Secrets of the Morning

  7

  PRIVATE LESSONS

  Now that I was a senior, my enthusiasm for beginning my second year at the Bernhardt School was greater than my enthusiasm for beginning my first. When I strutted through the campus and saw the faces of the new students green with anxiety, I couldn't help but feel a sense of superiority. Also, I enjoyed some celebrity as Madame Steichen's star pianist and as one of the six students chosen to attend Michael Sutton's classes.

  I knew that Agnes had done her duty and reported these events to Grandmother Cutler because my mother, during one of her so-called stronger moments, phoned to congratulate me.

  "Randolph has told me everything," she said. "I'm very proud of you, Dawn. It's so reassuring to know you really do have musical talent"

  "Perhaps my father would like to be reassured too, Mother. Why don't you tell me who he really was so I can inform him of my whereabouts and achievements," I replied sharply.

  "Why must you always bring up unpleasant things, Dawn? Will there never be an end to it?" she moaned with emphatic desperation. I could see her going into a faint on the other side of the line. I was sure she was calling me from her bed with her back braced against two large fluffy pillows and the blankets drawn up around her like a snail's protective shell.

  "Knowing who one's father is is not supposed to be an unpleasant thing, Mother," I said with even more viciousness.

  "In this case it is," she replied quickly. Her depth of deep feeling took me by surprise. How could anyone be that bad? I wondered.

  "Mother," I begged, "please tell me about him. It isn't fair. Why is it an unpleasant thing?"

  "Sometimes," she said, dropping her voice and speaking slowly, speaking like someone in a daze, "good looks and charm are only thin, surface deceptions hiding a stream of evil and cruelty. Intelligence, talent, whatever people think are blessings, don't always mean the person is a good person, Dawn. I'm sorry I can't give you anything more than that."

  What strange and enigmatic advice, I thought. It dropped me into a whirlpool of questions and made the riddle of my birth and aftermath even more mysterious.

  "Tell me this, Mother: does he still perform? Is he still an entertainer?"

  "I don't know," she said quickly. At least he was still alive, I thought. She didn't say he was dead. "One of the reasons I called," she continued, her voice changing radically, rising and becoming melodious and happy, "was to see if there are things you need in your wardrobe now that you will be doing more and more performing."

  "I don't know," I said. "I suppose there are."

  "I have instructed Randolph to set up some accounts for you at some of the better department stores. He'll be sending you instructions today. Get whatever you need," she said.

  "Does Grandmother Cutler approve?"

  "I have some money of my own over which she has no control," Mother explained, some pride and satisfaction in her voice. "Anyway, congratulations on your accomplishments, and if you think of it, write me occasionally to let me know how you are doing."

  Why the sudden interest in my life? I wondered. Was her conscience gnawing at her? I made no promises. Before I could say anything anyway, she began to describe her headaches and a new medication the doctor had prescribed. Then she announced she was exhausted and our conversation ended.

  But the things she had said about my real father's evil nature lingered in the closets of my mind like some foul odor you could never wash away. What did that mean? If I inherited my father's musical talents, did I also inherit his depravity? How I longed to be face to face with him and judge him for myself. I would demand to know why he left without ever trying to learn anything about me. Was it because of Grandmother Cutler's power, her threats and what she could do to destroy anyone's career and life? Or was it really simply a matter of my father not caring about anything or anyone but himself, being the selfish playboy he had been described as? There were so many undercurrents flowing here that I didn't understand. Deceptions, deceptions. How was I ever going to learn to swim in an ocean of deceit?

  And so while other students at Bernhardt had only pleasant thoughts to accompany them on their first days of classes, I had to move about in a fog, my only bright spots coming when I was singing or playing piano.

  When fall finally descended on New York, it fell quickly, pressing the mercury in thermometers down dramatically at night and quickly turning the green leaves a crisp yellow and brown. Now whenever Trisha and I or I by myself waited at a corner for the traffic light to change, dead leaves scuttled the lawns, chased over the street and came to nestle near my feet like brown dried-up ducklings. But the sharp, clear air was invigorating. It felt good to have my cheeks tingle.

  In fact, I felt good all over, and instead of blossoming in the spring with the flowers, I bloomed in autumn. Perhaps it was because my confidence had been nourished by my musical achievements. What-ever the reason, when I gazed at myself in the mirror on September mornings, I saw a wiser look on my face.

  After I had gotten over my disaster at the recital at the museum, I had taken a second, harder look at the girl who gazed back from the mirror. She was almost seventeen; her life had changed radically and those changes had carved away some of that innocence. She had a sharper look in her eyes, more pronounced cheekbones and a tighter jaw. Her lips were firm, the curves in her neck and shoulders more graceful. Her breasts were full and shapely and her waist small. Perhaps she wasn't yet a woman, but she was knocking on the door.

  Of course, I told Michael Sutton nothing about what had happened to me after I had run from the wine and cheese reception at the museum, and, apparently he knew nothing about it. During our first class which was his general session with all the students, he asked me again how I had enjoyed the music and I told him it had been truly wonderful. I thanked him for inviting me. After that he turned to his lesson for the day.

  The way the private lessons were staggered, I didn't have mine until a week later. When I appeared, I found Richard Taylor at the piano. Michael Sutton had not yet arrived. From the way Richard spoke and acted, I understood that promptness was not one of Michael Sutton's virtues.

  "Yesterday," Richard said dryly, "he didn't show up until half of the period was over. It's not like working with Madame Steichen. That's for sure" he quipped and went back to tapping aimlessly on the piano keys. I sat on a wooden folding chair and took out my math homework. Nearly fifteen minutes later, Michael walked through the door casually and didn't even apologize for his lateness. He said he hated keeping to schedules; it was the one drawback to teaching.

  "Creative people have to be motivated, have to be in the mood," he explained as he unwrapped his light blue scarf from around his neck and unbuttoned his soft wool coat. "School administrators don't understand that." He draped his things over a chair and beckoned me to the piano.

  "We'll begin with the scales," he said, "and your breathing. Breathing," he emphasized, "is the key. Forget melody, forget the notes, forget your voice. Think only about your diaphragm," he preached.

  Almost as soon as I began, he stopped me and turned to Richard Taylor, who was already smirking.

  "See what I mean, Richard? None of the students here have been taught properly. No sense in wasting any more of your time today. We won't be needing the piano."

  Richard folded the music books and left without saying a word, not even a quick goodbye to me. As soon as he was out the door, Michael turned back to me and smiled.

  "He's a talented young man," he said, nodding toward the doorway, "but a bit too serious." He leaned closer to me to whisper. "He makes me nervous." He went to the doorway to close the door.

  "But," he said, returning, "I meant what I said about your breathing. It's causing you to put too much strain on your throat. I bet your throat aches after you've been singing for a while, huh?"

  I nodded.

  "Of course. Let's try it again. We'll do it the way a European teacher of mine taught me."

  He took me by total surprise when
he stepped up behind me and encircled me with his arms. He held my elbows in his hands and drew me back against him.

  "Relax," he whispered in my ear. I felt his breath on my neck, his chest pressed to my shoulders. The sweet aroma of his after shave lotion floated around my face and filled my nostrils. Then he pressed the palm of his right hand just under my breasts to my diaphragm.

  "Now take a deep breath," he said, "and push my palm away by breathing out."

  I felt his right forefinger graze the underside of my left breast, and for a moment I could do nothing. He had taken my breath away, not prepared me to do breathing exercises. Surely, I thought, he felt my body trembling and he felt the drumming of my heart. His breathing quickened, too.

  "Go on," he coaxed. "Take a deep breath."

  I did it and when my shoulders lifted, his hand slid closer to my bosom so that he was practically supporting it with the surface of his thumb and wrist.

  "Good. Breathe out, press my hand away. Think about it as you do it. Concentrate, concentrate," he said and I did so. He made me repeat it. I did it nearly a dozen more times and suddenly, I grew dizzy, so dizzy my legs felt wobbly. I moaned and lost my balance, falling against him even more. He tightened his grip on me and held me fast.

  "Are you all right?" he asked quickly. I tried to speak, but I could only nod. Then I heard him laugh. "You hyperventilated. It's nothing. You over-oxygenated your blood. Just sit down for a moment," he said, guiding me back to the wooden folding chair. Then he squatted beside me and took my hands into his. "Okay?" He squeezed my hands gently and rested his forearms on my knees.

  I nodded, trying to find a voice that didn't quiver, but my face felt so flushed and my heart was still pounding that I was afraid to utter a sound, positive my voice would crack. When I looked at him so close to me, I saw a depth in his dark eyes that made me spin in a different way. It made me feel light, airy, eager to fall into his arms and have him hold me. My body began to grow warm in the most intimate places. I had to turn away because I was sure he could see these things happening in me and I was blushing just as much from embarrassment as I was from the heat that fanned out from my heart and rushed through my breasts.

  "Just rest a moment," he said, "and we'll go back to the scales."

  He patted my knee and stood up. He went to the piano and looked at some papers for a few moments. "Okay," I finally said.

  I know I didn't sing as well as I could when we went through the scales afterward. He made me do it repeatedly until he said I had combined the proper breathing with the notes.

  "Fine. That's good," he declared, taking my shoulders in his hands and holding me out before him as he drank me in with that titillating fixed look of his. "You are already wonderful with your natural talent," he continued, "but when you do it correctly, you will reach the full height of your potential and you will become a true diva. They will flock to you and thrill just to be in your shadow.

  "Do .you know what happens to me when I'm with someone like you?" he continued, making me tremble more with each and every wonderful word. "I feel younger, stronger, able to go on and do even greater things. It makes me want to stretch out my own talents, extend myself further than I had ever dreamed."

  He laughed and released me. Then he went to the piano and tapped on a key to give himself a note. As soon as he had, he vocalized the scales, holding his arms out toward me as if he were singing the most romantic love song. Then he did begin to sing a love song, a song he had made famous. He beckoned me to join in and indicated I should use the sheet music on the piano, but I shook my head. I knew the music well.

  When I started to sing along with him, his eyes widened with pleasure and surprise. He stepped closer to me to take my hands into his and we sang to each other just the way we would sing were we on the stage in front of an audience. My voice intertwined with his, he taking me up higher and higher. His fingers tightened on mine and he drew his face closer to my face as the song came to an end.

  On the stage it ended with the man and woman kissing. And so did it end this way now, even though I never thought he would actually do it. First, I felt his hot breath on my face, and then as he continued to draw me closer to him and himself closer to me, I knew it was going to happen. I closed my eyes and his lips touched mine, softly at first, almost as if we were both made of air, and then, he pressed his mouth firmly onto mine. The contact sent an electrifying flash of heat through me. I felt myself go limp. He held onto me and then slowly lifted his lips from mine. My eyes fluttered open and I gazed up into his, which seemed to call to me with such passion and desire, I could only stare and wait to see what he would do next, for I recalled what he had told me in the cafe: "Passion makes us desperate."

  I was both frightened and thrilled by my thumping heart. I was afraid I would fall into a faint again.

  "I had to do that," he said softly. "You sang so well. For a moment I thought I was really on the stage and when I'm on the stage, I do what is called for, what must be done to make the music real to the audience. That's the mark of a professional. I'm sure you understand?'

  I didn't, but I nodded.

  He smiled at me, gazing at me intently again with those dark piercing eyes.

  "We've had a very productive lesson," he said. "How do you feel?"

  I was feeling so many different things at the moment, I didn't know how to respond. I was still overwhelmed by his kiss and still trembling from his touch and intense gaze.

  "Fine," I finally said. He laughed and kissed my forehead.

  "You're a very beautiful young woman, do you know that?" he asked. "It's rare to find someone with such a beautiful voice who also has such a beautiful face. I'm not embarrassing you, am I?"

  I shook my head slowly, my eyes still locked in his stare.

  "I wouldn't talk like this with any of my other students, but I sense that you are special. Your talent makes you different, makes it possible for you to be older faster because you are more perceptive, more sensitive. Like me, you grow with every passing moment and with every experience.

  "Educators don't know anything about this," he said disdainfully, his face filled with disgust. "They do things by the book, even in a school like this; but we'll be different because we are different. You don't mind, do you?" he asked. I wasn't sure exactly what he meant, but I said no anyway, my "no" coming out so softly, I wasn't sure myself whether or not I had actually spoken.

  "Good!" he exclaimed. "Good," he repeated softly and then he spun around quickly and went to the chair where he had placed his things. He began wrapping his scarf about his neck, smiling at me as he did so.

  "I've got to run off," he said. "I have a dozen errands to do. I'm having a few people over tonight. Nothing special, just some hors d'oeuvres and champagne." He stared at me a moment and then he picked up his jacket and put it on as he approached me again.

  "Can you be discreet?" he asked me.

  "Discreet?"

  "Keep a secret," he said, smiling, "especially if it's special?"

  "Oh, yes, yes I can," I said. "I'm not close to anyone except my roommate and I don't tell her everything." I thought he was going to ask me not to tell anyone he had kissed me.

  "Good." His stare lasted so long this time, as he debated whether or not to go any further with what he wanted to say. "I'd like to invite you to my apartment this evening," he finally said. "There should be some very interesting people there for you to meet, only . . ."

  He turned to be sure the door of the music room was still closed. "Only the administration here wouldn't quite understand my inviting a student. Obviously, these limited-minded people would frown on such things, but rubbing elbows with theater people is good for the juices; it's stimulating. However," he warned, "if you should even mention it . . ."

  "Oh, I wouldn't say a word!" I exclaimed. He pressed his forefinger to my lips and gazed back again. "The walls have ears," he said. I nodded, holding my breath. He smiled softly.

  "I'm at the Parker House on East
Seventy-second Street, apartment 4B," he said. "Come at eight, but remember . . . not a word to anyone, not even your roommate. Promise?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Fine. See you later," he said starting away.

  "Oh. What should I wear?"

  "Nothing special. Come just as you are, if you like," he replied and was gone.

  For a long moment, I simply stood there looking after him. Did I really hear what I thought I had heard? I spun around and looked at the piano. Did what happen here really happen? I pressed my hand to my heart as if that would slow the pounding. Then I picked up my things and started out, walking slowly, like someone still passing through a dream and afraid only of something happening to waken her.

  Trisha noticed something different about me immediately when we met in our room after school. She was full of her usual energy, spinning one school incident after another, weaving in characters and events so quickly, she summarized her entire day in fifteen minutes. I listened, my face frozen in a small smile, my eyes on her, but my mind in a completely different place, my ears hearing a different voice, Michael's.

  "Have you heard a thing I said?" Trisha suddenly asked,

  "What? Oh. Yes, yes," I said quickly, unable to prevent a rush of blood into my face. It was as if my thoughts were visible. Trisha tilted her head to one side and studied me a moment. Then her eyes widened and she practically jumped off the bed.

  "I know that look!" she exclaimed. "You met someone, didn't you? Someone you like very much and you're head over heels in love. Come on, tell me," she whined when I didn't respond.

  "Oh, Dawn," she moaned with impatience, "you can trust me. I've told you millions of things I wouldn't tell anyone else and you've told me very intimate things about yourself and your life and I've never said a word to anyone, have I? Well?"

  "No, you haven't," I agreed. I was so tempted to tell her what had happened at the vocal lesson. The need to tell someone was building and building inside me like a balloon, filling with air. I was afraid that if I didn't say something, I might explode with excitement.