I checked the door again, clicking the lock several times to be sure no one could come busting through. I stood for a moment and leaned against the doorframe. I heard footsteps.
A male voice called “Melody, my Sekhmet. Soon, my love, soon.” Then silence. Then more footsteps and the refrain repeated. Briley had to be on his way here but with no cabs and flooded subways, he could be too late.
“Melody. Sekhmet.” The voice came again but I still couldn’t identify the speaker. Not that it mattered. None of the candidates were small men. I felt certain Ptah Junior was armed and ready with chloroform, or perhaps a big stick with which to whap me over the head before dragging me off to the latest lair.
I was scared, but I was also royally pissed at the nerve of this creep coming to my own apartment to grab me like an actor in a bad slasher flick. I moved away from the door and began to look for a possible weapon. I found the watering can but even though it was made of metal I doubted it was strong enough to knock out a prospective abductor. I filled it anyway then started watering the plants in the room out of sheer anxiety.
The footsteps had stopped. I couldn’t hear anyone talking, muttering, hissing, or anything else outside my door. I hurried back to the window and opened it. Rain spat through and doused me. I braved the pelting water and leaned out.
Briley came into view at the end of the street, running, his dark hair glistening under the streetlamps. I screamed, “Briley! I’m here! Come quickly!” but between the rain, thunder, and the horns tooting I doubted he could hear the cries of a girl a block away.
I shut the window again then brought the nightstand lamp as close to the window as I could. I clicked the lamp off and on and off and on trying to signal S.O.S. although I really hadn’t a clue how dots and dashes worked for lighting equipment.
I crossed to the piano and began pounding out show tunes as loudly as I could –again out of a sense of bravado. I sang "Hearbreak Hotel" and "Brick House" and finally "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody." Maybe my stalker would hear me. He’d decide I was too crazy to be part of his warped plans. Perhaps one of the other girls really was trying to sleep and she’d hear and come running in to tell me to be quiet since it was now two o’clock in the morning.
My hands froze on the keys. Two in the morning. Locks clicking and clicking again. Lights turned on and off. Windows opening and shutting and opening again. Plants getting watered. And a voice singing "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody."
Not any voice. My voice. Damn. I’d known it all along. Just hadn’t wanted to believe it. I really was the ghost from Apartment 413. I remembered Fiona Belle’s brusque words the night I’d run to her apartment looking for answers.
“Follies girl. Exotic looking. Some slimy sonovabitch stalked her. 1919 – vanished. Loved to dance. Loved to sing. Loved kids. Loved animals. Loved Briley.”
Melody had indeed been haunting Melody.
I was going to die tonight. The realization left me numb for at least a minute. I picked up my Elvis bag from the floor by the piano and picked up the musical doll as well. For a second I tested the weight of the doll, wondering if it was heavy enough to bonk Ptah Junior over the head and stun him long enough for me to haul my butt down the stairs to the safety of the street. To Briley.
The door crashed open. Fiona Belle’s “slimy sonovabitch” had strength; I’ll give him that. He’d been kicking on that sucker the whole time I’d been playing tunes.
I stared at him. “Peter.”
With unaccented, perfect English, the fake Russian Prince replied. “No, my lovely Sekhmet. I am Ptah.”
“I’d prefer to call you a sick bastard and do a little more yelling to summon large gents with guns from the closest police precinct to come arrest your sorry ass.”
Peter calmly entered the room. I stood as far away as I was able, near the window, and wished that cell phones had roaming power to go back a century.
“It’s no use struggling, Melody. This is fate. I thought Francesca was the one, but she wasn’t strong enough to be the mate for a god with total power. Denise seemed perfect since she already had the boy, my Nefertem, but destiny stepped in and took her away. Then, I saw it was for the best.”
“Destiny? That’s crap! You stupid creep. What stepped in was Briley McShan, his brother Frank, and Miss Melody Irina Flynn. All of whom whipped the butts of you and your merry band of bumblers, including your sorry excuse for a sister.”
He brushed away my words. “I believed you were the one when I met you at the Ellingfords. You spoke of Memphis. You have ancestry from Lebanon, a close land to Egypt. You have the fire, strength and the artistry of Sekhmet, the woman I have loved for centuries.”
Okay. He’d been rational up to the last statement. Now he was veering toward the deep end. Not that I scoff at the idea of reincarnation. Is it real? Perhaps. Hey, up until three weeks ago, I’d poo-pooed the idea of time travel. Now I was a firm believer. But it seemed to me that if one is looking for one’s soul mate from ancient Egypt, that soul mate would be interested in being found too and doin’ the whole reunion thing. But honestly, the whole reincarnation question was one I wanted to leave to philosophers and theosophists or bored socialites who sat around eating caviar and sipping champagne while channeling ancient royals off of Ouija boards.
At least Peter was talking and not waving drug-soaked rags under my nose. I kept my hand on my bag and the doll, ready to wap him with one or both if the opportunity arose.
“Peter? Oh, wait, my bad - Ptah. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why all this obsession with the Egyptian ritual and past lives and all that jazz?”
He shrugged “Power. I grew up poor on the Lower East Side. During the war, I was relegated to patrolling deserts in Egypt. There is very little advancement to be found that way in terms of making a top rank in the Army. But I felt I’d found my spiritual home in the ruins of Memphis. Then I discovered that large profits can be made in wars. I liked being rich, but rich does not always equal power. While in Egypt I learned about another power. Rebirth. Given by the great god Ptah. The god who can create -or destroy. I have felt my power grow these last years, but I still need the woman who will complete me in my journey to bring Ptah back to life again in me. That woman is you. My beautiful designer.”
I quickly responded, "Hey, not really that good. Probably will never win a Tony award. No red carpet paparzzi hounding us."
“I don't underestand your strange words, but I do not care. You are perfect. The living embodiment of Sekhmet."
Mister Black-Marketeering Creep was one sock short of a mate. Looking into his handsome face, into those intense eyes, I saw madness.
He must have seen that realization reflected in my own face and eyes. He took two steps toward me. I threw a pretty punch with the Elvis bag right in his solar plexus. He coughed and clutched his middle, then immediately recovered, grabbed me by my hair, and flung me to the floor. He had twice the strength I did but I fought back, kicking and clawing and biting and trying to reach any delicate area I could.
The gun ended all thoughts of maiming any reproductive organs. The thought that someone in 1919 could be hauling around town carrying a small weapon in a coat pocket had not entered my mind until Peter drew it out and pointed it at me.
“Melody. It’s time to embrace your destiny.”
I rose, quite calmly, still clutching the doll in my right hand. I slung the carryall over my shoulder and began to walk toward the busted door of Room 413 with Peter following a few steps behind. When I got to the piano, I stopped.
“Do you mind if I at least take a few of my belongings?”
“That is acceptable”
I grabbed several pieces of sheet music and opened my bag. I sat on the piano bench, carefully setting the doll beside me. I smiled at Peter. “Just a second, okay? Uh, are you aware that your leg is bleeding?”
He looked down. I was telling the truth. I’d scratched and clawed him clear through his elegant trousers
and he did have a few spots of blood on his shin. I hid the only reason to smile I'd seen in the last hour. It was true. He was hurt. But I’d’ve made up any lie I could to just to distract him for the few seconds I needed. Because the instant he leaned over to inspect that leg, I turned the key on the bottom side of the doll, held on to the music and prayed that I’d end up backstage of the New Amsterdam Theater.
Tinkly sounds filled the room. Darkness closed in around. Just before I passed out I heard a dog bark. A voice screamed, “Melody!”
Briley’s voice.
Then I was gone.
Chapter 33
“Hey! Wake up! Wake up.”
“Ouch. Don’t yell in my ear. I’m awake.”
I smiled and opened my eyes. Cheesy backstage dressing room. Pots of foundation and spilled bottles of powder on tables. It had worked! I was backstage in the New Amsterdam Theatre again.
I felt woozy, but managed to open my eyes wider as I looked for Saree or any of the other Follies girls.
I screamed. The person standing over me had a lion’s head. I must have fainted and been transported by Prince Peter to another theatre in the city. I was staring at very short Geb who was wearing that lion’s head and a robe.
A hand touched my forehead. “Do you have a fever? Are you okay? Who are you?”
I struggled to a sitting position, blinked then took another look at my surroundings. I was backstage in a dressing room all right but cell phones lay next to those pots of foundation. The was a small sofa in the corner and on that sofa lay a bouquet of roses and a shopping bag with Old Navy written on it.
“Where am I?”
“My dressing room.”
“Who are you? Wait, uh, dressing room in what theatre?”
“New Amsterdam.”
“Oh my God. What show?”
“Jeez, you are whacked. Lion King. We’re back in here for a limited run. You must really have taken a bad trip somewhere! Gone clubbing? Did some serious Ecstasy?”
“No, no! I’m not on drugs. I, uh, was mugged and I kind of crawled here.” I got to my feet but I was shaking with the effort. “Sorry, but what day is it? That cosh on the head may have banished some brain cells.”
“June 14th.”
Good grief. That was the date I’d landed backstage of the Follies. So I’d traveled forward in centuries but stayed the same in terms of days. I couldn’t take it in.
“Do you mind if I just kind of sit for a moment?”
The actor took off the lion puppet head and placed it on the bed. Concern for me covered his face. “Stay as long as you like. I have a quick change to make and I’m off.” He grinned. He looked young. Playing Simba? “I don’t normally get unannounced visitors backstage, but you don’t look especially dangerous to me, so feel free to hang ‘til you feel better. Want me to call someone to come get you? Wanna use my cell?”
I tried to smile. “No, that’s okay. I need to chill then I’ll be out of your hair. It’s been, well, kind of a crazy night. But thanks.”
“No problemo.”
He made his change while I modestly kept my eyes glued to the floor. Then he left and I wondered what the hell had gone wrong. I’d wound the doll while clutching sheet music. I should have landed back in Saree’s dressing room. In 1919.
I glanced down “Oh crap.”
I was holding the sheet music for 'The Circle of Life"; music and lyrics by Tim Rice and Elton John. I’d picked it up at Colony Records the day before the night I’d gone tripping back to the past. I peered at the top of the music. There was a cranberry stain in the upper right hand corner. Fiona Belle had really hexed me. I was back to my own time and wishing I wasn’t for one reason only. Briley wasn’t with me.
It had been his voice I heard calling me just before I’d been zipped, zapped or zinged into the 21st Century. I remembered a dog barking too, so Duffy must have been with him. Maybe the puppy helped protect him from Peter?
I came completely awake.
“Damn! He’s back there facing that maniac Ptah who’s holding a gun. I’ve got to help.”
I quickly searched my carryall, but couldn’t found my original "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody."
Then it hit me. I’d given that copy to Nevin Dupre back in the alleyway of the New Amsterdam the day Briley and I shared lunch during a break in rehearsal.
Having the music wouldn’t have helped anyway. I had no doll. And I was fairly sure she played a part in time traveling. The doll was not in my hand. The doll was not on the floor next to me. The doll was not in my bag nor was it behind, in front or anywhere near me. I’d dropped it the instant I’d heard Briley’s voice call my name.
It was lost. Nineteen-nineteen was lost. Briley was lost.
I placed the copy of Lion King back in my bag, I dug further inside until I found a small notepad and pen. I wrote a cheerful thank you message to my lion-headed friend, then left the dressing room and quietly made my way to the nearest exit that led to the alley behind the New Amsterdam Theatre.
I didn’t want to hail a cab looking like a drug addict in need of a fix, so I walked in the rain to the subway at Eighth Avenue and 42nd, then waited for the next train that would take me back to East 12th. To the home I no longer wanted to live in.
It was only about ten o’clock when I trudged up the stairs to Apartment 413. Fiona Belle’s peculiar method of time travel seemed to rely on sheet music and a musical doll, but it obviously had no rhyme or reason as to time of day or even exact date of copyright.
The door to 413 was locked. I dug in my bag and found my Elvis key chain, which had amazingly survived both trips. I dropped the bag in the hall and immediately heard the click of tiny paws on the wooden floors.
“Lucy! Oh thank heaven, at least something good is here this night!”
I scooped the dog into my arms and we exchanged enthusiastic greetings that included a tongue lavishly sweeping my face and the tears that had started to flow down my cheeks plus yips and hugs and all the normal doggie owner “welcome home” perks one so loves about loyal canine companions.
“So, Baby Girl? Did you have a good time with Fiona Belle, the dognapping witch? Did she feed your little tummy full of bacon and cranberry scones?”
Lucy buried her nose underneath my chin. Duh. The answer to all those questions was a big “yes.”
“Come on, Sweetie. Let’s take a quick run around the block then hit the bed. I’m exhausted and I can’t even function on a decent level until I’ve had some sleep.”
I changed into some shorts and a pair of running shoes, grateful to be out of my sodden black clothes. Lucy and I made use of a break in the cold rain to run for a half an hour and managed to get back home before it started again. I stopped at the third floor at Fiona Belle’s apartment and pounded for nearly five minutes. No answer. Mrs. Donovan was probably consoling Briley McShan back in 1919 over the loss of his girlfriend (in a prounounced brogue) while muttering about slimy sonsabitches who stalked Follies girls and forced them to vanish.
The dog and I both collapsed about three minutes after we hit my apartment and got dried off. Lucy actually didn’t participate in the drying process. She squirmed out of the towel while I was rubbing her wet fur and made a beeline for the bed. I stripped out of wet clothes for the second time that night, found my comfy sweats, and joined the damp dog on the damper comforter.
I lay there for at least two hours wondering why. Why had I been sent back? What had I accomplished other than to fall in love with a man who was probably dead by now? I hadn’t changed the world for the better unless Briley’s and my tiny attempt at integration in a Memphis nightclub could be considered the start of the civil rights movement. That didn’t exactly compute. I hadn’t stopped the next world war from happening. I had done nothing. Nothing.
Chapter 34
Neither Lucy nor I moved until late the next morning. I knew it was morning because the clock by the bed said so, and the TV was blaring out the Today show, but the rain held steady
with a darkness that invaded my mind and my heart.
At least my ghost – me - hadn’t made an appearance during the two a.m. witching hour. Or if she – me - had, I’d been oblivious. My head hurt.
The kitchen phone started ringing five minutes after I was up and about to brew coffee.
“Hey, Savanna.”
“Hey, Mel. Make it through last night? You sounded a bit nuts, girl I was ready to call little men in white coats or just come kidnap you.”
I began to laugh. No, I began to keen. Hysterical laughter mixed with sobs and wails.
“Damn! I’m comin’ over! Stay right there, Mel. Do not move. Got it?”
I nodded. I’d been rendered incapable of forming a coherent sentence or phrase or even an “Okay.” I began twisting the coffeemaker’s cord in my hands until it was in danger of fraying. Which made me cry harder when I remembered about two stupid electrical wires in the back of a theatre. Wires that had been frayed and consequently delayed the man I loved from reaching my side until I’d disappeared from his life forever.
I was still sitting with coffee pot in hand and dog at my feet when I heard pounding at the door and the sound of Savanna yelling, “Open up, Mel or I’ll kick the sucker in!”
I let her in. I knew she meant it. She’d bust the door to shreds to gain entry if she had to.
We stared at each other for a few seconds. Then we hugged as though we hadn’t seen one another for a century. Which, in truth, we hadn’t.
“Crap, Mel, you look like warmed over dog-doo. Whacha been doing, girl? You look worn out and mangled, frenzied and frazzled. No offense.”
I stared at her again and smiled for the first time since I’d left the year 1919. How had I missed seeing it the very instant I’d landed in Saree’s dressing room?
“I met your great- possibly double - great grandmother. Saree Goldman Rubens,” I blurted out.
Haunting Melody Page 23