieus and left, trailing a charisma of charm.
“You’re father is so nice!”
“He certainly can be that,” said Emory. He looked troubled. “It’s gotten rather late, I think. Perhaps I should take you back home.”
“Oh no! Are you kidding me? You’ve got to show me that book. I love old books! And an edition of Dracula. Wow!”
Emory suddenly looked a bit chagrined. “Oh yes. Of course. But I could bring it with me some time.”
I felt infused with sugar and southern root beer. With curiosity -- and something more. “Oh, come on Emory. There’s no hurry. No hurry at all. You heard my parents! I think my father would have put a bow on me and handed me over to you and said “Just name one of your children after me!”
Emory looked at me, wide-eyed. A faint redness spread over his face. Oh my, I thought. The Southern gentleman is blushing! It was just the sweetest thing I’d ever seen.
“I assure you, Rebecca,” he said, stammering a bit. “I did not invite you over to show you my rare edition of Dracula!”
I laughed. “I’m sorry. I guess I exaggerate sometimes. It’s just that I go out with boys so little -- I mean, except for Harold, who doesn’t really count -- that I guess they’re kind of excited that I’m, well, ... normal!’
“Ah. Yes.” He took a breath. “I see. Well then.... I’ll just go and get the book then.”
“But your Dad said it’s in your room? I’ll go with you, okay?”
“But that would be --”
“Oh come on! We’re friends. I go into Harold’s room all the time! And anyway -- I’d be kind of spooked down here in a Southern mansion, all by my lonesome!”
I made an actorly effort of batting my eyelashes comically.
He stared at me for a moment, and then he laughed.
“Oh. The English damsel in distress turns into the Southern belle!” he said.
“I have always relied on the kindness of strangers!’ I said, in my best Blanche in Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire accent.
“My room,” said Emory. “is an unsightly mess. I assure you it is a vast embarrassment!”
“Then you really are a teenager!” I said.
“Yes,” he smiled again. “I have been called that at times. Very well, Rebecca. This way.”
I put the empty glass down, got up and walked boldly past him. “Up the stairs, right?”
“No. Up the stairs -- and left!”
I laughed. “Maybe you better take the lead then.”
We walked back into the foyer and then around to the stairway.
The gloom still hung there, amidst old paintings, but somehow now it didn’t bother me as much as before. After all, much of the dread I’d felt on entering the house before had been about meeting the Senator. The meeting had turned out better than well. I’d not only charmed the man, but gotten an invitation to visit the halls of power in Washington D.C.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just Rebecca Williams anymore. I was the belle of the ball!
Together we walked up the stairs. I reached out and gripped the banister as I ascended. It was smooth and polished. The tread
of our feet echoed through the hallway. Emory had fallen silent.
“I suppose one of us should be carrying a candelabra!” I said as we reached the landing at the top.
“Oh, sorry. It is a bit dark, isn’t it?” He reached around and hit a switch. Light came on in the hallway. “This way!”
It was a long corridor with a surprising number of doorways.
Emory stopped at the third one down.
“This is mine. Prepare to be horrified.”
“We belong to the same tribe, remember?”
He smiled thoughtfully and turned the knob. He reached around and hit the light switch.
I don’t know what I expected. Dirty socks and strewn comic books were my little brother’s specialty.
As the light went on, I was immediately surprised by how big the room was. There was a queen-sized bed with a bookcase bedboard, an armoire and a chest of drawers, along with several large chests. All this, plus a big wing-armed chair and a couch, with plenty of room to spare. On the floor stretched a huge worn red and black Indian rug.
Everything looked neat enough. True, the bookshelves were disheveled and some clothing was scattered on the unmade bed -- but otherwise it looked nice.
I said as much to Emory.
“Oh. Thank you. My mother says I’m very messy.”
“She must be a real neatnik.”
“Oh yes. She is the voice of order in this household.” He gave me an uncomfortable look. “I’ll just go get that book then, shall I?”
“Okay,” I said.
I went over to the couch. It was an old, comfortable couch. It’s cushions seemed to call to me. I sat down, square in the middle. Springs creaked.
“Nice,” I said.
“That’s up from the South,” said Emory, poring over the books. “Now where the heck did I put that darned book. Ah yes, here it is!”
He pulled out an old red colored volume and brought it over to me. In front of the couch was a coffee table. He set it down on the section of this coffee table in front of me.
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